Shirley’s voice cracked slightly.
“But they’re pushing for federal charges now.”
“For what?”
“They’re claiming you used military tactics against civilians.”
She took a breath.
“They’re painting you as a trained killer who overreacted to local men causing trouble.”
Otis absorbed the words.
The system was closing around him exactly as he had feared.
“Stay strong,” he said quietly.
“I love you,” Shirley whispered.
“I love you too.”
The line disconnected.
Back in his cell, Otis lay on the thin mattress and stared at the gray ceiling.
His body hurt.
His farm had been attacked.
His evidence appeared to be gone.
The people who attacked him were presenting themselves as victims.
But Otis knew something they did not.
He and Shirley had planned for failure.
They had prepared for evidence to disappear.
They had never trusted a single copy.
Now all he could do was trust the preparations they had made before the first shot had ever been fired.
Five days into Otis’ imprisonment, Dre sat hunched over Shirley’s kitchen table surrounded by computers and storage devices.
His eyes were red from lack of sleep.
Then he stopped moving.
“Found it.”
Shirley looked up.
“What?”
“Another backup.”
He turned the screen toward her.
“They didn’t know about the secondary recordings.”
Shirley leaned closer.
“How much?”
“Everything.”
Dre’s voice tightened.
“The first attack.”
“The fires.”
“The shooting.”
“The threats.”
“All of it.”
The video quality was clear.
Wade’s men could be identified.
Their actions could be followed.
Their words could be heard.
Shirley straightened.
“Send copies to everyone on the list.”
“Every news outlet.”
“Every civil rights organization.”
“Every veterans group.”
She pointed toward the computer.
“And encrypted copies to our lawyers.”
Dre nodded.
“Already moving.”
He looked at another screen.
“It’s starting to spread online too.”
Outside the Freeman property, cars lined the road.
Supporters had begun arriving with signs.
Occasional horns sounded in encouragement.
Local police remained nearby, watching.
Inside the jail, Otis maintained his routine.
He exercised carefully around his injuries.
He meditated.
He kept his mind disciplined.
A corrections officer named Rodriguez stopped outside his cell one afternoon.
“My son served too,” Rodriguez said quietly.
Otis looked at him.
“Afghanistan.”
Rodriguez’s expression changed.
“He didn’t come home.”
Otis stood slowly.