Don't Speak Read online

  To Audi, for everything

  If we don’t believe in freedom of expression for people we despise, we don’t believe in it at all.

  - Noam Chomsky

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PART II

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  PART III

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  AFTERWORD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Prologue

  Ten Years Ago, Chattenham, Pennsylvania

  I waited behind the corner. The wind bit into my face as I glanced up at the wintry sky, clouds obscuring and then revealing the moon. Kyle would be wrapping up the evening broadcast. Always the last one to leave, he departed the radio station at 10:10 p.m. every day. So predictable.

  Five minutes later, Kyle came out the back door right on time and walked toward his car. Bereft of lights and usually full when Kyle arrived for his 7 p.m. show, the lot was now empty except for his beat-up Honda in a far corner, alone, underneath a large, leafless elm tree. As I knew it would be.

  Silence.

  Kyle paused. Maybe he sensed me. I’m not sure. I stayed where I was, not moving, not breathing. He continued walking, fishing in his pocket for his keys.

  I took long strides toward him, not trying to mask my footsteps.

  He turned.

  I smiled.

  He smiled in return. “Hey, man, what’s up? I thought someone was sneaking up on me.”

  I pulled a baseball bat from behind my back, the wooden handle smooth and comforting in my gloved hand.

  Kyle’s eyes shifted toward the bat, a frown starting to crease his forehead. His eyes searched mine. “What are you—”

  Kyle raised his right arm to block my swing, and the sound of wood meeting bone was like a two-base hit to center field. He screamed. His arm dropped and dangled by his side. He tried to throw a punch with his left, his weaker arm. I sidestepped and as he spun around, I struck his kidney next. Kyle staggered, then fell. I stood over him, cocked the bat back, and swung for the cheap seats. A sickening thud echoed as the bat’s sweet spot collided with Kyle’s head. He grabbed his head, curling into a fetal position.

  I struck him again. And again. And again.

  I stopped, my breaths heavy and visible and loud. I had thought I was in shape, but now I wondered. I scanned the parking lot and surrounding buildings to make sure my actions hadn’t been observed. My hands shook; I was nervous after all. Letting go of the bat, I bent and tilted my head. I studied Kyle, but didn’t touch him.

  Yet.

  His dark blond hair was now matted with blood and brains and bones and other matter. His eyes stared back at me, unseeing. Triumph surged through me in the silence. The taste of victory, sweet and satisfying.

  I glanced at the bat and grimaced. What a mess.

  I took out a knife I bought recently, the blade gleaming in the darkness. Kyle’s lips were parted, waiting for me. I opened his mouth wider and tugged at his tongue, pulling it out as far as it would go. I laid the sharp edge of the knife against the organ and began to saw. This was harder to do than I thought. It was my first time. They say you never forget your first time.

  After I finished, I willed my fast-beating heart to slow.

  Crickets chirped, but otherwise the night was quiet. Peaceful.

  I needed to leave. The campus police patrolled this area and would be by soon.

  I checked to make sure I didn’t leave any evidence. Something shiny lay on the pavement next to what was left of Kyle’s head. I peered closer.

  A penny. Heads up.

  My lucky day.

  I already got my wish, though; I would never have to hear one of his broadcasts ever again.

  Part I

  CHAPTER ONE

  Present Day, Arlington, Virginia

  Jade Harrington stared down at her opponent. He was four inches shorter than she but built like a linebacker. For this Tae Kwon Do testing, she had already defeated six opponents—all men—and at one point, took down two fighters simultaneously. At the beginning of this final match of the day, a few onlookers stood outside the ring. As the match progressed, however, more spectators from around the arena gravitated from other contests to observe this fight between two highly ranked competitors.

  Jade pushed up the front of her protective headgear, which had inched down again. Sweat streamed into her eyes, and her bulky sparring gloves could not wipe it away. The pungent mixture of sweat and the scent of Tiger Balm tingled her senses.

  Five judges sat with stoic expressions at a table on the dais to her right. The senior judge, in a quiet voice, said, “Sijak,” Korean for “start,” to begin the fifth round.

  Jade’s opponent launched a rear round kick. She expected the move. He had been using the same technique for most of the match, and had landed a few blows with it. At first. But now she was on to him. She blocked his shin with her left forearm while jabbing a front kick to his stomach. It connected. He expelled a short breath, surprised, and hunched back to his sparring position.

  They circled, breathing hard, eyes locked.

  Jade had been training for this moment for three years, but after six matches and five rounds in this one, she was
exhausted. She had to end this. Now.

  He began to raise his back leg for another round kick. Doesn’t he know any other kicks? Jade didn’t wait. She jumped up, her lithe body coiling as she turned clockwise. At the apex of her twenty-inch vertical jump, her right leg straightened and whipped across her opponent’s head, connecting at his temple. As he fell, Jade completed the 360-degree spinning hook kick, landing softly on the mat in her original stance, her gloves near her head in a protective position.

  She held her stance, then relaxed. He was not getting up.

  Jade removed her headgear and released her ponytail. Her light brown hair, wet and clumpy, fell to her shoulders. Lovely, she thought, sarcastically. The spectators had been holding a collective breath, but they began buzzing when they realized she was a woman. The dobok (uniform) was not the most flattering attire for the female anatomy. As a biracial woman—thanks to a Japanese mother and a black father—her looks often drew the appreciative stares of strangers. Or, maybe this crowd just appreciated a good kick.

  She crouched over her fallen competitor, concerned that she had hurt him. She offered her hand to help him up.

  “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, not meeting her eyes. He waved away her hand and struggled to his feet. Jade knew he was disappointed. This was his third time testing for this rank. Whatever. She had tried to be nice.

  They both stood at attention, feet together, hands at their sides, facing the panel of judges.

  “Mr. Randall,” said the senior instructor, Master Won Ho. “I’m sorry. You didn’t pass. Not because you lost, but because you forgot our core tenet of courtesy. I would like to have a word with you after this testing.”

  He turned to Jade.

  “Ms. Harrington, by the power vested in me by the Tae Kwon Do Association, I now bestow upon you the rank of fourth-degree black belt. Congratulations.”

  Jade’s chest swelled, but she didn’t smile. The skin around Master Won Ho’s eyes crinkled, and he nodded at her. She nodded in return, the beginning of a smile creeping onto her face.

  The spectators clapped. Jade surveyed the crowd, not recognizing anyone except for a few classmates. But she didn’t know them well enough to share in the glow of this accomplishment. Her past made it hard for her to make friends. Ever since she was a kid, after what happened, she found it hard to trust anyone. Still.

  As she packed her gear, spectators came up to congratulate her and relive her spinning hook kick.

  She thanked them and left the arena.

  Alone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  I sat in a rental car across the street, watching.

  They had already consumed several rounds of drinks at an Italian restaurant on the bottom floor of a downtown skyscraper that housed radio station KABC up on the top floor. The dinner rush was gone, except for seven station employees still going strong at a table near the front.

  Most of the conversation was directed at a tall, broad-shouldered man. Whenever he spoke, his companions laughed as if he were a comedian. This funny man was named Randy Sells.

  Sells stood and drained the rest of his beer before stumbling toward the back of the restaurant, bumping into chairs along the way. The restaurant didn’t have its own restrooms, so patrons had to use the ones in the office building. I had scouted that out earlier.

  I got out of my car, and sprinted across the street and through the lobby. I had to beat him to the restroom. I turned right and then left down a long hallway. I won. I heard his footsteps echoing behind me.

  He stopped. I stopped, too. He may have heard me, but he could not see me.

  Sells started walking again. His footsteps rounded the corner, toward me. I slipped out the back door next to the bathroom and into the alley behind the building. I left the outside door ajar.

  The stench of rotten food and urine hit me. Nauseated me. I kept my composure and remained silent. And I waited.

  Sells entered the restroom.

  A few minutes later he came out, shaking his hands dry.

  I eased the door open, took two quick steps, and put my arm around his neck. And squeezed.

  He brought his arms up to free his throat and began to writhe away from me. He was bigger than I thought.

  “What the hell do you—”

  I re-established my grip, took the stun gun out of my pocket, placed it under his rib cage, and fired.

  I held him tight and close as the electrical current pulsed through his body. After a time, he stopped struggling.

  I whispered in his ear, as if to a lover, “There are consequences to what you say.”

  He sagged into me, and I dragged him outside and laid him on the pavement. I stared at the handsome face and reached for my trusted bat, where I’d hidden it earlier. Time for batting practice.

  My swing was getting better.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Washington, DC

  Whitney Fairchild, junior Democratic senator from Missouri, strode down the steps of the Capitol. Landon Phillips, her legislative director, struggled to keep up despite his long legs.

  Landon briefed her on her remaining schedule for the day, reading from his electronic tablet as they crossed Constitution Avenue toward the Russell Senate Office Building.

  “You shouldn’t read that while crossing the street,” Whitney said.

  “You’re right, Senator. Bad habit.” He stopped reading and carried the tablet like a book. “At three o’clock, you’re scheduled for a photo op with kids from the elementary school with the highest points under the new Missouri scoring system. This will give you a chance to say a few words about education reform.”

  “Such as my plan to eliminate scoring systems?”

  Landon ran his fingers through his long hair. “Uh . . . , that might not be appropriate for the occasion.”

  “How about my plan to let teachers teach children how to learn rather than how to take a test?”

  “Not enough time.”

  “How about firing nonperforming teachers?”

  “Ditto.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “You’re having lunch today with Senator Sampson at the Four Seasons,” Landon continued, “ostensibly to discuss Agricultural Committee work, but really his goal is to convince you not to separate farm subsidies from your welfare reform bill.”

  “He wants to break bread now after everything he’s been saying about me?” Whitney said. Sampson was Whitney’s rival for the Democratic nomination in the upcoming presidential primaries. Turning serious, she said, “Email his LD and work on a separate bill capping subsidies. The subsidies should be directed toward small- and mid-sized farmers only.”

  “Will do.”

  “Wait until after the lunch.”

  A trim, fit man with black hair, a dark business suit and red tie, caught up to them.

  “Senator Fairchild, may I speak with you?”

  “Of course, Senator Hampton.” To Landon: “Give us a moment.”

  Landon walked a few paces away, finding something, as always, to read on his electronic tablet.

  She smiled at Hampton, his professorial glasses augmenting his self-proclaimed intellectual persona. “What can I do for you, Senator?”

  “I can deliver the votes on welfare reform, if you back off supporting the anti-personhood legislation.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  The Virginia Republican smiled as if it pained him. “But this is a state issue.”

  “No, this is a civil-rights issue.”

  “What about backing off the ERA? The deadline expired in 1982. It’s dead already, for God’s sake.”

  Whitney was shaking her head before he had finished speaking. “That’s because most people think equal rights is already the law. Eric, you’re wasting your breath. Give me something we can work together on. What about education? Immigration? The deficit?”

  His lips parted to say something else, but he closed them.
/>   “Maybe. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be in touch. Good day, Senator.”

  He walked away. Landon rejoined her.

  “What did he want?”

  She filled him in.

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Not in my lifetime.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Washington, DC

  The biggest studio at the Patriot News Network was painted orange and yellow. Loud colors for a loud man. Cole Brennan sat behind the microphone during his fourth commercial break of the hour, watching CNN, ABC, FOX, CBS, and NBC on the TV monitors on the wall opposite him. There was no breaking news.

  Cole surveyed the guest list, waiting for his music intro to fade out. He put on his headphones. His producer said, “Our next caller is Frank from New York City.”

  “Frank from New York City. What’s on your mind?” Cole asked.

  “With all due respect, Cole, I disagree with what you just said. Income inequality isn’t a recent phenomenon. The difference in wealth between the haves and have-nots widened over the last forty years. The rich continue to migrate to gated communities, cutting them off from the rest of us. If something isn’t done, the divide will be permanent. The resentment between the rich and everyone else will only get worse. I believe . . .”

  Cole, the number one-rated radio talk-show host in the United States, sipped his ice-cold sweet tea while Frank jabbered on. He believed that when someone began a sentence with “With all due respect,” he wasn’t being respected at all.

  “Well, Frank,” he interrupted, “what you neglected to say is the so-called rich create the jobs and pay the most taxes in this country.”

  “But that’s not true—”

  He hung up on Frank and spoke into the microphone.

  “He also neglected to say education makes a difference. Not for those people who graduate from college with philosophy or African-American studies degrees and wonder why they can’t get a job, default on their student loans, and stick us with the bill. I paid off my student loans, and so did you. Our kids can do the same.”

  The next caller asked about welfare reform.

  “Good question,” Cole said. “I believe it’s far more compassionate to help people become self-reliant rather than dependent on the government. Don’t you agree? The Commiecrats’ grand scheme is to expand the number of folks on welfare and working in Big Government, ensuring them two voting blocs for life.”