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Chapter XXVIII pgs. 180-181
Johanna drove home feeling complete and contented. She pulled out a bed sheet and began to block out the letters of her message, making sure that everything fit. In the background, a radio played songs from the seventies. Johanna sang and hummed along as the felt-tipped pen made shushing noises on the old cotton.
And while Johanna was writing her sign, Alex was busy with phone calls to his FBI contacts. "I want a 24-hour surveillance at the highway Four Morello Street overpass - priority one. A woman – Johanna Jacobson: Caucasian, height - approximately 5’ 2”, weight 110 lbs., dark hair and eyes, no obvious scars or other marks. She’s a suspected terrorist. She’ll be hanging a sign there, right below the American flag. When she hangs that sign, arrest her and hold her. I’ll make arrangements to have her transported for interrogation.”
Then he called his old-time partner Ernie. “Have her flown out to McLenco Texas. There's a doctor there who's done some research with mind drugs."
"You mean like sodium pentothal?"
"This is much better than sodium pentothal, much more precise, more scientific. You don't get the babbling and gibberish you do with sodium pentothal. This guy is a genius. Here's the address. I'll get a hold of Heckleweit and tell him to expect to Johanna."
Johanna turned off of Interstate 80 and onto Highway Four, fighting the steering wheel to keep the car steady. The wind whistled and howled. I should take it as a warning, thought Johanna, and she turned up the radio in the car to drown out the sound of the wind outside. Even as an adult, Johanna was spooked by storms, relating them to the horrible night some forty years ago when her daddy had flown to London.
She took the Morello St. exit and parked a block away from the overpass. Then, carrying scissors, twine, and her bed sheet, she walked over to where the American flag was displayed. “Make me a channel of your peace.” Those were the words on her sign - the prayer of St. Francis. She examined the wire fence for the best way to anchor her sign to it. A car pulled up, but Johanna paid no attention to it, concentrating instead on the sign and the protective fencing. Something struck her at the back of her knees, and she crumpled to the concrete. She looked up to see dark shapes, maybe four or five men with nightsticks. Instinctively, she curled up into a ball, ducking her head behind her arms. The blows came so fast, Johanna had no time to think or to understand what was happening. She felt the nightsticks glance off of her legs and shoulders and back. She felt arms pulling at her hair and her legs. She heard screams and dimly knew they were her own. “FBI. Stop struggling,” a voice from the dark commanded her. At the same time a burning shooting sensation bit into her hip – a hypodermic syringe. And then was nothing … nothing until she woke up strapped to a bed in a darkened room.
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