Set It Off

Set It Off

  by

  Myanne Shelley

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Set It Off

  Copyright © 2013 by Anne Shelley

  Chapter 1 Amateur Images

  San Francisco, 2012

  The 70 second video clip went viral within minutes. The handheld image swoops briefly upward, as the protester hauled himself onto a table. Then it pans the Occupy Oakland crowd streaming into the bank. (They’ve arrived together, taken BART across, to supplement the SF movement.) You hear shouts, grunts, a loud clatter as one of the ornate chairs crashes to the floor, and again as the glass door shatters. Faces, contorted in anger, chanting “we are.” One man moves into focus. He swirls, exhorting those following him, and swings back around, his whole arm like a battering ram, knocking down a smaller, older man. Someone from the bank, who had stepped forward toward the protesters. From above, you see man on the floor, a shocked expression on his face, and then the guy who knocked him down is screaming, “He’s one of them! He doesn’t deserve our pity!” Several other young men lash out toward the banker, kicking him, while others pull back; the chants lessen and there are confused sounding exclamations. A vicious blow lands to the man’s head and his eyes role backwards. A woman screams from behind the counter. The image abruptly cuts out.

  Most people who were there didn’t actually see any of this. The bank’s lobby was small, the crowd intent on shutting down business as usual. That they had clearly done. A younger, determined bunch, already schooled in earlier demonstrations, sat in front of the entrance and linked arms. Others milled about on the sidewalk and into the street.

  An ambulance arrived about the same time as the young cameraman posted his video feed. Even as people outside, one then another saw it, showed the link, asked themselves what had happened, the leaders inside were standing their ground. This was not filmed, this was what people said later, during the police investigation. TV news, complacent and inured to the regular protests by this time, had missed it all and had to rely on the amateur images.

  JJ Carlisle, the guy who had – seemingly by accident – knocked over the bank branch manager and yelled with such fury to the crowd, was not the one whose kick had delivered the dangerous blow. Rather he had seemed intent on unleashing his personal fury at each bank employee individually, his contorted, screaming, angry face as close to their faces as he could manage. One or two held their ground, but most had retreated to back rooms in genuine terror.

  A group of at least a dozen had wreaked more actual violence. In addition to kicking the one banker and throwing punches toward anyone official who came near, they had overturned furniture and knocked aside the bank’s video monitors and paper displays. Then blended back into the crowd, the crowd that impeded the police from making their way into the bank.

  After the earlier incidents of brutality, the force had been served notice to move with caution. Of course, after the officers realized the extent of bank exec Robert White’s injuries, that tide could easily turn again.

  Jackie Carlisle and Karen Emerson met in the hallway at 850 Bryant three days later. Sister and stepsister of JJ Carlisle, each summoned with a barrage of texts and messages, his way of ensuring that someone who looked responsible to the police would arrive to pick him up.

  Jackie had a clean t-shirt and a hoodie, pilfered from the back of her husband Tony’s closet. Karen brought a burrito, triple wrapped in foil and still warm. The women compared notes at the counter, as they stood waiting. Their appearance as upstanding citizens, middle aged nicely dressed women, did not spur the police staff to move with any haste.

  “It’s the siege at Kresge’s all over again,” Jackie muttered. She referenced an incident from over 30 years ago, when they were high school friends and JJ a runty 7 year old, bullied into shoplifting and caught red handed.

  Karen flashed a grin. “He wanted us to bring him food back then too, didn’t he?” Together they had sweet talked the store manager and paid for the small trinkets, downplayed the whole thing to a misunderstanding to Jackie and JJ’s parents.

  Even so, JJ had achieved a brief bit of notoriety in their small home town of Blossom Valley. He had, in the second grade, developed a hitch in his walk, the small swagger that remained to this day. Some of the other kids looked to him for direction at recess, even though he was average in stature and neither brainy nor exceptionally wild.

  Until then, JJ had not been exceptional at all, just the much loved youngest child, the only boy, conceived in a last ditch and unsuccessful attempt to save a failing marriage. Back in small town Pennsylvania, JJ’s image had easily faded back to obscurity. It took more reckless behavior in later years to cement his bad boy reputation, though even that had hardly crossed the small community’s borders.

  Now, he had been identified in the clip that had been viewed by millions and counting, commented on by thousands, discussed in Occupy meet ups, college campuses, and everyday offices by tens of thousands more. Both Jackie and Karen had seen the video, but neither yet realized how widely it had circulated, nor had really considered what it might mean for JJ and his family.

  Karen had a 19 year old daughter who had always looked up to JJ, the fun uncle, closer to her in age and still capable of boyish enthusiasm well into his 30s. She was glad Bethany was unaware of this little journey downtown, though. JJ had sounded so angry in his voice messages. Furious at the arrest, though surely it hadn’t been unexpected. Self righteous, unwilling, or perhaps unable to see the harm he had instigated, sure he’d be bailed out of this, as ever. And indeed, one of the astoundingly young Occupy Oakland legal guys had posted bail, with a simple, wearied click of his iphone app.

  Eventually a tired looking police officer appeared, JJ at his side. The policeman’s pace was measured, while JJ strained, yanking his arm away, tossing his head around, pulling himself as far ahead as he could get. The officer dropped his arm as if he’d been carrying dog do the moment they passed the security gate.

  JJ’s angry expression morphed quickly to a carefree grin, and he launched himself between the two women, awkwardly hugging them both.

  “Jeez, JJ, you really need a shower,” Jackie said, teasing although not inaccurate.

  Karen dangled the burrito bag. “I feel like I should ask you to explain yourself first. That’s what your mom would have done.” She smiled, but her eyes remained serious.

  JJ plucked the plastic bag from her fingers and tore through the foil. “Good old mom. Glad she missed this.” He took a bite. “Mm, I’m so hungry.” He looked up, eyes darting between them, focused on the food but at least a tiny bit aware of the social niceties of the situation. “Thanks for coming down here. I didn’t mean it like that about Mom.”

  Jackie nodded. Their mother had succumbed to a fast moving cancer just a couple years back. “Dad and Amelia are, um, concerned. They saw your picture on the news before anyone even told them about the arrest.”

  Karen noticed the way that everyone within earshot was listening, daggers shooting from several sets of eyes. It occurred to her that someone might consider this a news event. Bailing out her ne’er do well stepbrother could well revolve into some further televised embarrassment. “Let’s go, you guys,” she said, picking up the grimy bag that had been dropped at JJ’s feet and expecting him to follow.

  “Can’t get out of here fast enough,” JJ sneered, with a quick hostile glance toward all the uniforms behind the counter.

  They all three walked quickly, Jackie’s heels echoing on the marble floors. Past courtroom doors, out the lobby, past the bored looking security guards and random confused people shuffling in for afternoon jury duty.

  Karen was aware of people watching them, murmuring, at least one
snapping a quick picture. She lowered her head, trying to obscure her face without giving the appearance of shame. Jackie had her phone out – she was preoccupied, texting her husband, trying to remember how much time was left on the meter. But JJ walked as though he expected people to pause and take note of his progress. He paused for a moment at the top of the steps, eyes blinking in the bright sunlight, then spread his arms slightly. As if offering benediction. As if everything was right with the world.