morning researching cases for an appellate brief I had been hired to write, chasing precedents until the Westlaw search engine told me I had cornered the big ones. Several times I tried to reach my brother, without success. I also phoned Cottage Hospital to ask about the church intruder’s condition. They gave me no information, not even the man’s name. That made me think his chances were poor.
Feeling itchy, I drove downtown to the Santa Barbara Public Library. I wanted to reconnoiter the Remnant, to scout Tabitha’s new . . . What were they, soul mates? Puppeteers? When she came at me, I wanted to know whom I was facing.
The library was an airy Spanish-style building across the street from the courthouse. Outside it, a banner advertised the Santa Barbara Book Festival, a thought that cheered me. But, scrolling through News-Press back issues on microfiche, I found little cheery information about the Remnant.
The church, I learned, was just five years old. Before then Peter Wyoming had run a carpet-cleaning business. Hearing the call to the ministry, he sold Spruce Steam-Clean, started booing nonfundamentalist views in public, and attracted followers—including a wife. A weddings notice announced, Peter Wyoming Weds Chenille Krystall. It was quite a name, and, from the photo, she was quite a bride, stout and triumphant in a virgin-white Stetson. It was the choir soloist, she of the cool dabbing cloth and the shit-kicker cowboy boots. Other recent stories covered Remnant protests at the funerals of a Hindu coed who had been thrown from a horse, and a gay man murdered during the summer. The list of their protests read like a litany: Resent, the End Is Near . It wasn’t much for me to go on.
Leaving the library, I crossed the street to look in on Gaul v. Beowulf’s Books at the courthouse. Skip Hinkel, Priscilla Gaul’s attorney, was pacing the courtroom, questioning a man from the California Department of Fish and Game. Asking, ‘‘What microbes does a ferret’s mouth harbor?’’ ‘‘What’s the PSI its jaws can administer?’’ Saying, ‘‘The ferrets involved in this case came from a Vancouver animal shelter—are Canadian ferrets especially ferocious?’’ Jesse was leaning his forehead on his hands, looking as if he’d had a long day already.
On the way home I spun the radio dial, hoping for the Dixie Chicks, but all I heard were reports about the beached gray whale. One station was mourning the beast’s death, another discussing the logistics of removing it from the pricy shoreline property where it was decaying. They had a deejay at the beach. He sounded as if he were covering the Hindenburg explosion.
‘‘It’s an incredible sight,’’ he reported. ‘‘Have you seen it, Corky?’’
‘‘No, Adam, but I’m planning to come down right after I go off the air.’’
Santa Barbara sometimes thought it was Monaco, but at times like this I knew I lived in the sticks.
At home I ate a tuna sandwich and tried another stream of inquiry, logging on to the Remnant’s Web site. Its home page was eye shrapnel: spinning crosses, throbbing flames, multiple exclamation points. Beast-Watch! !! Ho of the Month!!! October’s honoree was a U.S. senator.
One topic snagged my eye: Big Brother is watching! !!
Government computers, it warned, were recording all e-mail and phone conversations. Satellites were monitoring people’s movements via anticounterfeiting strips in twenty-dollar bills. The purpose: to identify Christians, and, eventually, to track and capture them. The Remnant faithful should avoid phones, instant messaging, and the mail. Talking face-to-face was safest, and discretion was vital. Federal agents were adept at penetration. Confide only in a few other trusted church members. That way, even if part of the Remnant was compromised, it would not destroy the whole. No one could wipe them out.
I rubbed my forehead. This smelled like leaderless resistance, the paramilitary strategy
Feeling itchy, I drove downtown to the Santa Barbara Public Library. I wanted to reconnoiter the Remnant, to scout Tabitha’s new . . . What were they, soul mates? Puppeteers? When she came at me, I wanted to know whom I was facing.
The library was an airy Spanish-style building across the street from the courthouse. Outside it, a banner advertised the Santa Barbara Book Festival, a thought that cheered me. But, scrolling through News-Press back issues on microfiche, I found little cheery information about the Remnant.
The church, I learned, was just five years old. Before then Peter Wyoming had run a carpet-cleaning business. Hearing the call to the ministry, he sold Spruce Steam-Clean, started booing nonfundamentalist views in public, and attracted followers—including a wife. A weddings notice announced, Peter Wyoming Weds Chenille Krystall. It was quite a name, and, from the photo, she was quite a bride, stout and triumphant in a virgin-white Stetson. It was the choir soloist, she of the cool dabbing cloth and the shit-kicker cowboy boots. Other recent stories covered Remnant protests at the funerals of a Hindu coed who had been thrown from a horse, and a gay man murdered during the summer. The list of their protests read like a litany: Resent, the End Is Near . It wasn’t much for me to go on.
Leaving the library, I crossed the street to look in on Gaul v. Beowulf’s Books at the courthouse. Skip Hinkel, Priscilla Gaul’s attorney, was pacing the courtroom, questioning a man from the California Department of Fish and Game. Asking, ‘‘What microbes does a ferret’s mouth harbor?’’ ‘‘What’s the PSI its jaws can administer?’’ Saying, ‘‘The ferrets involved in this case came from a Vancouver animal shelter—are Canadian ferrets especially ferocious?’’ Jesse was leaning his forehead on his hands, looking as if he’d had a long day already.
On the way home I spun the radio dial, hoping for the Dixie Chicks, but all I heard were reports about the beached gray whale. One station was mourning the beast’s death, another discussing the logistics of removing it from the pricy shoreline property where it was decaying. They had a deejay at the beach. He sounded as if he were covering the Hindenburg explosion.
‘‘It’s an incredible sight,’’ he reported. ‘‘Have you seen it, Corky?’’
‘‘No, Adam, but I’m planning to come down right after I go off the air.’’
Santa Barbara sometimes thought it was Monaco, but at times like this I knew I lived in the sticks.
At home I ate a tuna sandwich and tried another stream of inquiry, logging on to the Remnant’s Web site. Its home page was eye shrapnel: spinning crosses, throbbing flames, multiple exclamation points. Beast-Watch! !! Ho of the Month!!! October’s honoree was a U.S. senator.
One topic snagged my eye: Big Brother is watching! !!
Government computers, it warned, were recording all e-mail and phone conversations. Satellites were monitoring people’s movements via anticounterfeiting strips in twenty-dollar bills. The purpose: to identify Christians, and, eventually, to track and capture them. The Remnant faithful should avoid phones, instant messaging, and the mail. Talking face-to-face was safest, and discretion was vital. Federal agents were adept at penetration. Confide only in a few other trusted church members. That way, even if part of the Remnant was compromised, it would not destroy the whole. No one could wipe them out.
I rubbed my forehead. This smelled like leaderless resistance, the paramilitary strategy
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