CARD CARRYING

 

By Roman Sympos

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1.

 

“That’s what makes it so interesting,” said Monica. “His cockamamie story.”

 

She and Hart were having coffee and muffins at The Squawking Gull, as they had fallen into the habit of doing every Wednesday morning after the Seeburg murder case.  Today’s meeting was business related. Monica was briefing Hart on a case for North Shore Legal Aid, the non-profit that she and her attorney husband, Sam Tull, had founded a few years back to help those in need who were facing the costs of litigation. NOSHLA had Hart on retainer as their chief investigator.

 

Hart still didn’t like the wrought-iron chairs at The Squawking Gull, which were way too small for his oversized avoirdupois. But his attachment to Monica, and the Gull’s muffins, made the discomfort bearable, and he enjoyed the view of Main Street from the window table. It held special interest since an ICE arrest had taken place there, in broad daylight, a few days ago.

 

As usual, Hart was wearing his overcoat to hide the disparity between his rear end and the thimble-sized seat he was perched on. It was one of the few things that betrayed any uneasiness about the detective’s gargantuan dimensions, which otherwise never crossed his mind. His complexion he could do nothing about.

 

Being a gentleman, however, he’d placed his fedora on the table.

 

“Sounds like he grabbed it out of thin air,” said Hart, taking a bite of his muffin. Carrot this morning.

 

“Like, what, a mosquito?  Ever try it?  Harder than a truck driver’s pecker after a week on the road.”  Monica had a mouth that belied her appearance, which most men, and women, too, found sweet and beatific. Long golden curls down her back, sky-blue eyes, Betty Boop lips. Nothing about her had any obvious connection to her personality except her last name, “Spinoza,” which was Italian for “thorny.”

 

“Only thing harder is thin air,” she continued. “You have to be a magician to pull that off. The coin that isn’t, and then it is?  The man isn’t smart enough to make up something like that. ‘Here, do the Lord’s work’”?

 

Hart only nodded. His mouth was full of muffin. He took a sip of coffee and said, “OK. Suppose he’s telling the truth. He’s standing there with his Apocalypse Now sign, and a woman driving a blue Prius gives him a credit card . . . ”

 

“’Tosses.’ It has to go in the basket.”

 

“Okay, ‘tosses,’ and she makes the basket.  My question is, 'Why?'”

 

“It was a sign. From the Lord,” Monica said with a straight face.

 

“No, I mean, why give him the credit card?”

 

“I presume she stole it or found it, and used it, and was afraid of getting caught with it.”

 

Hart was about to take another bite of his muffin but placed it back on his plate. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.

 

“So why not just throw it away?” he asked.

 

Monica shrugged. “Offset the bad karma?”

 

The subject of Monica’s and Hart’s conversation this bright, hot August morning was Jeremiah Pennington, who’d been arrested for credit card fraud the day before.

 

Jeremiah had materialized over the Fourth of July weekend on a traffic island at Grant Circle, the rotary where Route 128 feeds cars from the rest of Massachusetts into Route 127, a twisty, two-lane road circumnavigating Cape Ann. This was at evening rush hour, so the backup was sizeable, giving motorists time to fish a few coins out of their pockets while they waited for a gap in the rotary traffic.

 

Jeremiah was wearing a burlap sack cinched with rope. His hair fell past his shoulders and his beard stuck out like a flat-nosed shovel. Two skinny legs clad in blue jeans and torn sneakers poked out beneath.  He held a hand-printed cardboard sign that said, “The End of the World is Coming!” and at his feet was a battered wicker wastebasket painted red, white, and blue with another sign: “Are You Saved? Make a Basket and FIND OUT!”  There wasn’t much in it—barely enough to buy him a large black at Dunkin’. But coins lay glittering in the sun all around it, like a halo, along with a few stray bills.

 

Weeks went by. Jeremiah became a fixture. Also, a nuisance.

 

Two days ago, on Monday, a patrol officer was sent to tell him he’d have to change locations because he was impeding the flow of traffic. Since it was morning rush hour, the Prophet of Grant Circle was standing on the traffic island opposite his previous location and was now facing cars headed into Boston from East Gloucester via Blackburn Circle. He cited his rights under the First Amendment. “I have the right to speak my mind and I have the right to worship as I choose,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’m doing the Lord’s work.”

 

“Yes you do and maybe you are,” replied the cop, “but you can’t do it here.”

 

He was back the next morning at still another compass point on the traffic circle, the island on the north side this time. The same cop spotted him and warned him for the last time.

 

“I moved,” said Pennington, pointing to his location the day before.  The officer gave him the stink-eye and stayed parked there, blue lights flashing, while he picked up his things and left.

 

Later the same morning, the store manager at The Common Crow, a natural foods market on the corner of Eastern Avenue and Pond Road, called to report a man trying to use a credit card without proper identification.

 

“That’s not against the law,” said the desk sergeant.

 

“The card belongs to a woman,” said the manager. “And you better hurry. It’s that nut case from Grant Circle.”

 

Pennington was arrested as he emerged from the store. He was clutching a Sandy Bay Bank credit card belonging to a “Samantha McCabe.” His basket, signs, and burlap nightshirt were nowhere in evidence. Nor were any purchases. He’d been turned down.

 

Pennington was read his rights but waived them. He said he had nothing to hide. The card was “a gift from the Lord,” and he explained how he’d come by it. “I was going to buy some birthday candles,” he added, when asked.

 

“They have organic birthday candles here?”

 

Pennington nodded. “Beeswax.” When asked if it was his birthday, he replied, “They’re for the altar.”

 

Asked if he had any fixed address, he led the police to the refrigerator box he lived in, which was hidden deep among the witches’ weeds and blueberry patches of Cape Ann’s forested interior, known as “Dogtown.” One of the earliest settlements on the cape, Dogtown had dwindled long ago to a few cellar holes and an occasional squatter, like Pennington. Only the mosquitoes had survived the passing of centuries.

 

The police pulled up at the trail head for “Historic Dogtown,” off Cherry Street, and together they and Pennington walked the fifteen minutes to the man’s abode. It was just off the Adams Pines Trail, near Granny Day’s Swamp. Inside they found his panhandling paraphernalia, a filthy woolen blanket, some scraps of food covered with ants, a bible, and a small pile of rocks bristling with candle stubs. He lit the candles when he prayed, the Prophet said, or needed light to read The Book.

 

“Why not use the card to buy some ant traps?” one officer asked. This was the one who’d told him to move.

 

Pennington explained his “Basket Sortilege.” Anything that fell on the ground was meant to sustain God’s Prophet until the Rapture. The money in the basket was the Lord’s, for worship purposes only.

 

“It made the basket,” he said. “Didn’t even touch the rim. So who am I to question His wisdom?”

 

A background check showed Pennington was a decorated former GI who’d served in Afghanistan. Also, he’d spent two years at MCI Concord for credit card fraud. That and his lack of an address meant bail was out of the question.

 

#

 

The case was initially given to a junior detective, but Pete Fallon asked for it. The younger officer was glad to step aside. No glory here.

 

Detective Lieutenant Fallon wasn’t looking to add to his workload, but the name “McCabe” rang a bell. Also, he’d served in Iraq, and Pennington had seen combat, so there was that. As for the man’s story, it was too crazy not to be true. But maybe Pennington was crazy. Fallon decided to find out. After twenty-five years on the force, he thought he’d seen everything. He hadn’t seen this.

 

First thing Fallon did was call the customer service number on the card. He was told the owner of the account would be notified.

 

“Could I have Ms. McCabe’s phone number?” he asked. Not without a court order, he was told. Rules are rules. “Have her contact me as soon as you reach her, will you?” he asked.

 

Second thing Fallon did was call Monica and her husband, Sam. The state’s public defenders were on strike again and Pennington would need all the help he could get. Fallon had met the couple through Hart, who’d helped him solve the Seeberg case, and he’d immediately taken to Monica. She was tough, smart, and as cynical as a death-row priest.

 

“This is strictly against protocol,” Fallon told her. “You didn’t get it from me. And it changes nothing. You do your job, I do mine.”

 

NOSHLA agreed to handle Jeremiah’s defense. The interrogation took place later that afternoon, with Sam Tull sitting next to his client. Pennington had already told his story, so that was in the record. To all of Fallon’s other questions he replied, as instructed, “No comment.”

 

Now, twenty-four hours after Pennington’s arrest, nothing had changed. What Monica knew about the incident she’d gotten from Sam. Attorney-client privilege extended to NOSHLA staff as well as investigators on retainer, like Hart, who contacted Fallon on leaving The Squawking Gull.

 

“You believe him?” Hart asked. He’d left the rest of his carrot muffin untouched. Faced with things that didn’t make sense, he often forgot to eat.

 

“I want to believe him,” said Fallon. He paused and Hart could hear the crackle of a cigarette. “The man did his time for the credit card business, and he’s a decorated vet, honorably discharged. So I’m willing to give him the benefit, if anyone can tell me how his story makes sense.” Hart pictured Fallon standing outside the parking lot entrance, puffing away: a gray man in a gray suit scratching his gray head with the thumb of his cigarette hand. “That would help.”

 

#

 

Back at his desk, Fallon received a call from the desk sergeant. A Tommy McCabe was on the line. He said he was Samantha McCabe’s husband.

 

“I’m afraid she’s been abducted,” said Mr. McCabe. “By ICE.”

 

As soon as he heard the word “ICE,” Fallon remembered where he’d seen the name on the credit card.

 

Samantha McCabe was minister of the Unitarian Universalist Church in Wickham, a sleepy semi-rural community several miles west of Cape Ann. For the last three months she’d been reaching out to colleagues up and down the North Shore to help her organize a sanctuary network for immigrants feeling threatened by the current wave of Federal arrests and illegal detentions. She’d drawn a great deal of press, along with unwelcome attention from Immigration and Customs Enforcement and a wide range of other security agencies going by different acronyms.

 

“When did you last see your wife?” Fallon asked.

 

“Yesterday morning,” said McCabe, “when I left for work. That was about a quarter past seven. She was getting ready to head over to the church. The secretary called me just before noon to see if Samantha had some errands or had changed her mind. I’ve talked to the Wickham police. They said she had to be missing for three days before they could begin looking for her. So I thought I’d try you guys. I know she had business in Gloucester later that morning, and she was planning to take a walk in Dogtown, just to get some fresh air and clear her mind. She’s hardly seen daylight since the new wave of arrests started.”

 

Fallon told McCabe about the credit card. The Reverend’s disappearance was now part of an ongoing criminal investigation, so there’d be no question it would be pursued. “But what makes you think this is an Immigration and Customs Enforcement matter?” asked Fallon.

 

“Don’t you read the news?”

 

“Sorry, Mr. McCabe. I mean, is there anything specific to make you think it’s ICE?”

 

After a pause, McCabe said, “No. Not so far.”

 

“I take it you’ve tried her phone number.”

 

“It goes straight to voicemail.”

 

“Could I have it?”

 

McCabe recited the number and Fallon entered it into his contacts. He’d try it after hanging up.

 

“What was your wife wearing when she left the house yesterday? And what kind of car does she drive?”

 

“Khaki pants, striped blouse. I don’t know if she took a jacket or a hat. She drives a blue Prius.”

 

 

2.

 

The Prius was found the next morning, Thursday, in the parking lot at Goose Cove Reservoir. It was reported by a local resident out walking his dog. The dog noticed the smell before his owner did.

 

The body of Samantha McCabe was lying in the cargo area under the tonneau cover. The back of her head was crushed and blood had soaked the fabric of the wheel-well panel beneath her.

 

She’d been dead for about 48 hours. The autopsy might narrow that down, but determining the exact time of death would be tricky. The sun beating on the hatchback window for two days had sped up decomposition.

 

Samantha McCabe had on the khaki pants and striped blouse she was wearing when she left the house. Her wallet was missing, but the car registration confirmed her identity. A gray windbreaker and a hat with a mosquito net veil lay next to her. The hat was stained with her blood.

 

The parking area at Goose Cove was about a half hour’s walk from Pennington’s refrigerator box. A thorough toss of his possessions revealed nothing relevant, but a close examination of the area around the murder scene uncovered a good-sized rock with what looked like blood stains on it. The lab would determine that. The rock’s surface was too rough to have kept any fingerprints. There was also blood on some foliage near the bike path around the reservoir—faint traces undetectable except to a dog’s nose.

 

The police found a wallet containing Samantha’s driver’s license in the underbrush next to the bike path, about thirty yards from the Prius. It held no money, but all the credit cards were there, except for the one found in Pennington’s possession.

 

Sam briefed Hart that afternoon in Hart’s office on Main Street, since the big man didn’t have a car. His size prevented him from buying anything smaller than a full-sized vehicle and he couldn’t afford one. And he hated driving anyway.

 

Pennington had been interrogated again and shown Samantha McCabe’s photo but said the woman who’d tossed him the credit card was wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat, so he couldn’t be sure it was McCabe. He denied any knowledge of the murder. He insisted that the woman had given him the credit card and continued on her way north, toward Goose Cove Reservoir, and that he never laid eyes on her after that.

 

“He’s been charged with homicide, first degree,” said Sam, “and the arraignment is scheduled for next week. So you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

 

“What’s your take on Pete Fallon?” asked Hart.

 

“He’s pissed, of course. He trusted Pennington enough to help him get a decent defense attorney and now the man’s a prime suspect in a murder investigation.”  

 

“So what do we have in our favor?” asked Hart.

 

“Two things,” said Sam. “Timing, first of all. But just barely.”

 

The coroner had narrowed down the time of death to somewhere between 6 and 10 am Monday morning. Given the heated interior of the car, that was her best estimate.

 

“The police assume she’d gone to Goose Cove for her morning walk,” said Sam. “Witnesses report seeing her arrive around 8 am and heading for the bike path around the cove. No reports after that.”

 

“Do we know why she didn’t stop at the church and then see her colleague here in town, as planned, before taking her walk?” said Hart.

 

“No, but her reasons are irrelevant. Pennington’s whereabouts aren’t. According to the police log, he was standing on the island where 127 heads up to the Reservoir when he was told to move at 8:17. Even if he happened to be in the Goose Cove parking lot earlier, when McCabe arrived at 8:00—and why would he be? It’s not on his way to Grant Circle—he couldn’t have waylaid McCabe, stolen her wallet, hid the body in the car, and made it back to the rotary in just 17 minutes. Especially with other people around. That rules out his murdering McCabe before he starts his day at the Circle.”

 

“OK, one possibility down,” said Hart.

 

“He says he wasn’t planning to leave the rotary until 11 o’clock. Wanted to catch the morning beach traffic.”

 

“Too bad the cop told him to move on. He’d be in the clear.”

 

“He took the cop’s warning as a ‘sign.’ The woman who tossed him the credit card said, “Do the Lord’s work, but do it fast. The End is near.” He didn’t know how near, he says, until the cop told him to pack up his things.”

 

“So, he leaves the rotary at 8:17,” said Hart, “and it would take him maybe 45 minutes, at least, to reach Goose Cove by foot, right?”

 

Sam nodded.

 

“That means he’d get there around 9 am, well within the ETD.”

 

Sam nodded again.

 

“I take it no one saw the toss?”

 

“No, and Pennington doesn’t own a watch, so he can’t tell us when his encounter with the woman in the Prius took place.”

 

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” said Hart, “and someone may still come forward.”

 

“Sure, but let’s work with what we know. The police tell him to leave the rotary at 8:17, so allowing for a few minutes to smart mouth the cop and pack up his stuff, let’s say he actually leaves at 8:20. Then he isn’t seen again until he gets to The Common Crow a little more than two hours later, at 10:26. As the police figure it, that gives him enough time to walk to Goose Cove Reservoir, kill McCabe, ditch the robe and other stuff at his squat, and walk to the store. Tight, but time enough, they say.”

 

“What does Pennington say?”

 

“He says he went straight to his refrigerator box, where he knelt down and asked God what he should buy with the card. While he was praying, the last candle on his altar burned out. Of course he took that as still another sign. So he left for The Common Crow, where he usually shopped for his food—

 

“Organic? Isn’t that expensive?”

 

“’The body is my temple,’ he says, ‘and I will not desecrate it.’ Or something like that. Anyway, he went there to buy more birthday candles.”

 

“He wasn’t worried that the name on the card wasn’t his?”

 

“God works miracles.”

 

“Without the detour through Goose Cove Res, he could have covered the distance from Grant Circle to his squat via the Dogtown Road trailhead—that’s a lot nearer—and then to The Common Crow, all in under two hours, right?”

 

“Bet, bruh,” said Sam, who liked to pepper his White English with AAVE every now and then, just to show he could. “Well under.”

 

“And for the murder scenario to work, there couldn’t be more than a second or two of delays,” said Hart.

 

“Right. Pennington would have to reach the parking lot just as McCabe was getting back from her walk. That would put her at the Res at around 9 am. He’d have to find a rock, sneak up on her from behind, bludgeon her, and put the body in the car—all without being seen by hikers, dog-walkers, or nearby residents, and without getting blood on his clothes. The police didn’t find a trace--not on his shirt or jeans or shoes, or his robe.”

 

Hart brightened up. “But why would Pennington follow McCabe to Goose Cove Res in the first place? He’d have to know where she was headed, and that means she had to tell him, right? And that would give credibility to Pennington’s story about the toss, wouldn’t it?  And how he came to have her credit card?”

 

Sam nodded. “But if she did tell him where she was headed when she stopped, that helps the police, because now they have a reason for Pennington to look for McCabe at the Res. The credit card gave him the idea there was more where that came from.”

 

Hart thought it over.

 

“So,” he said, “They didn’t like the story for the fraud rap, but they like it now for the murder rap.”

 

“Exactly. So your first assignment is to nail down Pennington’s exact route after he was told to move on. Did he go to his squat via the Cherry Street entrance or Goose Cove? Find witnesses. Maybe canvass residents?”

 

Hart nodded as he entered notes on his iPhone. “What’s the second thing in our favor?”

 

“ICE,” said Sam.

 

#

 

Prompted by McCabe’s suspicions, Fallon had called Silent Eye, the state-wide citizens’ organization monitoring ICE arrests and detentions, to see if anyone had reported witnessing an arrest in Rockport or Gloucester the morning of Samantha McCabe’s murder. Someone had, on one of the less populated stretches of the Bass Rocks Road loop just south of Good Harbor Beach. This was about four and a half miles from where her body was found.

 

“That was around 8:30, 8:40 am,” said Sam.

 

“Leaving plenty of time to murder her within the window for the ETD.  When was the call made?”

 

“Yesterday afternoon.”

 

“That’s like thirty-six hours later. Why the delay?”

 

“The caller said they were reluctant to come forward.”

 

“‘They?’”

 

“Silent Eye wouldn’t provide any details.”

 

“Bass Rocks Road isn’t anywhere near Goose Cove.”

 

“No, but it’s just off the route to East Gloucester, where she had her appointment that morning. She could have missed a turn on the way there and got confused.”

 

“Was there video?”

 

“Caller said they didn’t have their phone at the time, but the description fit McCabe and the car was a blue Prius.”

 

“Were they sure it was ICE?” asked Hart. “What kind of vehicle were the arresting officers driving? Were they wearing their badges? Were they wearing masks?”

 

“A black SUV. The caller couldn’t see any insignia on the car or the officers. There were three of them. And yes, they wore masks.”

 

“Have the police ID’d the caller’s phone number?”

 

“Silent Eye no longer keeps track of that kind of information,” said Sam. “That way they can guarantee anonymity. Best way to defeat a subpoena.”

 

“So what do they do when someone calls?”

 

“They send two volunteers to the site of the arrest to confirm and record it, if it’s ongoing, and to get more information. You be surprised how talkative some of these Feds can be. Most of them think they’re just enforcing the law. All in a day’s work.”

 

“But it was over long before Silent Eye could check it out.”

 

“Right.”

 

“More and more suspicious. I mean the call. Anonymous . . .”

 

“Lots of witnesses are afraid to identify themselves these days,” said Sam.

 

“. . . and no video, and no number, and uncorroborated. And what happened to the Prius?”

 

“Two agents got into the SUV with McCabe. The third impounded her car and followed. That’s according to the witness.”

 

Hart shook his head. “I still don’t buy it.”

 

“But it is an item in our favor,” said Sam. “It muddies the water. No one can prove it didn’t happen.”

 

“What does Fallon say?”

 

“Not much these days, but when I put the case to him directly he said the ICE field office in Burlington denied deploying any unit to Gloucester that day . . .”

 

“If you can believe them.”

 

“. . . and it’s not their M.O. to murder detainees.”

 

“No, leave that to the police in El Salvador.”

 

Sam paused and looked at Hart as if to ask, “Are you through?” Then he resumed.

 

“Given the masks and lack of ID, Fallon thinks it’s possible McCabe was kidnapped by ICE imposters. But there were no ransom demands—she was killed practically before anyone could make them. Did her organization get targeted by some anti-immigration KKK? Very unlikely. What kind of threat did it pose? Since there’s no hard evidence the abduction took place at all, Fallon’s inclined to think the caller was mistaken.”

 

“Or it could have been a diversion,” said Hart, not looking up from his notes.

 

“But for whose benefit?” asked Sam. “Certainly not Pennington’s. The body hadn’t been found at the time the call came in, and Pennington wouldn’t be charged until two days later.”

 

“Anyone you’d like me to talk to?”

 

“McCabe’s church secretary might have more information about the sanctuary network and McCabe’s personal life, and the appointment for that morning. And call the Reverend Manuel Figeroa, minister of The Synod Assembly Church of God in Christ, down in East Gloucester. That’s who was supposed to meet with McCabe.”

 

“And the husband?”

 

“His alibi checks out. He left the house at the same time Samantha did, at seven-thirty or thereabouts, and picked up two co-workers along the way. They all work at the NOAA offices here in Gloucester, and he drives for their car-pool. The first rider lives in Wickham, about ten minutes from the McCabe residence, and the other one in Gloucester, maybe another half hour’s drive. Both confirm that they were picked up and arrived at NOAA on time, just before eight."

 

“Could he have murdered her at home? Packed the body in the Prius, driven it to . . .”

 

“Dressed as his wife? How would he get back to Wickham and pick up his first rider there and still get to work on time?”

 

“An accomplice, then?”

 

“Like?”

 

“Wouldn’t hurt for me to contact him.”

 

“Here,” said Sam, and texted Hart the phone number. “But from what Fallon tells me, he’s already convinced it’s Pennington. You might have a hard time getting him to open up to the Prophet’s private investigator.”

 

“What about the ICE field office?”

 

“You’re unlikely to learn anything that Fallon didn’t, which is nothing, so don’t waste your time.”

 

 

3.

 

It was already late afternoon and there was a heat advisory that made the idea of canvassing Cherry Street door-to-door profoundly unappealing. Hart decided to wait for cooler weather tomorrow. Instead, he called the Reverend Figeroa, then caught a CATA bus to East Gloucester.

 

The Synod Assembly Church of God in Christ was an evangelical outfit occupying a former bait and tackle warehouse built on pilings that extended over the outer harbor. The neighborhood abutted the historic artists’ colony of Rocky Neck and included the Gloucester Stage Company and a few restaurants. The mansions (“summer cottages”) of old East Gloucester were clustered far from here, at the south end of the peninsula.

 

The Reverend Figeroa looked young, in his mid-20s. He had a black, pencil thin mustache and wore jeans and an open-necked short sleeved shirt with no clerical collar. He was also an exception to the general run of evangelicals that Hart knew, who ardently supported the president and his anti-immigration crackdown. The Synod Assembly Church included lots of Hispanic, Portuguese, and Asian immigrant families. Figeroa told Hart he’d made an appointment with McCabe to hear her pitch for joining the sanctuary network. “But that was for next week,” he told Hart.

 

“Why drive all the way here?” asked Hart. “Why not make the pitch by phone? Or use What’s App?”

 

“I asked her the same question when she called to set up the appointment. She said she didn’t trust phones or online communication generally, because they’re all monitored. I don’t know if that’s true, but she believed it. I half-believe it myself.”

 

“What do you know about the organization?”

 

“Only what she was willing to share over the phone—the other churches involved, their mission, what they offered for individuals and families at risk. She said she’d give me the details when we met, if she decided to trust me. That’s another reason she wanted to meet in person.”

 

“You know that declaring a church or a town a ‘sanctuary’ has no legal weight, right?”

 

“Sure, and so did Samantha. It’s only symbolic. But she said her network had put some teeth into it.”

 

“Any idea what she meant?”

 

“Not really. She said the network had figured out how to ‘keep ‘em guessing,’ as she put it, and . . .”

 

“To keep ICE guessing?”

 

“Yes. I think she meant how to keep them wondering whether a church was hiding illegals or not.”

 

“So, a misinformation campaign of some sort—get ICE thinking there were illegals hiding in the church when there weren’t?”

 

Figeroa nodded.

 

Hart thought for a moment, then asked, “But why get them interested in the first place? Why call attention . . .”

 

“Or the opposite,” said Figeroa.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Get ICE to assume they couldn’t be there, when they were.”

 

“But ICE would laser in on any church in the network, so how would you get them . . .”  Hart stopped himself in midsentence.

 

“Mr. Hart? You were saying?”

 

Hart shook his head. “Never mind,” he said, and extended his hand. “Thank you, Reverend, for taking the time. I’ll see myself out.”

 

#

 

Riding the CATA bus back to the business district, Hart dialed the UU Church in Wickham. No one was in the office this late in the day, so he left a message for the church secretary asking if she could meet with him tomorrow morning. Then he called Tommy McCabe.

 

Based on what Sam told him, Hart expected McCabe to hang up the second he learned who the caller was. So he was surprised to hear the man say, “I think they’ve got the wrong guy. I think it’s ICE. Or some gang posing as ICE.”

 

Hart waited to hear more. McCabe sighed.

 

“I’m going to share some confidential information, but first you have to swear to me that you’ll keep it confidential, at least until a week from now.”

 

“If I’m subpoenaed . . .”

 

“Yes, I know. But otherwise. I mean, not only from the police, because frankly we don’t trust them, but from Pennington’s defense team, too.”

 

“Sorry, I can’t do that,” he said, wondering, Who’s “we?” “If it helps my client, I have to use it, and if I have to use it, the police will know.” He paused to think. “I can’t guarantee a week, but I promise to hold onto your secret as long as I can.” When McCabe didn’t reply, he added, “Does it have anything to do with moving illegal immigrants from church to church?”

 

The Sandy Bay credit account, it turned out, was a clandestine information hub for the Sanctuary Network, with Samantha as primary account holder. The other four Network ministers had been added as co-signers and issued cards in their own names.

 

The card had two functions. First, using it to get a cash advance at an ATM would let other members know when illegals at one church needed to be moved to another because ICE was about to raid the sanctuary church.

 

“So, a kind of shell game, using illegals as peas?” asked Hart. “’Keep ‘em guessing?”

 

“Yes,” said McCabe.

 

“But how does . . . ?”

 

“The advances are number coded in increments of 10,” McCabe continued. “Each amount begins with a numeral from 1 to 5 indicating the current sanctuary church, followed by another numeral indicating the destination church, followed by a zero to round the withdrawal to a multiple of ten.”

 

“That adds up, doesn’t it?”

 

“The advances are immediately re-deposited, so the interest is minimal. It doesn’t take much to cover them.”

 

“But how does the network know when ICE is going to strike, and where? And how can they sneak the illegals in and out? Wouldn’t ICE have all the Network churches under surveillance, just waiting . . .?”

 

“They’re never there.”

 

“Who?”

 

“The illegals. They’re never at a church. Any church.”

 

“So where are they?”

 

“I can’t reveal that. But I can tell you where they’re headed: Canada.”

 

“An Underground Railroad.”

 

“For illegals. And the credit card codes are to keep ICE looking in all the wrong places. Samantha told everyone she knew that she didn’t trust phones because they could be hacked. She was certain her suspicions would get back to ICE. All she had to do next was arrange for the Feds to ‘find out’ about the credit card code without suspecting they were being set up—which, she told me, wasn’t too hard. They didn’t have to know the code. Just knowing it existed made them zero in on the churches.”

 

“What will happen in Canada?”

 

“We have people there to help refugees secure their rights under Canadian law—something they can’t count on here, of course. Things could take a turn for the worse if the Strong Borders Act is passed, but it’s in legislative limbo in Ottowa until the House of Commons meets again in September, and we’ll empty out our hidey-holes before then. Without Samantha, the operation can’t continue anyway. She’s the only one who knew where the illegals were supposed to be at any given time. Kept it all in her head.”

 

Like a chess grandmaster playing without a board, thought Hart, who was fond of the game.

 

“You said the card had another function?”

 

“As an alarm,” said McCabe. “If any member of the Sanctuary Network felt they were in imminent danger of being arrested by ICE, all they had to do was order something online or enter the nearest store or find a drive-up window and use the card to make a purchase, in any amount. The group would immediately be notified and contact the Network’s lawyer.”

 

“I take it you’re also on the account?” Hart asked.

 

“Yes. But Samantha never got to use the card, so I never received the alarm.”

 

“She must have noticed she was being followed and was afraid of being jumped by ICE the second she pulled over.”

 

“So she tossed it to Pennington—"

 

 “‘Do it fast! The End is near!’”

 

“—and Pennington was arrested before he could use it.”

 

Hart said nothing for a long while. McCabe broke the silence this time.

 

“Remember your promise.”

 

“I’ll keep it as long as I can.”

 

​

(TO BE CONTINUED)