Chapter 1

A man in a black hoodie and black sweatpants stole down the sidewalk, stopped next to the liquor store entrance. Diffused sunlight washed over the scene. The man looked both ways, up and down the street. A blue car idled a few yards away in the direction he had just come. Other than this blue car, the block was empty. A cool, wet breeze blew across the man’s yellow-brown face. He raised his hood and tightened it. Then he pulled up from around his neck a black cloth, now obscuring most of his face. The only thing one could see was two dark eyes with dark eyebrows. 

He quickly entered the store, a large room with red carpet that flowed around rows of shelves, all stocked with various bottles, some full of wine at $10 a bottle, others containing beer or hard liquor. The store was empty of life, save for a diminutive, portly, balding man reading a magazine behind the counter in the front of the store. 

The masked man slid up to the counter and brandished a gun, which he had produced from one of his pockets. “Money, please,” he rasped to the clerk. 

The clerk spoke with a thin, trembling voice. “I can’t open the register without a purchase.” 

“So buy me a drink.” One could see exasperation in his eyes.

“What, uh, would you—“ 

“Just do it!” The robber demanded. 

So he did it, emptied the register of tens and twenties. Handed them to the bandit, who stuffed them into his pocket. Then they did the same with the ones and fives. 

Then, just as quickly as he had come, the masked man slid out of the store. He ran up to the getaway car, opened the passenger’s side door, and got in. The car peeled out and disappeared. 

---

A squirrel, weak and tiny, scampered across the road as Mira barreled rolled down Linden Street. He was three-quarters of the way across, directly in front of Mira’s car, when he froze. She slammed on the brakes, but it seemed she could not avoid running over the little guy. Then he suddenly about-faced and shot back in the opposite direction, toward the lane of oncoming traffic., from which an SUV sped toward the hapless creature, who froze again, huddling up on the double yellow line in the center of the road. Despite his hairy situation, it appeared that he was safe. But at the last second, he made a dash for the curb, across the path of the towering SUV. The last thing Mira heard through her open driver-side window was a distinct crunch. She winced, as an ache spread through her gut. And then she frowned.

Mira understood—sometimes she felt like she was the only one in the world who understood—how poor Squirrelly had felt. Now, “Squirrelly,” always in the past tense, a tradition she had kept to herself since she was a little girl. A tear peeked out from the corner of her eye. Anyone else would have thought she was childish or silly, but that was how she felt. She sympathized with even the lowest of God’s creatures. What’s more, she understood why the squirrel had gotten run over. The squirrel had been safe huddling in the middle of the road. In fact, if he were to have remained still, he would have remained safe. But tell that to a little squirrel, with 100-foot-tall, 10-ton monsters roaring all around, approaching closer, closer, louder, louder. He had no time to think. It was fight or flight. And when the monsters are coming for you, you run. It matters not that you have nothing to fear, nor that you have nothing to hide, nor that you are completely innocent. You run, even at the risk of a gruesome and ignominious death. Because something deep inside, something that was programmed into you from before you were born, tells you it’s your best chance. And you have neither the time nor the energy to figure it out sensibly. So you run. You run as fast as you can. And if you’re lucky, the final blow is fast and quick, and you don’t see it coming.

Mira found a safe spot to pull her car over to the side of the road. The car came to a stop, and she put it in park. And then she rested her head on her forearms on the steering wheel. And she closed her eyes and frowned, and she breathed deeply. The smell of wet leaves and cool rain filled the air. It had always been a happy smell, because it portended holidays and a break from the hot sticky mess of summer. Now, however, it was a bittersweet smell, like the ending of Waterloo Bridge, the one with Vivien Leigh. She got hit by a truck, too.

Images flashed through Mira’s memory. A dozen people running for their lives. Protest signs littering the ground. “Due process! Not abuse of process.” And “Uphold the law. Fire Baedes.” And “How, Chief? … could you allow this?” A man’s hand holding one of these, his other hand in Baedes’s face, like a cheap rip-off of the native peoples, shouting “How, Chief!?” Mira shuddered. 

A sound interrupted her thoughts, voices. She raised her head to see a family in Halloween garb. It was a little early for Halloween outings, only Saturday, and the holiday fell on a Wednesday this year, and only late afternoon, not evening.

The family’s two daughters looked like genuine Arabian princesses, one in pink, the other in purple. Both wore cute little silver-and-black blouses and a full veil, which didn’t quite match the rest of the costume. Like their olive skin, though, the veils only added to the authenticity of the costumes. They giggled as they shuffled along in their poofy pants and long, flowing sleeves. 

The little boy, plodded along behind his sisters and over a foot shorter than them, was dressed up as the red Power Ranger, sans helmet, which he held in his hands. He quietly and deliberately, and muscles rippled down his chest and arms. Mira giggled at how cute he was, thinking it would probably be 15 more years before those muscles would actually fit him. 

The mother’s costume, Mira thought, was the most clever. Her hair was tied up in a bun, with a pink bow. And she wore a pink and red kimono and very authentic looking geisha makeup. Mira knew that she was not Japanese, but her delicate features belied her ancestry. Mira thought she looked beautiful with her regal stature, dark hair, paled face, and bright red lips. What made her costume so clever was that she was the only one of the five whose costume did not include a mask, because she didn’t need one. Irony of ironies, her mask covered her face completely; yet, it didn’t even exist, to Mira, a profundity. 

And the father, who accompanied his wife, wore a ninja outfit, sword at his side, though he had his mask pulled open, to reveal his whole face. There was something about his face, Mira thought, something in his eyes, something that made him strong and noble, the loving and loved protector of his family, a quiet superhero. 

The family filed out of their walkway and out onto the sidewalk. Mira heard one of the girls say something about playing with someone named Ariel at the party. The other said she was glad they only had to go as far as next door.

Suddenly, the sound of a car engine and squealing tires interrupted the gaiety. As Mira watched in the fading sunlight, a police car quickly pulled up in front of where she was parked. Immediately, two uniformed officers leaped out and brandished their pistols. 

“Hands in the air!” they both shouted. “Everyone! Put your hands in the air.” 

The whole family raised their hands, the little boy holding his helmet over his head. 

“Drop the helmet!” one cop shouted at the boy, pointing his gun at the child. 

“Habid, put your helmet on the sidewalk,” one of his sisters told him. 

He did so, then raised his hands high in the air. His eyes began to tear. 

The cops clearly hadn’t seen Mira sitting in her car, observing all this. One cop ordered the father up against the car, while the other kept his gun trained on the rest of the family. The one with the father put away his weapon and searched the father. He took the father’s sword, which was clearly only a prop, and threw it onto the ground several yards away. “No gun,” he said to his partner. He pulled out the father’s wallet and found in it several $20 bills. “Where’s the rest of the money?” he asked the man being searched. “And what did you do with the gun?” 

The man was clearly confused. “This is all the money I have.” He spoke with a thick middle-eastern accent, not quite Arabic, not quite Hindi. “You can have it. Please don’t hurt my family.” 

“What about the gun?” the cop demanded. 

The man stammered, in the same broken English. “I— I have no gun, sir.” 

The cop turned again to his partner. “We’re gonna need backup. I’ll call.”

The partner nodded. “Okay.” 

The first cop then pulled the man’s hands behind his back and in one well-practiced motion handcuffed him. “You are under arrest for armed robbery of Hammond Street Wines. You have the right to remain silent—“ 

“What?! I have been here with my family. All day I have been. How could any of us rob anyone? We do not even drink wine.” 

“Yeah, well then how did you know the robbery was today?” The cop yanked the man away from the car, opened the door, and shoved him in by the head. “You have the right to remain silent,” he repeated. “You have the right to an attorney…” He stuck his head into the car as he continued his well-rehearsed speech. 

Eventually, he ordered the family to lean against the car, including the little boy, who couldn’t have been more than six years old. He began patting them down, starting with the woman. This was especially uncomfortable for her, denigrating even. Anyone else might just have made an educated guess at how the woman felt about it, but Mira knew. As certainly as she knew her own feelings, she knew. Her eyes glued to the scene before her, without look at the seat beside her, Mira reached for her small, black purse on the passenger’s seat beside her. She opened it and from within extracted her cell phone. With one eye still on the scene outside and one eye on the phone, she punched several keys. Then she raised the phone to her ear and listened to the line ring through. 

“Hello. Ted Jackson, here,” said the voice on the other end. In the background sounded white noise like Niagara Falls. 

The “hello” part was Mira’s idea. She had suggested it to Ted some time ago. He often failed to understand what value words like “hello” and “sorry” had in normal conversation. But he had been surprisingly open to the change, even though he didn’t completely appreciate it.

“Ted,” Mira said softly. “I’m witnessing a man being falsely arrested.” 

“Whoa,” Ted said. “Start over. What happened?” 

“These two cops charge out with guns and arrest this guy who obviously hasn’t done anything wrong. And now they’re harassing his family!” She was almost whispering, to avoid drawing attention to herself. Even so, she conveyed emotion through her voice. 

“Calm down,” Ted said. “Start at the beginning.” 

The first time Ted had ever asked her to “start at the beginning,” it had been very hard for her. She had kept skipping to conclusions instead of simply relaying the facts. And she hadn’t understood why Ted was being so picky. It was a frustrating experience. But after many such conversations with him, now, it was old hat. Mira quickly recounted what she had witnessed, so that Ted could draw the same conclusion she had. They went through this exercise frequently, and although he almost always arrived at the same conclusion she did, she never understood how he got there. Now, Mira finished her story by telling Ted how troubled the cop was, because he was convinced there was a gun hidden in a six-year-old boy’s muscle-suit. 

“Where are you?” Ted asked. 

“On Linden Street, right off of Washington.” 

“I’m about 10 minutes away. Stay put.” He emphasized that point. “If the officers want your statement, let them ask you. Don’t you offer to help. Meanwhile, if you have a pen and paper, write down everything you see.”

“Okay.” With one hand, she began rifling through her purse for her small notebook and pencil. 

Ted added, “And remember what I told you before.” 

“Okay.” Mira didn’t think about it, because she didn’t want to remember.

“You’re up to this?” Ted asked, uncharacteristic. 

Mira breathed. “Yes, I’ve got it,” she said confidently. 

“I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Ted said. 

“Thanks, Ted.” 

They hung up. All the while the cops had been badgering the family for information. Either these people, including the six-year-old, were all trained spies, or else there wasn’t any information to be had. And they weren’t trained spies. 

Mira opened her notebook and caused her pencil to scribble furiously on the page. But she had only written half of the story when she heard a new noise, a storm door opening and closing. A man emerged from the house next door. He stood at an average height, with an average build, appeared an average color, with brown eyes and hair. Probably had a wife and 1.85 children. And he approached the police officers, both now interrogating the family. One of the daughters was openly crying, along with her brother. The approaching man wore gray pants, a beige sweater, and a scowl. Suddenly, Mira felt sick to her stomach. 

One of the cops whispered something to his cohort then went off to meet the newcomer. Mira could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation, because the repeated interrogation of the other cop, who was closer, drowned out most of it. 

The cop said something, then the man. 

“Nothing…” the cop replied. 

“… my friends,” replied the man. 

“… robbery… arrested…” 

More discussion. 

“That’s ridiculous,” said the man. 

The cop responded with something Mira couldn’t hear. He was clearly trying to handle the man. 

Then the man said something and tried to walk around the cop. 

“Stay here, sir!” the cop warned.

The other cop paused his interrogation. 

“If they’re not under arrest, they’re free to come with me,” the man said. 

“No they’re not, sir!” 

Now the man shouted at his friends. “Fatima! Are you alright?” 

No response. Mira knew the woman was crying, even though Mira could only partially see her face. The kids were all probably also. A wave of nausea washed through Mira’s gut, and she felt her teeth grind in her mouth. A tear trickled from her right eye, but she forced herself to write in her notebook. The black lines dug deeply into the paper, and the pencil point snapped off. 

Mira’s phone rang, and she saw on the phone’s display that Ted was calling. Mira flipped opened the phone’s clamshell case and hastily took the call. 

---

Clydene pulled a Pyrex pot from the refrigerator. Inside sloshed a brine, dark brown in color, in which soaked two large pork chops. 

Ted had worked late at the office every day all week, and Clyde had hardly seen him. He had left home before she awoke and had come home exhausted, going straight to bed. And now he had worked Saturday, too, and evening was approaching. All their friends were preparing for dates or had other plans, and Clyde herself was looking forward to dinner and a movie, alone with her husband. The dining table was already set, and the candles were out, ready to be lit. 

Clydene set the pot on the counter. She took a quick detour to the stove to turn down the potatoes, which were begin to boil over. She removed each chop from the brine, patting it down with a paper towel and laying it on a plate. Flames were already streaming from the burner under the heavy, iron skillet. She wet her hand from the sink faucet, dropped a few drops of water onto the skillet, saw it fizzle gently.

“Perfect,” Clyde said to no one. 

She picked up the pork chops, one at a time, each between two fingers, and laid them gently in the skillet. As each one  touched the hot surface, it fizzled up, and Clyde drew in the wonderful aroma of pork and thyme.

The phone rang that familiar electronic jingle. Clydene quickly washed her hands and dried them on the fluffy kitchen towel before striding to the wall where the phone hung and answering it. 

“Hello,” she said. 

“Hi. Ted here.” 

“Hey, you,” Clyde cooed as she smiled. “Will you be home soon?” 

“I’m going to be delayed.” 

Clyde’s gut tensed up, but she resolved to hear him out. 

Nothing more from her husband. 

“Whatever it is,” she suggested, “can’t you bring it home?” Clyde heard car noises in the background, and Ted was sounding cell-phone-y. “Are you in the car?” 

“Yes. I’m in Abe’s Turn. But I’m going to be delayed.” 

Her heart skipped a beat. “Is everything alright?” 

“I think so. Mira called in a panic. Apparently, it’s Lando Benitez all over again.” 

“Oh.” Clyde didn’t know what to say next, or even how to interpret Ted’s last comment. Was he being sarcastic? She knew Mira’s passionate sympathy sometimes got on his nerves. Or was there really a situation? And was Mira alright? In any case, Clyde thought she might not mind it if a terrorist blew up the Abe’s Turn police station, because she missed her husband and lover. Why don’t terrorists ever blow up the right buildings? she wondered “Okay. I’ll keep dinner,” into the phone. “Call me as soon as you can, okay?”

“I will, as soon as I know something new.” 

“Bye-bye, Love,” she lamented. 

They hung up. 

Clyde leaned against the kitchen counter and sighed. She stared at the table, dark and empty of human company. Then she set about her next task, to figure out what she was going to do with two half-cooked pork chops that weren’t going to be eaten until God knows when. 

---

Ted had been driving home at the end of an interminably long week. While most lawyers worked long after the sun went down, Ted was in the office almost every morning before the sun rose. Even though this day the sun had not yet set, and even though it was Saturday, he had been going for over 12 hours at the office and was looking forward to a quiet evening with his wife. That’s when his cell phone rang. 

He almost didn’t take the call. There were some very good reasons to let it ring through to voice mail. One, he was tired. Two, he was driving. Three, it was Mira, and Mira often meant work. On the other hand, when Mira meant work, it was always work he was proud of. Besides, she was a friend. And Ted secretly admired Mira more than anyone else he knew, admired her for reasons that were also secret. 

Ted donned his hands-free set and answered the phone. 

Mira spoke in a panic. “I’m sitting in my car, witnessing a man being falsely arrested. What should I do?” 

“Hold on,” Ted said. “I need more information. Take it from the beginning. What happened?” 

“These two cops charge out with guns and arrest an innocent man, and now they’re harassing his family!” 

Ted was afraid Mira was going to lose it and break down, and then he’d never figure out what was going on. He was too tired for this, too angry at the jackasses that had set Mira off, and too frustrated. “Calm down,” he said, more to himself than to her. He breathed and slowed his speech. “Start over, please. Tell me, step by step, what happened: from the beginning.”

Mira then told him a story similar to those he’d heard before, but raising enough questions to make him suspicious of foul play. Firstly, this was happening in Abe’s Turn. Dramatic arrests happened, yes, but usually in the city, not in Abe’s Turn. The residents of Abe’s Turn engaged in white-collar crime, if they dared commit any crime at all. Dramatic arrests occurred when an officer approached a suspect who had a guilty conscience, and the suspect bolted. Frequently, drugs were involved. None of those factors came into play here. 

Other questions, more of them than Ted could keep track of. Why didn’t the officers question the suspect? If he had an alibi, why didn’t they look into it? His alibi seemed pretty convincing on its face, because the whole family was dressed up and only heading next door. And if this was about a robbery that had just occurred, which Mira’s story seemed to indicate, then where was the evidence? The very fact that they felt the need to badger a six-year-old about a hidden gun, that fact alone showed that there was something wrong with their case. 

Or maybe Mira was exaggerating. She said it was “Lando Benitez all over again,” whatever that meant. Yes, the situation had some superficial similarities, visitors from another country, victims whose skin happened to be the wrong color for the local prejudices. But Ted knew, these factors occurred more commonly than anyone would like to admit. Most of those poor people fortunately did not end up like Lando Benitez. Ted didn’t see any reason to think this situation was that bad, yet. 

As it turns out, Ted was only a few minutes away from the action. He told Mira to stay where she was but to create a written record of everything she saw. Her written notes could be useful if he needed her testimony. Then he hung up and called his beloved Clydene to let her know he would be late to dinner. When he explained why, she understood completely. Ted didn’t understand the depth of affection those two had for each other. He took a moment to chuckle that if he ever wanted to have an affair, all he’d have to do was to say it was with Mira, and Clyde would go along with it.

He stopped at a red light on Washington Street, only one intersection away from Linden. He called Mira back. 

“I’m right around the corner. What’s the situation?” 

There was much blathering in her explanation, but he got the gist of it. The accused man’s neighbor, clearly a friend, was causing a ruckus with his upset. 

Excellent, Ted thought. Already fighting on multiple fronts. That would make it easier for Ted to sneak in as a lawyer and get information.

The friend had also revealed the name of the accused: Hashim Osama. 

With a name like that…  Ever since Ted’s 34’th birthday, it was more likely a man named Hashim Osama would get struck by lightning than that he would get a fair shake. The thought enraged Ted, and suddenly he no longer needed to depend on Mira’s compassion and empathy as a reason to fight. Suddenly, he had his own reason to fight, a passion that forced him to commit to the fight, to commit to win.

Ted squealed around the corner and pulled up to the curb. He hadn’t realized, he had been pushing down hard on the accelerator, as if he were driving a bullet. 

“Okay, Mira. I’m here. Sit tight,” he said. He hung up, pulled off his hands-free set, and popped his cell phone in his suit pocket. 

With the mannerisms of a Man in Black, he stood from the car, confidently closed the door, straightened his tie. Hands in plain site, he approached quickly but carefully, exuding authority.

“I’m an attorney,” he said. “May I speak to Mr. Osama?” 

“At the station,” the cop said. 

“What about his wife? Is she under arrest?” 

“How did you know to come here?” said the cop. 

Ted ignored the question. There were several ways he might have known, and Ted didn’t need to explain himself. 

“May I speak with her?” Ted asked. 

The cop glanced at the still anxious friend, who was temporarily dumbfounded. “How do I know you’re really a lawyer?” he asked. 

The guy was a twerp. Ted was ready to show identification, to rub it in his face. But before he could, the other cop spoke up. “He is. I’ve seen him around.” 

At that time, another police car pulled up, lights flashing. Two more cops got out, and the first walked over to meet them. Ted approached Fatima and whispered in her ear. “My name is Ted Jackson. I’m an attorney. A friend called me when she saw what was happening to you. Would you like me to represent you?” 

No answer. 

“Alright. Just sit tight.” 

He went up to the cop. “Do you have any more questions for the family?” 

“I think we’re done for now.” 

Ted’s presence had clearly changed the situation. They no longer appeared panicked about missing booty, hidden guns, violent superhuman six-year-olds in red muscle suits, or any other such thing. 

Ted turned back to Fatima. “You and your children can go now,” he said. 

She remained mute and frozen.

He approached her again. “Fatima,” he repeated, “you and the kids can go back home. Or maybe you can visit with your neighbors.” 

She looked right at him. There were long tear-streaks running down her cheeks. She spoke through thick layers of mucus and tears and accent. “What about my husband?” 

“We’ll get that straightened out.” Then he lowered his voice. “But you and the kids should get away.” 

She still didn’t move. 

Then a bang emanated from the police car, and a muted voice shouted something unintelligible in a non-English language. 

Every eye stared on in horror. 

She went. 

Chapter 2

Sam Baedes took a keen interest in the Hammond Street case from the moment it became a case. He was in his garage when the call came in. In the foreground, a grinding wheel scraping against a welding joint; tiny, glowing, splaying shards, showering onto the floor; ozone and hot steel and burnt flux. In the background, as always, a police scanner interjecting intermittent reports. 

Baedes did not have what people called an artistic personality. His art was not designed to please art lovers, even though it was special to him, unique to him. He worked with diamond-edge saw blades, grinding wheels, blow torch, solder, arc welder, and other tools of the metal worker’s trade. His medium was scrap metal, culled from the riches of the junkyard. His sculptures did not represent machinery. Nor did they make statements about life in the industrial age. Nor did they dwell on the high concepts of love and enmity, of time and eternity, of peace and war. Baedes simply took what had been junk and transformed it into meaning. He took what was chaos and turned it into order. 

Baedes released the trigger of his hand drill and listened to the grinding wheel spin down. With his other hand, through heavy work glove, he adjusted his thick protective goggles and inspected his work. The welds that had previously bulged from each joint now could nigh be noticed. The police scanner came to life, dispatching an officer to investigate a 211S, a silent robbery alarm, at a location on Hammond Street. Baedes quietly ambled to his workbench and set down his tools, but inside he was burning. He hated criminals with a passion that made him insane. He hated bullies and thieves and aggressors and anyone else who abused his neighbor.

If there was anything his art represented, it was this, his life’s work, taking the raw material of evil man, cutting it, shaping it, fitting it into ordered society. It created civilization out of barbarism, safety out of danger. 

Baedes washed up, changed his clothes, and drove out to the station. As he walked in, he saw the man they had picked up and charged with the robbery, being handcuffed to a bench. He strode up to the arresting officer. 

“What do you got?” Baedes asked him. 

“Arrested this guy for robbing the liquor store over on Hammond Street.” 

“Right. Heard about it on the radio. What evidence?” 

“He was in the immediate area at the time, and meets the description of the perp, right down to the costume.” 

“Did you find the gun?” 

“He must have stashed it somewhere.” 

“What about the money?” 

“Ditto.” 

“The D.A.,” Baedes noted, “will need that evidence to convict him. Find it.” 

The cop shook his head and was about to speak, when the chief continued. 

“And just before Trick-or-Treat day?” 

“It’s the right guy,” the cop said. 

“You sound sure.” 

“I am.” 

“Good,” Baedes said. “Convince the D.A. Do whatever it takes.”

“By the way,” the cop interjected, “Ted Jackson is in on this. I think Jayson tipped him off.” 

That got Baedes’s attention. He thought for a moment. This is the first time she’s poked her nose into my business since the leak. This guy might know something. And if she’s involved, she’ll make it personal. And political. It doesn’t matter the merits of the case.

Then Baedes asked, “Did you let Jackson talk to the prisoner?” 

“No. He wanted to. I told him to wait until we processed him.” 

“Hmm. Think carefully. Who’s Jackson representing?” 

“I assume this guy.” 

“Don’t assume. What did he say? Did he tell you this guy was under representation?” 

“No, he didn’t. He just wanted to talk to him, called him by name, even. ‘Osama,’ by the way, if you can believe it.” 

“So no one’s asked this guy any questions?” 

“No. I was just—“ 

“Thank you,” Baedes said. 

Before he disappeared, he ordered that husband, father of three, and falsely-accused prisoner Hashim Osama be brought to an interrogation room. Then Baedes quietly stopped by the armory for a stun gun and joined him. 

---

Ted rushed over to the police station, making only a brief stop to check in with Hashim’s wife and children and another brief stop to pick up some cash. 

As it turned out, Hashim’s family had sincere friends in the neighbors, those to whose home the Hashims had been heading when terror struck, a family whose father had the unlikely but real name of Marvin Kelton Mooney. He had been named after his father and grandfather, and he was the man who had so adamantly intervened in the Hashims’ plight. Ted’s head filled with silly visions of Mr. Mooney’s tenaciousness and of angry antagonists shouting, “Will you please go, now!”

Funny, Ted thought, how the stories you hear in childhood stay with you for your entire life.

If this was a costume party, however, the two things conspicuously missing were the costumes and the party. Aside from Fatima’s daughters, no one was any longer wearing celebratory garb of any sort. 

Hashim and his kin had moved from Pakistan only a few months earlier, when Hashim’s employer had offered him a position in the U.S. Ted met his son Habid, his daughters Atiya and Salma, and his wife Fatima, whom he made the mistake of calling “Mrs. Osama.” She explained that they took her husband’s first name as their family name, because they are part of his family, a common naming convention in her country. So she is Fatima Hashim, even though he is Hashim Osama. 

As Ted expected, they didn’t have any legal representation. But since Ted had proven himself by sorting out the situation, and after talking for a few minutes and hearing his story, they all accepted him, at least tentatively. And of course, Mira fell right in with the group, as though she were a part of the family. Ted explained that he would arrange bail. It could take several hours, but he would call when he knew more. 

Little Habid looked up at him and said, “Tell daddy to come home quick.” 

Ted said, “I’ll do that.” 

And Fatima added, “And tell him we love him.” 

Ted nodded. 

From there, he drove straight home, because that’s where the safe was, and the cash. He could smell dinner as he approached the house, from all the way down the walk. It was a shame he wouldn’t get a chance to enjoy his wife’s stupendous cooking.

As he opened the front door, Clyde came to meet him. He had just barely gotten through it when she thrust her arms around him, planted a long, wet kiss on his lips, sighed, and said, “I missed you.” 

“I’m here for bail,” he said. 

Her countenance fell. “Anyone we know?” 

“I just met him,” Ted said, “but Mira has a feeling about him.” 

“Okay. Do you want a pork chop and some potatoes to go?” 

Ted suddenly realized how hungry he was. “Yes, actually, I think I would.” 

“I’ll put it together. You grab the money.” 

Ted walked all the way to the back of the office. Under a stack of papers was a free-standing safe with a combination lock. He worked the combination for a minute, then opened the door. From one of the shelves inside he pulled an envelope and a ledger. Moving to the desk, he counted out a thousand dollars from the envelope. He picked up a pen and recorded the withdrawal in the ledger. Then he inserted the thousand into another envelope, which he had extracted from a desk drawer, and stashed it in his suit breast pocket. He returned the remaining materials to the safe, closed it up, and returned to the kitchen to meet Clydene. 

She had prepared two segmented Tupperware containers full of food: pork chops (already cut into bite-sized pieces) and applesauce, red and yellow mashed potatoes with pan gravy, and green beans. She also carried two forks and was wearing her jacket. 

Ted looked at her. “You’re going somewhere?” 

“I’m going with you.” 

“You’ll be waiting around, probably for hours.”

“I don’t care.” 

“It’s a long, boring process.” 

“Hey, you,” she cooed, “I’ve been cooped up here all day without my husband, and I’m at least going to enjoy the 10-minute ride to the police station with him.” She thrust both dinners at him. 

“I only need one,” he said. 

“Yeah, but I need free hands to carry my book and my purse.” 

“Right. I guess I should have known that.” He took the dinners. They were warm on his hands. “What are you reading?” 

She showed him. “Dancing on the Edge of the Roof, by Sheila Williams.” She was about half done.

“Another recommendation from Mira? Is it any good?” 

“Yeah, it is. I don’t know where she finds all these obscure gems.” 

Ted thought a second. Mira was always encountering obscure gems of every sort in every life category. “Maybe they find her,” he said. 

The two drove together to the police station. Or more accurately, Clyde drove while Ted ate. And inbetween bites, he told Clyde the entire story, from beginning to end, in as much detail as he could remember. 

As he finished the story, Clyde remarked, “You were right. It is Lando Benitez all over again.” 

Ted still didn’t understand what that meant. 

---

To Mira it was one of those moments in which time slows, like in the movies. Her senses became more acute. For a few horrifying minutes, she lived to make her heart bleed. She had been scribbling furiously, sitting in her car, for what seemed like a week. In reality, it was only a few minutes. But in those few minutes, she had filled her notebook with page after page of first-hand testimony of events she loathed to witness, much less to recount. She was greatly relieved when Ted finally showed up and she could think again.

I’d better call Ike.

She needed to devise a suitable story for why she would not be meeting him as planned. She didn’t feel like going into the real story with him. Then she opened her cell phone and dialed Ike’s number. He answered. 

“I’m running a little late,” she said. 

“Is everything alright?” He sounded concerned. 

“I just got distracted. Committee business.” That wasn’t a lie. 

“Oh,” he said. “Nothing serious I hope.” 

“No. I’ll see you in 15 or 20 minutes?” 

“So you’re not at home?” 

“Uh, no— What do you mean?” 

“If you were just getting ready to leave,” he joshed, “it would take you another hour to get ready.” 

“Very funny,” she said. 

“Where are you?” he asked. 

“I, uh— I’m on my way. I got a phone call in the car.” 

“You answered the phone while you were driving?” 

“Well…” 

“You know, that’s dangerous. Not to mention illegal.” 

“Well, I pulled over.” 

“You pulled over to answer the phone while you were driving?” He made it sound like it was a silly thing to do. 

“No, I— Well— I just thought it might be important.“ 

“You know, sometimes you let committee business take over your life. How can you do that? How?” 

How? Mira remembered the strong, worn hand of a man thrust into Baedes’s face, like a poorly staged native greeting. Baedes seized it with one hand, twisting it around in a well-practiced motion, grabbing his handcuffs with the other. Mira looked on in terror.

She shook her head to clear it of the memory. 

“Mira?” Ike said through the phone. “You there?” 

“Yeah, I’m here.” 

“I’m just saying that maybe you should take it easy sometimes, throttle it back. You can’t save the world. You’ll burn yourself out trying.” 

Mira was silent. She knew Ike was only saying this out of his own frustration. Now she not only had heartburn, from all that she had been witnessing, she also felt like crying. Because someone needed to save the world. Or at least someone needed to do the right thing. And it was she. 

Mira just sat there and breathed heavily. 

Ike broke the silence. “So, if you still want to hang out, you can meet me at home. Okay?” 

“Yeah, okay.” Her voice squeaked a little. She cleared her throat. “Yeah. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” 

Mira was hungry and tired and depressed. She rested her head on the steering wheel again and breathed deeply. She tried to think happy thoughts, to go to a happy place like the yoga people do. Mira didn’t know anything about yoga. But this is something her father used to say to her as a little girl when she couldn’t get to sleep at night, to go to a happy place. Her mind churning with thoughts and ideas, she could barely sleep. And her father would pad into her room and sit next to her on her bed and speak to her tenderly. 

“What’s wrong, Little One?” he’d ask. 

“I can’t sleep,” she’d say. 

“Are you scared?” 

“No,” she’d say. 

“Are you sad?” 

“Maybe,” she’d answer. 

“What are you sad about?”

“Just nothing.” 

“Well, you know, happy thoughts chase away the sad thoughts, if you think of happy things. What happy things would you like to think about?” 

They’d compile a list of happy things that Mira could think about. And before they would finish the list, Mira would roll over and fall fast asleep. 

Mira loved her father very, very much. 

That was not a happy thought, was it? 

Mira’s thoughts were interrupted when someone touched her shoulder. She started. 

“I want you to meet these people,” Ted said, as if nothing was wrong. 

“Uh… Yeah, okay.” 

Mira collected herself as best she could. Much of what transpired next she immediately forgot. Only a few key pieces. Ted introduced her to the family and neighbors. Five minutes later, Mira wouldn’t be able to remember anyone’s name, except those of Fatima and the children. 

Fatima slouched on the couch, her son in one arm, her daughter in the other. The little boy wore a T-shirt and tights. His mother had washed off her makeup. The elder daughter sat at attention beside her sister. Mira stared at the girls’ outfits. That was a happy thought.

“Why did you both decide to dress up like princesses?” she asked the two sisters. 

The taller, elder sister shrugged. “Because we wanted to.” 

“No other reason?” 

“No. We just both like to be princesses.” 

“Well, it looks like you put a lot of work into your outfits. They’re wonderful.” Mira smiled. 

The younger daughter said, “I wanted green, but we could only find pink and purple and blue.” 

“Well,” said Mira, “pink is a nice color, too. Pink is my favorite color.” She sat down on the floor.

“Pink is nice,” the little girl said. “But I like green better.” 

“Like grass?” 

“Like trees,” she replied. 

The neighbor’s wife and two sons entered, carrying refreshments. 

Mira nodded. “Trees are nice.” She looked at the younger sister. “Your name is Salma?” 

The little girl nodded. 

“And yours is Atiya.” she turned to the elder. 

“Where’s my daddy?” Salma asked. 

Mira glanced at the little girl’s mother, who carefully and subtly shook her head. 

“Well,” Mira said, “he just has to talk to some people. It’s an emergency.” Then she changed the subject. 

“Do you know how much I like trees? When I was a little girl, about your age”—she pointed to the elder sister—“I really wanted to climb the tree in our back yard. But my daddy told me not to, because the third branch was too thin. That’s what he said. He told me it was too thin for me to climb on, and it wouldn’t hold me up, and I’d fall and get hurt. But you know what? I really wanted to climb that tree, and I thought I could grab onto the third branch close to the tree, where it was thicker, so I wouldn’t fall. 

“So one summer afternoon, when no one was looking, I started to climb that tree. Do you think that was a good idea?” 

Salma, wide-eyed, said, “No.” 

“So what happened?” asked Atiya. 

“Well,” Mira continued, grinning, “I actually made it most of the way up the tree. I held on to the third branch, just as I had planned, and pulled myself up. I was excited, because I was actually making it. Then when I tried to reach higher, that tiny branch slipped out from under my foot, and I fell all the way to the bottom. I broke my wrist.” She held out her right arm, as though it were wrapped in a cast. “The doctor had to put a wire in my bone to keep it from healing the wrong way.” She pointed up and down her wrist. “I had to wear a big cast for months.” She mimed stroking the cast with her left hand. “And my wrist hurt all through the summer and almost until the next summer, even after the doctor took the cast off.”

“Did you cry?” asked Salma. 

Mira nodded. “Yes, I did. I cried a lot. My daddy was inside the house, and he heard me fall, and he heard me crying. So he rushed out, and I was afraid he was going to yell at me. But do you know what he did?” 

The girls were speechless. 

“He put a splint on my arm, and then he carried me to the car and drove me to the hospital. And in the car, while he was driving, he told me about how when he was a boy, he tried to climb a tree just like that, and he fell the same way I had, and he broke his leg.” 

“I bet you never climbed that tree again!” one of the Mooney boys interjected. 

Mira paused. “Actually, years later, after college, I did climb that tree.” 

Now everyone paid attention. 

“One of my friends helped me, and I actually made it almost to the very top. But that’s a different story. I was much older then.” 

“Maybe your daddy will try to climb his tree now,” said Salma. 

Mira paused. “Well, years ago my mommy and daddy had an accident, and they died.” 

Throughout all this, little Habid had been holding onto his mother, but listening to every word. Now to everyone’s surprise, out of him came a tiny voice. 

“Were you scared?” he said. 

Mira looked at him. “Oh, honey,” she said passionately. “No, it’s not like that. Your daddy is just fine. He just had to—“ She took a breath. “He’ll be right back. I promise.”

---

Clydene awoke in a stupor. She reached around with her left hand and massaged her crooked-feeling neck on the right side. For a moment, she wondered where she was. Then she remembered. She had fallen asleep on her husband’s shoulder, waiting for Godot, or someone. 

She had apparently awoken when Ted shifted her off of him and stood. He walked up to a man with olive skin. 

“Hashim, I’m Ted Jackson.” 

The man seemed not to hear him. 

“Hashim Osama?” 

He looked at Ted knowingly, but said nothing. 

“I paid your bail, and I can give you a ride back home.” 

He began to pass Ted by. 

“We need to talk,” Ted said sternly. 

Hashim swung around, and right in Ted’s face, he whispered angrily, “Why do you talk to me?” He seemed more scared than upset. 

“Because you need me to help you.” 

“I do not want your help.” He walked toward the door. 

“Fatima sends word that she loves you,” Ted said. 

Hashim stopped in his tracks for a moment. 

Ted continued, “And little Habid says to come home soon.” 

The man paused for a few seconds, then he nodded and continued out the door. 

Clyde approached her husband. “Nice client you got there,” she whispered. 

“I don’t get it,” he replied. 

“He’s scared,” she said. “He’s scared to talk to anyone, to do anything. Must have been a horrifying experience for him, getting arrested. God only knows what police in his country do.” She scoffed, then lowered her voice. “They might even be as bad as here.”

There was a moment’s pause. Clyde wondered what Ted was thinking. 

Clyde said, “I bet Michael’s having more fun than this on a Saturday night. Want to share some of your angst with him?” 

“No. Let’s let him enjoy his evening,” Ted replied. “I’ll call him tomorrow afternoon.” 

Clyde finished the thought. “Maybe by then, Hashim will feel more like talking.” 

Chapter 3

Eleven thirty-five! Talk about sleeping in! Michael’s head was aching. He flopped back on the pillow. Something was missing. He had forgotten something. What day was it? Sunday? Nothing happening on Sunday. He dragged himself out of bed and worked his way to the bathroom. Beholding in the mirror a round, unshaven face, half-closed, blue eyes, disheveled, black hair, stocky build with a slight paunch, and that sticky, chalky taste in your mouth first thing in the morning, he suddenly felt singularly alone. 

Wasn’t alone last night. Or was that a dream?

He finally decided that it was not a dream but that the woman with whom he had danced also did not now make him less singularly alone. 

Having completed his morning ablutions, Michael felt awake and refreshed, relatively speaking. But he still needed coffee. He donned a bathrobe and plodded down the hall toward the kitchen. He made it through the living room and into the kitchen, before he noticed a sultry brunette wearing a little black dress, sprawled out on the couch, reading a book that Michael had left on the coffee table. 

“Ah, that’s what I forgot,” he said. And what a night for him forget! He must really have been hammered. There must be something wrong with my brain, he thought.

“Good morning, Sleepyhead,” she said. “Or actually, good afternoon by now.” 

“I didn’t know you were still here. Have you had lunch?” he said. 

“Yup. Made myself at home. Hope you don’t mind.” 

“That’s a good book. There are DVD’s in the cabinet there if you want to watch a movie. You just have to jiggle the handle sometimes to get it to open.” 

While they were talking, she had slid up next to him. And she now gave him a peck on the lips, which he returned hesitantly. She considered him a moment. Then her eyes took on a flirtatious expression. 

“Michael,” she said from behind hungry eyes, “you forgot something? What did you forget?” 

He regarded her. No reason to let her know he had forgotten all about her, and now couldn’t even remember her name. “Oh, nothing.” 

“You don’t mean me, do you? And what we had last night?” she said playfully. 

“Uh, no.” Michael felt like a deer staring down a pair of headlights. He didn’t want to reject her, but he also didn’t want a relationship. And frankly, the way she was talking was beginning to scare him. “I forgot that I’m out of coffee cake.” 

“Good.” She smiled coquettishly. “I don’t know what I’d do if you forgot what we had. I mean, what we have.”

She cuddled up to his arm, fixed her big brown eyes onto his baby blues, and cooed in pouty tones. “Would you like me to make you some coffee, Mikey-Pooh?” 

Mikey-Pooh? This was definitely not what he expected—or wanted—from a one-night stand. How drunk was he last night? Michael didn’t know what to say. But he knew he had to say something. “Uh. I don’t want—“ he began. Then he tried again. “That is, maybe we can—“

She snuggled up to Michael’s cheek, brought her lips close to his ear, and she whispered softly and passionately, “Gotcha.”

Michael was still figuring out what was going on, while the woman broke out laughing. 

“Aw, I had you goin’, didn’t I, Mikey-Pooh?” she mocked.

“Good one,” Michael said. He did his best to laugh at himself, even though he was finding it quite difficult to appreciate the humor. Still, he knew this would make a great story to tell at parties. 

“God! I didn’t know you had that much to drink!” she said. 

“Only of your sweetness, my dear.” 

“Do you even remember my name?” 

“Janine, right?” The name just came out of his mouth. Yes, that was right, he thought. 

“Give that man a cigar.” She popped open the coffee maker. 

“No thanks, I don’t smoke.” 

“I dunno. You were pretty smokin’ last night.” She was cooing again. 

He slid up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “It’s easy to dance with the right partner.” 

Janine turned around to face him, their bodies so close. “You doin’ anything today?” 

“No way. Sunday is the day of rest.” 

His fingers lightly caressed the small of her back through the thin fabric of her dress. He hovered his lips over hers and breathed deeply her perfume, still noticeable from the night before, a sweet, light scent that excited him like no other. He had frequently noticed it on another woman, also a raven-haired goddess, and one who excited him like no other. He gently kissed Janine, their lips delicately melding. 

---

“Let’s open our bibles to Romans, chapter 13.”

Clydene grabbed a house bible from the pew and opened to the index. 

Ted put his right arm around her shoulder and nuzzled into her cheek. 

“What are you doing?” she whispered. 

“I’m reading along with you.” 

“I haven’t found it yet.” 

Having noted the number of the page on which Romans started, she flipped to it. 

His arm still around her shoulder, Ted put his other hand on her bare knee. 

The pastor began reading. “Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established…” 

Ted started moving his hand under her skirt, up the inside of her thigh. 

“Ted!” she whispered at his ear, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. 

“You forgot to keep your knees together.” 

She put her knees together. “Well, they’re together now.” She glanced around the sanctuary. No one was looking. That didn’t mean no one noticed. 

“No one can see,” Ted said. 

“Pastor Bob can see. And I want to hear this.” 

“… Do you want to be free from fear of the one in authority? Then do what is right and he will commend you…” 

She felt a knot in her stomach. Maybe she didn’t want to hear it after all. Ever since she had cracked into Baedes’s government computer, she had been wrestling with the moral implications. Yes, what she did was for a good cause, for Mira’s sake, to preserve her freedom and the freedom of everyone in Abe’s Turn. And the end result was for the good. But did any of that justify her? Clyde wrestled with the moral implications, and Baedes himself was “the authority,” and he surely would not appreciate what she had done to thwart his plans.

Ted’s hand was still on her thigh as he continued to protest. “But you never wear skirts during the week, and you have such sexy legs.” 

Since Clyde worked as a consultant, from her home office, she rarely dressed up to go to work. Only when she visited a client site did she don the business-wear, usually a pants-suit, so she could look at least something like the other programmers, but a little more classy. On weekends, however, when Ted and Clydene went out, she liked to look like a woman. It made her feel feminine. Maybe a little black dress if they went out Saturday night, and something a little more respectable for Sunday morning church. 

“Okay, I’ll wear the skirt this afternoon,” she said. “Just calm down. And stop distracting me.” 

Ted was obviously getting horny, and a little early in the day. They usually didn’t get hot and heavy until after Sunday dinner, which is why they always ate Sunday dinner alone, just the two of them, at home. 

Ted leaned his head against hers. 

“… not only because of possible punishment but also because of conscience. This is also why you pay taxes…” 

Conscience. That was it. Clydene’s conscience had been nagging at her, an unresolved conflict in her spirit, whether what she had done was the right thing to do for her friends, and whether she would ever do it again. 

Ted whispered into her ear. “I guess it would inappropriate for me to grope you.” 

“Yes, it would,” she replied. “What’s with you today? Daylight savings doesn’t end for another week. What, you can’t wait an hour until church is over?” Talk about premature, she thought.

“What’s with me is you look good,” he said. “And smell good.” He kissed her on top of the head.

Pastor Bob had completed reading his text. At this point, he stepped from the behind the podium and leaned himself against the empty communion table. If they were having communion that day, the table would be set, ready from which to administer the sacrament. As it was, the table was bare, without even a tablecloth. Its ornate woodwork belied its surroundings: a simple, wooden podium; a stained, red carpet; worn pews with hard, wooden seats. As a tiny, seed church, they were lucky to have found a building with an air conditioner, though they didn’t need it today. 

They were not struggling as a church. Or at least Clyde did not think being small was a bad thing. The tiny, informal, small-town atmosphere was one of the things that drew the Jacksons—and particularly Clydene—to this particular church and its congregation. The other draw was Pastor Bob’s conversational speaking style and his straightforward, open-minded approach. 

And he was no more straightforward and open-minded than now, as he leaned informally against the sacramental table, almost sat on it, hands in his pockets, and said, “I’m about to say something politically controversial and very unpopular. I’d actually rather avoid it, because this could get me into trouble. Most preachers avoid it, or just spout the party line. But I can’t avoid it, because we’ve been studying Romans, and we can’t skip chapter 13 just because we don’t like it or it makes us uncomfortable or it could get us into trouble. 

“On the other hand, I can’t just spout the party line, because I don’t actually believe in it. 

“Most theologians take this passage at face value. Now, that’s not so unreasonable, is it? ‘Governing authorities’ are what makes civil society. Without the police to protect us, crime would run rampant. Without the judge to adjudicate disputes, everyone would take the law into his own hands…”

Clyde re-read the pastor’s text, or rather, read it fully through for the first time. Two sentences in particular jumped out at her: 

He who rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and those who do so will bring judgment on themselves. For rulers hold no terror for those who do right, but for those who do wrong.

Clyde felt sick. What was God smoking when he came up with that one? she thought. Or maybe God just never lived in Abe’s Turn.

Pastor Bob was still talking. “… And so, Paul says here we should always submit to the governing authorities, and never rebel against them. Because these authorities are God’s servants in a civil society. Some commentators have even gone so far as to say that the law defines the difference between right and wrong. If something is illegal, it’s also immoral. And if something is legal, it must be alright. And if something is legally required—“ 

He folded his hands and took a breath. 

“There is a man named Władysław Bartoszewski. Don’t worry if you can’t pronounce that. I had to practice it for an hour before I got it right.” 

He paused to let the chuckles subside. 

“Anyhow, Mr.  Bartoszewski is 85 years old. He’s a Roman Catholic. He’s been a journalist, an activist, even a politician. Now, he’s Minister of Foreign Affairs in Poland. But in 1940, he was a prisoner at Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp. Inmate number 4427. He was picked up by the Nazis as part of a massive manhunt in Warsaw, and they kept him at Auschwitz for over 7 months, until the Polish Red Cross convinced them to let him go.”

Pastor walked back to the podium. “I want to quote you something he said about his experiences at Auschwitz:

“‘I lost consciousness on December 12, while cleaning bricks,’ he says, ‘I was exhausted, injured, and in pain. That was normal for Auschwitz. Just as it would have been normal if I had died under a blow from a club, or from having my throat crushed by a capo’s boot. The strange thing was that prisoners carried me to the Krankenbau and laid me out next to the stairs. They could do nothing more, because they had to return immediately to work. They saved my life.’ 

“At the time, he was 18 years old. He almost never made it to 19. 

“He was just getting his life started, and you’d think after a traumatic experience like that, Mr. Bartoszewski would keep a low profile. Having been dealt the hand of grace by the Red Cross, you’d think he’d do as little as possible to anger the Nazis. Yes? 

“But after he was released from Auschwitz, one of the first things he did was to join Żegota. Now, this was the codename for an underground organization, operated by the Polish government in exile. Its purpose was to help Jews in Nazi-occupied Poland. This was blatantly illegal, of course. Treasonous, even. Żegota were subversives against the Nazi state. Being involved with them was a serious crime. The penalties were severe. 

“If you got caught hiding a Jew, here’s what would happen to you. You were to be immediately shot, or taken out to be publicly hanged.” 

Bob leaned close to the microphone and in hushed tone enunciated the next sentence. “You didn’t even get a trial.” 

At some point, Ted had removed his hand from Clydene’s thigh and his arm from her shoulders. She didn’t remember when. He was now staring intently at the man behind the podium. She felt sick inside, vulnerable, helpless. She wrapped her hands around her husband’s strong, right arm, cuddled up next to it. He wrapped his arm around her, pulled her close, kissed her again.

Pastor Bob continued, “How does this relate to our text? The Nazis were the governing authorities in Poland at the time. Now, you could argue that they had invaded Poland. So maybe they didn’t have a legitimate claim to rule Poland… if that makes you feel better. The practical result, however, was that the Nazis occupied Poland, and they did set the rules. 

“The Nazis also did have a rightful claim to govern in Germany. Not many Americans realize this today, but Hitler was elected in a democratic election. How can you get more legitimate than that? But the Nazis in Germany were just as horrendous as in the rest of the world. 

“So the question we have to ask is: Why would Władysław Bartoszewski, being a good Roman Catholic and a moral Christian— Why would he jeopardize his life, not to mention his very soul, by going up against God’s servant, the governing authorities? 

“Despite our text, there’s only one answer I can come up with. He did it, because it was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do.” 

There was much more to Pastor Bob’s sermon. He summarized the atrocities committed by Stalin, Mao Tse Tung, Pol Pot, and others; the religious persecution currently going on in Indonesia, Africa, and elsewhere; all with the support or consent of the governing authorities, and many times being fought by illegal, underground, Christian movements led by people ready to go to jail but skilled in evading the police. 

Much to Clydene’s dismay, Pastor had no answers. He posed several interpretations. And as he explained each in turn, he also explained why that interpretation is probably incorrect. 

Faith is sometimes a hard thing.

Chapter 4

Another hard thing is forcing yourself to wait until after church, all hot and horny, after the sermon, after the concluding prayer, after pushing a cursory goodbye at anyone you meet in the hall, on the way from the pew to the coat rack, from the coat rack to the car, after the seemingly interminable drive home. For Clydene and Ted, it was like you see in the movies, the two lovers plastered all over each other, faces rubbing together, stumbling up the walkway, fumbling with the keys, thrusting open the door, pushing each other’s jacket to the floor, unbuttoning her top, unzipping his pants, hands where they don’t belong in polite company. 

“Oh shit!” Ted shouted. 

“What? What did I do?” Clydene asked. She thought she must have accidentally pinched him in the wrong place. 

Ted quickly zipped up his pants. This baffled her, until he motioned to the living room behind her. She turned around to see a black-haired woman reclined on the couch, holding a book, her sleek, compact purse resting on the coffee table. 

Clyde felt her face flush. That must mean it was as red as a beet, because she usually didn’t feel embarrassed, even when she was. She usually just got nervous instead. But this time, she felt red hot, as if she had just committed some sort of unspeakable act for which she was now bearing the ultimate humiliation.

“I’m sorry?” Mira said tentatively, with that facial expression that says: Yeah, if you think you’re embarrassed, you should be where I’m sitting, because I’m positively freaked out; and yeah, maybe I should have called first, and it’s so my fault, but I couldn’t call you, because you were at church, and you did give me a key; besides, I really need a friend right now.

Suddenly, Clyde felt sympathy. “Oh no. I’m sorry. I just— I didn’t know you were there.” She re-buttoned her blouse as she walked into the living room. “Are you okay?” 

Ted sighed. 

Clyde was suddenly divided between her friend and her husband. “Oh— Uh… Ted— Ted and I were just, uh…“ Her gaze darted from Mira to Ted and back again. 

Mira broke in. “I know. It’s okay. I should have known— Uh, I should have called first. I’ll go.” She sat up and started stuffing the book into her purse. She looked sad. 

“Isn’t that the same outfit you were wearing yesterday?” Ted asked. 

Mira paused a moment. “Yeah, it is.” 

“Hey, you,” Clyde said tenderly, sitting down next to her friend, resting a hand on Mira’s shoulder. “Did something happen?” 

“Well, I kind of spent the night at Ike’s.” 

Clyde didn’t know what to say to that. 

“And…” Ted prompted. 

Mira continued. “And we had breakfast this morning, and then I drove around for a little while, and then I came over here.” 

“And what’s wrong? What happened last night?” Ted asked. 

“Nothing,” she answered. “I mean, nothing happened. We just hung out last night, watched a couple movies, ate some popcorn, that sort of thing. It was late, and I crashed on his couch. Nothing bad happened. We hung out. It’s fun, that’s all.”

Clyde said, “Yeah, okay. Well, you two have been hanging out together for a while now. If it’s so much fun, why do look like a puppy just died?” 

Mira stared at the blank screen of the TV for a minute, as if she were watching a gut-wrenching scene from a sad movie. 

Ted asked, “Has he even kissed you yet?” 

“No,” Mira eked out. 

“Held your hand?” 

No response. 

“Made a pass at you? Bumped into you? Tried to feel you up? Anything?” 

Clyde turned to him in horror. 

“You know, Mira, maybe he’s just not interested,” Ted continued, apparently oblivious. 

“Okay,” Clyde said to him, scowling. “You said you needed to call Michael this afternoon. Why don’t you go upstairs, change into something more comfortable, and make your phone call?” 

He agreed, then kissed her, sneaking a hand in to pat her butt. 

“We have company!” she whispered. 

Now that Ted was gone, Clyde got down to business. “Okay, Girlfriend, now that the children have left the room: What’s really going on?” 

“See? Is that too much to ask?” Mira said. 

“What?” 

“That’s all I really want. Someone who will pat me on the behind once in a while.” 

Clyde thought about this. Or rather, she already knew exactly what she thought, but she had not yet worked up the courage to say it. She hated to see Mira sad, and as much as she loved her friend, she was getting frustrated. So she decided to out with her thoughts. But before Clyde could put her thoughts into words, Mira interjected something new.

“The thing is,” Mira said, “I think he’s actually interested. But he’s…” Her voice trailed off. 

“Maybe you should just tell him how you feel.” 

Mira shook her head, terrified. “No, no. I can’t do that.” 

“But if he’s into you, maybe he just doesn’t know how you feel.” 

“No. It’s more complicated than that.” 

“I don’t understand.” Clyde shook her head. “Please explain it to me.” 

Mira just stared at the floor. 

Clyde decided to take another approach. “How about some piping hot chocolat?” she asked. “Good for what ails the soul.”

Mira smiled a little and nodded. She followed Clyde into the kitchen. Clyde made homemade hot cocoa with just a pinch of red pepper, while the two girls chatted about the weather, Clyde’s Sunday outfit, makeup, and other mundane things. Finally, they were seated at the kitchen table, a steaming cup of dark, brown cocoa, with a puff of whipped cream on top, between each pair of hands. 

Clyde sipped from her cup, breathing in the rich aroma, sensing the tang of the pepper on her tongue. She closed her eyes and basked in the full experience. 

Mira said, “I’m thinking of giving up work on the Committee.” 

Clyde almost spewed hot cocoa out her nose. But because this would have been such a horrifying experience, her body instead opted to choke on what was in her throat. She began to cough, managed to set her cup back on the table, spilling some in the process. She clapped her hand to her chest, as if to dislodge a stuck piece of food. Red-faced, she finally was able to breathe again. 

“Are you alright?” Mira asked, clearly concerned.

“Am I alright?!” Clyde almost screamed. She felt like screaming. “What have you done with my friend, Mira?”

Mira looked and sounded hurt. “I’m not your friend anymore if I don’t want to be an activist anymore?” 

Clyde rolled her eyes. “No, of course you’re my friend. You’ll always be my friend. But this is your— thing. This is your baby. You got into it because you couldn’t stand— I’ve never known you to do anything else. I’ve never known you to be anyone else.” She was exaggerating, she knew, but she still meant every word. She stared at Mira, awestruck, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to think.

“It was just an idea,” Mira said. “I probably won’t.” 

Clyde was still flabbergasted. “Why would you even consider it?” 

Mira seemed to have trouble putting her thoughts into words. “I’m— I’m just tired. I’m tired.” 

Clyde rubbed her eyes, as if she was just waking up from a bizarre dream. “Well, then… I’m floored.” 

“Don’t tell anyone else, okay?” 

“Our secret,” Clyde intoned somberly. 

But Clyde couldn’t get it out of her mind. Mira’s heart was one of those few brilliant filled with a burning passion for what mattered. “Tired” might cause her to slow down. It causes everyone to slow down once in a while. But to give up what she loved? Even in Mira’s full-time job as a counselor, she didn’t show the same passion that she did for her political activism. They had discussed it many times before. Mira had often raved at the idea of quitting counseling and devoting herself full-time to the Committee. The only reason she didn’t is that she couldn’t afford it. Like everyone, she needed to pay the bills. But the message was clear. Yes, her job made her happy. She got to help people and achieve real accomplishments that mattered. But the Committee was something Mira believed in. This was her destiny, and she knew it. So what, Clyde wondered, had happened to make Mira suddenly question her own destiny?

“Mira, what’s going on?” 

Mira just sat and stared. 

“Is this about Ike?” 

Nothing. 

“Is this about what happened last month?” 

Still nothing. 

“You know, what happened wasn’t your fault. And you not being there isn’t going to make anything any better.” 

Mira’s eyes began to water, and her voice cracked. “But my being there can make things a lot worse.” 

“Okay, now that’s just crazy.” 

“It’s not crazy,” Mira choked out. “Baedes has a personal vendetta against me and against anyone who dares to associate with me. You know that.” 

Clyde dwelled on that thought, during the pause before Mira continued. 

“When you believe in something, you think you can change the world.” Mira waxed philosophic. “You think nothing can stop you, that you can overcome any obstacle, find a way over it, under it, around it, or through it, whatever. But then you run into reality. Because no one can change the world, Clydene. The world is too big and too powerful. The world is always going to do exactly what it wants, and it doesn’t care what you believe in. The world always wins.” 

Clyde knew Mira was talking to herself, about herself. And she had a feeling if Mira continued in this vein, she would depress herself into psychosis. But Clyde didn’t know how to respond, so she changed the subject. 

Clyde sighed and said, “How do you think your new friends from yesterday might like a world-famous chicken-mushroom casserole?” 

Mira wiped her eyes. “Yeah, I think they might. Is that complicated to make?”

“Nope. I was going to make one for dinner. It takes less than an hour. We should make two, one for here, one to deliver.” 

---

“Bastards!” 

“Now, Michael, not all of them are the epitome of evil,” Ted replied to the speakerphone. 

He had untied his tie, carefully unknotting it using exactly the opposite motions he had originally used in tying it. Now he hung it in the closet and began to unbutton his shirt. 

“That’s bull, and you know it!” the speakerphone continued. “They humiliated that man, right in front of his wife and kids! The sleaze oozes from the top.” 

Even through the phone, Ted could feel Michael’s eyes like blue flames burning a hole through time and space, staring right into his. That’s one thing about Michael. He always looked you straight in the eye. And despite the fact that they weren’t face-to-face, Ted knew Michael was even now looking him straight in the eye. Yes, for all of Michael’s faults, at least he always gave you that much. 

Ted said, “Okay, I understand that you’re upset—“ 

“Puleeze! You have no idea how I feel!” 

That was true enough. 

“Okay, so explain it to me,” Ted replied. “If you’re not upset, why do you keep yelling at me?” 

Michael paused a moment. Then he spoke more calmly. “You just don’t understand, Ted. You’ll probably never understand. It’s just how you are. You’re an excellent logician, but…” 

“But what?” Ted smiled. He really wanted to hear what came next. 

“We work better as a team.”

Ted stared for a moment out the window. “So you’re saying I’m a lousy activist.” 

“I wouldn’t put it that way.” 

Ted looked back at phone. “Please, do.” 

Michael nodded. “Okay. You’re a lousy activist. But we need your skills and talents.” 

Ted sighed. “I’m too old for this.” 

Michael finished a sip of something and gulped. 

“How old are you, anyhow?” Michael asked. Then he quickly added, “If you don’t mind my asking.” 

“Ted doesn’t talk about his age,” Clydene said from the bedroom doorway. 

“How long have you been eavesdropping?” Michael asked. 

“Eavesdropping?” Clyde said. “The way Michael was hollering, they could hear him in Texas.” 

“Sorry,” Michael said. “It’s just that Beady-eyes really gets my goat.” 

Ted found himself staring hotly at his wife, and ignoring his friend on the other end of the line. He said, “Michael, I’ll call you a little later.” 

“Are you kidding? Is that the end of the story? What happened to the poor guy? You can’t just leave me hanging.” 

Clyde talked at the phone, “Why don’t you come over and join us for dinner? We’re having a chicken casserole.” 

“Well, I kind of have a guest of my own.” 

Ted continued. “There’s more to the story, Michael, but I have something I have to take care of.” 

After a second, Michael said, “Oh. I’ll expect your call in a half-hour or so. Bye!” And he hung up. 

Clydene had her mouth open. “Do you tell him everything about our personal business?” 

“You tell Mira everything.” 

“But that’s just girl talk,” she said. 

Ted never understood what “girl talk” actually was, and he uncharacteristically didn’t want to argue the point. So he segued into a different subject.

“Talking about girls…” He swept his eyes up her figure and breathed deeply. “Oh my God, you’re sexy.” He stepped up to kiss her, but as he approached, she turned her head, and he ended up sucking at her neck. He didn’t care one way or the other. 

“Uh…” Clyde said. “That’s not girl talk. And Mira’s still downstairs.” 

“That’s nice,” Ted said. 

“We want to make a casserole for the Hashims. And for dinner. One for dinner and another for the Hashims.” 

“Uh huh.” Ted kept going. His hands had been caressing her back. Now he moved them up her sides. 

“I invited her to stay and eat with us.” 

“Fine with me,” he said, only having half heard her. 

“I need to get back downstairs to make dinner.” 

“You have time for a quickie.” He sucked on her ear. 

“She’ll wonder where I am.” 

“Tell her you had to use the bathroom.” Ted knew that Mira would figure out the truth anyhow. 

“She’ll hear us.” 

He whispered softly into her ear, “Not if we’re very, very quiet.” 

She whispered back, “Sometimes a quickie can be fun.” 

“Bing bang boom,” he replied. 

“No way. Forget the bing and the bang!” Suddenly, she shoved him onto the bed and was straddling him like a tiger. 

---

The two friends approached the front door of the house on Linden Street, where only yesterday Mira had felt angered, helpless, stunned. Since then, the sky had cleared, and the wind had died, and now the rays of the setting sun cast elongated shadows across the ground and onto the buildings. Mira no longer felt stunned or helpless. She felt a trepidation, though, and she didn’t know why or about what. With each step, the clear Pyrex cover jiggled on the casserole dish Clyde carried, small, square, and white, with flowers painted on the sides. Mira held her purse more tightly. She stepped up to the door and rang the bell.

“Did you have any special plans for Halloween?” Mira asked her friend. Maybe engaging in small talk would clear her head. 

“No. Ted and I have both been busy. Plus, we’re not really party animals. We’ll probably just spend a quiet Wednesday at home.” 

“Right, Wednesday.” Mira knew Wednesdays Ted and Clyde got romantic. Every Sunday afternoon and Wednesday night. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like to have regularly scheduled sex with someone she deeply loved. 

“Do you have any plans?” Clyde’s words interrupted Mira’s thoughts. 

“What’s that?” 

“Going to any parties?” 

“No. I don’t think so—“ Mira wondered whether Ike was doing anything Wednesday and why he hadn’t asked her to come along. Then she remembered that he might take someone else, assuming he’s planning anything. He had no obligation to Mira. “I don’t know,” she said. 

Clyde seemed to become concerned. “What is it? What’s the matter?” 

Mira shook her head. “Nothing.” 

“Ike again?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.” She stared at the door jamb. 

“Okay.” 

“There’s nothing new to say anyhow.” Mira felt a lump in her throat.

“You really have to talk to him, Mira.” 

Mira rang the doorbell again. She needed to find some way to distract her thoughts, to focus them on something else. “I wonder why no one’s answered the door. Maybe they’re not home?” 

A voice came from a distance to their left. “They’re home. But they haven’t been answering.” 

Mira looked over. It was the next-door neighbor, calling from her front porch. 

“Hi, Jane,” Mira called back, smiling. Mira didn’t know how she knew the woman’s name, but it turned out to be the correct name. She remembered meeting Jane Mooney, but the whole incident was a blur. If you had asked her to recall specific details, she wouldn’t be able to, but somehow the right words came out when she wasn’t really thinking. 

“Ever since Hashim got back last night, the whole family has gone into hiding. The kids haven’t been out to play. No one has answered the door, and they haven’t been returning calls.” 

The woman looked like a stay-at-home mom with plain features and an ordinary, medium-length haircut. She looked like a soccer mom, now a concerned soccer mom; no, a worried soccer mom. 

“I wonder what happened,” Clyde said. “He seemed pretty scared when we went to pick him up from the police station. Wouldn’t talk to us at all. I mean, sometimes Ted can be a little intimidating. But this time, he was actually personable.” 

Mira chuckled. And so did Mrs. Mooney. 

Since no one was coming to the door, Jane invited the two over for tea. Her husband Marvin had taken the kids to the park, and that gave Jane ample opportunity to tidy up the house. It was a perfect time to have company over. As it turned out, Jane was not a stay-at-home mom, but a working mom. Still, she had motherly tendencies, as most working moms do, as Mira had often discovered. And even a fair number of working dads, for that matter. However, the few hours each day the kids spent at home were enough for them to leave a trail of destruction in their wake, and that irked Jane Mooney.

Mira nodded. “I can sympathize,” she said. 

“Oh, do you have kids?” Jane asked. 

“Uh, no. But— What I mean is…” What she meant was that she sympathized with the kids. She was the one who always left a trail of destruction in her wake. But this was not a subject she wanted to get into with an almost-stranger. 

“Mira’s a certified personal counselor by profession,” Clyde interjected. “She’s always cleaning up other people’s messes.” 

“Yeah,” Mira said. “I guess that’s one way to put it.” 

---

Clyde was a virtual pack rat. She was always starting new projects, finishing them halfway or using them once, then abandoning them on her computer’s hard drive, folders upon folders full of files she just could not bear to delete, because she was sure she would need them again someday. She couldn’t even archive them to disc, because when she needed them, she wouldn’t be able to find the disc on which she had put the files. 

She did the same with the dozens of half-abandoned web accounts she had all over the Internet. Each seemed useful at the time. And in each case, Clyde kept the account active, just in case. She filed away the login information in a file on her computer so she could come back to it later if she needed to. She almost never needed to. 

So it was with Pyx. Pyx was a small program, a virus Clyde had created to target Baedes and to protect Mira from him. It didn’t do anything malicious or disruptive. But it did surreptitiously infiltrate his computer and siphon off files, which it then transmitted securely and anonymously to Clyde’s computer. Clyde had set it up over a month ago, used it once, and then kept it going, just in case she needed it again.

In keeping Pyx around, Clyde took a risk. She should have disabled the virus as soon as she was done using it, because if Baedes or his minions were to discover that their computers were transmitting information to the Internet, they could investigate. And if they suspected, for whatever reason, that Clyde was involved, a properly trained investigator could link her computer to the purloined data. 

But unlike most viruses, as it turned out, Pyx did nothing to tip its hand. It did not cause unwanted advertisements to pop up on the user’s screen. It did not delete files or display cryptic messages. And it was well designed and well tested, so it did not produce unwanted side-effects, like slowing down the computer or its network connection. Additionally, it was specifically targeted at only certain computers, certain government computers. It was designed not to spread outside of that network. It was caged, not out in the wild. That meant it was unlikely to be detected by the experts, those who hunt down viruses for a living, because virus hunters don’t generally hunt caged viruses. 

Pyx was basically invisible. And for the past month and a half, Pyx had been quietly collecting information, encrypting it, and posting it anonymously in public forums, disguised as “test” posts, lost amongst the countless myriad of test posts floating around the Internet. Then on her computer, Clyde had set up an automated program to go out to these public forums, look for the information Pyx had posted, and download it. All this happened automatically. Clyde didn’t even have to think about it, once she started the process. 

Now, however, she had a reason to peek into these files that her computer had been downloading from the department’s computers. She wanted to know what had happened to Hashim Osama to turn his family to sudden recluse. The official records showed that he was arrested for armed robbery and that he claimed an alibi. This was all information readily available to Ted, or to whomever ended up defending him.  Baedes’s unofficial records, however, showed something more startling.

As usual, Baedes was a prolific note-taker. Clyde gathered it must be in his nature, because she knew no one else who so anally recorded significant facts. Clyde found on Baedes’s computer a file all about Hashim, a recent file. Baedes had created it only the day before. It recorded only one entry, a long one, in which Baedes referenced the official record. But the chief also noted that it was doubtful that Hashim was the gunman. Then a long series of admissions and denials, of a most peculiar nature. Hashim apparently “admitted” that he knew Ted and Mira, but “denied” that Ted was his lawyer. He “admitted” that they were “friends,” but “failed to provide any additional information.” 

Funny, Clyde thought, since she thought that none of her friends knew anything about this guy, especially Mira, who said she had just met his family and neighbors. Mira also seemed to know very little about Hashim himself. Furthermore, Jane was close to Hashim’s wife, and their kids were all close, and she had just met Ted and Mira, too. Unless he meant, “friends” as opposed to “lawyer and client.” Or unless he was stretching the truth. 

But there was much more. Hashim apparently “denied” knowing a number of names, including several that Clyde recognized as being connected with the Committee. Finally, there was a note that he “had no knowledge of any plot against the government of Abe’s Turn.” Not that he denied having such knowledge, Clyde noted, but that he specifically had no such knowledge. The difference, Clydene noticed seemed significant when it came to Baedes’s notes. This statement stood in stark contrast to the others in the file. And being married to a lawyer, she recognized the difference. This was a conclusion, not a statement of fact as were the other notes in the file. But how had Baedes drawn such a conclusion? And why had he not recorded the facts leading up to that conclusion, as he consistently did elsewhere?

Hashim was also referenced in another document, a list of names of people, with a summary of each person’s association to Mira Jayson. Some of these names also had files of their own. Some Clyde recognized, but others she didn’t. 

Clydene herself had a file, she was mortified to discover. Her file mentioned her work as a software development contractor, a personal friend of Mira, and a “low-level volunteer” for the Committee. But it did not mention her connection with government contracts or her work on the QX project. The final note concluded that she was “quasi-political, with high ideals, but unwilling to get hands dirty. Possible source of information, but tread carefully.” 

It became clear to Clyde that Baedes was on an unofficial witch hunt. He clearly didn’t have access to the Committee’s mailing list, or else he would be targeting everyone on it, and Clyde would have heard about it. In fact, it puzzled Clyde as to why she had not heard of him targeting anyone before now. Ted surely would have heard, as would every other criminal defense lawyer in the county. Looking deeper into the files revealed why, at least partially. 

Take the case of Howard Crane. Everyone called him Hal. Clyde was only acquainted with him and only recognized his name because she had met him several times at envelope-stuffing parties and other volunteer events. Baedes had known Hal volunteered for the Committee when Hal was picked up on a DUI a couple weeks ago. It was a stupid thing for Hal to do, and he knew better. Clyde remembered the event, because of Hal’s good luck in the matter. She remembered thinking that if he were guilty, then yeah, they should throw the book at him. And she remembered thinking that she did not want to be associated with reckless individuals who would endanger other peoples’ lives with their drunk driving. And she remembered being incensed that, even though he was clearly guilty, his lawyer got the charge thrown out for insufficient evidence.

In Hal’s file, Baedes had a summary of all this, plus a note that the DUI charge was “dismissed without prejudice,” fancy legal jargon that meant that they could bring the charge again if new evidence surfaced. Then there was the name and address of a witness. A quick check confirmed Clyde’s suspicion, that this name was not in the official files. It represented new evidence that had not yet officially surfaced. Maybe not enough for a conviction, but probably enough to bring a little hell to Hal’s life. 

Also in Hal’s file, page upon page of names, dates, observations, reports, all connected with Mira. 

Baedes was buying secret informants with botched would-be convictions. Or maybe he was extorting information. It depended on how you looked at it. And the information he was seeking was not about the Committee, but about Mira, including her personal life. 

This didn’t explain how he got away with it without the lawyers finding out. Or maybe they were finding out. Hal’s lawyer, Clydene knew, was obligated ethically to keep secret the details of Hal’s case, unless Hal wanted him to tell, and Clyde was sure Hal wouldn’t. But what happens when the squeeze play doesn’t work? What happens when Baedes threatens someone who has too much pride to give in? Clyde clearly didn’t have all the pieces to the puzzle. She put the thought to the side, promising to take note of anything that might explain what’s happening. 

For a moment, Clyde wondered how far Baedes would go in his quest. His beachhead had always been the law and his position as an enforcer of it. But if he were willing to step outside the law in order to get information about Mira, how far outside the law would he be willing to go to hurt her? How far would he be willing to go in general? Or a better question: How much could he get away with?

It was then that Clyde realized the one thing that would explain Hashim’s inconsistent testimony, why it was unofficial, and why he clammed up. And she realized why it had taken so long to process his bail, something she had not thought too hard about at the time. And why it was so important to Hashim that she and Ted had been sitting there, counting the minutes, waiting for him to be released, important in a way Ted himself did not realize. 

Chapter 5

Clydene knew three things about physical abuse. The first thing Clyde knew about physical abuse is that the victim blames herself for the abuse. She does not blame the abuser. Secondly, she feels helpless and fearful. And lastly, the victim will tell the abuser anything he wants to hear, do anything he wants her to do, even believe anything he wants her to believe, if she thinks it will spare her further torment. Clyde also knew one more thing, that it didn’t take a pattern of abuse to produce these effects. A single attack could do it. How she knew these things is a subject she didn’t like to talk about, or even to think about. Suffice it to say that Clyde had personal experience in this area, personal memories, and she had spent long hours with professional counselors and psychologists overcoming the symptoms of it. But Clyde still hated to talk about it. She hated to think about it. And Ted agreed. There weren’t many things Clyde and Ted couldn’t talk about in their marriage. This was one of them. 

But that evening, as Clyde went through the files she had stolen, these memories kicked in. It was a like Thomas Magnum’s little voice, telling her that something was wrong. At least that was how Mira always described it. Clyde’s little voice encouraged her to keep looking. Then it told her what had happened to Hashim Osama, not in gory detail, but concretely enough that she didn’t want to believe it. She told her little voice that they were missing something and that if they kept looking, they would find another explanation. But the further they looked, the more adamantly her little voice insisted that it was right. Finally, she stopped arguing and just sat, staring at her computer screen, stupefied.

She asked herself why this was so important to her. Why did she even care? She didn’t even know this guy. Did it really matter what happened to him? But Mira cared, and Mira was Clyde’s best friend. And that was also why—Clyde told herself—she didn’t want to admit what she thought had happened to Hashim, because she didn’t think Mira would be able to handle it. But in the corner of her mind, her thoughts told her that was bull. Mira would handle it just fine. Rather, Clydene Jackson was the woman too sensitive to handle this particular tragedy. She shuddered. 

Clyde’s memories of the afternoon came flooding back over her. She remembered the photos Jane had shown her, the stories she had told, how close the two families were, how their lives clicked together when Hashim’s family had moved in, like pieces of a snap-together, plastic model, despite all their differences, stories of family outings and of dinners over each others’ homes and of friendly get-togethers. And Clyde marveled at the sympathy she felt for these people she had never actually met. 

Then, from somewhere deep inside, their attacker became as hers had been on her own fateful night, the horror that had carried her to the edge of death itself, had brought out the best and the worst in love, had made her question her very right to be happy. An evil man had robbed her of a piece of her own soul. Now, Baedes was the attacker, who in her mind had so clearly perpetrated the same torture on another human being. A hidden fury burned her heart, and this sweet, rational woman suddenly envisioned Baedes tied naked in a dungeon. She wanted to lash out at him. No, that wasn’t good enough. She wanted to point a .45 between his eyes, grin an evil grin, and blow his brains out. What she felt was not mere anger; her mind had been taken over by furious rage, unsullied by even the tiniest speck of restraint.

Hold on, she reminded herself, I don’t actually know that Baedes personally did this. Or even that it really happened. There was certainly enough corruption among his lackeys. The whole department reeked of violence, when it suited them. But did it matter whether he personally was involved? Beady-fucking-eyes knew about it. His files prove that. He was a systematic abuser, bullying everyone he could control, on a personal campaign of terror. Mira once commented that he didn’t know how to take honest criticism. She was probably right.

Clyde hurt, physically hurt. She started reading the file again, and with every word, it built up her worst memories, terror upon terror, horror upon horror. Her imagination ran rampant, and she forcibly shoved it back into its box. And then it exploded. It was neither gradual nor subtle nor quiet. No tear came to her eye. There was no time for that. She cried, wretched, wailed. 

And she finally understood what Mira had been talking about. Clydene wanted to stop the world and get off. It was no fun anymore. 

---

Mira rarely drank to excess. But tonight was an exception to the rule. This first day of the work week, she had seen over a dozen clients, and all of them had personal emergencies of one sort or another that they expected Mira to solve magically. Toward the end of the day, she had to bite her tongue to keep from yelling at people. 

On top of that, her stomach was still reeling from the weekend. Every moment her mind couldn’t focus on work, it started to dwell on the people she loved and how she had hurt them. She knew that Baedes had been after her, had been fishing for information he could use against her, had been threatening anyone associated with her, had been bending the rules, “making deals” to sell her out in exchange for leniency, had been digging up every suspect she had ever helped, had probably even gotten to a few of them. What’s more, she could not talk to anyone about this, because she had promised Ted, because if anyone found out he had told her, he could lose his bar card. He had twisted the rules for her, just as Baedes had twisted them against her, and she had to do the right thing; she had to keep Ted’s secret, for now. But the secret weighed heavily on her heart, and her mind kept going to all the people who were now at risk, because of her.

That was a lie. There was only one person her mind kept going to, the man who started Baedes’s fishing expedition of terror, who right now represented all the people in her life, and represented all her love and fear, vision and uncertainty, conviction and doubt. The doubt had been building steadily for over a month. And while she couldn’t explain it in words, there was a definite feeling, a new feeling she felt about herself, not a pleasant feeling, but a wretched melancholy, a depression about to turn into self-loathing, kept at bay only by Mira’s singular ability, ironically, to see the glass half full. 

You can’t always control who you fall in love with. Mira thought. She didn’t talk about it, but she had strong feelings for this man who—unknown to him—had made her fall in love with him. She was in love with him, because he made her feel happy. He was her giver of pleasure and of pain. She loved how his eyes made her feel when he smiled. She loved how he smelled. She loved how rugged he looked in his five o’clock shadow. She loved how he loved life. She loved how he penetrated her soul, divining by some hidden sorcery exactly what she thought and felt, like no one else could. Sometimes, not even Clydene knew her as well as Ike did. Clydene, one of the only people in the world who truly understood her. And Mira loved the greatness within him, the way he inspired others. She wanted him on her team. More importantly, she wanted him in her life.

But she didn’t know whether he wanted her in his, at least not in the same way she wanted him in hers. And she couldn’t figure out whether it could work, or even if it was the right thing to do. When it came to Ike, Mira was a ship without a compass. 

She knew that others saw the way she felt, even though she tried not to talk about it. But she tried not to hide it from Clydene, because they shared everything with each other. Still, she had not been able to talk with her best friend about how deep her depression went and how deeply she had it buried. It was just as well. How could she hope to communicate these feelings to Clyde when she couldn’t describe them to herself? Too many feelings were swirling around in Mira’s stomach, and at the time she couldn’t make sense of any of them. 

Part of her didn’t want to make sense of them. She just wanted to lose herself in a movie, the movie she always ran to when she felt lonely and tired and aching inside. So she curled up on the couch in her rose-covered jammies, with a bottle of California Zinfandel, and she popped Moonstruck into the DVD player. Before the film was over, she had put away more than half the bottle.

Meanwhile, Mira watched Loretta Castorini fall in love with her own man she couldn’t be with. Mira could see it in Loretta’s eyes, right there in Cammareri’s Bakery. Mira reached her hand to her neck and fingered the necklace Ike had bought for her those months ago. The necklace was tacky; it was cheap; it was costume jewelry. But she had seen it one day at the mall, and she said she liked it, and so he bought it for her, just like that. She was sure, at the time, he didn’t have the money. She smiled at the memory, a passionate, painful smile, and a single tear dripped from her left eye. She dropped the necklace, letting it hang again from her neck, and wiped the tear away with her fingers.

But it was too late to stop crying. Piece by piece, moment by moment, the memories Mira had been avoiding began to intrude into her psyche, forming a complete story. After she had been released from jail, the march on Town Hall went on as planned. Ike joined them in picketing and chanting, which had made Mira feel elated. Now, curled up on her couch, she longed to remember that feeling, but the memory was too distant. Events piled up to form a mountain that separated her from that feeling. But she still knew that feeling had been real. It had been a perfect feeling, now decimated. And it was all her fault. 

If Mira had not urged Ike to march with her, if she had not told him it would release his frustration, if she had not blindly leaped into the fray dragging Ike along with her, if he had not been the straw that broke Baedes’s camel’s back… Ike had indeed let his frustrations out. As the protesters marched, signs held high, Ike’s seemed to be held just a little higher than the rest. His chants had a passion behind them that infected both demonstrator and onlooker alike. And when they asked, “How, Chief?!” Ike raised his hand in a mock native greeting. Yes, it was corny, and it was racially insensitive. But it made Mira laugh. 

The press gawked on, and there was even a blogger or two with a digital camcorder. Mira and Michael excitedly answered questions of anyone who asked. Clydene and Ted stood by, not taking active part, as previously agreed. In case Mira encountered trouble, Ted and Clyde would be her people on the outside. But there would be no trouble. This event was coming off more perfect than she could have imagined.

Then the devil himself arrived. Mira wasn’t sure what Baedes was doing at Town Hall. It didn’t matter. He strode past the demonstrators, who glared at him from beyond a chorus of “How, Chief?!” And when Baedes paused to glare back, Ike shoved his mock-native hand in his face. 

“How! Chief?!” he shouted. 

It took only a few seconds for the chief to react. He grabbed Ike’s outstretched arm and yanked it around, forcing it behind Ike’s back. The chief pulled out his handcuffs and proceeded to arrest Ike. Mire knew he didn’t need an actual charge, because it didn’t matter. He could make something up if he needed to. 

Demonstrators began bugging out like cockroaches. Some ran. Others set down their signs and nonchalantly blended in with the surrounding crowd. But Baedes had no intention of arresting anyone other than Ike, not the other demonstrators, not the sign-litterers, not even Mira. 

Oh that he would have arrested her! For a moment, she wondered whether she should charge to Ike’s rescue, so that they could go to jail together. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It wasn’t the same as being arrested for peaceful action. In Mira’s mind, those incidents were easy to deal with, even though they angered her, because she knew she was in the right. But interfering with the law, even when the law wrenched her heart as it was doing at that moment… Mira gawked in horror, until it was over. 

She hadn’t noticed that not everyone had deserted her. Mira had true friend in those who had remained with her and would for all time. Michael placed his hand on her shoulder. He rubbed her back gently. She felt him, but she didn’t feel like noticing. Without a word, she stooped down and began picking up the signs and tracts that were littering the ground. Ted was already tidying up the area. 

Clydene put her arm around Mira and whispered in her ear, “Leave those, honey. Ted and Michael can take care of that.”

She took the objects from Mira’s hands, grabbed Mira by the shoulders, and lifted her to standing. Somehow, Clyde fended off the crowd and the press, as she led Mira to her blue Camry. Leave it to Clyde to come through in a crisis, even if she would be feeling the full weight of it later. Once safely in the passenger’s seat, Mira brought her knees to her chest and held them there. Her face contorted, and wails and tears flowed from her heart. Clydene touched her shoulder, but Mira refused to be consoled. It had been her fault, all her fault. 

Since then, Baedes had been adding a new element to his interrogations, a fishing trip for damaging information about Mira and her legal counsel. Ted told her this was happening. He knew about it not only from his own clients but also from the grapevine. Naturally, some of the people Baedes badgered were both innocent and ignorant, and Ted and Mira were getting a bad rap in criminal defense circles. But other sharks were trolling for chum to feed the monster, to get their guiltier clients a better rap. Ted warned Mira not to tell anyone else about this, not even Clydene, for now, because this information was gained partially through privilege, and Ted’s telling it to Mira could possibly be breaking privilege, and Mira knew how dangerous a minefield that could be. Besides, telling wouldn’t do any good, and once told, the story cannot be untold. Reluctantly, Mira agreed to keep it a secret. 

But the secret weighed heavily on her. There was a time she would have been happy to hear that Baedes was so upset because of the fight she was fighting against him. But that was before she had faced in her mind the unsuspecting innocents that would end up in the middle. She wasn’t sure she could come to terms with that, and she wished she could talk it out with Clyde, to get herself centered. Intellectually, she knew she was doing the right thing, but such knowledge was little comfort to her.

Mira had a feeling Ike was one of those who had been compromised, maybe the first. She didn’t know what he had told Baedes, or what he was telling Baedes, and she didn’t want to get him into any deeper trouble. So she avoided him. But he still managed to call her once every couple of weeks. 

Wracked with guilt, Loretta found a way to get past her problems and to live happily ever after. Mira, on the other hand, was drunk from misery and wine. 

Even as memories and thoughts and feelings poked at her psyche, all she could truly remember was that she was guilty and inconsolable. Mira herself had pushed Baedes over the edge and sent him on a manhunt for her, mowing down anyone who got in his way. Mira had been prepared for him to come after her. She had been prepared to make sacrifices for the cause. She clearly had not prepared herself to watch while those sacrifices were systematically exacted from the lives of the innocent and the beloved. 

She curled up on her couch in her flowered, cotton pajamas, pulling her knees to her chest, and wept. 

---

Monday came and went and turned into Tuesday morning, and all this time, Clydene’s conscience had been struggling with her newfound knowledge. Her first thought was that she was stupid for not paying better attention in the first place. For over a month, Baedes had been searching for her (though he didn’t know it), blaming Mira, and playing dirty. And all the time, Clyde had not known anything about it, and she could have. 

Her second thought was that she had to do something. Her third, fourth, and fifth thoughts were that there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t go to Mira, because Mira was already teetering on the edge of giving up. This new news would push her over the edge. She couldn’t go to Ted, because she loved her husband, and if Ted found out she had committed a felony… She feared even to let her mind go there, even to think that Ted could allow her to go on breaking the law, no matter the result, no matter what was just or fair. Ted was too good for that. He played too close to the rules, was part of the system, believed in the system. Ted would turn her in—she was certain of it—or would insist that she turn herself in. This fear was the reason why she had not been keeping better tabs on Baedes, the fear of being caught. It was why she had been so secretive about her discoveries. It was why she did not trust Michael, because Michael was more Ted’s friend than hers. But even if she could have told any of her friends, none of her friends could do anything to help.

She felt powerless. She couldn’t even help the Hashim family, because they didn’t know her or trust her, and they were still not talking, to anyone. She wasn’t a stalker, anyhow. There was only one person who might be able to help them, and that was Jane. Clyde had a good feeling about Jane, and more importantly, Mira expressed good feelings about her. Even so, Clyde didn’t know if she could trust Jane with her secret. Not that it mattered, because Clyde really didn’t know anything, not when it came to Hashim. Yes, she had a list of strange questions and answers, and a more horrifying list of suspicions, but no real evidence. Likely, the only testimony of whatever happened in that police station was locked inside Hashim’s own tormented mind. 

So on one level, it felt strange to Clyde that she was meeting her new friend Jane for lunch. Even as they sat down in the green and brown booth at the hole-in-the-wall diner, where Clyde normally wouldn’t be caught dead, even as they browsed the menu, ordered breakfast fare similar to that whose aroma permeated the air they sniffed, even as they sipped their watered-down coffee, even as Clydene prepared to broach the subject, she didn’t really know what she was going to say. That probably meant she was going to say something stupid.

Oh well, here goes nothing, Clyde thought.

“I can’t tell you how I know this,” Clyde began.  “In fact, I don’t really know anything. And even if I did know it, I couldn’t admit that I knew it or tell you how I knew it. Can you keep a secret?”

Already Clyde knew she was screwing this up. 

“Yes,” Jane said straight-faced. “I can keep a secret, if it’s important.” 

Clyde spoke softly. “What I’m saying is, if anybody asks, you and I just had lunch and chatted. In fact, we didn’t even have lunch. Because if anyone finds out that I know what I know, people will get hurt.” 

“Are you with the CIA?” Jane said, just above a whisper. 

Clyde was confused for a second. Then she laughed. “No. Nothing like that… Actually…” A couple had been seated in the table next to them, and Clyde started to think it was a little too cramped for this discussion. “I have to use the ladies room. Want to come with?” 

Safe from the eyes and ears of the crowd, Clyde started telling Jane about her suspicions, about abuse of process, about taking advantage of a visitor on American soil, about threats, about torture, about officials extracting information in the color of law. 

Jane was incredulous. She couldn’t believe such a thing could happen, not here, not in the twenty-first century. So Clyde piece by piece revealed to her the entire secret. She didn’t mean to, but once she started talking, it all came out, and fast. Clyde had revealed the entire story before she knew what she was doing, cracking into the government computer network, discovering Baedes’s secret files, his quest for information, his mission of terror, his notes on his interrogation of Hashim. She suddenly feared Jane might not keep the secret. Then she feared Jane might blame her. Or that Jane might think Clydene was delusional. Pick whichever fear you wish: Clyde feared for her life.

But Jane didn’t seem angry. Nor did she seem suspicious. She didn’t seem anything. The two women quietly strode back to the table. Their coffee was still sitting there, undisturbed. They sat. Jane sipped. 

“What do you want me to do?” Jane asked. 

“I thought you might be able to talk to Hashim or his wife. Find out whether I’m out of my mind.” 

“You’re not.” Jane choked on the words, her eyes squinted, and Clyde could see wetness in them. 

“I’m so sorry,” Clyde said. She touched Jane’s hand. Then she reached into her purse for a tissue and handed it across the table. 

Jane explained that she had talked to Fatima going out to the market. But Fatima had been distant, and when Jane probed her on the subject, she brought Fatima to the verge of tears. Jane could not repeat what they talked about, because she was sworn to secrecy. But with the details that Clydene provided, she said, everything started clicking into place. 

“Are you mad?” Clyde asked. 

“Livid,” Jane said. 

Clyde didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” she eked out. 

“Thanks.” Jane buried her nose in the tissue. 

“You won’t tell anyone about me,” Clyde said, more a question than a statement. 

Jane shook her head. “No.” 

“Can you do anything for Hashim?” 

“I can ask them—“ Jane choked on her words again. She breathed. “I can try to get them to talk to a lawyer.” 

A new voice interrupted their conversation. 

“Clyde?”

Clyde turned to look at the newcomer. She was an average-looking woman, in her thirties, medium hair, brown eyes. 

The woman rephrased. “Are you Clydene Hobbes?” 

Clyde stared back at her, doing her best to look concerned, upset, confused— anything except what she really felt, which was scared. She didn’t know why she should feel scared. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. There wasn’t any reason she shouldn’t befriend Jane, or that Jane shouldn’t befriend her. 

The woman continued. “I’m Julie. We went to school together at Springfield High?” 

Clyde immediately remembered, but her mind was too full to think through all the facts right now. Clyde shook her head. Clyde lied. “Sorry. I never lived in Springfield.” 

---

Mira pulled herself up each stair, with each step contemplating the words she planned to speak to Ike. She secretly wished that he was not home, so that she wouldn’t have to face him. But as she approached his apartment door, she heard a man speaking indistinct words over soundtrack music playing through a television speaker inside, and she knew Ike would come to the door if she knocked. Maybe she should have buzzed him from the front instead of sneaking into Ike’s building as the pizza guy left. But she didn’t want to talk to Ike unless it was face-to-face, or maybe even at all. 

Mira stared at the gold, plastic numbering on the flat, wooden door. Apartment 4B. For a moment, she stood listening to some fictional nighttime drama being played out within. It couldn’t hold a candle to the real-life drama playing out in the hallway, within her own heart. She stood staring at the door, then the door jamb, then the little table Ike had set in the hallway. It held some minor knickknacks, a wooden bowl of candy, a matching wooden cup, hand-painted, an empty, blue bottle once filled with white wine, markers of his personality, his taste, his vision. She breathed in the scent of fallen leaves mingled with the bad cologne and old cigarette smoke of the people who lived across the hall.

She wondered whether she should have stopped at home first, to change and freshen up. It had been another long day at the office. Even though she looked sharp in a dark business suit, she felt hot and sweaty and dirty. 

This was silly. She was making excuses. She knew what she had come to do. She was committed. In half-consciousness and half-daze, Mira reached out her hand, held her breath, and pounded several times on the door with her knuckles. 

Then she waited. It seemed an interminable wait, and Mira thought she heard some voices superimposed over those of the characters on the TV. 

Oh no! Mira thought. What if he has company over?

But no one answered her knock. Maybe it was Mira’s good fortune that no one heard her. She had decided to slip away and forget the whole thing, when the door swung open. Mira stood face-to-face with a woman, dirty blonde, long hair, buxom but fit, a little taller than Mira herself, wearing a large T-shirt and little else. 

“Can I help you?” the woman asked. 

For a moment Mira was stunned. She wondered whether she had accidentally knocked at the wrong door. 

“I— I’m sorry,” Mira stammered. “I think I must have the wrong apartment.” 

“Who is it?” Ike said from inside. 

Suddenly, Mira felt as if she were in a B-rated horror flick, as if she were one of those stupid females in skimpy clothing who had just ventured into the monster-infested dark tunnel after having been sternly warned against it by the delusional paranoiac. 

“I don’t know yet,” the woman answered Ike. 

Ike peeked around the corner. “Oh. Hi, Mira. What can I do for you? Come in. We were just making Piña Coladas. You want one?”

“Uh… No… Actually, uh—“ 

“Sorry. Where are my manners?” Ike said. “Soph, this is Mira Jayson. Mira, this is my girlfriend, Sophie Marcum.” 

The breath left Mira’s body. 

“Mira!” Sophie said. “I’ve heard so much about you. I understand you’ve been a real friend to Ike.” 

“Uh, I guess so.” Mira could see that the woman did not appreciate her friendship with Ike as much as she was trying to make it seem. 

“So,” Ike said, “are you coming in? Or should we bring the party outside?” 

“I’m, uh—“ She shifted gears. “I’m sorry.” She tried to speak cheerfully. “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” 

“Well, it all happened kind of fast.” 

“Oh, I see. You know what? It can wait. I need to go, anyhow.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sophie said with a tinge of sardonicism. 

As the outside door wheezed to a close, Mira stood for a moment on the outside step and breathed deeply. 

---

Clyde lay on the couch in her living room, in the dark. Ted was working late, which was good, because she didn’t feel like talking to him or to anybody. There was nothing on TV, and she didn’t feel like cooking. She didn’t even feel like playing her guitar. She just sat in the dark and gazed at the vague shadows on the ceiling. 

Her cell phone rang. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone right now. But it might be Ted, and it might be important. She picked up the phone and peered into the small display. It was from a phone number she didn’t know. Curiosity got the better of her, and she flipped open the phone and answered. It was Jane.

“I thought you might like to know,” she said, “I talked to Fatima tonight.” 

It was Clyde’s good fortune that she had taken the phone call. She needed some good news to lift her spirits. 

Jane continued. “I couldn’t convince them to talk to a lawyer.” 

Clyde was mystified. “But what about the criminal charges? Why would he go with a public defender? Is he going to plead guilty? He didn’t do anything.” 

“The charges have been dropped.” 

“Huh?” Clyde shook her head. “What do you mean, ‘The charges have been dropped’? Just like that?” Clyde asked. 

“Yes, the charges have been dropped. Just like that.” 

“Oh.” Clydene didn’t know how to process that information. “Well, that’s good news, I guess,” she finally said. 

“I’m not sure,” Jane said. “Fatima says they’re moving back to Pakistan, this week. They’ve already made arrangements.” 

Clyde said nothing. 

“… just like that.” Jane finished her story. 

“I’m so sorry. I feel responsible.” 

“Why? It’s not your fault.” 

“Yes, but I—“ 

“Clydene, you did nothing wrong. We just have to make sure this doesn’t happen again, to anyone else.” 

Clydene nodded her head, not thinking that Jane couldn’t see her over the telephone. 

“At least, that’s what I think,” Jane said. 

Clyde had to get her bearings. “Uh, yeah. I don’t know how, though.” 

“Let’s have lunch again,” Jane suggested. 

And so they made lunch plans for the next week, though Clyde didn’t see what the point was. The two were just about to say their goodbyes when Clyde’s doorbell rang. She hurriedly hung up and answered the door, wondering what new cruelty this day could deliver.

Mira stood outside in the chilly, night air. Clyde couldn’t really see her in the dark. Without a word, Mira stepped inside and cried bitter tears on Clyde’s shoulder. So Clyde wrapped arms around her and consoled her.