Seeds of The Second Civil War

Thadeus Emanuel Carmichael was a soldier on a mission ordained by God. He considered himself a prophet, but didn’t tell anyone. People calling themselves Latter-Day prophets were whack jobs. The compact, dog-eared bible, always at his side, was specific about prophets in the latter days. Matthew 24:11 read…And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many.

Yet there was Paul. Paul was a sinner, had never met Jesus in person, but was given a vision on the road to Damascus similar to his own many years earlier on the road to Amarillo. An angel of light spoke to him in the middle of an explosive, electrical storm and commanded that he end the slaughter of innocent children in abortion clinics. The vision turned him into a man on fire for the Lord.

If he wasn’t a prophet, then at the very least, he was a messenger. He kept a journal that he knew would be quoted just like Paul’s letters were to the Ephesians and Thessalonians. They wouldn’t be his words, but Gods, brought to him through supplication and prayer.

The still, desert air of Pahrump, Nevada in mid-August hovered in the mid-nineties at 3:00 a.m.; a sauna-city in respite from the relentless sun, as hard as a jackhammer; as piercing as a siren. The cloudless sky was coal-black, and splashed with a billion fireflies. A descending crescent-moon hung low on the western horizon. Locust hummed from the sage and creosote, and the highway was as deserted as it would be during the coming apocalypse. The outline of the Spring Mountain Range capped by Mt. Charleston loomed to the East.

The drive from Albuquerque had taken twelve hours through the Sonoran and Mojave deserts, past scorched rock and shapeless lava fields and broad alluvial plains and Saguaro Cactus clusters that reminded him of a thousand Calvary crosses

The odometer on his ’72 Ford Explorer showed 297,000, but the vehicle was as clean as the day he bought it. He took care of things. He never missed an oil change or a tire rotation or a tune-up or a monthly wax. He was just as diligent with his health. He had a checkup every six months with full blood work, urine, prostate, heart, lungs, skin, and dental X-rays and Cat-Scans. He didn’t smoke or drink, and avoided sugar and red meat and processed white flour. His body was a temple and he kept it clean. He stood five-ten and weighed 164; the same weight he carried as a high school senior, forty years ago. He weighed himself every morning. Any gain over a pound led to a fast for three days and nights. He drew his nourishment from the bible which he devoured, dawn till dusk. He kept his hair in a crew-cut, and wore pressed slacks with a thin leather belt, and a button- up, collared shirt which was always tucked-in.

TV was one of the many voices of Satan, and he had destroyed his, many years ago. An angel admonished him to do so. He listened to Christian radio whenever he traveled. Not the Christian radio that blared blasphemous rock. That was idolatrous; Satan’s subtle way of tricking the young. Singing Praise the Lord with a guitar that sounded like Black Sabbath didn’t make it holy. Hedonistic rhythms and screaming lyrics only lead to lust and temptation and sin. How Great Thou Art, and Bringing in the Sheaves were all that were needed to bring people to God.

He wasn’t without sin, no man was. Twenty years earlier, for a period of six months, he exposed his naked body to people who would pass him in Reverchon Park in Dallas where he would emerge from the evening shadows near foot-paths and restrooms with nothing but an unbuttoned overcoat and smile, and ask for directions or the time. Most people ignored him and hurried away. Little children screamed and men threatened him with physical violence. Some hit him and pushed him to the ground and kicked him and spat on him. The excitement it brought was an addiction, and he knew Satan had his hand on it. God prevailed.

He was arrested after a year but the case was thrown out for lack of evidence. Privately, he confessed the sin to an unfamiliar priest in a latticed confessional at the Saint Edwards Catholic Church. Even though he considered the Catholic Church an abomination, based on pagan rituals and the deification of saints, the confession in and of itself, to a man of authority, absolved him forever of the sin, with God’s forgiveness. Now, when he felt the urge to flash, he would snap a rubber-band he wore around his wrist to remind him of the indiscretion.

His visions started five years earlier, as angels would approach him in his sleep and exhort him to lead a crusade against the murder of innocent children, who were being slaughtered in abortion clinics.

The crusade had led him to the Suncrest OBGYN Clinic for Women, on Calvada Street, off highway 160, at the south end of town.

According to the Calvary Advocate, which he read weekly, the center was responsible for the murder of over fifty, un-born babies a week!

“How could this be happening in the United States?” he thought. Clinics like these were clearly violating the law set forth by the Supreme Court when Roe versus Wade was overruled a year earlier, yet police and politicians continued to turn a blind-eye to the infanticide. Roe versus Wade was wrong just as Dred Scott had been wrong in 1858. The Calvary Advocate likened abortion clinics to Nazi Death Camps, conveniently located near a Starbucks, Wal-Mart, or McDonalds.

Sunrise was still several hours away as he pulled into the Sierra Casino parking lot. It was located two hundred yards across an open field to the clinic. He entered the small, smoke-filled casino to use the restroom and then walked across the open field to reconnoiter the two-story, building of death. It had a glass, double-door at the rear entrance facing the Casino, and a single, wooden door in the front.

He expected the staff, the murderers, to arrive early, before the clinic opened at 9:00 o’clock, and he would have ample time to complete his mission before any patients, mostly murderers themselves, would arrive.

He was hungry so he walked back to the Casino and ordered an egg white omelet with tomatoes on the side, with dry, whole-wheat toast, and room-temperature water. Then he waited.

At 8:00 a.m., several vehicles began to arrive, and by 8:20 the rear parking lot had over twenty cars.

At 8:27 he put on a white physicians coat and walked through the rear doors with the confidence of a Doctor who’d been in practice for many years. The physician’s bag he carried was heavy but he wouldn’t have to carry it far. The office staff was busy setting up for the day, and a group of nurses were talking over cups of coffee in a small lounge. He introduced himself as Doctor Don Brown who would be on loan for a complicated third trimester abortion arriving from Henderson. He asked where the restrooms were and was directed down the hall.

He entered the bathroom, and went to the handicapped stall, and after latching the door shut, he turned off the water valve leading to the tank of the commode, flushed it so the tank would remain empty and then removed several bricks of C-4, plastic explosives which he duck-taped to the inside of the reservoir. He removed a detonation device the size of a ball point pen from the satchel and inserted it into one of the bricks. A quarter-turn set the explosion for twenty minutes. The location was perfect, almost dead-center of the building. No trumpets needed to take down this modern-day Jericho!

He listened to make sure no-one was in the room, and then exited the stall. He taped an out-of- order sign on the stall door and then walked back to the lobby where he told the young Hispanic receptionist that he was headed across the street for a quick bite before the day began.

At 8:57, he saw the explosion from where he was parked. The percussion effect set off several car alarms in the Casino lot.

“Holy Moses, what a fireball!” he thought to himself.

“Dear God, please forgive the sinners who have been sent to you this morning
and grant me the strength to continue to carry out your word wherever you see fit, in Jesus holy name, amen.”

Within minutes, he heard the sound of sirens in the distance. He remained in the parking lot and watched the building burn. A middle-aged nurse and a civilian, both on fire, managed to exit the rear doors and collapsed before taking five steps. A fire truck and several police cars roared into the parking lot, but throwing water on the flame was like pissing on a campfire.

The network news was filled with accounts of the explosion and an uncontrollable fire and a loss of life estimated as high as twenty five. This included five Doctors, ten nurses, office staff and several patients that had yet to be identified. As he left the parking lot, he passed several billboards advertising the local brothels with provocative pictures that sparked a deeply imbedded lust, and he was tempted to indulge himself, but it was only Satan, and he snapped the band on his wrist, changed the channel back to Christian radio and sang along with every hymn on the drive back to Albuquerque.

Dr. Christopher DeJesus’s trial and subsequent conviction in the Dallas 5th Circuit Court was all show for several reasons: Not only had he openly confessed to performing a late term abortion on request, but had also sent the Texas Supreme Court a notice of his intention to do so, postmarked just prior to performing the act. This was done to guarantee the premeditative nature of his intentions. His patient, a young Hispanic woman from Corpus Christy was serving a life sentence at Gatesville for her involvement in a kidnapping and was also stricken with an in-operable brain tumor. By agreement, she and Dr. DeJesus had secretly agreed to lie about her condition and that he would abort the fetus instead of performing a procedure to remove a tumor that had begun to block her urinary tract. She died a week after the procedure.

At trial, he calmly declared his guilt and requested swift punishment by the state. Other statements not printable in the Dallas Star were also used in the admittance of guilt. He wasn’t concerned about the execution because a year earlier he was diagnosed with bone cancer which had metastasized to his lymph nodes and vital organs. Euthanasia would have been his first choice but that was illegal, so he decided to prove a point with his own execution on his own terms.

The state prosecution; in their own attempt to make a statement; acquiesced without hesitation, for a speedy execution. Automatic appeals were put in motion, however he was a man of means and was able to quash the attempts with his own legal team without much delay.

DeJesus vs. The State of Texas would go down as a landmark case in the swirling storm of abortion.

He was the poster child for the “Choice” side: Tall, good looking, with the features of a trim, European Spaniard.

Quotes from DeJesus were all over the press. “A slave could say…“I am a slave”… “Until a fetus can say goo-goo, gah-gah in a Doctors stethoscope it’s still just a fetus and it becomes a moral argument that’s not gonna be resolved any sooner than proof of an immaculate conception or Noah’s Ark of Dinosaurs and Roosters.”

At two months, the mushrooming fetus inside a woman’s body is just a clump of cells because Dick didn’t use a condom at the drive-in. Is it “half- a- murder” if a kid glues together the centerfold in Penthouse? Is it murder if a pregnant girl falls asleep at the wheel from working a double shift at the Waffle House and the fetus dies?”

His face was on the cover of Rolling Stone, Time Magazine and every paper across the world. He was either a pariah or messiah, hero, hell-raiser, or both. He held press conferences almost daily with his attorney. If he was going down, he would go down like Katrina on steroids.

The “Lib Four” as they were labeled by legal scholars across the country, sat in Judge Hastings chamber for their ritual, 7:00 a.m. Friday meeting. The office was paneled in soft brown Elm, and the parquet, wood-flooring was covered with an immense yellow and brown, Persian Rug, presented to her by the eight other justices as a 65th birthday present. Two walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with law books, briefs, and a collection of James Lee Burke novels. Justice’s Kincaid and Stewart sat on the leather couch; Justice Elliot in the wingback recliner and Margaret Hastings rolled the chair from behind her desk to sit beside the group. After ritually pouring each member a cup of coffee, she led-off the discussion. She wore a casual silk blouse with pressed beige slacks and Ferragamo, half- inch, pumps. Her silver hair was in a tight bun, and her only make-up was a bit of facial base to hide the wrinkles which were spreading like a herbaceous ground cover. She didn’t wear jewelry because it made her itch.

“History is gonna look back at all this and call it a perfect storm of legal tectonics. In my lifetime, I would never have imagined the country would come to this. Either science is going to have to step things up, or one of our esteemed colleagues will need a quick epiphany with regard to common sense. I’ve got a great stock tip for all of you: Global Mexicare which is listed on NASDAQ. With the insanity we’re seeing, I’ll bet the farm that GBM goes through the roof over the next few years.”

“The way things are moving, I can see us charging into Mexico ala 1846, except this time, I suppose we’d have a higher moral mandate. Truth is, back then, we just wanted Texas and Manifest Destiny had the muscle to take it,” Justice Kincaid said in his pleasant soft manner.

“I think if we even frowned at Mexico, the rest of the world would start fueling their missiles,” Stewart responded.

“At this point, jurisprudence is gonna have a legal traffic jam that stretches from Washington to St. Louis. At present, that’s about the only thing we have on our side. Then there’s Texas. I’ve been reading the DeJesus case, and it’s flown through the court. Apparently, the good doctor is trying to make his own point, pariah or messiah, take your pick. His attorneys have promised to halt any appeals.” Hastings said, shaking her head.
“What scares me is that I see parallels to 1862. We are on the brink of a Civil War if you believe Time Magazine,” Hastings said.

“You mean the same Time Magazine that called you a closet-lesbian-liberal?”

“Yea, Bob loved that piece; he said I would make the first lesbian in history with double-digit grandchildren,” she said laughing.

“But your point is well taken, and I have this eerie feeling that if it were 1862 and the abortion issue were before us, that we would be siding with the south!”

“And the South was wrong!” Elliot responded.

“I say, let’s all hire five additional clerks each, and rent an office on Pennsylvania Avenue and dig in for the coming monsoon.” Hastings said.

“Agreed, all in favor; finish your coffee; opposed, the window is open, please feel free to jump.”

At precisely 8:00 a.m. President Jonah Sinclair entered the Cabinet room from the oval office and walked around the immense oblong conference table to her seat in the middle on the opposite side. The cabinet members stood until she was seated, and then took their seats. Secretary of State Sandy Walker sat at her immediate left, and Bob Christopher, Secretary of Defense, sat on her right. She had called the meeting two days earlier, and by the look in her eyes, she was disturbed. She was famous for an irrepressible optimism. She rarely raised her voice and was the model for political decorum. She was well liked on both sides of the isle, almost to the same extent as Ronald Reagan. She was a middle of the road Democrat, elected on a moderate platform that supported business, but also advocated governments strong role in society. Her core philosophy was simple; needs in society met by social policies, and wants by free-enterprise, capitalism. She was pro-choice but that issue had been decided two years earlier when her predecessor had the luxury of sending three new, conservative appointments to the Supreme Court. The “Five for Life” justices averaged just under sixty years of age, which meant that barring death or assassination, the court could remain conservative for decades.

“The crisis before us is beginning to escalate at a rate that none of us could have predicted. Tonight, I’ve called a press conference to address the violence we’ve witnessed in the past few months at abortion clinics. We cannot, and will not, have our domestic policy dictated by fanatics on either side of the issue. You all know my position on abortion, but you also know I believe in the Constitution and the balance of power inherent in the three branches of government. Should a doctor be put to death for performing an abortion, or a woman executed who acquiesces to one? I don’t believe so, but I also believe that until a Constitutional Amendment guarantees a woman the right to choose, we’re going to continue a dangerous game of states-rights posturing that will bring extreme factions from both sides to the brink of war. Let me remind you that we are treading in dangerous waters. I will support, without question, the solidarity of our union, which may force my hand to the extreme, to maintain security. There are those on both sides who not only have access to, but will use, the technology at their disposal to achieve and protect their ends. Let’s all remember what happened at Waco when an extremist had his back against the wall. I see that happening, but this time with state governors becoming the new, David Koresh.

Ladies and Gentlemen, our greatest threat is no longer Muslim extremists, or Communist renegades but our own moral judgment. Unlike our predecessors who faced a similar divisive issue, a hundred and sixty years ago, we are dealing with individuals and organized oppositions that have the know-how and capability to turn this country into a parking lot, or an uninhabitable, chemical-cesspool that could last a millennium.

The internal war we face will not be executed by standing armies dressed in identifiable regimental colors, carrying state flags, but by unlikely neighbors, with whom we’ve laughed and shared dinner, and in many cases fought with, as brothers in arms. At this time, I’d value your questions and thoughts.”

“Madame President; has the Joint Chiefs given any indication on the mood or sentiment of the military at this time? Do we have a clear indication that any battle lines are actually being drawn? Is anyone choosing sides?” Rose Metcalf, the Secretary of the Treasury asked.

“The noise coming out of California and Nevada appears to be the loudest and lest we forget the military infrastructure in both states is as strong as most European countries, with economies to match. You’ve got a Governor in California who’s vehemently opposed to criminalizing abortions to the extent that he’s promised to not enforce any Federal mandated restrictions on abortions in his state. And then of course we’ve got Texas on the other side.”

Bob Christopher, Secretary of Defense responded. “I’d like to say on a federal level, we have things in complete control, but it’s too soon to tell. We’re dealing with innuendo and half truths and rumors. It’s alarming that not only does California have two, key naval bases, but it also houses the largest Marine Corp Facility in the Country. Nevada is a trickier issue because they have stockpiles of Chemical, Biological, and Nuclear ordinance systems at their disposal and…. some of the best military airfields in the country. Hypothetically, if we went to war with California, Nevada, Oregon and Washington, we would be fighting the military equivalent of NATO and let me remind you that most of NATO thinks we’ve slipped into the dark ages. France has openly invited any board-certified physicians to operate within their boundaries to perform abortions and that includes Martinique, St. Bart’s and Guadalupe. Cuba is offering sanctuary to anyone who’s had an abortion in Texas or Arizona in the last three months.”

David Wellman, the Chief of Staff, spoke up from behind the president. “Ironically, public sentiment is running fifty-fifty on criminalizing second and third trimester abortions, but only thirty five percent think a doctor or patient should be sent to jail and only twenty five percent think it should be considered a felony.”

“I spoke with Margaret Hastings yesterday, and she tells me the court is preparing for a flood of appeals and that the probability of an execution for a third trimester abortion is at least ten years down a long and winding road of litigation, and then again, there’s Texas. I’m sure you’ve all been reading about the DeJesus problem. Governor Rob Gantry has already declared that barring an appeal that isn’t quashed by DeJesus’s own people, Texas will move forward with an execution.” The president said.

“And if that happens, we might as well call out the guard because it’s going to be a crimson river of blood.” Bob Christopher replied.

“No Bob, it will be the Second Civil War.”