The Justice Game

19

Melissa Davids did not waste any time. She called Jason the day after his phone conversation with Robert Sherwood and summoned him to Atlanta for an urgent meeting with herself and Case McAllister, general counsel for MD Firearms.

Jason scheduled his flight for 6:30 a.m. on December 12, two days after the initial phone call. He woke at 4 a.m. and rummaged around his closet for a few extra minutes before deciding on the perfect attire for meeting with a gun-manufacturing client-jeans, a white shirt, and a sports jacket. The windchill was supposed to be near freezing, but Jason hated traveling while carting around a heavy winter coat and briefcase. Since 95 percent of his time would be spent indoors or on planes, he decided to leave the overcoat at home.

His commuter flight got bounced around a little by the wind gusts. When it finally landed, they had to sit on the runway for thirty minutes waiting for their gate to clear. Jason fought his way through the crowded terminal to the underground transit and up the long escalator to the baggage claim area.

A driver holding a poster-board sign with Jason’s name printed neatly in black Magic Marker waited for him. For the first time in his life, Jason felt like a big-time lawyer.

“Welcome to Atlanta,” the man said. “You must be Jason Noble.”

They shook hands and Jason mumbled, “Thanks for coming for me.”

“Let me get that,” the man said, grabbing Jason’s briefcase.

“Thanks,” Jason said, though he felt a little silly letting an old guy carry his briefcase. The driver was about seventy or so, with stooped shoulders, a thin, pointed nose, and gray hair slicked back so that it curled around his ears. He was wearing a suit, a red bow tie, and cowboy boots.

Jason followed his driver to short-term parking, buttoning his sports coat along the way as the wind knifed through him. His driver seemed to be limping a little.

“Where’s your overcoat?” the driver asked.

“I hate lugging them around,” Jason said. The cold air in the parking garage bit into Jason’s face, and he felt a little stupid.

The driver led him to a Ford Taurus and beeped it unlocked. “This baby’s got a good heater,” he said. “You can ride in the backseat. But most folks prefer to ride up front with me.”

Reluctantly, Jason took the hint and climbed in the front. He had actually been looking forward to daydreaming while he rode through Atlanta, spurring a few positive memories and repressing negative ones as he recognized familiar landmarks. The drive to Buford would take close to an hour in the morning traffic.

The man carefully placed Jason’s briefcase in the backseat and popped open the trunk. He retrieved a black pistol in a shoulder holster and strapped it on under his suit coat.

“We’ve been in a big fight with Hartsfield-Jackson,” he explained, climbing into the car. “They don’t want guns anywhere on airport property-parking lots, nothin’-but we’ve taken ’em to court a couple of times. The Second Amendment is the Second Amendment. The feds get to take your guns at the metal detectors, not before. I’ve got a concealed-carry permit and bring my gun every time I come to the airport, just out of spite.”

Jason resisted the urge to tell him that he agreed with the feds on this one. The thought of thousands of passengers running around the airport premises-even outside the metal detectors-with guns hidden under their suit coats was not a comforting one.

Over the next hour, Jason had no time to stroll down memory lane. The driver engaged in conversation virtually nonstop, even after Jason tried to make it clear at the outset, by giving only one- or two-word answers, that he wasn’t interested in talking. The driver chatted about the Second Amendment, hunting, frivolous lawsuits, his ostrich skin cowboy boots, Jason’s choice of vehicles, the Georgia Bulldogs, illegal immigrants, and lenient judges. The driver even pried information out of Jason about his father, a homicide detective in Atlanta.

“Cop’s kid, huh. I’m surprised you’re not a prosecutor.”

“So’s my father.”

They eventually pulled up to a nondescript one-story redbrick building on a small industrial road off Lawrenceville-Suwanee, basically in the middle of nowhere. There was a large cinder block manufacturing facility behind the office building and a parking lot on the side, full of hundreds of cars. There were a few 18-wheelers parked near the loading docks.

Out front, there was one small sign with the address of the facility and the name MD Firearms. A few neatly trimmed shrubs lined the sidewalks. The Georgia crabgrass that passed as a lawn in these parts had gone brown for the winter.

Jason had envisioned a far different facility. The infamous MD Firearms, in the fulcrum of so much national media attention, looked like any other law-abiding small American manufacturing facility, piecing together a product and struggling to make a buck.

“That’s our manufacturing plant out back,” the driver said. “There’s a shooting range on the other side of it-can’t really see it from here. And this one-story building in front that looks like a renovated elementary school-that’s the worldwide headquarters of MD Firearms.”

Jason thanked the driver, who dropped him off at the front door and handed Jason his briefcase. “The receptionist knows you’re coming,” the driver said.

Jason peeled off a five-dollar bill from the other money in his pocket and tried to hand it to the driver.

“No, thanks,” the man said. “I work for the company. We’re not allowed to take tips.”

“Okay. Well, thanks again.” Jason drew a deep breath and headed into the facility.