Harold Michael Harvey, Ongoing Legal Contributor and Friend Calls for Courage, Endurance, and Faith to Fight Once Again White Supremachists!

 

Elaine Harvey, now 97, as an 18-year-old, rode her bicycle to register to vote.

Before I speak about the Supreme Court’s recent ruling, I must begin where my family’s voting story truly begins with my third grandfather, Joseph Harvey, who registered to vote in 1868 during Reconstruction. He stepped forward in that brief window when America seemed willing to imagine Black citizenship as real and enforceable. But after Reconstruction collapsed, no one in my family voted again until my mother, an 18‑year‑old Black girl in rural Georgia studying history at Fort Valley State College, cast her ballot in the 1948 Presidential election, culminating eighty years of silence, eighty years of fear, and eighty years of democracy denied

The Supreme Court’s recent ruling prohibiting the use of race in drawing congressional districts is not an isolated legal decision. It is part of a much longer American story, one that stretches from Reconstruction to Jim Crow, from the 1965 Voting Rights Act to the present moment. And if you know that story, you recognize the pattern immediately.

Every time Black Americans have gained political power, the system has found new ways to take it back. I know this not just from books or archives. I know it because my own family lived it.

In the late 1940s, my mother was an 18‑year‑old Black girl in rural Georgia who wanted to register to vote. Her father refused to take her to town. Not because he didn’t believe in voting, but because he feared the Klan would burn his house down or slaughter the family if they saw him escorting a young Black woman to the voter registrar in the courthouse.

So, she rode her bicycle, alone, unprotected, determined, and teased by her siblings and cousins who did not yet understand the importance of voting.

When she arrived, the white registrar handed her a copy of the U.S. Constitution and said, “Read this.” He expected her to stumble. She didn’t. She recited it verbatim, without looking down.

“I said read it,” he barked.

She read it with perfect diction. He snatched the book from her hands before she could finish the first paragraph. Then he shoved a sheet of paper toward her and said, “Sign this.” She did, becoming the first member of the family to register to vote since President Hayes removed the federal troops from Georgia.

That was the price of Black citizenship in the American South: humiliation, danger, and the constant threat of violence. And yet she persisted.

Fast forward to 1970. I was an 18‑year‑old student at Tuskegee Institute. Between classes one noonday, my brother and I walked down to the Macon County Courthouse to register. I grew up hearing my mom recount those harrowing moments in the Crawford County, Georgia, Courthouse. I expected a fight. I expected a test. I expected the same hostility my mother faced.

But the registrar handed us an application. Five years had passed since President Lyndon Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act. Five years, and the world had changed.

That fall, I cast my first vote for Johnny Ford, the city’s first Black mayor. That moment was not an accident. It was not a gift. It was the direct result of federal protection, the Voting Rights Act doing exactly what it was designed to do.

Without the 1965 Voting Rights Act, neither my mother nor her progenies would have been able to participate fully in American democracy. We were denied all the rights and privileges of being Americans. For generations, Black voters were packed, cracked, diluted, and erased through district lines drawn with surgical precision. Racial gerrymandering, when used to remedy discrimination, was not a distortion of democracy. It was a correction.

It was the only way to counteract a century of maps designed to ensure Black people could not elect candidates of their choice. The Supreme Court understood this in 1965. It was understood in 1982. It was understood in 1986. It was understood in 2023.

But in 2026, the Court declared that race cannot be used in drawing districts, even when race was the very tool used to deny Black political power in the first place.

At the same time, the Court continues to allow partisan gerrymandering, even though in the South, race and party are deeply intertwined. A map drawn to disadvantage Democrats will almost always disadvantage Black voters. The Court knows this. Everyone knows this. This reality is unlikely to change until the Republican Party changes its public policy initiatives towards Black and Brown people.

The result is a legal paradox with devastating real‑world consequences: You may not use race to remedy discrimination, but you may use the party to entrench it. This is not neutrality. This is not colorblindness. This is a rollback. The kind of rollback that Rev. Dr. Joseph Lowery, then President of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, railed against when President Ronald Regan nominated Judge Robert Bork to the Supreme Court in 1987. Thirty-nine years later, the Supreme Court now has the numbers to turn back the clock and make America the exclusive domain of White men.

The Supreme Court’s ruling does not simply reinterpret the law. It reopens the door to the very practices the Voting Rights Act was designed to eliminate. It rolls back the clock on gains Black Americans have fought for since the end of enslavement.

My mother’s bicycle ride. My walk to the courthouse in 1970. The election of Black mayors, councilmembers, legislators, senators, and representatives across the South. All of it was made possible by federal protections that the Court is now dismantling piece by piece.

We have seen this pattern before: Reconstruction, Redemption, Jim Crow, The Civil Rights Movement, Shelby County v. Holder, and now Louisiana v. Callais.

The arc of voting rights in America is not a straight line. It is a struggle, a push-and-pull between progress and retrenchment.

The Court’s ruling does not erase the courage of those who fought for the vote. It does not erase the memory of my mother standing in that courthouse, or the registrar who tried to break her spirit, so she would not teach children she would later have the importance of voting. It does not erase the pride I felt voting for Tuskegee’s first Black mayor.

But it does remind us that rights won can be rights lost, and that the work of democracy is never finished.

If the Court will not protect the franchise, then the people must. If the law retreats, memory must advance. If the arc bends backward, we must bend forward.

Because the story of Black voting rights in America is not just a legal story. It is a family story. It is a community story. It is a story written in courage, danger, persistence, and hope. It is a story we must continue to tell, especially now.

May the courage of those who came before us, from Joseph Harvey in 1868, to my mother on her bicycle in 1948, to every Black voter who stood in a courthouse line with danger at their back, guide us in this moment. May their steadiness become our strategy, their endurance our inheritance, and their faith in democracy our mandate. The struggle did not begin with us, and it must not end with us. May we walk forward carrying their light.

~~~~

When you wake up each morning and there is only more and more news about the devastation happening in the United States and across the world because of rich power-hungry white men, there can be no different response for me than to wonder - How are they getting away with this madness! How can you have a constitution that has existed for hundreds of years, yet allow, little by little, the corruption of the people who have worked behind the scenes to gain control, using private money of those who want only one thing--to be more powerful, and to do anything they want... 

You know folks, up until 2015, I thought I did anything I wanted... But my needs and desires are minimal... Having a good book to read and a cat or two to provide warmth and comfort was sufficient for it was in accordance with what God has provided for us throughout our lives. Sure it was hard growing up, with only my mother working to provide for 4 children. But we made it through...

And there was always somebody worse off than we were... 

I met Marian Davis when I was in the 7th grade and we became friends right away. She was the first Black individual I got to know personally. That she was Black was never an issue--and it was like that all of my life, up until a man whose father had taught him to hate had run for political office and immediately started lying to people... I had already interacted with a number of white men in power who were more concerned about being "in command" than in my getting my job done... It was a lesson that immediately prepared me to question just how a man such as the obvious racist was actually elected into the president's position!

But nothing could have prepared us for what has occurred since the first day of his second term! Not even the MAGA group who voted him in and are now facing, along with the rest of us, just how much he actually meant when he said he wanted to make our country great again...

You know what I mean...before Black people could vote and/or hold public office... And, soon, I'll predict, the'll be trying to do it to women as well... I was an Affirmative Action female and saw what happened to women at that time... There was also the stirring of resentment from white men when a Black man was hired for a job he had applied for. Key was that they didn't care why the affirmative action, equal pay for equal work, and all the other laws that came into existence which required them to "work to earn promotions" rather than the good ole boy process that was the rule at that time...

The thing is, folks, is that there is more hate than any of us ever imagined. There are many who have no background in any form of religion, but there has been a major change for many who claim they are Christian, while, at the same time, are willing to turn against those who are different in some way. It's wrong and we who learned and listened to the call to Love Our Neighbors and did so, can't imagine why all of this is happening... Especially when they use religion as a reason for their violence and other criminal goals of more and more money than they could ever spend...

In any event, clearly the Supreme Court has also joined the move to control by illegal actions, such as granting immunity for anything and everything done by the president while in office--what nonsense! Just the one thing, the destruction of a historically preserved White House to please one man makes it quite clear that the United States government is out of control...

And voting to stop a political party from destroying our democracy is the only answer... 

I was hoping and watching for Michael to write about what is happening. I've added a number of videos for documentation, such as stopping an election that has already started, claiming it was an emergency...  His wisdom and strength speaks out for all of us... Thank you for sharing your family's history, about the fear of actually taking the advantage to vote... It is certainly understandable, especially seeing how this president has gone after any non-white people here and around the world...

Please remember that we are All God's Children!

Gabby

John Herlihy, Poet and Ongoing Contributor, Shares His Latest! - Complementary Music of Love

 

Ballad of the Oud

by John Herlihy

 

The sad music of the oud flows on the waves of ancient seas,

The notes float through the air on the breath of fresh breeze.

Such sadness is heard in the strings, so many years of sorrow,

An ancient instrument with roots in grief here on earth below.

Through an extensive range and cultural heritage, the oud sings,

Known as king of the instruments and the instrument of kings.

 

Invented by Lamech, a descendant of Adam, so legend claims,

Fashioned from the body of his deceased son and his remains.

The myth of the biblical Lamech directly links the oud to grief,

Grieving his beloved son, the image of the oud provided relief.

The ballad of the melancholy oud both song and mythic story,

That appeals to the heart of the ages with its honorable glory.

 

Rosettes over the sound holes on boards of cedar or spruce,

A rounded pear-shaped body as if resembling a bowl of fruits.

Fruits sublimely did emerge as music to reach expectant ears,

Music that would often reduce the listeners to streams of tears.

A short neck to play notes with more fluid, voice-like motion,

Microtones as in-between notes expressive of musical devotion.

 

The oud played with Sufi poetry as symbol of the soul’s yearning,

Found in courtly love poetry as the instrument of pure longing.

Medieval times witnessed the oud to represent cosmic mystery,

The more enlightened time of the Renaissance sought harmony.

The oud took its shape during the Islamic Golden Age of theory,

Scholars and musicians refined its design to enhance musicality.

 

Each region of the globe produced its own enriching style, tone,

Drawing from the essence of their own culture, light from bone.

The Arabic oud of the desert sands warmer and deeper tonality,

The Turkish oud in the land of the sultans penetrating musicality.

The Persian Barbat, an ancient lute, played with distinctive clarity,

The oud of Andalusian Spain an instrument focused on its tonality.

 

Present-day music incorporates the oud with jazz, flamenco,

Eliciting harmonies from strings by the subtlety of virtuosos.

Listen to this music of the ages as if being lost in its valuation,

As in intricacies of oriental carpets one loses concentration.

Music to echo our ancestral sentiments as peals of thunder,

As Adam’s ancestor sings a simple ballad of magical wonder.

 

As a lover of ancient cultural lore, I take up the oud in hand,

I have never played the oud before, I accept your reprimand.

Still, I have now completed this treasured poem that I wrote,

Who is there to stop me from playing this one exquisite note.

To pluck a single string, as if plucking a flower, with such care,

To listen to and to witness the sacred musicality of its prayer.

- - - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Beautiful in its coverage of historical significance!

Birth of a Poem

by John Herlihy

These poems – well, they just keep on coming,

They come from where, humming – drumming

On the balcony, at the bus stop, or on the bus,

I dictate them on my phone, to us, to us, to us.

Rhythms soon begin to gather, then to mount,

Ideas begin to spill forth I cannot rightly count.

Breath to make us breathless, hard to breathe,

Fresh words filling the page that cannot deceive.

Bright sparks to capture before riding the wind,

That turn into a conflagration unable to rescind.

Fire as smoldering embers burning in the heart,

Left behind ashes, aromatic incense to depart.

Felt not as pain but ache as the poem is born,

The verses, flow, finish, from imagination torn.

Hand-scripted with an ebony ink-tipped feather,

Dandelion seeds in the wind ride thru heather.

- - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Ah John, you were born to be a poet and remain throughout...

Ode to Childhood Innocence

by John Herlihy

Ah, to be as little children, to live as children forever,

To run thru streets lit by sunset, have to go home never.

To wrestle my playmates, being tickled into frantic laughter,

To play together knowing they will be friends forever after.

To take a deep breath as a surge of exultation passes through,

Any more happier than this in life I never knew.

Riding my bicycle through the empty streets for pay,

Delivering newspapers to my neighbors at dawn of day.

All the other children still sleeping in their beds,

Sledding down winter snowdrifts on painted sleds.

Ice skating across a frozen pond under a starlit sky,

Blowing bubbles into the air without knowing how or why.

Whisper to my imaginary friend and never feel alone,

All trappings of my later life pared away to the bone.

To wake up in the morning without worry or care,

With full reliance on my night whispers of bedtime prayer.

At the breakfast table with my oatmeal feeling like a king,

Playing melodies on strings of my heart as my voice did sing..

Expressing all of my childhood emotions without pretense,

Reveling in the magical wonder of sweet childhood innocence.

- - - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Are we not capable of childhood innocence as adults? Thought-Provoking

This Is What It Means

by John Herlihy

This is what it means to be an infant:

The days are as long as a year.

This is what it means to be a child:

They want days to be longer than they are.

This is what it means to be an adolescent:

They want days to be shorter than they are.

This is what it means to be young:

The days are short, but the years are long.

This is what it means to be middle-aged:

The days are long and the years run along.

This is what it means to be old:

The days are long, but the years are short.

This is what it means to be elderly:

The days are short and the end is near.

This is what it means to die:

Minutes or hours gone, a few seconds left.

This is what it means after death:

An ageless journey into the beyond.

- - - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Somehow my memories don't match yours until the very last stanzas...Different lives???

John, thank you for inspiring us once again

to force contemplation, wonder, and awareness

May we find the place where your words lead

For God is speaking through many these days

to HIS people across the world, not just one small group

but to all He has Created...

May we Listen...

Gabby

Meet the Author Writing the Will Trent TV Stories - A Fantastic Program and Author! - Karen Slaughter Presents Unseen! - With Playlist!

She tried to put herself in the shooter’s head, figure out what he was thinking. Two cops. Both with guns they hadn’t used. One was on the floor. The other hadn’t moved, hadn’t shot back, hadn’t screamed or jumped out the window or charged him.

I had a pleasant surprise when I picked up this book by Karen Slaughter, one of the best authors that is now writing! And when I learned that she was also behind the Will Trent TV program, I understood... You see, I've been watching this program, I think, since it came on television. But I had noticed just how much more complex and involved they were becoming. Seriously, quite a difference. I didn't take the time to do the research as to when Slaughter became involved, but I will say that the last shows of one of my routinely watched cop programs were much better than I'd remember there being... Whether or not Slaughter was a contributor to that improvement is really not relevant--it's enough to report that Will Trent has certainly improved as time has gone on... I'm loving it! The characters are outstanding and the closeness of the individuals in this particular group of officers is a wonderful contrast to the reality we see as we watch ICE work to destroy our neighborhoods... Especially since the cast is a pleasant group of multi-racial individuals who reveal no biases or prejudices against others in the show... It's a relief to watch the normal lives of all citizens as they play roles on normal entertainment events...

THURSDAY - ATLANTA, GEORGIA 

Hospital elevators were notoriously unreliable, but Dr. Sara Linton felt that the ones at Atlanta’s Grady Memorial were particularly creaky. Still, like a gambling addict hitting a slot machine, she punched the button every time on the off chance that the doors would open. “Come on,” Sara mumbled, staring at the numbers above the doors, willing them to hit seven. She waited, hands tucked into the pockets of her white lab coat as the digital display showed ten, then nine, then stayed at a solid eight. Sara tapped her foot. She looked at her watch. And then she felt her body fill with dread as she saw Oliver Gittings trotting toward her. As a pediatric attending in Grady Hospital’s emergency room, Sara was in charge of several students who—despite some evidence to the contrary—assumed that one day they would become doctors. Night shifts were particularly tedious. There was something about the moon that turned their little brains into mush. Sara often wondered how some of them managed to dress themselves, let alone get into medical school. Oliver Gittings was one of the better examples. Or worse, as the case tended to be. In the last eight hours, he’d already spilled a urine sample on himself and accidentally sewn a sterile cloth onto the sleeve of his lab coat. At least she hoped it was accidental. He called, “Dr. Linton—” “This way,” Sara told him, giving up on the elevator and heading toward the stairs. “I’m glad I found you.” Oliver ran after her like an eager puppy. “An interesting case came up.” Oliver thought all of his cases were interesting. She said, “Give me the highlights.” “Six-year-old girl,” he began, pulling on the exit door twice before realizing that it opened outward. “Mom says the girl woke her up in the middle of the night for some water. They’re going down the stairs. The girl starts to fall. Mom grabs her arm. Something pops. The girl starts screaming. Mom rushes her here.” Sara took the lead down the stairs. She guessed, “X-ray showed a spiral fracture?” “Yes. The girl had a bruise on her arm here—” Sara glanced back to see where he indicated. “So, you suspect abuse. Did you order a skeletal survey?” 

“Yes, but radiology is backed up. My shift is almost over. I thought I’d go ahead and call D-FACS to get things moving.” Sara abruptly stopped her descent. The Division of Family and Children’s Services. She asked, “You want to go ahead and put the kid in the system?” Oliver shrugged, as if this was nothing. “The girl’s too quiet. Mom’s antsy, irritated. All she wants to know is when they can leave.” “How long have they been here?” “I dunno. I think she was triaged around one.” Sara looked at her watch. “It’s 5:58 in the morning. They’ve been here all night. I’d want to leave, too. What else?” For the first time, Oliver seemed to doubt himself. “Well, the fracture—” Sara continued down the stairs. “No specific fracture is pathognomonic to child abuse. You call D-FACS and it’s a legal matter. If this mother is an abuser, you want to make sure she doesn’t get away with it. You need corroborating evidence. Does the girl seem scared of her mother? Does she look you in the eye and answer questions? Are there other bruises? Developmental delays? Continence issues? Is there a history of ER visits? How did she present otherwise?” Oliver didn’t immediately answer. Sara prompted, “Is she healthy? Well nourished?” “Yes, but—” “Stop.” Sara wasn’t looking for a discussion. She checked her watch again. “Dr. Connor is taking over for me, but you’ve got all of my numbers. Order the skeletal survey to see if there are any past breaks or fractures. Notify security to keep an eye on the mom. Call the other ERs to see if the girl’s ever been admitted.” Sara moderated her tone, trying to make it clear she was teaching him something, not punishing him. “Oliver, sixty-five percent of child abuse cases are flagged in emergency rooms. If you stay in pediatrics, this is the sort of thing you’re going to be dealing with on a weekly basis. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying you need to know all the facts before you turn this girl’s life upside down. And her mother’s.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He headed down the stairs, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. Sara didn’t immediately follow, cognizant that Oliver’s ego was fragile enough without her snapping at his heels. Instead, she sat on the bottom stair and checked her hospital BlackBerry. Sara’s eyes threatened to roll back in her head as she scrolled through the administrative detritus littering her mailbox. Meetings, conferences, denied requisitions, and new procedures for requisitioning, attending conferences, and scheduling meetings. She felt around in her other pocket and traded the BlackBerry for her personal phone. This was much better. Her father had emailed a silly joke about snails that he’d heard at the Waffle House. Her mother had forwarded a recipe that was never going to happen. There was a long email from her sister with a picture of Sara’s niece attached. She marked this unread and saved it for later. The next message was a text from Sara’s boyfriend. An hour ago, he’d sent her a photo of his breakfast: six mini chocolate doughnuts, an egg and cheese biscuit, and a large Coke. Sara didn’t know which one of them was going to have a heart attack first. The door popped open. Dr. Felix Connor stuck his head into the stairwell. He eyed Sara suspiciously. “Why do you look so happy?” “Because I can go home now that you’re finally here?” “Gimme a minute to hit the can.” Sara dropped the phone back into her pocket as she stood. Oliver wasn’t the only one who wanted to get out of here. Sara had pulled several night shifts in a row courtesy of a stomach flu that was running rampant through the hospital. She was beginning to feel punished for her own good health. Home. Sleep. Silence. She was already making plans as she walked through the ER. Thanks to her crazy work schedule, Sara had four full days of freedom ahead of her. She could read a book. Take a run with her dogs. Remind her boyfriend why they were together. This last bit widened her smile considerably. She got some curious looks in return. Not many people were happy to find themselves at Grady, which was the only publicly funded hospital left in Atlanta. The staff tended to take on the hardened demeanor of combat veterans. If practicing medicine was an uphill battle, working at Grady was on par with Guadalcanal. Stabbings, beatings, poisonings, rapes, shootings, murders, drug overdoses. And that was just pediatrics. Sara stopped at the computer by the nurses’ station. She pulled up Oliver’s patient on the monitor. The X-ray clearly showed where the child’s right humerus had been twisted. Either the mom was being truthful about what had happened on the stairs or she was savvy enough to fabricate a believable lie. Sara looked up, scanning the open-curtain area, which was predictably filled with repeat customers. Several drunks were sleeping off benders. There was a junkie who threatened to kill himself every time he got arrested and an older homeless woman who belonged in a mental hospital but knew how to game the system so she could stay on the streets. Oliver’s little girl was curled up asleep on the last gurney. Her mother was in a chair beside her. She was sleeping, too, but her hand was laced through her daughter’s. She hadn’t yet noticed the security guard standing a few feet away. Not for the first time, Sara wished that nature had devised a system to alert the rest of the world to people who were abusing children. A scarlet letter. A mark of the beast. Some sign that let decent people know these monsters couldn’t be trusted. Up until a few years ago, Sara had lived in a small town four hours south of Atlanta. She’d done double duty as the county’s pediatrician and medical examiner. Her father liked to joke that between Sara’s two jobs, she got them coming and going. While this was certainly true, too many times, Sara had been put in the position of witnessing firsthand the awful things people could do to children. The X-rays that showed repeatedly broken bones. The dental records revealing teeth that had rotted from neglect. The skin that was forever marked from burns and beatings. Now that she was living in Atlanta, Sara had the additional knowledge that came from dating a man who’d grown up in state care. Sara’s boyfriend didn’t like to talk about his childhood. When she touched her fingers to the healed cigarette burns on his chest, or kissed the jagged scar on his upper lip where the skin had been punched in two, she could only imagine the hell he’d survived. Still, there were far worse things that could happen to a child. The system was flawed in many ways, but it was also there for a reason. “I wish you’d stop smiling.” Felix Connor dried his hands with a paper towel as he walked toward Sara. “I gotta say, I’m still having a hard time shaking this flu.” Sara made her voice chipper. “Better sick at work than sick at home.” “Is that what you tell your patients?” “Just the babies.” Before Felix could come up with an excuse to leave, Sara started running down her cases. She was wrapping up the details on Oliver’s patient when she felt a rush of heat come to the back of her neck. Sara glanced over her shoulder, feeling like she was being watched. She did a double take when she saw her boyfriend. Will Trent was leaning against the wall. He was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit that was nicely tailored to his lean body. His hands were in his pockets. His sandy-blond hair was damp, curving against the nape of his neck and stopping just shy of his collar. He smiled at her. Sara smiled back, feeling a familiar tingling in her chest. She had known Will for almost two years—met him in this very hospital—but lately their relationship had turned into something more. The depth of her feeling was an unexpected treasure. Sara had lost her husband five years ago. She had assumed she would spend the rest of her life alone. And then she’d met Will. Sara said, “Felix, I—” She glanced around, but he was gone. Will pushed away from the wall and walked toward her. “You look nice.” Sara laughed at the blatant lie. “What are you doing here? I thought you were working.” “My briefing’s not for another hour.” “Do you have time for second breakfast?” Will slowly shook his head. “Oh.” Sara realized he hadn’t just dropped by. She asked, “What’s wrong?” 

“Maybe we could go somewhere?” She led him toward the doctors’ lounge. The door was about thirty feet away, giving Sara just enough time to work up a full-on worry. Will was a special agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. He’d been working undercover for the last ten days. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell Sara the details of his assignment, but he kept calling from strange numbers and showing up at odd hours. She had no idea where he came from or where he was going, and anytime she asked, he either changed the subject or found a reason to leave. When Sara wasn’t busy feeling mildly annoyed by all this, she was consumed with fear that something bad was going to happen. Or had already happened. Sara’s late husband had been a cop. He was murdered in the line of duty, and losing him had almost killed her. The thought of the same thing happening to Will was too much to bear. “Let me get that.” Will reached in front of Sara to open the door. Fortunately, the lounge was empty. He waited for her to sit down at the table before taking the chair across from her. She repeated, “What’s wrong?” Silently, he took her hand. Sara watched as Will ran his fingers along her palm, traced the inside of her wrist. Will watched, too, his deep blue eyes tracking the movement of his fingers. There was something about the way he watched himself touching her that made Sara’s skin start to tingle. She stilled his hand. All she needed was for one of her students to walk in and find her purring like a cat. Besides, she recognized Will’s stalling tactics by now. She leaned forward. “What is it?” He gave a half-smile. “Diversion not working?” “Almost,” she admitted.

~~~~

The GBI was equivalent to the FBI on the Federal Level. But in this book, Will Trent was undercover. Will was also involved with a woman and, it was a closer relationship than on tv. I enjoyed the longevity and closeness of this main character, who, once you know his back story, you will find that he is one of the most unique that you will find within a law enforcement agency. If you haven't yet seen any of the tv series, I highly recommend! For the first time for me, I'm tending to prefer the tv series as opposed to the book. It's probably because I've become invested in the lives of those in the tv series, which includes all of the agents in his area... But the importance of the topic covered in Unseen is one that calls for details of the reality...

The investigation was broad, but had becomes somewhat pinpointed on the fact that those involved were not afraid to go after the cops as well. At the same time, One of the officers who had a bad reputation with some people, was in trouble again... She had been partnered with a police officer who was killed during a shootout. That had been years ago, but, now, she was married to a relative of the wife of her former partner. And he'd been shot during a new criminal action... Was she bad luck, or was it just what the job was all about? Talk was spreading across GBI and relatives of agents...

And Will was at the scene, undercover when a raid went down... But more was yet to come!

MACON, GEORGIA

 SEVEN DAYS AGO—THE DAY OF THE RAID Dawn turned the morning light a cobalt blue as the raid van roared down a gravel road. There were ten cops in back, five on one side, five on the other, all jammed shoulder-to-shoulder so that every bump of the tires made them jerk in unison. The radio speakers were blaring Ice-T’s “Cop Killer.” The air inside the van vibrated with the raging beat. Cop killer. Better you than me. Lena Adams steadied her shotgun as they hit another rut in the road. She checked the Glock strapped to her thigh, made sure the Velcro held the gun tightly in place. The voice in her head screamed along with Ice-T’s as they got closer to the target. She took a few quick breaths, not to clear her mind but to make it spin, to amp up the adrenaline and the absolute high that came from knowing she was a few moments away from the biggest bust of her career. And then everything stopped. The music snapped off. The red light came on over their heads. Silence. Two minutes until arrival. The van slowed. Gravel crunched under the tires. Guns were drawn, magazines checked. Helmets and protective glasses were adjusted. The smell of testosterone got thicker. Nine men and one woman. All of them suited in Kevlar vests and black fatigues, loaded up with enough ammo to take down a small army. Lena breathed through her mouth, tasting the fear and excitement circling inside the van. She took in her team. Eyes wide. Pupils the size of dimes. The anticipation was almost sexual. She could feel the exhilaration building around her, the way everyone shifted in their seats, gripped their guns tighter in their hands. They’d been staking out the house for the last two weeks, had planned their attack even as the junkies and whores streamed in and out like ants on a mound. There would be piles of money. Percocet. Vicodin. Hillbilly heroin. Coke. Guns. Lots of guns. Overnight surveillance told them that four men were inside the house. One was a low-level thug on parole off assault charges. The second was a junkie scumbag who would suck off a dog to feed his Oxy habit. The third was Diego Nuñez, an old-school enforcer who enjoyed getting his hands dirty. The fourth was their leader, a bastard named Sid Waller who’d been questioned on a rape and two different murders but somehow managed to skate on all of them. Waller was their main target. Lena had been tracking him for eight months, doing a masochistic hokeypokey—locking him up, letting him go, locking him up, letting him go. Not this time. The drugs and guns would put Sid away for twenty years, minimum, but Lena wanted more than that. She wanted him to know for the rest of his miserable life that a woman had cuffed him, jailed him, convicted him. Not that he would have a long life once Lena was finished. She wanted Sid Waller on death row. She wanted to watch them jam the needle in his arm. See that last flicker of life drain out of him. And she was betting her career on making that happen. For two weeks, she’d been fighting the brass, pushing them to keep the operation going, pleading with them to extend the overtime, authorize the manpower, spend the money, and pull in the favors for the snitch who’d brought them all to this house in the middle of the woods. Sid’s crew wouldn’t last long behind bars. Diego Nuñez would hold out, but the other two were junkies, and with Sid Waller out of the way, getting high would trump being loyal. In less than twenty-four hours, they’d both be scrambling to make deals, and Lena had a DA who was ready to hand them out. Sid Waller had killed a nineteen-year-old kid. He’d raped his own niece and slit his sister’s throat when she’d called 911. Every cop in this van wanted to be the one to take him down. Lena didn’t bother with wanting it. She was actually going to do it. She looked up at the ceiling, staring at the red light until it flickered off and then on again. One minute. Lena closed her eyes, going over the plan. They had pulled the records on the house. It was a foreclosure, one of many on the outskirts of town. Brick, which was good because it would stop bullets. The single-story structure was in the middle of two point-five acres bordered by a national forest on one side and a rural route on the other that bisected Macon and fed into Interstate 75, heading north into Atlanta. Searching the tax commissioner’s office had netted them a builder’s diagram: den, bathroom, and two bedrooms in the back. Dining room and kitchen in the front, with a set of stairs opposite the sink that led down into the basement. They’d rehearsed the raid so many times that Lena saw it like a tightly choreographed dance. DeShawn Franklin and Mitch Cabello would breach the side door with a Monoshock Ram. Lena would take the front of the house with Paul Vickery, her partner for the last year. Eric Haigh and Keith McVale would clear the bathroom and two bedrooms in the back. DeShawn and Mitch would secure any prisoners. The remaining men would guard the perimeter of the house and make sure no one slipped out through a window or door. Lena had wanted at least eight more bodies on the team, but the operation was already pushing the million-dollar mark and Lena knew better than to ask the brass for more. They always worked in twos; no one entered a room alone. The layout of the house was choppy, each room walled off with nothing but a door in and out. Back at the station, they’d taped off the garage, mapping the rooms to scale. Lena and Paul had two doorways to contend with before they reached the basement: den to dining room, dining room to kitchen. Each opening represented a new opportunity to get shot. The basement was going to be the trickiest part. The builder’s diagram showed a wide-open space, but that had been drawn in the fifties, when the house was built. Sometime in the last sixty years, the basement had been finished. There would be walls they didn’t know about. Closed doors and closets. There was no door to the outside, only two narrow, boarded-up windows that a grown man couldn’t fit through. The basement was a deathtrap. Back at the station, they had drawn straws to see who would go down first. Lena’s team had won, but that was only because she had been holding the straws. The van downshifted to a crawl. There were no windows in the back, but Lena could see past the driver’s head. The sun winked underneath the visor. A thick stand of pine trees arced around the side of the house. Aerial photos showed a straight shot to the rural route less than two hundred yards through the forest. If the bad guys decided to run, that was the direction they’d take, which was why two cruisers were assigned to patrolling that stretch of road. The van stopped. Overhead, the red light flickered again, this time staying off. Lena pumped her shotgun, loading a cartridge into the chamber. She checked the Glock again. Her team followed suit, checking their weapons. The driver, an old-timer named Kirk Davis, whispered into the radio, letting the brass know they’d arrived. The mobile command center was parked a mile away in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. If history was any indication, Denise Branson would wait until Lena’s team had secured the house, then roll in and take credit for everything. So be it. Lena’s credit would come when she had Sid Waller on the ground, her foot on his neck, thick plastic zip ties cutting into his fat wrists. It was the only thing left in her life that she wanted to do—could do. It got her up in the morning and it went to her empty bed with her every night. Lena grabbed the door handle, then looked back at the group, stared each man in the eye to make sure they were ready. There were nods all around. She pulled open the door. And the dance began. Lena jumped out first, heading toward the house at a fast trot. She heard footsteps pounding behind her—nine guys armed to the teeth and ready to break some heads. She kept her shotgun tight to her chest as she ran toward the carport. Her Glock tapped against her thigh. She scanned the woods around the house, took in the trash littering the ground, the broken bottles and cigarette butts. The perimeter team swarmed into position. Lena led the rest of her men into the carport. They lined up two on each side. Paul Vickery jammed his shoulder against Lena’s. He winked at her, like this was nothing, though she could see his chest heaving up and down underneath his vest. Inside the house, they heard the laugh track from a TV show, then music. The Jeffersons. “Movin’ On Up.” Lena started the timer on her watch. She gave the nod to DeShawn and Mitch, who were holding the Monoshock, waiting for her signal. They swung back the ram twice to build up momentum, then slammed the sixty-pound metal cylinder straight into the door. The wood splintered like glass. Lena yelled, “Police!” as they rushed in—guns drawn, ready to light up the place. 

But they were late to the party. Two men sat on a yellow corduroy couch opposite the television. Their shirts were off. Jeans slung low. One had his hand tucked into his front pocket. The other guy held a can of beer. Both had their eyes open. Parted lips showed missing teeth. An array of handguns covered the battered coffee table in front of them. Neither moved, or ever would again until the coroner came to pronounce them. Their throats had been cut. The skin gaped open, showing white tips of vertebrae among the dark red sinew inside their necks. Paul checked for pulses, though even from ten feet away, Lena could tell both men had been dead for hours. Waxy skin. The odor of decay. The junkie was one of the deceased—Elian Ramirez. His bare chest was concave, the ribs standing out like toothpicks. His murderer had saved him the cost of killing himself with Oxy. Paul checked the second man, turning the head to get a better look at him. “Shit,” he cursed. His disappointment spread around the room. Diego Nuñez, Sid Waller’s right-hand man. Lena watched a fly crawl across his eyeball. Nuñez’s purple-black tongue lolled out of his mouth like a chow’s. According to statements, Diego had taken his turn with Sid Waller’s niece once his boss had finished with her. He’d been behind the wheel during the drive-by that killed a nineteen-year-old kid who’d been stupid enough to mouth off to Waller. Lena’s guess was that, as a reward for good service, Diego had joined in on the fun with Waller’s sister. The woman had been brutally raped and beaten before her throat was sliced open. Murderer. Rapist. Thug. He’d died with a beer in his hand and his eyes glued to the TV. “Shit,” Paul repeated. He had found another body behind the couch. This one had been spared the slit throat, but part of his head was missing. It was a clean cut straight across. Lena guessed the ax leaning against the wall was the reason why. Long strands of hair and chunks of scalp and white bone were caked onto the edge of the blade. Eric Haigh’s hand clamped to his mouth. Vomit spewed between his fingers as he ran out the door. As far as Lena was concerned, he could keep running. She had little tolerance for weakness. And she sure as shit wasn’t going to let her team get ambushed while they stood around with their thumbs up their asses. She snapped her fingers for attention, the crisp sound cutting through the chorus booming from the TV. Lena pointed to the three corpses, then held up her hand, showing four fingers. Surveillance had four guys in the house. Sid Waller was yet to be found. They didn’t need further prompting. DeShawn guarded the door so there wouldn’t be any surprises from the rear. Mitch took Eric’s place and followed Keith into the back hallway. Lena headed for the dining room, Paul behind her. They kept at a low crouch as they walked. Trash was scattered across the floor—mostly beer cans and empty fast food bags. 

The carpet underneath was thick with grime. It stuck to the soles of Lena’s boots as she moved toward the open doorway to the dining room. She kept her tread light, mindful of the basement. She imagined Sid Waller down there, gun pointed up, listening for a sound he could shoot at. The Jeffersons theme wound down with a gospel flourish. Lena could barely hear it over the sound of blood pumping in her ears as she stood to the side of the open dining room doorway. Her shoulder was against the wall. Plaster, lath, a few studs. Easily punctured by a nine-millimeter Parabellum, which Lena knew for a fact was Sid Waller’s ammo of choice. Paul tapped her leg twice, giving her the go signal. She spun around the doorframe in a low stance and pointed her shotgun into the room. There was no dining room table, just a bloodstained mattress on the floor with the usual detritus found in a shooting gallery. Crack pipes. Scorched aluminum foil. Spent hypodermics. The sharp vinegar smell of heroin burned Lena’s nostrils. Water damage from a recent rain had caused the ceiling to collapse. There were chunks of plaster on the floor. The hardwood was warped, cupping like the hull of a canoe. Lena scanned upward, making sure no one was hiding in the rafters. The room was empty. Through the broken window, Lena saw one of the other detectives in the front yard. He held his Colt AR-15 at chest level as he scanned back and forth like a pendulum. He stopped to shake his head at Lena, indicating no one had come out of the house. She glanced back at Paul, then pointed toward the next doorway. This one was closed. The kitchen was beyond, then the basement door. As rehearsed, Paul took the lead. Lena kept her shotgun braced against her shoulder as she walked backward, guarding the rear. From the bedrooms, Mitch yelled, “Clear!” Lena tapped Paul’s leg, indicating he should go. His movements mirrored her earlier ones as he kicked open the door and pointed his Glock into the kitchen. Lena swiveled with her shotgun. Empty. None of the cabinets had doors. Half the ceiling had fallen down. The other half was stained dark brown. The sink had been pulled out. Plaster was missing where copper pipes and electrical wire had been ripped out of the walls and sold for scrap. The stench from the open drain was nauseating. Paul pointed his Glock into the ceiling as he checked for hiding places, then shook his head, indicating it was clear. 

They both looked at the basement door. This was unexpected. There was a wooden brace like you’d find across a barn door. A two-by-four rested on two metal U-channels that were bolted to each side of the doorframe. Paul gave Lena an inquisitive look. She could practically hear his thoughts. They’d talked a great deal about the basement door. In all the scenarios, they had assumed two things: the door would be locked and a bad guy would be standing on the other side with a loaded gun. The plan called for them to work with their backs to the wall—use the butt of the shotgun to break off the knob, the lock, or whatever was in their way, then yank open the door and rush into the hell that was waiting for them. The bracing changed things, but maybe not too much. Lena stood to the side, back flat to the wall as she used the muzzle of her shotgun to try to push up the wood. The fit was too tight. There was no way to slide it out. One of them would have to use both hands to heave it away, leaving his or her body as an open target to whoever might be standing on the other side of the door. Lena didn’t think about it for long. She tossed her shotgun to Paul. He caught it with his free hand, then backed up to give her cover. She had to put her shoulder into moving the brace, kneeling down and pushing up. The damn thing was wedged in there. It wouldn’t budge. She tried again, bending deep at the knees and exploding up. That worked—sort of. The board finally slipped free, but Lena stumbled back in the process, losing her balance and falling flat on her ass. So much for the element of surprise. The board clattered to the floor. Her tailbone felt like it had been cracked. There was a sharp, biting pain in her scalp where her head had met the sharp edge of the laminate counter. Her helmet had tipped forward, smashing her safety glasses into the bridge of her nose. Lena put her hand to the back of her head. The hair was wet. She looked at her fingers: blood. Paul stared at her, his brow furrowed, like he couldn’t understand how she’d screwed up something so easy. Lena couldn’t either, but there was no time to figure it out. She pulled herself up, keeping an eye on the closed door. She tried to shake it off. Her vision was blurry. Her nose felt like a metronome was pounding inside. She took off the safety glasses. They were cracked at the bridge. She tossed them into one of the open cabinets. There was a low whistle from the other room: Don’t shoot. Keith came into the kitchen. Mitch followed. They were both big guys, their shoulders so wide that they made the kitchen feel more like a closet. Lena felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of her neck. She used her hand to wipe it away. Her fingers were sticky. It wasn’t sweat, it was blood. Paul chewed his tongue between his front teeth, a tic she’d spotted their first week working together. It meant he was about to disagree with her. He didn’t do it much, but when he did, he meant it. Lena opened her mouth to take back command, but by some silent agreement, Mitch and Keith stepped forward, pulling out their flashlights as they stood on either side of the door. They all looked at Lena, but this time it was with irritation rather than expectancy. Reluctantly, she moved over to the sink and jammed the shotgun to her shoulder so she could at least back them up. The laugh track on the television seemed to mock her. Lena couldn’t make out the words, just the low rumble of Weezy’s voice followed by a high-pitched response from George. Mitch swung open the basement door. No one shot him, so he went down the stairs. Keith followed. Paul stood at the top, Glock pointing down in case someone managed to get past the combined four hundred–plus pounds of cop. And then the waiting started. Time changed. Even the particles in the air floated at a different frequency. Paul didn’t move. Sweat dripped from his hands, spotted the floor. Lena held her breath as she waited for some kind of resolution—guns firing, men yelling. Her head ticked down the seconds. Five. Ten. Another roar of laughter came from the television. Weezy again. Then Lionel. Twenty seconds. Paul still hadn’t moved. He was like a statue. Lena quietly let out the breath she’d been holding. She inhaled again. Thirty-five seconds. Forty. Finally, Keith called, “Clear.” Paul’s hands lowered. Lena felt her lungs shake as she exhaled. “Do the second sweep,” she ordered, propping the shotgun against the counter so she could take off her helmet. There was a string of curses from below, but Lena didn’t care. Three dead men were in the house—a house that had been under twenty-four-hour surveillance. She’d spent a million bucks of the department’s money on this clusterfuck. She’d managed to rip open her scalp and bruise her nose. Her ass ached like a motherfucker. Her head was pounding. Meanwhile, Sid Waller was probably on a beach somewhere sipping a margarita and wondering which woman he was going to follow home and rape tonight. Lena looked down at her watch. The timer was still running. They’d been in the house four minutes and thirty-two seconds. “Shhh-it,” Lena drew out the word. She looked up at the ceiling. The bare rafters showed white specks of mold. A clump of plastic bags was shoved into a hole in the asphalt shingles. She heard heavy bootsteps in the next room as the rest of the team came in to see what had happened. Lena raised her voice so it would carry through the house, ordering, “We clear out of here A-SAP. This is an active crime scene.” DeShawn called back, “Branson’s on the way. Coroner’s thirty minutes out.” “Great,” she said. “The more the merrier.” Paul took off his helmet. He ran his hand through his sweaty hair. “You okay?” Lena shook her head, too angry to speak. This was supposed to change things. This was supposed to make everything better. The only goddamn thing she had in her life right now that was working was her job, and she’d managed to screw that up, too. She unstrapped the Velcro around her vest so she could breathe. Her shirt was stuck to her back. She knew her neck was covered with blood. This wouldn’t stop with Denise Branson. The chief would want answers. The brass would show up. Internal Affairs. Lena would need to call her husband to bring her a change of clothes so she didn’t look like she’d gotten her ass handed to her while they chewed her out. Not that Jared was answering her calls. Not that he probably even thought of himself as her husband anymore. Lena covered her face with her hands. Shook her head. She had to get her shit together. She couldn’t fall apart now. “I’ll back you up with Branson,” Paul said. “Whatever you need.” Lena dropped her hands. “I need to know why that door was braced.” Paul’s brow furrowed again. She could see he hadn’t thought that far into it. Lena said, “You butcher three guys and you get the hell out. You don’t stick around inside the house. You don’t barricade the basement.” She indicated the door. “Look at the edge of the wood—somebody pounded it in.” Lena wiped away the sweat pooling on her brow. The house was like a kiln. “Goddamn it. Branson’s probably gonna bust me down to patrol for this.” “You and Jared can ride together.” “Go to hell.” “Hey.” Paul put his Glock on the counter. His hand was on her arm, then her face. He smiled at her, trying to make everything okay. 

Lena pulled away from him. She stamped her boot on the floor so they’d hear her in the basement. “Cabello? McVale? What’s taking so long down there?” “Found some money!” Keith called back. “We’re rich!” “Thank God.” Lena headed toward the basement. “Please let it be a million dollars.” A drug seizure like that would at least pay for all the overtime.

Drugs, cops being killed, tension is high and Lena, the one woman who has both earned her position, and the disdain from many, had pushed for a raid. One that was aimed at finding one of the top leaders of the criminal crew... 

But Lena quickly realized that something had changed because when they got there, some were already dead and the fourth individual who showed up on an earlier check could not be found until they saw a basement door which was blocked from the inside! They did find some drug money, but they also found that fourth man...and somebody behind him...

And this changed the scope of the full investigation to one that could not have been foreseen...

One of the most startling things Will had found in Macon was not the wildlife, but the divide between rich and poor.

“Well, I’m pretty upset tonight,” she quipped. “You know, my daddy told me a long time ago that wanting revenge is like sipping poison and waiting for the other person to die.”

Everything about him asked, What’s in it for me?

“I know you’re taking heat for me.” “Shit,” Denise muttered. “I wish it was heat. I’m standing in a damn ring of fire.”

“You’re the first person in my life who’s ever really seen me.”

She felt overwhelmed by the knowledge of the terrible things that happened to children.

He put her in a dog crate to teach her a lesson. Took about a week to break her, then he put her up for sale on the Internet. One-sixty for the lunchtime special, two-fifty for an hour. Four hundred for two hours. She does ten, fifteen clients a day. Her habit runs a couple hundred dollars. Not a bad business model. Do the math.”

If you haven't yet read Karen Slaughter, this would be a timely and complex book to start with! Enjoy!

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