The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

The Federal trial for Wade, James, and the three Boaz Police officers began on Monday, October 8, 2018.  The first three days were consumed with jury selection.   Over the next nine days Greg Gambol examined Fred Billingsley, Dale Watson, Marshall County Detective Darden Clarke, Etowah County Detective Pete Morrow, thirteen other law enforcement officers, four State Forensic technicians, and two medical examiners.  Greg was methodical in his attempt to build a bullet-proof case.  The most the five defense attorneys could do is attempt to react with cross-examination questions that, in the bigger picture, didn’t come within a hundred miles of creating any type of doubt, much less reasonable doubt in the guilt of the five accused.

It was now Friday afternoon, October 19, 2018. We had just returned from the noon break.  Greg had saved me, who he called his star witness, until the last.  It was now near the end of the second week of trial and Greg wanted to end his case presentation and the week with my testimony.  Trial attorneys have long believed that the words from the last witness to appear on a Friday afternoon linger in the minds of jurors all weekend, rooting around and almost assuredly finding a little truth crevice to burrow into.

I was sworn in at 1:30 p.m., and sat down for a long afternoon as the center of attention.  After the standard introductory and contextual questions, Greg asked me about my relationship with Gina Tillman.  He had determined that we might as well get it on the table first, preventing the Defense from making it look like Greg and the prosecution were hiding the key motive for me to kill Gina. I described how in 1973 she had lied about my involvement in the disappearance and death of Wendi and Cindi Murray.  Greg continued his questioning and I revealed how forty plus years later she came to hire me to represent her in a divorce action against her husband, Wade Tillman.  And, how she started snooping around looking for evidence that could help her improve her chances of obtaining a healthy divorce settlement.

It took over an hour but I started with how Gina, after the bodies of Bill and Nellie Murray were found right before their wrongful death case began.  I described how Wade had told her how John, Randall, and James had killed Wendi and Cindi and how all five of their fathers had helped dispose of the bodies and conceal the truth.

I described how she found a file labeled ‘Mission Money,’ and copies of several bank statements showing that he was directing the embezzlement of monies from the First Baptist Church of Christ’s Cooperative Missions Program. Finally, I described how Wade and the other members of Club Eden, along with key insiders in exchange for kickbacks, were involved in stealing money from the City of Boaz, Boaz Utilities, Quintard Pharmacy, and EagleMart.

Greg continued this line of questioning.  I knew what he was doing.  He simply was setting the stage for his most damning evidence. So far, all my testimony, incriminating as it will eventually be in establishing a clear and powerful motive for Wade and James to abduct and murder Gina, was merely building a framework to hang a thick coat of guilt across the faces of the men sitting in the dock.  Before Greg’s paint came out, he had me relay to the jury that Gina had continued periodic-snooping in Wade’s study, and how in late September 2017, she had found a deposit receipt for $100,000 to the Club Eden bank account.  It was from a Moscow, Russia bank.  This discovery had led Gina to purchase a high-tech audio recording system.  I described for the jury how Gina had hidden it in a semi-secret meeting room behind bookshelves in Wade’s church office.

“Let me show you Prosecution’s Exhibit 18.  Do you recognize this document? If so, describe it for the jury.” Greg asked me.

“Yes. Gina gave it to me.  It is the written version of an audio-recording made by Gina in Wade’s secret study.”

“Are you saying that a tape recorder created this written transcript?”

“Objection, your Honor, no foundation.” Defense attorney Tommy Brunner said not even standing up.

“Side bar please your Honor.”  Greg said.

All five defense attorneys and Greg walked to the side of Judge Chambliss’ bench and spent nearly five minutes whispering back and forth with the Judge.  Later, during the next recess, Greg described to me the deal he and the defense attorneys made.  Greg would not object when they questioned me on cross about the disappearance of John Ericson, Randall Radford, or Fred Billingsley.  Greg no doubt thought he had no risk at all by allowing the Defense team to question me about this issue.

When Greg returned to the podium he asked me, “if you know, tell the jury how the hidden recorder worked.”

“I don’t know the technical details but it was a device made by Sony that Gina found on eBay.  It was voice-activated, when it detected a voice it would begin recording.  Thirty minutes after the last voice sounded it would email a written transcript of the conversation to an email address, as long at the device was connected to Wi-Fi.” I responded.

“This email account, Gina had to enter her specific email address.  Correct?”

“Yes, she set up a special account and activated notification alarms be sent to her cell phone after each email was sent.”

“Did you receive these emails?”

“No, not at first.  The system was set up to send them to only one address.”

“What do you mean by ‘not at first’? Greg asked.

I picked up the transcript that Greg had given me, Prosecutor’s Exhibit 18. “At the top here, is the address Gina used.  After Gina was murdered I was rereading this transcript and happened to notice this address.  I knew that Gina’s recorder would still be working unless it had been discovered.  I decided I had to try and access her email account.”

Greg then asked me a series of questions that led me through the process I used to discover both her Google account and her recorder-email account ID and password.

“Let me show you what’s been marked as Prosecutor’s Exhibit 19.  Do you recognize this document?” Greg asked.

“It is the second transcript Gina received from the audio-recorder.”

“Now, here is Prosecutor’s 20. Can you identify it?”

“It is the third transcript she received.” I responded.

Were there any more emails sent to Gina’s email address from the audio-recorder?”

“There was one more.  It was sent on November 5th, one day after Gina was murdered.”

“Mr. Tanner, I am handing you Prosecutor’s Exhibit 21.  Can you identify this document?”

“Yes, it is the email she never lived to see.” I responded.

“To clarify, Exhibit 21 is a transcript of a conversation that took place on Sunday, November 5, 2017 in Wade’s semi-secret study that was automatically emailed to Gina from the hidden recorder.  Correct?”  Greg asked.

“That is exactly right.”

“Please read the text highlighted in yellow.” Greg said.

Defense counsel immediately objected.  This time he stood. “Your honor, this is hearsay upon hearsay and is outside the scope of what Mr. Gambol agreed.”

Once again Judge Chambliss ordered all five attorneys to the Bench. It was nearly 3:00 p.m., a good time for his afternoon break.  He instructed all parties to return to the courtroom at 3:15.

I stepped down from the witness stand and walked outside the Courthouse.  I saw Matt lighting a cigarette and standing under a Maple tree still covered in glowing red leaves. 

“I think I have seen you smoke one cigarette in the past, what, 50 years?  That time I was in the Marshall County Courthouse sitting in ‘Holding’ with two deputies.  You didn’t know it but I saw you sitting on a bench during a recess in my first trial.  This must be serious.  What’s going on?”  I said.

“That day, 1973, dead of winter. I did smoke one cigarette that day.  It was the second one I had smoked in my life.  Since 1973 I’ve smoked two others, until this one.  What’s that?  Five, total?  Five times now in my legal career, I’ve been compelled to seek a high dose of nicotine.  This desire is triggered by a feeling I get, one ominous and deadening.  It’s like I know something horrible is coming but I have no way of knowing what it is.  Remind me on our way home to tell you about each of these incidents.  Well, other than this fifth one.  Hopefully, it’s a false alarm.”

I didn’t respond.  I returned to the Courtroom leaving Matt answering a call on his cell phone.  I avoided the elevator and took the three flights of stairs wondering what, if anything, was coming my way.  I figured if Matt was worrying about something horrible happening, it had to involve me.

I returned to the witness stand not knowing how Judge Chambliss had ruled on the defense’s hearsay objection until Greg asked me his first question.

“Micaden, tell me if you recognize the two voices on this audio-recording.”

Greg had Trevor go to the Courtroom’s Exhibit table where a laptop computer was set up.  He clicked the attached mouse a couple of times and the recording started playing.  It was a voice file attached to the emailed transcript.  This was standard with Gina’s high-tech recorder.  It would create the voice file, then a written transcript, and finally, email it to the address that had been entered when the system was activated. 

Voice One. “What’s so important for us to meet so early, and why here?” Voice Two. “Dad, James and I have done something without Club approval.  It was horrible.”  Voice One.” Tell me.” Voice Two. “I have been suspicious of Gina for a while.  Periodically finding signs someone had been snooping around in my home study.  It had to be her, so I hid a camera.  Yesterday morning it showed me that the night before she was in my desk with my ‘Missions Money’ folder.” Voice One. “You’re telling me you left confidential information where she could just go pull it out of a file?”  Voice Two. “Yes.” Voice One. “What do you suspect she learned from reviewing your folder?” Voice Two. “About the disappearance of the Castenada family and the receipt of the $100,000.” Voice One.  “What have you done that is so horrible?  You said you and James did something horrible.” Voice Two.  “We murdered and buried Gina.”

“Stop.” Greg instructed Trevor.

Greg then asked me, “do you recognize the two voices on this recording? If so, please identify them.”

“Voice one is Walter Tillman.  Voice two is Wade Tillman.”

I was surprised that defense counsel did not object after Greg’s question. Clearly, during the break Judge Chambliss had clarified how this part of my testimony would play out.  He had a reputation for anticipating objections and dealing with them in advance, either in his chambers or during sidebar at the bench.

Greg, standing two feet from the rail in front of the jury, “Please read from page two the text highlighted in pink, again using Walter and Wade’s names instead of Voice One and Voice Two.”

“Walter. How do you know that Gina connected the $100,000 deposit with the Castenada family?  Wade. From my smart ass remark I scribbled across the deposit slip.  I wrote, sale of golden goose. Walter. You were aware that Gina knew that Club members referred to Alma as Mateo’s golden goose?  Wade. In frustration, I may have let it slip when she would bring up at night she had spoken with Alma.  You know they were close. Alma was her father’s golden goose.  Without her involvement with the Hispanic community I don’t think Mateo’s church would have done anything like as well as it did.  Nor, would it have caused so many Hispanics to attend our church.  Walter. Do you think she shared this with her attorney, Micaden?  Wade. I really don’t know.”

For the next half-hour Greg continued asking me to read from the transcript and following up each reading with additional questions.  During this time, the jury learned that the Club, in late May 2017, had abducted Alma and her friend Esmarelda Andres, and Mateo and his wife, and how Boaz Police Officers Chris Anderson and Edward Hall had transported Esmarelda to Muscle Shoals Airport where Gustav Nilsson and sons met them for the exchange.  The jury also learned about Esmerelda’s tragic death.  Three days after Gustav’s plane had landed in Stockholm, Sweden, she jumped to her death from the Västerbron, an arch bridge in central Stockholm, during a botched attempt by a competing gang to steal Esmerelda and two other girls.  The gang got caught up in a traffic jam on the bridge and while stopped, someway Esmerelda exited the vehicle and jumped to her death 300 feet below.  She would have probably lived if she hadn’t landed on a passing barge.

The final question Greg asked me late Friday afternoon to end his direct examination was, “Micaden, did you have anything at all to do with the abduction and murder of Gina Tillman?”

I answered no.  Twenty minutes later Matt and I were traveling Interstate 59 North through Trussville headed home.  It had been a long day and would likely be an even longer Monday.  As we rode in silence I wondered if the ominous feeling Matt experienced had anything to do with what would come during my cross-examination.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

The morning after the bombing, local talking-heads and State-wide newscasters were predicting a continuing wave of Ferguson, Missouri style rioting and destruction in Boaz and beyond.  It never happened. 

By 4:30 p.m. that afternoon, Nico and Santiago Castenada had completed over six hours visiting and speaking with 90% of the local Hispanic community.  The General Manager of Platinum Foods shut down three departments of the processing plant and allowed the two educated, reasonable, and focused nephews of Mateo Castenada to speak atop a flatbed trailer in the parking lot to a gathering of over 400 Hispanics.  The two young men shared their vision for Boaz, even disclosing details about the school that would open in less than a year.  Nico gave an impassioned speech on the importance of allowing the criminal justice system to punish those who had murdered Mateo, his wife Natamar, and their daughter Alma.  He drew on the 1960s civil right struggle of the blacks and what Martin Luther King’s vision of peace through non-violence had achieved.  Santiago promised change and implored each of them to forgo rioting and redirect their anger towards God, letting Him show them the higher road.  By dark, the message had spread.  The rioting was replaced by the sounds of righteous anger seeping from the windows and doorways of Esperanza Baptist Church.

Something else never happened.  The two bombed out businesses didn’t die.  I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Even though both Adams Chevrolet, Buick & GMC, and Radford Hardware & Building Supply were virtually destroyed by the bombs and fiery aftermath, they quickly announced an aggressive plan to reopen.  Each company maintained full replacement insurance policies.  New construction would begin within a month.  Bulldozers and dump trucks started cleanup less than 24 hours after the explosions.  The real ingenuity of the Adams’ was demonstrated when six car haulers showed up during the last week of July and unloaded 36 new vehicles in the parking lot of the long-empty Outlet Center.  Since the bombings, the 36 employees of the Adams’ dealership had worked tirelessly in setting up a temporary operation including a 10,000-square foot service department under a gigantic tent complete with every tool needed including four hydraulic lifts. The Radford’s followed the Adams’ lead and by mid-August had leased and stocked the empty building directly across from the GM dealership.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

By 9:00 p.m. the rioting had begun.  By 11:30, TV crews from Birmingham and Huntsville were in Boaz and broadcasting live.  Karla and I were glued to the television.  Shortly after midnight, she went to bed.  I changed clothes and drove to Oak Hollow.

Ever since my release from the Etowah County jail in March, I had been executing my plan.  It was one I had started designing after Randall’s disappearance, when I decided not to make a ransom demand.  I had also decided against demanding money when I dealt with James.  However, Gina’s unexpected disappearance and death changed my ability to eliminate him.  Adams Chevrolet, Buick & GMC, and Radford Hardware and Building Company, were the two largest brick and mortar financial targets of all five families.  The Hispanic rioting gave me the best opportunity to do some damage to these two old, but continuing, money presses.

My idea was simple.  The explosives were nearly identical to those used by Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols to destroy the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in downtown Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, on April 19, 1995. The only difference would be the size and power of the bombs.  I had no intention of killing anyone.  I only wanted to level the two city blocks controlled by the Radford’s and the Adams’.

My plan was both simple and elaborate.  I had used every opportunity when I was out of town on law business to purchase 50-pound bags of ammonium nitrate from farm and garden supply stores.  It’s funny how one doesn’t notice things if he’s not looking for them.  It seems every place I went, Heflin, Muscle Shoals, Russellville, Scottsboro, Huntsville, Moulton, Oneonta, Fort Payne, and dozens of places to and from these county seats, had one or more farm and garden stores.

I was careful.  I always paid with a different prepaid Visa card I had purchased from a Dollar General store in a different area.  And, the cards were never purchased in my name.  I had perfected the creation of false identity cards, such as driver’s licenses and health insurance cards.  For example, when buying four hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate in Oneonta, I used the Visa card I had purchased in a Dollar General store in Heflin that I had loaded cash to in Huntsville.  Also, at every location that I purchased or loaded a prepaid Visa card, or purchased ammonium nitrate or any other ingredient or item I needed to execute my plan, I rotated the disguise I used.  For example, at the Heflin farm and garden supply store, I wore a pair of dark brown coveralls, a blond wig with pony tail pulled back and tied off, a reddish blond mustache, and a Pittsburg Steelers ball cap.  I also arranged with the store clerk to set my purchase somewhere outside where I could come back and pick it up later.  I always parked a block or so away from the store and walked to make the purchase.  Within an hour or so, I would come back in my vehicle.  Sometimes, the store had already closed for the day.  Even if the store was open, I never had anyone notice me as I loaded my purchase.

I was also careful about the two box trucks I purchased.  I located them both on eBay.  The first one, a 1992 Ford F600, was in Birmingham.  It was owned by an older lady whose husband had recently died.  He had purchased it new and used it in their small appliance business.  It even had a lift-gate on the back. The lady’s daughter was helping her sell it online.  I hired a technician from Long Lewis Ford to inspect the truck.  I paid him, not his employer, $375.00 to travel to Roebuck and determine whether the vehicle was road worthy.  If it was, then he was to drive the vehicle to the Cracker Barrel restaurant at the Trussville Exit, locking it and leaving the key wedged under the inside left rear tire.  I told him I was from Chattanooga but was sending my nephew to pick up, and drive the truck to Jackson, Mississippi.  After the technician called my burner phone and gave me the go ahead, I used one of my prepaid Visa cards to pay online.  Later than night, I hired a taxi out of Gadsden to pick me up at the Eaglemart parking lot to take me to Trussville.  Wearing my best suit, I shared that I was the owner of twelve Cracker Barrel Restaurants in Tennessee and Alabama and that my car had broken down after leaving my store in Guntersville.  Everything went like clockwork.  The truck key was where it was supposed to be, the vehicle started right up, was full of gas (thanks to the technician), and performed like a new one all the way back.  At 3:30 a.m., I pulled into the barn’s center hallway at Oak Hollow and rode my previously-positioned bicycle the two miles back to Hickory Hollow. 

I had similar good luck in buying my second truck.  I had to pay more for it given my time frame and the fact I didn’t want to travel so far to drive it home.  I was tempted to again use Love’s Taxi out of Gadsden but knew that wasn’t reasonable.  This time I didn’t use a taxi service at all.  I had Doug from the Albertville Municipal Airport fly me, the real Micaden, to Auburn, Alabama.  I used the cover of a continuing legal education conference at Tichenor Hall titled “What We Can Learn from the Movies,” telling Doug that my wife was meeting me there on Friday.  In Auburn, I caught a cab to Montgomery where the 1998 Chevrolet C7500 box truck was waiting at yet another Cracker Barrel restaurant (later, I beat myself up for not changing this).  That night, actually, that early morning, around 3:00 a.m., I pulled my second box truck into the hallway of my barn at Oak Hollow.

With two good trucks and ten tons of ammonium nitrate, I turned my focus to bomb construction.  I had been amazed at the available information online about bomb making.  I also learned most of it was incomplete.  I ultimately learned the missing two or three secrets from Timothy McVeigh himself, well the U.S. Attorney’s file that investigated and prosecuted Mr. McVeigh.  Here, I won’t share how I gained access to this information, other than saying that Greg unknowingly helped me.  One secret was the process used in saturating the ammonium nitrate with diesel fuel.  This turned into a very laborious process.  I had conducted many tests.  I had learned that simply pouring diesel fuel on the ammonium nitrate wouldn’t cause any explosion.  But, the secret process, which I will maintain as a secret, along with the firepower of the igniter, made all the difference. 

For the month that Nate Baker was in town working on his New York Times article, I spent most nights at Oak Hollow working on my two bombs.  I met with him most every day and began to conclude that what he was going to say would itself be a bomb of another kind.  I had that deep feeling the Hispanic community, already hot and bothered, would take to the streets the night Nate’s article was published.  I decided this would be my cover.  I had to be ready by the middle of July, the time his article would go public. It was not until Saturday July 7th that I tested my activation device in a quarry outside Heflin. Of course, I didn’t use one of my trucks.  The actual process was rather simple.  A phone call to a cell phone packed inside the rear of each truck vibrated just enough to trigger a switch that started a timer that in turn, at the designated time, sent an electronic signal to the battery.  It was like touching the positive end of a jumper cable to a battery that was already grounded.  The over-sized battery was suspended inside a metal garbage can half-filled with gasoline.  One simple spark would explode the gas, and it, in turn, would ignite the fertilizer bomb.

That was a little over two weeks ago, now it’s ‘D’ day.  At midnight, I rode a bicycle to Oak Hollow and drove the Chevrolet truck to the back side of Rayford Hardware and Building Supply.  I had previously scouted this area when I had picked up a generator I had specially ordered. The day I had backed my truck to the loading dock to wait on the generator to be loaded, I had walked around to the side of the building on the west end of the loading dock.  There was an alleyway between the main building and another building that no doubt had been added on.  It created the perfect hiding spot for my truck.

After backing all the way down the alleyway, I exited and locked the door.  I walked two blocks to Snead College where I had stashed a bike.  This would be the hardest part of the night.  I rode the eight miles to Oak Hollow in 45 minutes and drove the Ford truck to Adams Chevrolet, Buick, & GMC.  It was now close to 2:00 a.m., and as I stopped for the light to change on Highway 431, I could see three police cars, and what looked like a hundred Hispanics in the north parking lot.  I turned west on Hwy. 168 and could see that the front windows in the dealership’s show room had been broken.  I almost ditched my plan but noticed the back side of the building was dark.  All the attention was at the front, nearly a city-block away from the entrance to the body shop off Darnell Street.  I pulled the Ford on around the building about half way towards the front which was hidden by a tall hedgerow along a chain link fence.  Parking here was the closest I would get to the center of the facility.  I really had no idea how powerful my bomb was.  I had not been able to conduct a full testing, afraid of being identified.

Once again, I parked and locked the vehicle and this time walked to Duke’s Cleaners where I had hidden another bicycle.  I took the long way this time, down Highway 205 to Mountainboro avoiding Highway 431.  By 3:30 a.m., I was back at Oak Hollow.  I had decided not to detonate the bombs until I was safely away.  I made the first call at 3:34 a.m., and the second was at 3:36.  Inside my truck, sitting at Oak Hollow, I tuned my scanner and waited less than five minutes.  The Boaz Police dispatcher announced a Code 10-80 and ordered two cruisers to Adams Chevrolet and two to Radford Hardware.  I listened to the back and forth chatter for another ten minutes before concluding that the bombs had out-performed my highest expectations.  It seemed half of Boaz was on fire.  I drove home and slept until 7:30 a.m.

The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.

The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it a chapter a day over the next few weeks.

After rereading Nate’s article, I was packing my briefcase when Matt stuck his head in my office. “You got a minute?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I want you to meet two nice gentlemen.  Can you come to the conference room please?”  Matt said.

When I entered, I saw two young, clean-cut, well-dressed Hispanic males.

“Hello, I’m Micaden Tanner.”  I said reaching my hand across the conference room table.

They both stood, smiled, and shook my hand. “I’m Santiago Castenada.”

“I’m Nico Castenada, Santiago’s brother.  It’s nice to meet you.”

Matt explained that the two young men had completed graduate studies in California. Santiago received his Masters of Education from the University of Southern California’s Rossier School of Education, and Nico a Master’s of Divinity from Southern California Seminary in El Cajon, California.

“That’s impressive. Are you guys from Boaz?”  I asked.

“No, but we are planning on moving here.” Nico responded.

“They are from Texas but have spent the past eight years in college and graduate school.  They have hired us as general counsel.”  Matt said.

“We are starting a Christian private school for Hispanics.” Santiago said.

“Again, I’m impressed.  But, why Boaz?”

Our uncle was Mateo Castenada.  We owe him so much.  He is the reason for the opportunity we had to receive such an excellent education.  We want to continue his work here in Boaz, although in a slightly different way. Until his disappearance, his church was instrumental in giving hope to hundreds, thousands of local Hispanics.  There is now a void here, all while the Hispanic population continues to explode.  It’s all about providing hope and opportunity.  Education is the key.”

“That is a totally admirable pursuit.  Also, a very expensive one.  I assume you have already arranged your financing.”  I asked.

“Not totally, but we are making progress.  We have a few benefactors lined up.  We are also participating in the Federal Department of Education’s new voucher program instituted by President Trump in 2017.  As you probably have heard, it allows students to attend certified private Christian schools.  The student’s tuition is paid by the program in an amount equal to the applicable State’s cost to educate a public-school student.  Right now, here in Alabama, that amounts to about $10,000 per student per year.” Nico said.

“Here’s something you will find interesting.” Matt said. “I’ve shared Nick’s New York Times article with Santiago and Nico.  They believe it will trigger rioting.  Even before coming in today, they have spent the last several days in the local Hispanic community and observed the smoldering anger that is widespread.”

“Hispanics generally are quiet, peace loving, and law-abiding citizens.  Like most people, they can be pushed too far.  What has happened over the years is like bringing a pot of chili to a slow boil.  I’d say the recipe is complete: the kidnapping and murders of Mateo, his wife, and Alma, the sex trafficking, and the general abuse Hispanics have endured for years, and now, this article that describes how five of the families who founded Boaz have been manipulating and pillaging the whole community.  The pot is at full boil.”  Santiago said.

The four of us talked for another hour before Nico received a cell call and the two of them had to leave.  Matt and his wife were headed to their daughter’s in Atlanta for the July 4th holiday.  I grabbed my briefcase and drove home.  Tonight, might be the night that I had been waiting for.