LITMIR.BIZ

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scene shifted back to the earlier talking-heads format. As before, the video was partitioned into three sections. A female newsperson now occupied the center position. She reminded Gurney of a certain kind of girl on a cheerleading squad—blond hair, straight nose, wide mouth, and calculating eyes—every word and gesture a tactic for success.

      She spoke with a cool smile. “Thank you, Marilyn, for that thought-provoking exchange with Captain Pelt. I’m Stacey Kilbrick in the RAM News Analysis Center, with two high-powered guests with colliding points of view. But first, these important messages.”

      The video went black. With key words flashing in bold red type against the dark background, an ominous voice intoned over the rumble of distant explosions, “We live in dangerous times . . . with ruthless enemies at home and abroad. As we speak, conspirators are plotting to strip us of our God-given right to defend ourselves from those out to destroy our way of life.” The voice went on to offer a free booklet revealing imminent dangers to American lives, values, and the Second Amendment.

      A second commercial promoted the unique importance of gold bullion—as the most secure medium of exchange “as our debt-ridden financial system approaches collapse.” An ancient anonymous authority was quoted: “Wisest of all is the man whose treasure is in gold.” A free booklet would explain it all.

      The commercial faded out and the video cut back to Stacey Kilbrick, in the center section of the screen. On one side was a thirtysomething, strong-featured black woman with a short Afro. On the other side was a slightly wall-eyed, middle-aged white man with short sandy hair. Kilbrick’s voice projected an artful balance of confidence and concern. “Our subject tonight is the growing crisis in the small city of White River, New York. There are conflicting points of view on what it’s all about.” A bold line of type moved across the bottom of the screen:

      WHITE RIVER CRISIS—PERSPECTIVES IN COLLISION

      She continued, “On my right is Blaze Lovely Jackson—the woman who was in the car with Laxton Jones one year ago when he was killed in a confrontation with a White River police officer. She’s also a founding member of the Black Defense Alliance and a forceful spokesperson for the BDA point of view. On my left is Garson Pike, founder of ASP, Abolish Special Privileges. ASP is a political action group promoting the repeal of special legal protections for minority groups. My first question is for Ms. Jackson. You’re a founding member of the Black Defense Alliance and an organizer of the demonstrations in White River—demonstrations that have now led to the death of a police officer. My question: Do you have any regrets?”

      Since they were evidently in different studios and responding to each other via monitors, each participant was addressing the camera head-on. Gurney studied Blaze Lovely Jackson’s face. Something inside her was radiating an almost frightening determination and implacability.

      She bared her teeth in a hostile smile. “No surprise that you have that a little back to front. Nothing new in that, with young black men getting killed all the time. Streets are full of black men’s blood, going back forever. Poison water, rats biting babies, rotten houses full of their blood. Right here in our own little city, there’s the big nasty prison, full of black men’s blood, even back to the blood of slaves. Now one white cop is shot, and that’s the question you have? You ask how much regret I have? You don’t see how you have that all back to front? You don’t think to ask which came first? Was it black men shooting white cops? Or was it white cops shooting black men? Seems to me you have a little sequence problem. See, my question is, where’s the regret for Laxton Jones? Where’s the regret for all them black men shot in the head, shot in the back, beat to death, year after year, forever and ever, hundreds of years, for no good reason on God’s earth? Hundreds of years and no end in sight. Where’s the regret for that?”

      “That may be a subject for a larger discussion,” said Kilbrick with a patronizing frown. “Right now, Ms. Jackson, I’m asking a reasonable question raised by the senseless assassination of a community servant trying to maintain public safety at the BDA rally you organized. I’d like to know how you feel about the murder of that man.”

      “That one man? You want me push aside hundreds, thousands, of young black men murdered by white men? You want me push them aside so I can fill up with regret about this one white boy? And then tell you all about that regret? And maybe how much I regret being responsible for a shooting I didn’t have nothing to do with? If that’s what you want, lady, I’ll tell you something—you have no idea what world we’re living in. And there’s something else I’ll tell you right here to your pretty face—you have no damn idea how damn crazy you are.”

      Along with Stacey Kilbrick’s ongoing frown there was satisfaction in her eyes—perhaps the satisfaction of achieving the RAM goal of maximizing the controversy in every situation. She moved on with a brief smile. “Now, for a different perspective, Mr. Garson Pike. Sir, your viewpoint on the current events in White River?”

      Pike responded with a shake of his head and a long-suffering smile. “P-perfectly predictable tragedy. Cause and effect. Chickens coming home to roost. It’s the p-price we all p-pay for years of liberal permissiveness. P-price for political correctness.” His accent was vaguely country. His gray-blue eyes blinked with each small stutter. “These jungle attacks on law and order are the p-price of cowardice.”

      Kilbrick urged him on. “Could you elaborate on that?”

      “Our nation has been on a p-path of reckless accommodation. Giving in again and again to the demands of every minority race—black, brown, yellow, red, you name it. Lying down like doormats for invading armies of mongrel freeloaders and terrorists. Giving in to the demands of the cultural saboteurs—the atheists, the abortionists, the sodomites. It’s the terrible truth, Stacey, that we live in a country where every vile p-perversion and every worthless segment of society has its champions in high places, its special legal protections. The more detestable the subject, the more protection we give it. The natural result of this surrender is chaos. A society turned upside down. The maintainers of order are attacked in the street, and their attackers pretend to be victims. The inmates, Stacey, have taken over the asylum. We’re supposed to be politically correct while all they do is complain about their minority disadvantages. Hell, like what? Like being p-put front of the line for jobs, promotions, special minority protections? And now they complain that they’re disproportionately represented in p-prisons. Simple reason is that they’re disproportionately committing the crimes that put them there. Eliminate black crime, and we’d have pretty much no crime in America at all.”

      He concluded with an emphatic little nod and fell silent. The emotional momentum that had been increasing through his speech left little tics tugging at the corners of his mouth.

      Kilbrick limited her reaction to a thoughtful pursing of her lips. “Ms. Jackson? We have about a minute left, if you’d care to offer a brief response.”

      Blaze Lovely Jackson’s gaze had hardened. “Yeah, I’ll be brief. That Pike babble’s the same fascist crap you RAM folks been feeding all these years to your trailer-trash fans. I’ll tell you what it really is—what you’re doing is disrespectful. The white man is always making the black man feel small, feel like he’s got no power at all, feel like he’s no kind of man. You don’t give him any decent job, then you tell him he’s worthless cause he ain’t got a decent job. I tell you what that is. That’s the sin of disrespect. Hear me now, even if you don’t hear another thing. Disrespect is the mother of rage, and rage is the fire that’s going to burn this country down. Laxton Jones had no drug, no gun, no warrant. Hadn’t broken any law. Hadn’t done any crime. The man hadn’t done nothing to nobody. But he got shot anyway. Got shot dead in the face. How often do police do that to a white face? How often do they kill a white man who hasn’t done a crime? You want to understand the true place we’re at, you want to understand what BDA is all about, you think on that.”

      Kilbrick’s eyes were alive with excitement. “Well, there you have it! Two sides of the White River crisis. In head-on collision. On Battleground Tonight. We move now to our cameras on location—your eyes on the tense streets of White River. I’m Stacey Kilbrick, on the watch for breaking news. Stay with us.”

      The

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