Cult Page 4

  ‘Wog?’ Good God, she thought, he’s now into bigotry.

  “Easy, Barney,” she said gently. “Not like that.”

  She felt the eyes of other patrons watching them. He was not the Barney she remembered, now, more an echo of his father. Barney had never been a bigot. He would never have made a public scene. At least, superficially, he always observed the proprieties. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She was discovering that Barney was not willing to entertain any opinions beside his own. Her counterarguments were only making him angrier. In this situation, there were only questions, no answers.

  Lifting his hand, he seemed to wave away her consternation. “It’s a religion of obedience, not love or peace. Do what I command. Don’t question. I tell you to walk into a fire, you fucking better do it. Not like anything we were taught.”

  Here goes, she told herself, unable to keep her silence any longer.

  “All religions are about obedience, and look stupid to people who aren’t true believers.” She was instantly sorry she had said it. His expression darkened.

  “Look,” she said, trying to prove her alliance with him. “I acknowledge the pain they have caused you. I’ve read the horror stories. I know they have their various agendas, but to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I completely understand them. I think what Father Glory wants is… ‘power.’” She mimed quotation marks with her fingers. “But despite what I’ve read—don’t get offended—I’m still hung up on the idea of freedom of religion. I’m speaking as an American. What they all seem to want is for everyone to accept their own version of the way they believe things are.” She felt suddenly inarticulate, but she pressed on. “Believe him or not, that’s your free choice. Take your pick. That’s the beauty of America. Barney, you can declare yourself God or worship the stars, the sun and the moon. Or you don’t have to believe in a damned thing. Is he a megalomaniac? Most likely. Nevertheless, his views are protected by our Constitution.”

  She silently admonished herself about forgetting his pain.

  “There are also laws against coercion,” he muttered, retreating. Thankfully, she had not set him off again. He had calmed.

  “They’ve been tested,” she said, with knee-jerk persistence, “The Glories win every time.”

  He sucked in a deep breath. “That’s because the system is out of whack.”

  “Okay, Barney, I’m a skeptic. You know that. But I’ll help, strictly for auld lang syne. Just don’t force me to buy into your agenda. I’ve got my views. You have yours. Leave it at that. I’m here to help if I can.”

  His fingers gripped the glass, the knuckles whitening. She wondered if it would break. “They have no right to take away her mind, to take her away from me and Kevin.” He looked at her for a long moment and shook his head.

  “I’m helping, aren’t I?”

  “Okay, Nay. I’ll back off.”

  “Good. My mind is as open as it can be, I promise you.” She paused, swallowed hard. “You think she’s been drugged?”

  “They don’t need drugs. It’s a process.”

  “Is she being forcibly detained?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean she’s literally imprisoned, locked in a cell, unable to communicate with the outside world?”

  “Her prison is her mind. Don’t you see that, Nay? They’ve taken away her will. They control her.”

  “Just bear with me. Brainwashing is a controversial subject that has not been strictly legally defined. She hasn’t been forcibly detained, and Charlotte has been proselytized. She’s over twenty-one. In the law’s eyes, quite in command of her will. So as far as the authorities are concerned she is a willful follower of a legitimate religion. When she says she has her rights… well, she’s right. She has them.”

  “She’s been brainwashed, Nay! I’ve read all kinds of studies on the whole subject of brainwashing, the methods employed by these groups, theories on how the brain works, stories by ex-Glories, ex-Moonies, ex-Hare Krishnas, ex-Scientologists, ex-anything, stories to curl your hair.”

  “But that doesn’t impact on the bottom line. Cult or religion, it’s still within the law.”

  “What about Jonestown and Waco?” he interrupted. “One self-appointed leader orders more than nine hundred people to take the big dive. We just ignore that, right? And this fucking Waco thing? Who do they blame on that one? Not the asshole that caused the stand-off, then ordered his disciples to resist and burn themselves up. Now he’s a damned folk hero for standing up to the law. They blame the authorities. The people charged with enforcing the law. And I’m not even talking about the big enchilada, 9/11. They killed thousands of people, thousands just vanished into thin air. Why? For what purpose?”

  She could tell he was fighting for control. He bit his lip and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed deeply, working hard to calm himself. “I want her home is all.”

  She did not want to add to his anguish. What she really wanted now, after observing and listening to him, was for him to go, get out of her life. Quickly. He should never have called. He didn’t have the right to stir up her life. She was learning the meaning of being on the horns of a dilemma. She was torn. She wanted to help. But her commitment was crumbling.

  “Barney, I don’t know what you can do.” She said gently. “You can’t take her, forcibly kidnap her. You can’t break the law.”

  “That guy in Waco broke the law. He illegally stockpiled arms and burned up his people.”

  “I know you’re exasperated Barney, but….” She paused and went over what she was about to say. “Legally, the concept of brainwashing is still only a theory. Persuasion is not illegal if it is carried out in a manner that is not illegal. Psychological coercion is not illegal, especially what might be thought of as religious conversion, because that falls under the protection of the First Amendment.”

  “Three cheers for the constitution!” he said.

  She had not expected to be so adamant in challenging his position. That wasn’t the role he had given her at all or the one she wanted. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t her battle or her choice.

  “Hear, hear,” she said, trying to lighten the effect of her response.

  “Does that mean you really can’t help?”

  “All I can do Barney is point you in the right direction. Not that there seems to be a right direction. It’s the best I can do.”

  His eyes darted away. Had he still expected a blind alliance? He sipped his drink and shrugged with resignation.

  “I made appointments,” she said gently. “Hal Phillips. He’s with the FBI. As a general rule, they’re not my favorite outfit, but he’s a very good friend, a great guy.”

  “I also made an appointment for you with a woman who got her son out of the Glories, a Mrs. Prococino.”

  He nodded. “I appreciate that, Nay. That’s all I could ask for.” She knew he wanted more, but she couldn’t provide what more was.

  Obviously, he plucked at hope, like a fish jumps at bait, but she knew he was disappointed. He was trying to bring his wife home.

  “You’ve been terrific,” Barney said, as he might have said to a salesgirl showing him a collection of ties. It wasn’t, she knew, what he really meant.

  When they were outside, he put out his hand. She took it and their eyes met.

  “I could tag along,” she said, her throat constricting. She had debated that option all morning, her instincts opting for the negative. But seeing him now, forlorn, unhappy and confused, she betrayed her own caveat that she would avoid any greater involvement.

  “Really, Nay… haven’t I imposed enough…?”

  “Barney, don’t get maudlin. What are old friends for? Anyway, I might learn something.”

  “I won’t forget this, Nay.”

  Chapter 3

  Phillips worked at the main FBI building on 10th Street. Barney and Naomi obedi
ently went through elaborate security checks, clipped on badges, and eventually followed a prim secretary towards the end of a long corridor to Phillips’ office.

  On the way over, Barney said nothing more than superficial conversation. The reunion had clearly been a disappointment for both of them. She had been a fool to even let herself think otherwise or even acknowledge her secret speculation that something might rekindle their old relationship, then dismissing it with embarrassment. Any feeling for her had died in him, she concluded. He had let her go without a fight. But hadn’t she left him that long apologia, which precluded any recourse? Wrong man. Wrong time. I’m sorry. Now, the man wanted his wife back. He had come to her for that purpose only.

  “Naomi filled me in,” Phillips said. He had the scrubbed typical look of the quintessential J. Edgar soldier, despite efforts by later FBI chiefs to exorcise the type. He was an executive now, in charge of others. But under his shaggy dark eyebrows, he looked kindly. He made a practiced effort to keep Barney at ease. Naomi had begged him to see Barney.

  “Just see him, Hal. Please. He has nowhere to turn.”

  “Is he a relative?”

  “Sort of.” For some reason she resisted explaining their relationship. “He’s at wit’s end.”

  “I don’t think I can help him. I’ve been down that road. You can’t make a case.”

  “Just see him. Hear him out.”

  It was enough of an explanation for Phillips to be persuaded, as Naomi knew he would. They went back a long way.

  “It’s not against the law,” Phillips said after Barney had outlined the situation. They were seated around a small conference table. The prim secretary had brought them coffee. There was a picture of the President on one wall. A flag stood in a corner of the room.

  “No one gives up a home, a husband, and a child in two damned weeks,” Barney said. He looked briefly at Naomi, seeming incongruously accusatory. Although Phillips tried to mask it, the interview was a transparent courtesy, a bureaucratic shuffle. Nothing useful for Barney would come of it. Naomi saw that immediately. But Barney, a trained salesman, had a certain tenacity. She had always admired that quality about him. He would never give up, never admit that defeat was possible.

  “Could it be drugs?” Barney asked Phillips, despite his previous denials.

  “Not in the case of the Glories. We would know.”

  “She crossed state lines,” he said with waning hope.

  “Of her own volition.”

  “It wasn’t her own volition. She was lured by her sister,” Barney persisted.

  “But it was her decision, Barney,” Naomi said gently.

  “How did you first find out about it?” Phillips asked, crisply professional. It was a question that she had not thought to ask.

  Barney coughed, his body shifting, as if he hurt. In the harsh office light, she could see heavy puffs under his eyes, a sagging of his jaw. There were specks of gray in his gilded hair. He seemed ravaged by life, yet a few weeks ago he might have been smug, self-assured.

  “I called my sister-in-law’s old boyfriend. There’s only two of them, Suzie and Charlotte. Charlotte is older. Twenty-five. Their parents are dead.”

  Robbing the cradle, Naomi thought not without a pang of jealousy. She had just turned thirty-five.

  “He told me Suzie had been a Glory for six months. It was Suzie who brought her in.” He swallowed hard. “Bitch,” he muttered.

  “You didn’t know this?” Phillips asked.

  “If I did, would I have let her go?”

  “You know, Mr. Harrigan, it’s not an FBI matter. Not now.”

  Did that imply that one day it would be? Naomi thought.

  Phillips looked at Naomi, then at the anguished Barney. His kindly mien had disappeared. He was all business now.

  “We’ve been in these cases,” Phillips said. “Kidnapping. That’s part of our mission.”

  They are always burrowing into organizations, paying informers, working undercover, she couldn’t help but think.

  “Kidnapping?” Barney asked, strictly rhetorically. She could see his interest. Obviously, the idea had crossed his mind earlier.

  “Parents. Brothers. Friends. In desperation, they pull a snatch, then turn the subject over to a deprogrammer who attempts to reverse the process. The objective is to pressure the subjects out of their beliefs. Technically, we have laws against such activity, but deprogramming is an industry. Kidnapping has severe consequences for all perpetrators.”

  There could be no mistaking his meaning. It was a warning.

  “It’s a federal offense. The FBI gets involved.”

  “So I have no recourse,” Barney said suddenly, slapping his thighs and standing up.

  “Not here, I’m afraid.”

  He exchanged glances with Naomi. Hal had done his duty. No small talk, quick, brief, to the point. The interview was in its last gasp.

  “You might try to talk with Charlotte,” Phillips said.

  “I’d love to,” Barney said bitterly. “I’ve tried. Boy, have I tried. They won’t let me. I don’t even think they’ll let me see her. They have these camps….” He cleared his throat and his lips trembled. “You guys just don’t know. I mean, what good is the FBI if they can’t protect people from this?”

  “It’s not in our jurisdiction. But that doesn’t mean I don’t empathize.” He looked toward Naomi.

  “Empathy is not what I came here for,” Barney said.

  “I understand,” Phillips said. “I hope your wife comes home, Mr. Harrigan.”

  “Give it time.”

  He stood up and held out his hand. Barney took it heartily. In a salesman’s eyes, Naomi had learned, no potential deal was ever completely dead, no bridge ever burned.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” Phillips said, with a look at Naomi.

  “Foolish?” He forced a wry chuckle. “Have I ever, Nay?”

  An answer seemed superfluous.

  ***

  In the cab on their way to Mrs. Prococino’s, Barney came out of his silence to mumble, “Dead ends. It all leads to dead ends.”

  “I’m sorry, Barney.”

  He patted her arm.

  “Not your fault. You shouldn’t even be in this, Nay. Phillips was… by the book. I didn’t expect much.”

  “He did it as a favor, Barney.”

  “I appreciate your calling in your chits.”

  “I see what you’re going through… and I can see how much it hurts.”

  “They all say that. In the end, you’re alone.”

  “Not quite,” she whispered.

  She felt his eyes on her, but she did not raise hers to meet them.

  It wasn’t fair to judge him now, she decided. Not in the midst of this crisis in his life. Poor Barney. He could not transfer his outrage.

  Mrs. Prococino lived in a quiet street in Silver Spring, a split-level suburban home, typical of those built in the ’50s, the complacent Eisenhower years. Naomi had found her through a newspaper story she had discovered online.

  Four years ago, the Prococino’s son, Paul, had been recruited by the Glories in Seattle. The Prococinos, who, according to the clipping, originally came from Brooklyn, refused to accept their son’s fate. The Glories had picked him up on a street corner and brainwashed him. The Prococinos had found him, and by grit and subterfuge got him home and successfully deprogrammed him. For a time, they were Washington media heroes of sorts, a position of notoriety often measured in milliseconds.

  “Why not?” Mrs. Prococino had eventually said when Naomi called her for an appointment. At first, the woman had been reluctant, but Naomi had been forceful. Barney could expect no help from Washington, so Naomi’s reaching out to Mrs. Prococino seemed a logical way to deflect Barney’s attention from the disappointment of any official support. It seemed a log
ical way to deflect Barney’s attention from official Washington, from which he could expect no help. At least Mrs. Prococino would offer him the succor of a common experience.

  “For a while that’s all I did,” Mrs. Prococino told them. “Help other people who got caught up in this… this horror.”

  They sat at a marble table on a screened porch looking out over a garden heavy with plantings of flowers and vegetables. At its edge was an arbor, and the smell of semisweet grapes floated through an open window. She had set out iced tea and Italian cookies in colorful wrappers. Behind the uniformly sterilized façade of the split-level, she had somehow put her ethnic stamp. The atmosphere was indisputably Italian.

  Mrs. Prococino’s olive skin had drained of color, but her eyes dominated the fleshiness in her face. They were large, dark, and expressive, ringed by undiminished thick black lashes under heavy, plucked eyebrows. There was a tough earthiness about her, a determination so strong that it had come through even in the reporters’ stories.

  “Finally, I couldn’t take all this sentimentalism, especially after Vinnie died. I think it killed him… my husband. No, I don’t think. It killed him.”

  “It’s my wife, Mrs. Prococino,” Barney said.

  “I feel for you.” She shook her head. “You’re dealing with the most ruthless bastards in the world.”

  As they listened to the bits and pieces of Mrs. Prococino’s story, anger flared up in her. Barney had read about her in the printouts that Naomi had provided, but the sound of her voice, her expression and emotion, gave it another dimension. Her son had gone on a skiing trip. He had stopped first in Chicago, met two beautiful girls who took him to one of the Glory houses in downtown Seattle. They persuaded the young man to go with them to their camp in a nearby rural area. All very harmless. No mention of the Glory Church. They worked behind the guise of some do-gooder group. Franco was an innocent, an idealist. Not a New York street kid like Mrs. Prococino or her husband.

  “They would have smelled a rat within ten seconds. But this suburban life weakened kids, didn’t expose them to the hustle, the con game,” she said bitterly.