Make No Mistake - Chapter 22
Treason and treachery
Make No Mistake is a novel about a women’s rights activist, a life-changing event she cannot remember, and an underground book club poised to take down the patriarchy. If you’re new to the story, you can find all the previously released chapters on the Home page: juliewise.substack.com
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Chapter 22 - Treason and Treachery
Over a twenty-four-hour period, fifty women from across the country were taken into custody and charged with treason. According to Executive Order signed during the night under the Emergency Measures Act, treasonable offences were punishable by death.
“Daniel, I want you to preside over this case,” the President said.
“But it needs to go through the lower court first,” Daniel said.
The President stood in front of Daniel and placed his hands on his stepbrother’s shoulders.
“I’m sure you can figure out a way,” the President said, holding Daniel’s gaze.
“Well, of course, if a case is considered to be of imperative public importance,” Daniel said dropping his eyes to the floor, “we could justify moving it directly to the Supreme Court. But it’s highly unusual.”
“Make it so, Danny boy.”
The President strode out of the room.
Daniel called an emergency conference of the Supreme Court Justices. After a brief discussion, he emerged and called the President.
“It’s a go.”
The President issued a press release announcing that Magdalen had been arrested and would be tried for treason.
“In the interest of public safety, it is imperative that this case be dealt with immediately. Therefore, the Supreme Court will hear the case on Wednesday.”
Jack was trying to pull together the details when he got a text from his father marked urgent. He called him right away.
“What’s going on?”
“We went back to the house to pick up the mail. I know you told us not to, but you know what your mother’s like. She gets an idea into her head and won’t give up.”
“Get to the point, Dad.”
“Anyway, as soon as we walked back to the car, a police officer came over and asked your mother for her full name. She told him and he arrested her. He wouldn’t give me any explanation, just snapped handcuffs on her and pushed her into the patrol car. I followed them to the station but still couldn’t get any answers. What do we do?”
“Where are you now?”
“Outside the station. The cops shoved me out the door and threatened to arrest me, but I won’t leave your mother here alone.”
“Okay, I’m going to make a few more calls and see what I can find out. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
He checked in with his contacts and called his father back within ten minutes.
“Looks like the President is rounding up anyone with the name “Magdalen”. Mum has done nothing wrong so I’m sure she’ll be released on bail, but she may have to stay there overnight.”
“Our lawyer just arrived. And he’s talking to the officer now. I’ll let you know what comes of it.”
Jack turned back to his laptop and checked his messages. He called his editor. Then he placed a call to the President’s Office.
Madeline dropped the grocery bags on the table.
“Lena? I’m back. Wanna go for a swim?”
No response.
She walked quickly down the hall and checked the bedroom. Lena’s laptop was on the bed, along with her headphones. She wasn’t in the bathroom or on the porch. Madeline ran to the water and looked up and down the beach. No sign of her.
As she turned back, she saw Brian and Shelley racing toward her.
“Max!”
Madeline froze, afraid to ask the obvious question.
“Lena’s been arrested.”
Shelley put away the groceries while Brian explained what had happened. Madeline sat on the edge of the bench, tossing her keys back and forth in her hands. With each toss, the jangling grew louder.
“Lena said she was coming over to our place,” Brian said. “When she didn’t show up, I decided to check. As I came out the door, there was a cop pushing her into the backseat of his car. She yelled that she was being arrested and to find you. I tried to talk to the guy, but he elbowed me in the chest and drove off. We’ve been watching for you to come back.”
She threw her keys on the table and exploded.
“This has gone too far. He will pay for this.”
She stormed into her bedroom and slammed the door.
Brian and Shelley looked at each other. Brian walked quietly down the hall and knocked on the door.
“Max? Is there something we can do?”
Her voice was calm, but he could hear rage howling behind every syllable.
“No. Thank you. There is nothing you can do. But I know exactly what I need to do. Please go home. I will be in touch.”
Brian turned and gestured to Shelley. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as they walked back across the lane.
Madeline sat on the edge of the bed, scratching her head. She still wasn’t used to the haircut; all bristles on one side, and so short on the other. Damn you, Daniel! Our daughter? How could you?
She paced around the room, staring at the pine floorboards. She noticed dust bunnies clinging to the legs of the old blue dresser. She leaned against the window frame and watched the waves crash on the shore. Children darted back and forth as if playing tag with the water. A mix of shrieks and laughter tumbled on the wind.
Her eyes slid to the photo of Lena and Max on the desk. It seemed like yesterday – Lena was seven, a tangle of arms and legs and a goofy grin; Max looked like she had just stepped out of a fashion magazine, as always. She had her arm around Lena, heads touching, joy sparkling all around them.
Max wouldn’t hesitate, Madeline thought. She always played to win. No matter the risk.
Madeline remembered huddling over the chess board with her sister on long winter evenings at the cottage when they were kids. Their grandmother pulled the game table close to the woodstove and wrapped them up in matching handmade quilts. Max played quickly and easily, a satisfied smile lurking at the edges of her mouth, confident of the outcome. Madeline felt more like the elephant in the room, plodding along, reaching out to make a move and then pulling her hand back.
“Mad, you can’t do that,” Max would complain. “Make up your mind and go for it. There is no other way.”
Okay, Max, Madeline thought. If you say so.
She sat down at the desk and drafted an email with just two words: Go girl.
She pressed Send.
“Your mother wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Hannah said when Jack called and told her the news.
“I know. This may be a ploy to bring me out of hiding. Stay inside with Evy, please. I can’t have you in danger too. I’ve told Maggie not to answer the door for anyone.”
Maggie took the phone and cautioned him to be patient.
“Patient? That’s my mother he’s got in jail. This is personal.”
“It’s all personal, Jack. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Everything that’s said or not said, done or left undone is personal to someone. A lot of damage has been done to a lot of people for many, many years. If we keep stirring the pot, all that rage will boil over and those in power will finally have to answer for their actions.”
“But what can I do, Maggie?”
“Check your email.”
Jack skimmed through the photos and profiles Maggie had sent. Fifty women, ranging in age from 21 to 76, as different as can be, but all bearing some variation of the name “Magdalen”.
He caught his breath when he saw his mother’s photo. There was nothing in her profile that was new to him. Except maybe…he reread the last paragraph and let out his breath. She had been a journalist when she was in her twenties. She gave up her career the year he was born.
No wonder she’s so proud of me, he thought.
He checked with his editor. They couldn’t use the names and photos of those arrested without permission from their families, but he got the green light for a feature.
By afternoon, media across the country led with the arrests and related stories. Lawyers stepped forward, volunteering their services to represent the women since many were unemployed or on a fixed income. The World Organization for Women sent teams of counsellors to the jails and communities to provide trauma support. Community centers opened doors to meet the needs of the women’s families. Neighbors brought hot meals, offered to take in the children, and set up online fundraising.
The Voice of the People called for a mass gathering in the streets, around government buildings, the homes of members of Congress, corporations that financially supported the government, and all major transportation networks across the country: highways, railways and airports.
The Speaker of the House called the President on his private line.
“I can’t even get out my driveway this morning. The street is full of people. Men, women, children. And they’re marching. In place. Staring at my house. My wife and kids are terrified. They’re holed up in the basement. You’ve got to do something.”
At a small outdoor café in Italy, Max heard her phone buzz. She grinned when she saw the text from Madeline.
“It’s about time, Sis,” she whispered.
She took one more sip of her wine, set the glass on the table and paid for her meal. Her red heels clicked a steady beat on the cobblestones as she crossed the crowded piazza. By the time she reached her apartment on the top floor of an old stone building, her plan was ready.
She changed into black yoga pants and a hoodie, took off her glasses and popped in her contacts. She tucked her red-framed reading glasses into the pocket of her jacket. On her way out the door, she slipped her feet into black shoes with no tread. She drove into Rome, her white Opel Corsa-e purring like a contented kitten, and parked on a quiet side street in the warehouse district.
Madeline had sent her the address a month ago as a precaution so that she could stake out the building. The single-story concrete box was surrounded by bushes and a six-foot high mesh fence in poor repair. At first glance, it looked abandoned. Max had spent a week exploring the area, timing the movements of the security guard, and confirming there was only one entrance, one camera and no alarm system.
She crept in through a broken spot in the fence and settled into the bushes to wait. The moon was in its dark phase, so the only light came from a streetlamp on the far side of the building. As she waited for the security guard to complete his rounds, she thought of her father.
She remembered sitting on his knee one evening when she was six. He pointed at the chess board on the table in front of him and whispered in her ear, “Play to win, child. Play as if the lives of strangers depend on your next three moves.”
If he could see me now, I wonder what he would think.
After the guard disappeared around the corner, she turned off the camera over the entrance using an app on her phone. She pressed a code into the keypad and stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light through the single grimy window, she checked her watch. It was 11:30 p.m. Ten minutes to find the one photo that would tip the balance.
No pressure, she thought.
Rows of metal shelves stretched before her into the void. She glided forward, pulling out her reading glasses.
M. C., 1967.
She reached for the cardboard box and set it on the desk under the window. A dust tornado spiraled upward, captured in the dim light shining through the cracked blind. She grabbed the bridge of her nose to avert a sneeze. No need to alert the security guard to her presence.
With gloved fingers, she sorted through brittle newspaper clippings and … gotcha! She glanced at the black and white photos and shook her head. She tucked two pictures into a thin leather pouch and stuffed it into the pocket of her hoodie. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the worn brown boots of the guard as he strolled past the window. She checked her watch: four minutes left. She placed the lid on the box, returned it to the shelf and took a photo of the label.
She pulled the black hood up over her head, took off her glasses and slid them back into her pocket. Slipping quietly out the door, she pressed in the lock code and disappeared into the shrubbery. Before ducking through the opening in the fence, she paused to reset the security camera from her phone.
The camera clicked back into operation as the guard rounded the far end of the building.
Madeline caught her breath when her phone pinged with a message from Max.
Photos attached. Warning: graphic content
Your move, Mad…Make it count.
Madeline braced her shoulders and printed out the black and white photos. She stuffed one inside an envelope. She sat back and typed a short note with a date and three names and taped it to the outside of the envelope. She tucked everything into a brown padded package, scribbled an address on the front and added a small handwritten note on the back corner.
“Either she’ll know how to use this to advantage…or she’ll shatter, and I’ll never forgive myself.”
She grabbed her car keys, drove into town, and dropped the package off with a local courier.
Maggie closed the curtains in the living room and turned on the television. Images of huge crowds flooded the screen. She watched carefully, scanning the faces. She sat back in her armchair and smiled.
“That’s more like it.”
She turned to Hannah.
“See? It’s not ‘just’ a women’s issue now. Arrest fifty innocent people and you’re going to get a reaction. What you’re seeing here is the beginning of the end for the President and his gang of thugs.”
There was a knock at the door. Hannah got up, but Maggie put a hand on her shoulder.
“No,” she whispered. “You stay here where no one can see you. I’ll deal with it.”
She glanced through a crack in the curtains. A delivery van was idling in her driveway.
“Why don’t they turn the damn thing off?” she muttered.
She peered through the peephole in the door. A young man in a brown uniform shuffled his feet, whistling to himself as he listened to music on his earbuds. He held a padded envelope in his hands.
She opened the door.
“Margaret Carpenter?” he asked.
She crossed her arms and nodded.
He handed her the package.
“Sign here.”
As he turned and headed back to the van, she glanced down at the return address. She didn’t recognize it. She flipped the package over and noticed a small handwritten note in the bottom right corner: Open in privacy. She set it aside to look at later.
When Hannah woke up from her afternoon nap, Evy was still asleep. Yawning, she went downstairs to the kitchen. Maggie wasn’t there. She checked the office and the living room. Then she climbed the stairs to Maggie’s bedroom. The door was shut. As she raised her hand to knock, she saw the note stuck to the door: Migraine. Make yourself supper. See you in the morning.
Thank you, Brian. You are invested in the story, and as a writer yourself, you know how much that means to me. 😊