Put Some Gay In Your Day, Dallas!

Above & Under The Law: Are They Different?

“No one is above the law,” Attorney General Merrick Garland has said so many times that the verb “reiterate” is taking sick leave for exhaustion from extensive usage by reporters.  I suppose it’s true as is the directional flip side that everyone is under the law.  But it does seem that some of us are little more under that law than others.

Many Trump supporters have also reiterated (sorry about that, reiterate, I know you’re tired) that if the FBI can do it to him, it can be done to you.  That seems a hollow, if vaguely threatening, statement considering the whole idea of “equal under the law” is assumed to be a good thing.  But the implied threat sent my mind wandering on what it would look like if the FBI found out there’s a box of documents clearly marked as “Classified Documents Illegally Held By Craig, Not By Karl” in our bedroom closet.  Not that there is, of course, but just suppose.

I imagine myself at my desk, confirming lunch dates, when Bitsy and Sadie run to the window, barking hysterically, to notify the humans that something is wrong.  Wearily, as I cross to the window expecting to find two squirrels frolicking or a random jogger trotting down the other side of the street, a loud voice comes through a bullhorn.  “Craig McCartney.  Come out, Craig McCartney.”  I peek through the window and see that the front yard is covered with FBI agents, all in black and some with guns drawn, while an outside perimeter is made up of curious neighbors and other casual passersby with cell phones drawn.

Rushing to the back of the house, I see as I pass the hall that the men in black are swarming around the French door on the side of the house.  Running through the kitchen, more agents blocking the glass doors off the breakfast room can be seen.  Through the window in one of the back bedrooms, I can spot men climbing into the pecan trees.  I am indeed surrounded.  “Come out, Craig McCartney.”

Staggering into my bathroom, I think to myself that the only way to glam up this fiasco is to play it like Susan Hayward in I Want to Live!, so I hastily run a comb through my hair, tightening its loose bun.   “Craig McCartney.  You have sixty seconds.  If you do not come out, we will come in and get you.”

Heading to the front door, I stop only to pick up Bitsy’s stuffed Minnie Mouse toy, as I am fully in Hayward mode with Gerry Mulligan’s jazz themes playing in my head.  “We are warning you not to attempt anything, Craig McCartney.”  I move forward and unlock the front door.  “For the last time, Craig McCartney, come out.”  I walk outside.  “Keep your hands above your head.”  

Looking around, I wonder if they’re going to arrest me or just shoot me dead.  If it’s the latter, I send up a quick prayer that I can at least stay on my feet long enough to fall gracefully as my body is riddled with bullets, a la Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty in Bonnie and Clyde.  Not for me the dismissive death of Miss Lara in Django Unchained, blown back thirty feet into the house from a single blast from the FBI agent who looks kind of like Jamie Foxx.  

“You heard me, McCartney.  Hands above your head.”  Is it possible I’ll survive the shooting long enough to utter some final words?  Will the Jamie Foxx look-alike hear and report that my last words were, “Mother of mercy, is this the end of Craig?”  

“I won’t warn you again, McCartney.  Get those hands up.”  I can only hear that the doors have been broken through, the agents are going through the house, and the dogs are howling through the window in the den.  Maybe they won’t shoot me if I just comply.  Isn’t that what they all say?  Just comply?

As I slowly raise my hands with what I hope is a visible disdain, clutching Minnie Mouse in my left hand, I hear an agent from inside the house call out, “We got it.”  He comes through the front door, carrying the box Karl has carefully labeled to avoid incriminating himself.  The man passes the bullhorn to the fellow standing beside him, pulls out a pad of green paper that looks suspiciously like every guest check pad I’ve ever seen used by waitresses in every café I’ve ever been to, and scribbles something on it with the pencil he has pulled from behind his ear.  He hands me the slip of paper, marked “one box classified documents, clearly labeled.”  Confused, I ask him, “Aren’t you going to arrest me or something?”

He responds, “Oh, no.  We’ll let you know in a month or two if anyone wants to indict you on criminal charges.  Enjoy the rest of your day.”  I go inside and immediately look for the next flight to Montenegro.

Of course, that isn’t how any of this would go down if it were me, or you for that matter.  While we may all be equal under the law, some of us are clearly more equal than others.