She was more dangerous and more destructive than any foreign terrorist. She was a pair of scissors cutting through the fabric of trust that held a civil community together, allowing democracy to exist. She epitomized the essential threat of terrorism–that a terrorist could be anyone–a grandmother or a white American eco-terrorist from West Virginia–that a single person could attack, destroy, and move about freely in a free society. The terrible truth of modern terrorism is that anyone and everyone could be the enemy. And when everyone is the enemy, there can be no trust, and without trust, there can be no freedom, and without freedom, there can be no democracy.
THREE
Allan Hansen
The driver was one of the many young people who passed through his staff and campaign, eager to take a first step into politics. At least she’d obeyed the golden rule of drivers and had stayed by the car.
He climbed into the back seat of the SUV and told her to drive him to LA.
Riding in the back and being chauffeured used to seem pretentious. Five years of differential treatment had changed his attitude and how he played the part of a US senator. Now, he felt like a two-bit actor fleeing the stage in a blind panic.
The driver started the car and drove out of the driveway just as one of the campaign staff came running out the front door.
Hansen leaned back into the passenger-side bucket seat. He breathed deeply, and his pulse slowed. He’d escaped a trap. Somebody surely had snuck in a camera—no reason for him to stick around and make matters worse. Jake Gillium didn’t walk into a fundraiser out of the blue. There was probably already a picture of them circulating on the internet—Allan Hansen with his former Oakland Four coconspirator.
His stomach knotted at the thought of the Berkeley eco-terrorist group. He could beat the charge of being a radical environmentalist in college, but not what he’d done to Jake Gillium.
“Hello, Senator.” The driver glanced into the rearview mirror with a worried contraction of her eyes.
Hansen responded with a reflexive, impersonal “Hi.” Gillium’s joke about being no fan showed he still harbored ill feelings. Why shouldn’t he? Hansen’s testimony had helped put him and Lauren in jail. But there had been other evidence of their involvement in the attempted firebombing of the Monsanto laboratory. He wasn’t the one who’d been charged as an accomplice.
“Where are we going, Senator?”
His phone buzzed, no doubt from his manipulator in chief, Deirdre Owens. He silenced the call.
“Pull in here. There.”
Understandably confused, the obedient driver turned into the parking lot of El Matador Beach.
He was rarely harsh with his staff, treating them with the same loco parentis forbearance he’d shown his students before he’d gone into politics. “I need the car,” he snapped. “Get out.”
He and the bewildered staffer exited the SUV. The sun and hissing of waves were a serene contrast to the panic of a fleeing politician.
“I’m sorry. It’s important.” Hansen slid behind the wheel, closed the door, and drove out onto the PCH, leaving the young staffer with a befuddled squint to find her own way home with a crazy story of being abandoned by Senator Allan Hansen.
By the time he’d driven through Santa Monica to Interstate 10 East, he’d refused multiple calls from Deirdre Owens and Joe Upton, his chief of staff.
He needed to be alone with memories of innocence and guilt.
§…
In 1985, near the end of his freshman year at Cal, he’d been nineteen years old, crossing upper Sproul Plaza to take a final exam in Introduction to Psychology. At six-foot-one, he was taller than most other students, lean, his hair long and parted in the middle. The beginning of a brown beard covered his cheeks and dimpled chin. He wore an army surplus jacket, jeans, and old scuffed hiking boots. He carried his books in a leather satchel slung over a broad shoulder.
“Allan! Allan!” Jake Gillium, his roommate in Stern, ran up to him. Gillium was a Jewish intellectual from Los Angeles and seemed a real sophisticate to someone like Hansen, who’d grown up on an almond farm in the Central Valley.
“Hi, Jake. How ya doing?”
Gillium was out of breath. His wild mass of black curls surrounded a beard that Hansen envied. Gillium’s dark eyes searched the crowd before settling on Hansen.
“Not so good.” Gillium gave a nervous laugh that heightened his air of panic. His eyes beneath thick black eyebrows darted about, then focused on him with a look of pleading. “Look, we were studying for exams last night, right?”
They had been alone in their dorm room studying when Gillium had left around nine, saying he had to give a ride to an older couple they had met at Revolution Books. Hansen had thought it odd that they needed a ride somewhere at that time of night but was more focused on preparing for today’s exam and hadn’t asked why.
Gillium passionately believed in the need for social change and to stop environmental destruction. He had led Hansen to the apartment of Jimmy Tolver and his beautiful redheaded companion Lauren Bastini, saying they were real revolutionaries.
Tolver hypnotized Hansen with his charm and spoke to him as an equal, not a young kid. Weaving quotes from environmental leaders, he spoke admirably about the sixties radicals and their resistance to the Vietnam War. He’d given Hansen a copy of the Edward Abbey book The Monkey Wrench Game, in which an older protagonist led young followers around the Southwest, mostly blowing up powerlines. Hansen saw his sexual relationship with Bastini reflected in the book.
Being seduced by a thirty-six-year-old woman had seemed impossibly exotic and sophisticated. If she’d been talking about monkeys, he’d have agreed with her to see the way her nipples swelled and the slope of her belly.
Gillium’s eyes focused on something in the plaza, and he took off at a run, his short legs and thin arms pumping, his open plaid shirt flapping behind him.
Four men in dark sunglasses and suits chased Gillium through the crowd.
Hansen saw two men dressed in suits angling toward him. He broke into a fast walk as they closed on him.
“Allan Hansen?”
He lurched forward and stopped.
“Willard Mastroni, FBI,” the man claimed but showed no badge. “We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Hansen nervously pushed his hair away from his face. If he ran, it would only add to their suspicion. He swallowed against the tightening pressure in his throat. He hadn’t done anything. “There must be a mistake. I haven’t done anything and . . . I have a test. I can’t . . .”
“Come with us.” They moved to either side of him.
“What do you want?” His voice cracked in his dry throat. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
They held him by his trembling arm to hurry him across the plaza.
His feet dragged, and he almost tripped. He righted himself and moved faster to keep up with them. “Can you please just tell me what’s this all about?”
Neither of them responded.
Near the low oval wall around Ludwig’s Fountain, Gillium was spread-eagle on the ground. Two men held him down while another handcuffed him. A pistol was aimed at Gillium’s head. An excited, shocked crowd was gathering around the scene. Hansen looked away from students’ stares as the FBI agents hustled him past the Free Speech Movement Monument to a car waiting on Bancroft.
As they roughly guided Hansen into the back of a black sedan, a sidewalk preacher cried, “Awaken, arise Israel. Come forth, Babylon. Repent, repent for the Kingdom.”
The drive to the federal building in Oakland was an agony of unanswered questions. Hansen tried to be friendly but could get nothing out of the stolid FBI agents.
He was left alone in a small windowless room that smelled of sweat, tobacco, and fear. A single light shone on a metal desk and three hardback chairs. Thoughts flooded with scenarios, excuses, and lies he could tell to get out of this.
The door opened. Three men entered. Hansen rose to his feet, eyes searching from face to face for a sign of compassion.
“Sit back down, Allan,” a man said, pointing at the chair from which Hansen had risen.
He was Japanese like many of Hansen’s friends in the Valley. There was something potentially friendly in the laugh creases at the side of his eyes, but Hansen could find nothing understanding in his expression.
The two bigger men stood over Hansen’s shoulders.
“I’m Lawrence Yushima, assistant United States attorney for the Northern District of California. These gentlemen are with the FBI.
“Hello, sir. I’m Allan Hansen.” He extended his hand with a winsome smile as if introducing himself to a professor.
Yushima did not shake Hansen’s hand. “We know who you are, Allan.”
Hansen hunched into a position of intimidation and stammered, “Wh-wh-what can I do for you, sir?”
Yushima opened a manila file on the table and looked at Hansen through the thick lenses of black-rimmed glasses. “I want you to tell me about the plot to firebomb the Monsanto biotech research facility on Dwight Way.”
Hansen couldn’t stop a shiver that spread through his hands. “I don’t know anything about it. I swear I don’t.”
“You know James Tolver and Lauren Bastini.” It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact.
“Yes, sir. I’ve met them a few times.”
“James Tolver has died, and Lauren Bastini has suffered serious injuries received while attempting last night at approximately 9:45 p.m. to plant a bomb at the Monsanto biotech research facility.”
Time seemed to momentarily stop. His entire being was thrust into a disoriented realm of disbelief. “No! I’m sorry, I mean . . .”
“Were you present at any discussions between Jacob Gillium and Lauren Bastini about attacking the Monsanto biotech research facility?”
His mind raced, desperately trying to catch up with what was happening to him. He was having a hard time speaking. His words either sounded like they were coming out in a rush or not fast enough. His heart was racing like he had touched an electric current.
“No, sir.”
“Were you present when there were any discussions about the sabotage of environmentally damaging activities?”
“Maybe a couple of times, but I didn’t think anybody was serious.”
“Serious about what?” The US attorney’s voice was calm, leading.
Hansen shook his head, feeling lost, helpless to find the words to save his life. “You know, revolution. Everybody, I mean lots of people, talk that way about defending the environment. You know trees and things, redwood forests.”
Yushima frowned and glanced over Hansen’s shoulders at the FBI agents.
“You talk that way, Allan?”
Hansen leaned forward, shaking his head, squinting in sincerity. “No.”
Yushima opened the file. “You ever say, ‘I know where we can get some blasting caps’?”
Hansen’s hands twitched on the table. He put them in his lap. His eyes flitted. He’d been with Gillium at Lauren’s apartment, sitting around a low table in a living room cluttered with old furniture, a bike in the hallway, and stacks of books. An Alfred Eisenstaedt poster of Rachel Carson sitting by a rock pool as if contemplating the destruction of the natural world she foresaw hung on the wall. Lauren, Jimmy Tolver, and Cliffy were there. They had been talking about where to get some explosives. Hansen had just been showing off. He’d made up a story about an uncle with a gold mine.
“I was just kidding, really.” He sounded like he was gagging.
The federal prosecutor succinctly stated the indictment. “Allan, we have photographs of you at planning meetings. We have an informant who will testify that you were a coconspirator. Do you know what that means? It means that we can prosecute you for any crimes James Tolver, Lauren Bastini, and Jacob Gillium planned or committed. Last night, they were attempting to ignite a gas bomb. They could have burned down half of Oakland. And you would have been responsible.” Yushima jabbed a finger at Hansen. “You are responsible for the death of James Tolver. Mr. Hansen, I have enough evidence to charge you with felony murder.”
Hansen rocked back in his seat as if shoved by a powerful hand.
“Murder! I didn’t do anything. I swear to God, I didn’t! I wouldn’t know what a blasting cap looked like if I saw one. I was just talking, I tell you!”
Yushima calmly stared at him, utterly unimpressed by his denial. “You were with Jacob Gillium last night.”
Jake had gotten him into this—Jake and his damn free-love save-the-planet crowd. He wished he’d never met Jake Gillium.
Yushima leaned over the table toward him. “If you knew the crime Tolver, Bastini, and Gillium were attempting and you did nothing to stop them, you are guilty of conspiracy to commit the crime. You are an accessory before the fact.”
Hansen slowly shook his head. His mouth hung open. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare. What could he do or say to make this man believe he was innocent, completely innocent?
“Did you know that Jacob Gillium drove Lauren Bastini and James Tolver last night to attack the Monsanto facility?”
Hansen looked at the thick folder that now seemed to hold every crazy word he’d ever said or heard. Did they know that he’d made love to Lauren? He’d bragged about it to Jake. How many of Gillium’s revolutionary rants or insane schemes were in there–things Hansen had listened to or expressed agreement with? He tried to swallow what felt like a knot of rags clogging his throat. “He spoke about genetically modified seeds.” Hansen raised his palms toward Yushima, pleading, trying to make him comprehend what it was like to be a student at Cal. “You have to understand, sir. Lots of students talk that way about defending the environment. We have classes where we talk that way.”
“Whose idea was it to attack the facility? Was it Jacob Gillium’s?” There was no understanding, no sympathy in Yushima’s voice or expression.
Maybe Jake had known something about the bombing. He did say last night he was going to drive them, but he hadn’t said where. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I never heard Jake say anything like that.”
Yushima leaned back and frowned to convey his displeasure with Hansen’s statements. “Let me explain this simply to you, Mr. Hansen. Here are the scenarios. You can join Lauren Bastini and Jacob Gillium in prison for a very long time, or you can be our witness and testify as to what Gillium and Bastini said and did.”
“Jesus! It was just talk. I never gave anyone any blasting caps. I never told anyone where they could find blasting caps. Jake was studying in our dorm room last night. He’s a good student. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. He likes to talk. He’s a big talker!”
Yushima’s stare made Hansen cringe and fall back into his chair. The attorney leaned toward him. “I’m giving you one chance. You will testify against Jacob Gillium and Lauren Bastini, or you will join them in prison.”
Hansen started to sob, melting inside, his body flowing from his eyes. “I didn’t do anything. Jake didn’t do anything. We use Monsanto on my family’s farm. I spray Roundup myself.”
Yushima looked up at the agents. “I think Mr. Hansen had better get used to being behind bars. Book him.”
He thought about his mother hearing about him sleeping with a thirty-five-year-old revolutionary. “Wait!” He wept and held up his hands.
The agents and federal attorney watched him.
“I guess Jake did know that Lauren was going to do something. If I had known what he knew about it, I would have told someone.”
Yushima smiled as if he was proud of him. “And when did Jake first discuss the plan to attack the Monsanto biotech research facility?”
§…
He’d testified that Jake had said he was going to drive Bastini and Tolver somewhere. Jake hadn’t said where. Jake’s lawyer had said Jake had been told the gas can was to start a car that had run out of gas, that he’d left them off a block away from the Monsanto facility and had driven away.
The FBI informant, Cliffy, had testified that Jake had been present at planning sessions for ecoterrorism activities. So had Hansen. He was the unidentified fourth conspirator of the Oakland Four. It was pointless saying he and Jake wanted to impress Tolver and Bastini, to be accepted by them. Hansen knew he would have driven them. Everything he’d been able to do with his life, to be a US senator, was because Jake had a car and he didn’t.
Comentarios