Read Online Above the Law by J. F. Freedman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. F. Freedman
Tags: Suspense
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enterprises—marijuana growing, a huge industry, one of the largest farming industries in California, major meth labs, similar nefarious enterprises. The remoteness of the region lends itself to such clandestine activities.
This is the underbelly of the modern West: not the duded-up version, the West of the rugged and suspicious individual. There are no proponents of gun control around here, none that are vocal, anyway—these are fiercely independent people. Radical fringe groups abound, the kinds of groups you read about and see on television, hard-core fundamentalism crossed with hatred of anything smelling of government, where revelation is at hand and the fire next time is now.
The old man looked up at the sky, at the millions of stars clustering over his head.
His name was Tom Miller, and he had recently celebrated his seventy-ninth birthday. “Celebrated” is an ironic way of putting it; he had not celebrated anything, in the sense of a joyous occasion, for a long time. Even before his wife died, going on a decade now, he hadn’t celebrated. The closest he would come then was to take her out to dinner on her birthday. But that wasn’t a celebration, it was a ceremony, a ritual from the long-distant past, when there had been cause in his life for celebration.
Which is not to say he didn’t find pleasure in life. He loved his work. It brought him gratification, almost every day. But that wasn’t celebration, that was satisfaction. That he did a good job and knew it, and others knew it, too.
His job was sheriff of Muir County. Forever, it seemed like to most, but in truth, it had been the last thirty years. His story was one of triumph emerging phoenix-like from the ashes of personal tragedy and adversity. Forged from the ashes, because he had rebuilt his life himself, made it happen by hard, dogged work, self-belief, and mental toughness.
In 1949, freshly graduated from George Washington University Law School after serving with distinction as a marine lieutenant in the Pacific during World War II, Tom Miller joined the FBI. Right from the start he attracted Hoover’s eye. He was smart, he was tough, he was incorruptible, and most important, he was loyal. He rose through the ranks like a shot, so that by 1965 he was among the boss’s most trusted aides, one of a handful thought to be a candidate to succeed the little bulldog if and when he ever stepped down (or more likely, as actually happened, died). He loved Washington, the perks of his office, the closeness to power. Although they lived modestly on a middle-class civil-service salary, he and his wife, Dorothy, had a great life in the capital of the greatest country in the world.
And then it all fell apart, overnight. His son, James, his only child, an honors student at MIT, good athlete and musician, wonderful kid, defected to Canada rather than go to Vietnam.
Miller was contaminated. His chance at the big time in the Bureau was over.
He wasn’t fired—there were no grounds for it. Instead, he was exiled. Hoover sent Miller to head the most desolate, out-of-the-way field office that was available: the handful of small-population northern California counties, which included Muir County. He would work in the one-man office, in anonymity and disgrace, for the rest of his professional life.
But something unexpected happened. Miller discovered that he loved the place. The physicality, the enormity of it. The serenity. An urban person his entire life, he learned to fish and hunt, to enjoy long, peaceful hikes in the mountains, to sleep outdoors under a canopy of stars. To his great surprise, he had found his home.
The Bureau’s office was a wasteland. Boring, tedious, unnecessary. He endured it long enough to accumulate the minimum years of service that kicked in his pension; then he quit and ran for the sheriffs job. The reigning sheriff, a lazy, corrupt bastard who had lost contact with everyone, even the rich guys who ran things, never knew what hit
This is the underbelly of the modern West: not the duded-up version, the West of the rugged and suspicious individual. There are no proponents of gun control around here, none that are vocal, anyway—these are fiercely independent people. Radical fringe groups abound, the kinds of groups you read about and see on television, hard-core fundamentalism crossed with hatred of anything smelling of government, where revelation is at hand and the fire next time is now.
The old man looked up at the sky, at the millions of stars clustering over his head.
His name was Tom Miller, and he had recently celebrated his seventy-ninth birthday. “Celebrated” is an ironic way of putting it; he had not celebrated anything, in the sense of a joyous occasion, for a long time. Even before his wife died, going on a decade now, he hadn’t celebrated. The closest he would come then was to take her out to dinner on her birthday. But that wasn’t a celebration, it was a ceremony, a ritual from the long-distant past, when there had been cause in his life for celebration.
Which is not to say he didn’t find pleasure in life. He loved his work. It brought him gratification, almost every day. But that wasn’t celebration, that was satisfaction. That he did a good job and knew it, and others knew it, too.
His job was sheriff of Muir County. Forever, it seemed like to most, but in truth, it had been the last thirty years. His story was one of triumph emerging phoenix-like from the ashes of personal tragedy and adversity. Forged from the ashes, because he had rebuilt his life himself, made it happen by hard, dogged work, self-belief, and mental toughness.
In 1949, freshly graduated from George Washington University Law School after serving with distinction as a marine lieutenant in the Pacific during World War II, Tom Miller joined the FBI. Right from the start he attracted Hoover’s eye. He was smart, he was tough, he was incorruptible, and most important, he was loyal. He rose through the ranks like a shot, so that by 1965 he was among the boss’s most trusted aides, one of a handful thought to be a candidate to succeed the little bulldog if and when he ever stepped down (or more likely, as actually happened, died). He loved Washington, the perks of his office, the closeness to power. Although they lived modestly on a middle-class civil-service salary, he and his wife, Dorothy, had a great life in the capital of the greatest country in the world.
And then it all fell apart, overnight. His son, James, his only child, an honors student at MIT, good athlete and musician, wonderful kid, defected to Canada rather than go to Vietnam.
Miller was contaminated. His chance at the big time in the Bureau was over.
He wasn’t fired—there were no grounds for it. Instead, he was exiled. Hoover sent Miller to head the most desolate, out-of-the-way field office that was available: the handful of small-population northern California counties, which included Muir County. He would work in the one-man office, in anonymity and disgrace, for the rest of his professional life.
But something unexpected happened. Miller discovered that he loved the place. The physicality, the enormity of it. The serenity. An urban person his entire life, he learned to fish and hunt, to enjoy long, peaceful hikes in the mountains, to sleep outdoors under a canopy of stars. To his great surprise, he had found his home.
The Bureau’s office was a wasteland. Boring, tedious, unnecessary. He endured it long enough to accumulate the minimum years of service that kicked in his pension; then he quit and ran for the sheriffs job. The reigning sheriff, a lazy, corrupt bastard who had lost contact with everyone, even the rich guys who ran things, never knew what hit
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