Illusion of Splendor
An International Thriller by J.D. Easley
Waterton Publishing Company
No part of this book was created using Artificial Intelligence (AI).
This is a work of fiction. The events described are imaginary and the settings and characters are fictitious and not intended to represent actual places, companies, or persons.
Copyright © 2012 by J.D. Easley. Waterton Publishing Company. All Rights Reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproducedin any form without permission.
Published simultaneously worldwide.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012947104
ISBN: 978-0-9905249-0-8
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ILLUSION OF SPLENDOR
II PRIVACY
“Yes, my name is Frank Caprizio; I’m in your Tuesday-Thursday Ethical Studies class, the one we just got out of.” The man’s firm enunciation suggested resilience combined with a certain satisfaction.
“I see” casually ventured Robert, “if you have a question, I have office hours, they’re in your syllabus, right now I have short lunch, so if you’ll excuse me,” thereupon abruptly turning toward the drink machine, eyeing a paper water cup, hoping the dialogue was temporarily at an end but unable to take a step because the man responded, by moving closer, so close that Robert could feel warm moist air against his face.
“I just wanted to say that your liberal bullshit has no place in higher education” – the words rumbled, their sound expanding, the man’s face straining under barely leashed emotion – “and this isn’t about privacy, it’s about war! My older brother died on Flight Five Eighty-Seven, you know, right after Nine-Eleven!”
Frank’s right hand moved up with the empty soda cup and an index finger extending, pounding home a point several inches from Robert’s face, “It was Islamic terrorists, I believe that and I don’t care what anybody says, screw your privacy! These people need to die and I don’t care how we do it!” The last word screamed. Robert knew instinctively there were other people all around, but the room fell into a silent vacuum, a cavernous silent vacuum.
Robert and an enraged young man he did not know stood as two boxers ready for a title fight, speechless, their faces not an arm’s length apart; until the aggressor’s right arm slowly lowered to his side and eyes once vacant took on a look of complete surprise, perhaps shock. Stepping backward, Frank looked briefly at the floor in obvious embarrassment, perhaps even shame. The sounds of other people began to rematerialize and Robert, knowing intuitively a security guard was fast approaching, turned to sight a large black man in a light blue uniform shirt pushing through a crowd of startled diners.
Reflexively stepping forward to meet the protector, Robert put his hands out in front and to the sides of his chest, fingers spread, pointing up, in body language pleading stop. With an air of calm he said to the ready guard, “It’s okay, it’s all over, just a misunderstanding, it’s finished.” The guard’s momentum reduced to stillness close, very close, to Robert’s outstretched arms and he stared at Frank. Robert maintained a defensive posture with his hands no more than an inch from the guard’s massive chest.
“Are you sure?” quizzed the guard, his watchful glare intense, “‘cause it sounded like it was going violent.” The words rendered the subject limp, speechless, as spectators glided pensively all around, toting trays and plastic containers, drinks and wrapped cookies, ever attentive for erupting emotions, ever recalling recent publicized tragedies.
Robert noticed the guard’s right hand on the grip of a holstered pistol and carefully chose words uttered in a most soothing tenor, “Yes, yes, I know this boy, Frank, it was a misunderstanding, I’m sure we both just want to finish our lunches.”
A young woman’s voice bellowed uninvited, “That man is dangerous!” to capture Robert’s attention from behind and continued without hesitation; “He was yelling and pointing, threatening to kill all Muslims, he’s dangerous!”
Robert turned his head to see the wide brown eyes of the brown-haired girl with whom he had conversed just a short while earlier; Rain stood a few feet from Frank, to his side, behind and right of Robert. She demanded of the big man in no uncertain manner, “You need to see if he has a gun!”
A motionless Frank Caprizio surveyed the cafeteria in agonizing confirmation he was at that moment, if for some inexplicable reason not sooner, the center of all attention and meekly attempted sounds incoherent to those around. Robert relaxed his arms in concession to the rationality of Rain’s demand and the security guard brushed aside in a bolt suddenly finding Frank face down against cold tile, arms painfully pulled back, shackled wrists strapped in plastic strips, seeing only two plain black lace dress shoes and the scattered makings of a turkey sandwich. Three guards soon knelt over the helpless antagonist, ripping at his pockets, disgorging books and papers from his backpack until appeared a two-ounce canister of pepper spray.
Robert moved toward the fray and offered a wishful proposal, “If he’s not armed, perhaps you could release him.”
A portly guard with short blonde disheveled hair and a mustache tartly responded “No, he’s coming with us for questioning, the DC police have been called,” as two other guards lifted Frank by his armpits until erect. Blood dribbled down his chin.
Rain interjected in matter-of-fact rationality, “Professor Downing, you should let them do their job, people don’t yell threats in cafeterias unless their demented, especially to their professor.”
Robert ignored her and focused on the guard who had advised the police were called, “Perhaps I should come with you as a witness.”
“And me” firmly exclaimed Rain, “I saw the whole thing!”
“Yes, yes, you both come,” agreed the second guard quite apparently in charge, “the rest of you go back to eating or whatever it was you were doing.” Directing instruction next to a cashier, “Can somebody mop up the floor here, there’s blood….”
Robert and Rain followed the three guards escorting Frank without speaking, out of the cafeteria, through a long hall leading to an exit from the Memorial Union, across an employee parking lot, and into the Administration Building and a small office down an inconspicuous corridor on the first floor. There, the guards locked Frank in a tiny room empty but for a chair and visible only through a small chicken wire mesh window in a steel door. As the guards turned away a loud bang suggested a kick to the door and they chuckled in callous amusement.
“Why did you put him in there?” Rain suddenly demanded, continuing without giving the guards a chance to respond, “How long are you going to leave him?”
“Until the DC police get here” replied the guard first on the scene.
“When will that be?” Rain’s dismay seethed.
“We’re pretty low priority unless there’s an emergency” answered the second guard with clearly audible annoyance, “probably later this afternoon or this evening.”
“You’re kidding!” Clearly incensed, hands on hips, passing Robert an exasperated glance Rain quickly continued, “He doesn’t deserve that, he’s in handcuffs for crying out loud! He just yelled! He didn’t even have a weapon!”
Robert considered the irony of a valuable lesson thrust upon these two of his students with sublime intrigue as a scene not possibly enacted in class; and speculated from experience the unnecessarily onerous outcome. One he tried in vain to curtail. Frank Caprizio would remain imprisoned in the Administration Building well into the night, escorted by police officers in the back of a patrol car to a station, and booked and locked in a cell until appearing before a magistrate sometime the next day to be at that time formally charged with a hate crime. Rain would plead Frank’s case to the security guards without success until surrendering to sleep and apathy; waking the next morning in the comfort of her own bed to champion a new cause. Eventually, they all may come together in a courtroom to compound the injustice.
“Rain,” fatherly Robert’s tone, “let the officers do their job and they may find it in their hearts to let Mr. Caprizio sit out here and have a cup of coffee waiting for the police. These situations are difficult for everyone, and their job isn’t easy. So come on, let’s go over here, give our statements, and go home….”
“Good idea!” proclaimed the second guard beckoning Rain with an outstretched arm to sit in a side chair at a desk across the room.
She complied and Robert followed.