“the larger context.” This, with a gun jammed against Mrs. Greene’s neck. Most of it had a singsong, practiced sound. Johansen kept his eyes on the video camera, except when he would discuss the “institutions of entropy” that had “softened and weakened this great country in the name of equality.”
Then he would look at Parker.
When he did that, Johansen’s mouth turned ugly and his voice shook just slightly. Ben almost raised his camera to capture it, and then decided against it.
Johansen might read it as encouragement.
Finally, he was done.
Johansen bowed his head, and then waved the two television guys back.
“I’ve got some questions,” Haynes said.
“Just shut up and keep your camera rolling,” Johansen said.
Parker and Burnett stared at the newscaster, and he backed off, but didn’t look too happy about it.
Abruptly, Johansen shoved the woman away. “Thank you, Mrs. Greene. You may leave now. I’m sorry for the trouble.” He waved the gun at Burnett. “Walk her out, see that your guys don’t kill her.”
She seemed stunned, and then her face flushed crimson. She looked as if she were going to say something, but then looked to the gun and the other men, and simply turned away.
“What’s going on here?” Burnett asked.
“Do it,” Parker growled.
Burnett hesitated.
“Move!” Parker said.
Burnett took the woman away.
“Now how about these guys?” Parker said. “It’s time for them to walk.”
Johansen shook his head. “The fourth estate stays. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that leadership is all a matter of making the right symbols. Well, I’m going to make one right now.”
Faster than Ben could have imagined, Johansen lashed out with the gun butt and cracked Parker on the head. The agent staggered, and Johansen did it again. Blood gushed from a scalp wound. “Get on your knees, nigger.”
Ben started forward and Johansen swung the gun to him. “Time for your picture, you whore. Get over here!”
Ben’s hands were shaking, but in a glance, he double-checked everything. He had already put the flash on a coil cord so he could hold it off the camera. The power light on the flash was glowing red. He zoomed the lens back to its widest setting.
“You about ready there, Ben?” Johansen smiled slightly as he placed the gun inches from Parker’s head.
“Just about.” Ben stepped closer.
“You got my flag waving in the background? Is it still flying out there?”
“I’ve got it all.” Ben’s voice was shaking, too.
“Maybe you’ll win some more awards here. The niggers have been good for you, haven’t they?”
“You’re fucking cold, Harris,” the cameraman said, letting his video camera down.
“Keep rolling,” Haynes snapped.
The cameraman shrugged and lifted it up, the red light gleaming above the lens.
“Don’t do this, Mr. Johansen,” Haynes said, his voice conveying just the right sense of urgency and dismay. “I’m asking you—the world is asking you—not to do this.”
The audio was, of course, rolling too.
Johansen struck a pose and, indeed, a part of Ben knew it was a hell of a shot: the powerful black man staring up at Johansen. Parker was bloodied and confused, but still defiant. Out of focus, the running SWAT team, clearly too late. Johansen held the big gun rigidly in his right arm, his entire body conveying self-righteous judgment.
“Look at me,” Ben said, with the assurance of years.
Damned if Johansen didn’t comply, the gun moving just slightly as he did so.
Ben reached over with the flash and jammed it mere inches away from Johansen’s eyes.
And took the picture.
CHAPTER 2
“SO IT WAS PARKER WHO GOT THE GUN AWAY FROM JOHANSEN?” Peter Gallagher said.
“That’s right.”
“And it was Parker who clubbed him to the ground?”
“Well, I smacked him on the head a few times with the camera, but Parker did the heavy work. Then I backed off and covered the SWAT team as they came