Chapter 12: Vitaliy Ažuolas

Vanessa brought the subject back to guns. “So the NRA ... won’t be so powerful? Someday?”

“Yeah someday. But look at Florida. That state is an NRA wet dream. But even the Republicans in Tallahassee passed some new gun restrictions. It’s only a gesture, a small one, but it flies in the face of the NRA.”

Vanessa said, “Too little, too late.”

Gertie nodded and stirred her drink with her index finger, “There are around a hundred twenty thousand, a hundred thirty thousand elementary and high schools in this country. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a real student uprising, along with some of the teachers. Particularly in cities. A real rebellion.”

Walker said, “But then it’ll start all over again. Smearing the kids. Teachers. Parents.”

I said, “Shoot the messenger.”

Gertie smiled, again rather grimly, “Yeah, business as usual. But I’m not sure how well a backlash will work with today’s kids.”

“Why’s that?”

“They were born into social media. Politicians, both sides, are used to making outlandish charges. Founded and unfounded. Smearing opponents on the left and right. But these kids ... they’re more adept at responding. Sometimes instantly. Answering the lies with photos, videos. Twitter, chat rooms, YouTube.”

Vanessa said, “What kind of lies?”

“Like one set of parents had a student in Sandy Hook and then magically had a different child killed in another school shooting. Like one of the student protesters didn’t actually attend a certain school. The kids fired out yearbook photos of him within minutes.”

“Good. I hope they keep both sides honest. The left distorts too.”

Gertie nodded, “This time, though, I think ... a spark may finally have been lit. We might be reaching an inflection point ... when those live school-shooting videos started appearing on Snapchat and Twitter. Testimonials on Instagram and Facebook.”

Vanessa said, “Those were horrifying. Live tweets of what the kids were thinking, praying ... some were saying goodbye to their families. While you could hear gunshots ringing out.”

Pilar said, “And you could see some of the kids bleeding, screaming, crying. Dying. Dead bodies lying there on the floor.”

Walker said, “The whole thing went viral.”

Vanessa said, “But the NRA is still stonewalling. Demanding no action, no changes to background checks. Fuck, even guys on that no-fly list can buy an AK-47.”

Pilar said, “I call BS.” Like a lot of other kids are starting to do.

I said, “I read that each new generation buys fewer guns than the previous one.”

Gertie said, “That’s true. And today these Internet-savvy kids are taking it to politicians. We’re already seeing some faint cracks in the wall. Some DC discussions about bump stocks. Raising the age limits.”

I said, “But nothing serious has really happened. Not about guns.”


Gertie said, “Give the gun debate some perspective, Winter. Don’t look at it as a stand-alone legislative process. Step back.”

I frowned, “Step back and look at what?”

“Start with the changing demographics in America. We’re evolving from old white people like me to younger, browner. Like Pilar. And you know how she’s going to be voting.”

Pilar grinned.

Gertie said, “Extreme example. Texas will go blue. Eventually. The establishment will fight it every step of the way. Gerrymandering, voter suppression, intimidation at the polls. Online harassment. Money, boatloads of money.” She took a sip of Tanqueray, “But it’s an inexorable march to a more progressive population. Younger.”

Walker said, “Good,” with the pleased assurance only the untested possess.

Gertie smiled at him, “Maybe good, maybe not. The left has fucked things up royally on their own. But put politics aside and look at the more pervasive shifts that are occurring in this country. Around the world.”

Vanessa said, “Like what?”

“A few years back, someone coined the phrase, ‘Hashtag Revolution.’ And that’s not a bad shorthand. Think about recent hashtags — ‘blacklivesmatter’. And there’s ‘metoo’. Then, back to guns — ‘neveragain’.”

Vanessa, Walker, Pilar, and I looked at Gertie, nodded.

She said, “Racism. Sexual assault. Gun violence. Now, individually those three hashtag movements ... have they had any real effect? Have they been genuine change agents? No. Not yet anyway.”

Pilar muttered something darkly.

Gertie said, “But collectively they’re becoming the voice of change. The symbol. A visible notice to conservatives and progressives alike. Business as usual ain’t gonna cut it forever.”

Vanessa nodded, “Like a couple of years ago — that hashtag, OscarsSoWhite. It really made a difference.”

“Yeah it did. But only in a small slice of society. A place like Hollywood is easier to influence than an entire country like America.”

I said, “Change is certainly taking its own sweet time.”

“Yep. Racism is more open than it’s been in generations. Eliminating sexual assault is ... well, we’re just starting to nibble at the edges. A few elites are speaking out, but the average woman ... not so much. And any sensible gun legislation?” Gertie snorted, “It’s barely spermal.”

“We’re fucked. Gun violence is here to stay.”

Gertie said, “I have to admit that almost 100% of the new gun laws passed since Sandy Hook have made it easier to buy guns. Buy assault rifles. But it’s a mistake to look at it solely as a political issue.”

“Why is that?”

“Because change is going to be cultural, not legislative. Eventually, the laws will follow a public shift in what’s acceptable and what isn’t.”

Vanessa said, “Example?”

“Okay, here’s an easy one. Same-sex marriage. Every federal, state, and local statute banned it. Younger generations were more puzzled than anything. Didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Why couldn’t two people in love get married?”

I patted Vanessa’s hand. Walker smiled.

Vanessa said, “The culture changed. Our overall attitude toward gays. Then the law.”

Gertie smiled, “Laws become less top-down. More a reflection of public attitude. Like those new gun laws in Florida. The politicians there can read opinion polls. They usually trail behind what the voters actually want, but eventually they start catching up.”

Walker said, “It’s like pot. Old fogies just don’t get it.”

Gertie agreed, “Yeah, that legalization stemmed from a grassroots movement in individual states. But only after the attitude on medical marijuana, recreational grass, shifted. And marijuana will be legal on a national basis someday. Other drugs too.”

I said, “So ... culture trumps legislation. Or at least precedes it.”

Gertie smiled, “Yep. Change really is in the air. If you doubt that, just look at the ferocity of the forces fighting against even incremental adjustments to the status fucking quo. The more scared they are of change, the louder they get, the more radical their response becomes. Things WILL get better.”

I said, “Your lips.”

It took a direct call from Senator Harper Wainwright to Sarah Meriwether to convince her to take Matt’s call. Even then she was chilly. But finally agreed to meet with me when he told her I wanted to talk about certain visitors the Meriwethers had hosted during their self-decreed exile to Victoria, British Columbia.

No one was supposed to have known where Strom, Sam, and Sarah had been while Charles and David Meriwether were arrested and going through the initial trial stages.

But, thanks to a dogged FBI agent in Billings, we knew. ‘We’ being the FBI. Then me. And now Matt Striker.

Sarah wouldn’t meet me at the RightWorld offices. Nor in a hotel room. Restaurants and all other public establishments were out. The negotiation took several minutes.

Matt knew what I wanted. And why. He never suggested any place on my wish list; simply let her cross off option after option. Until she named a location that met our needs.

Still thinking about guns, gun control, the lack thereof, I asked Matt what he thought about the NRA.

“I have a Life Membership. My dad did too.”

“Think it’s going to be losing influence? Someday.”

He started to shake his head. Thought about my question. “In the sense that most everything changes over time. Yeah, I guess so. But not anytime soon. They have a death grip on politicians — national, state, local.”

“What’s your take on LaPierre?”

“He belongs in an asylum. Too rigid, too ... out there. He and his pals perverted the NRA that my father joined. It used to be for hunters, sportsmen. Now it’s just the lobbying arm for manufacturers.”

‘But you’re still a member.”

He gave me a wry smile, “My cold, dead hands, kiddo.”

Of course I have a small arsenal myself. But that’s different. Like Pilar said.

Matt Striker called me — I was back home in Kansas City. And glad to be here. “Sarah Meriwether will meet you Thursday, the seventh. Two PM, at Lincoln Park. Know where that is?”

“No, but we can find it.”

“She’ll be at the northeast corner of the park. Sort of a jumble of streets. Northeast 13th, North Carolina, East Capitol Street northeast.”

“Two o’clock.”

“Two. On the seventh.”

December 7th. Pearl Harbor day. Swell.

We drove to DC directly from Kansas City. Partly to not leave a digital trail through the airlines. But for another, more practical, reason too.

It’s only a thousand miles or so, but we left early Tuesday morning; we’d break the trip into two segments and arrive fairly fresh on Wednesday for my Thursday meeting with Sarah Meriwether. Plenty of time to augment my Google Street View reconnoitering with a live survey of Lincoln Park.

I checked into the Jefferson Hotel, my smartass way of thumbing my nose at the Meriwethers. They, or RightWorld, had billeted Dixie Wexler there. Sometimes I’m so clever.

Expensive, but I’d be staying only one night.

Thursday morning, I arrived by taxi at the northeast corner of the park 15 minutes early. Sat on a bench, crossed my legs just as if I were calm. As if my tummy weren’t fluttering, my heart rate high. At least I looked good. My Vanessa cowgirl boots, with Brunello Cucinelli black stretch wool stirrup pants tucked in. Bought specially for this meeting.

I’m afraid I part company with Mr. Walden Pond. I am not wary of all enterprises that require new clothing.

I topped my outfit off with a blue, roll-collar sweater. Thin and sheer. No coat, even though it’s chilly — I didn’t want Meriwether to suspect a pistol. Listening device. I hadn’t brought a purse. I felt naked.

There was a chance, maybe a good one, that Meriwether wouldn’t show. Or would call me to change the venue, the time, the day. It would be smart on her part.

Fortunately for me, she was impatient to be rid of the Kansas City pest. Plus, she had to be curious how I’d found out about her retreat on Vancouver Island. And about her visitors — especially the ones Matt had mentioned when he told her I wanted to talk about them.

Sarah Meriwether arrived in a stretch Hummer. A couple of things wrong. Stretch. Hummer.

Her driver / bodyguard got out first. Vitaliy Ažuolas from Lithuania’s capitol city, Vilnius. Easy enough name to remember — Villain. Thanks to Sullivan & Sullivan Research, I knew he’d been in America 14 years. Was now a citizen.

Ažuolas looked at me impassively. Motioned for me to stand up. Cars were honking behind the road-blocking Hummer. He ignored the complaints and frisked me. Nothing personal, although he was thorough. Brisk, efficient.

I couldn’t see Sarah through the dark, tinted windows.

Ažuolas is 36, I’d say five feet, eleven. Just over two hundred pounds. Nothing particularly scary except for that carved Easter Island face with those dead, pale-blue eyes. Baltic eyes.

He nodded at the Hummer and Sarah opened the back passenger door, stood beside the vehicle, checking me out.

My plan was to throw her off balance and keep her there. The fact that she even took the meeting gave me an edge. Slight, but an edge.

I had read in a woman’s self-help magazine — career advice — that the person who speaks first is at a disadvantage. Unfortunately, Meriwether must have known about that old adage too.

My immediate concern was that I didn’t know how long I could retain her attention — I needed to keep her out of the Hummer long enough to make my point. Signal for the big reveal.

I said, “Call Dixie Wexler off.”

A smirk is not Meriwether’s best look. For a billionaire, she hadn’t kept herself up. A few inches shorter than I am, a few pounds heavier. Mousy brown hair, a plump doughy face. Wearing a tailored Hillary pants suit. Black.

As she drew closer I noticed an odd thing — different colored eyes. One hazel, one light blue. There’s a scientific term for that, but I can’t remember what it is. But one of the causes is believed to be a lack of genetic diversity. Maybe billionaires are inbred. Maybe I need to concentrate.

She nodded at Ažuolas and he stepped over to the front of the Hummer, about 15 feet away from me. Meriwether walked toward my bench, shaking her head, “Who?”

“Melvin ‘Dixie’ Wexler. RightWorld put him up at the Jefferson for three nights. Room 516.”

She recovered quickly, “Never heard of him. Now what’s this nonsense about Victoria?”

I touched my right ear; seconds later her cell rang. She frowned, pulled it from her jacket pocket. Started to decline the call. I said, “Answer it, Meriwether, it’s about Dixie Wexler.”

“What! How could ... how did... “ She stared at me, slowly raising her phone. “Hello? Who is this?”

Emile Chanson said, “Look down at your chest.”

“What!”

Meriwether was no longer seeing me. She looked down. Who wouldn’t?

A red laser dot made a lazy circle on her black jacket and white blouse. She gasped.

Emile said, “The man with the rifle is always out there.” Greta Gunther’s line back in Kansas City, back in Loose Park.