into submission. So unpersuasive was the government’s evidence against him that the judge excoriated the Justice Department in an unusually strident and hostile tone for attempting to continue his detention.’ ”
He paused, looked up, and frowned at Jack’s reaction. “What’s wrong?”
“Too much,” said Jack.
Neil took another hit of sake. “All right, I’ll leave your father out of it.”
“It’s not that. I just don’t like it.”
“But it’s all true.”
Jack put his chopsticks aside and leaned forward, his expression very serious. “What if he blows up a building tomorrow?”
“Then the government should have built a stronger case to keep him locked up. That’s their job.”
Suddenly, it was like old times. Most people thought Jack had left the Freedom Institute because he was nothing like the other lawyers: Eve, the only woman Jack had ever known to smoke a pipe; Brian, the gay surfer dude; and Neil, the ponytailed genius who had survived Woodstock. In truth, Jack considered all of them friends. They’d even shown up for his surprise fortieth birthday party. What had made Jack feel like such a misfit was the way they celebrated their victories. Forcing the government to prove its case was enough for Jack. Getting another guilty man released didn’t make him want to throw a party. Or issue a press release.
“Al-Jawar should never have been locked up,” said Neil.
“How do you know that?” asked Jack. “For that matter, how do you even know his name is al-Jawar?”
“Because he told us.”
“Yeah, in English. A language no one even knew he spoke until yesterday.”
“Whatever his name is, he’s not guilty of anything but wearing a Casio watch,” said Neil.
It was a reference to the fact that more than a dozen Gitmo detainees were cited for owning cheap digital watches, particularly the infamous Casio F914 watch, the type used by al-Qaeda members for bomb detonators.
Jack selected a pod of edamame from the bowl and brushed away the excess sea salt. “It bothers me that it never came out in court that he speaks English.”
“That wasn’t relevant. The confession they forced him to sign wasn’t written in English-or in any other language that he speaks.”
“I don’t believe his story about being from Somalia. I think he’s American.”
“So what?
“He’s hiding something.”
Neil shrugged and turned his attention back to his press release. “Al-Jawar is actually one of the lucky ones,” he said, speaking his edits aloud. “According to a report issued by Human Rights First, at least one hundred detainees in U.S. custody have died since 2002, many suffering gruesome deaths.”
Jack was about to reel in the polemic, but a woman seated on the other side of the restaurant caught his attention. It was Sylvia Gonzalez, the Justice Department lawyer who had argued the government’s case against his client.
“Don’t look now,” Jack started to say, but of course Neil did. He recognized Gonzalez instantly, as well as the man she was with.
“How fitting,” Neil said, as if spitting out the bad taste in his mouth. “She’s with Sid Littleton.”
“Who’s he?”
“Founder and CEO of Black Ice, the go-to private military firm for the Department of Defense. Surely you’ve heard of them. They’re the independent contractors that the military hires to do things the military can’t do, like shooting unarmed Iraqi civilians.”
It was the editorial spin of a former hippie, but just as Jack was about to goad him into saying something really entertaining, the prosecutor spotted them.
“Woops, here she comes,” said Jack. “Be nice.”
“Congratulations,” Gonzalez said as she offered her hand. Jack shook it. “You did a heck of a job,” she added.
The conciliatory tone and gesture put him off balance. It was extremely professional of her. All the more reason not to issue that stinging press release.
“Thank you,” said Jack.
He quickly introduced Neil, who remained in his chair, acknowledging her only with a weak wave of the hand. For Neil, anyone who lunched with the likes of Sid Littleton and Black Ice was the enemy, and there was never any fraternizing with the enemy.
“I was just putting the finishing touches on our press release,” said Neil.
Jack sighed, wishing he hadn’t mentioned it.
“You may want to hear what I have to say first,” said Gonzalez.
Neil chuckled, but Jack wasn’t sure why.
Gonzalez said, “I apologize for interrupting your lunch, but I’d rather not put this in an e-mail, and I think it’s only fair to give you a heads-up on some last-minute developments in the al-Jawar matter. Your client is on a flight to Miami as we speak.”
Jack bristled. I knew he was American. “Why?”
“Custody is being transferred to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”
Neil popped from his chair, unable to contain himself. “What do you mean transferred? The judge ordered his release.”
“He is being referred to the Miami-Dade state attorney for prosecution on criminal charges unrelated to terrorism.”
“What-jaywalking?” said Neil, his neck swelling. “This is ridiculous.”
“Easy, Neil,” said Jack.
“No, this infuriates me,” said Neil. “Every time a judge rules for a detainee, the DOJ tries to save face with vague references to some new evidence collected by the task force on detention that may lead to a criminal indictment. It’s sleazy. This is another example of the administration’s defiance of a court order and its refusal to admit that there was never any legal basis to detain these prisoners.”
“This morning a grand jury indicted your client on one count of first degree murder and one count of attempted murder,” said Gonzalez.
Neil fell silent.
Jack did a double take. “And you say this is unrelated to terrorism?”
“It’s purely a local law enforcement matter,” she said. “Your client is from Miami. His real name is Jamal Wakefield. And three years ago he killed a girl named McKenna Mays. Stabbed her to death.”
Jack gave it a moment to sink in. Then he looked at his old boss and said, “Let’s hold off on the press release, Neil.”
Chapter Five
Jack was back in Miami by nightfall. He was wandering around lost in the airport’s Flamingo Garage when he finally remembered that his car was in the Dolphin Garage. To a Floridian, parking garages named Dolphin and Flamingo were like identical twins named Frick and Frack. All that was missing was cousin Royal Palm. A ridiculously long moving sidewalk connected the two garages, and Jack’s cell rang as he stepped onto it. The display read SUNNY GARDENS OF DORAL. It was his grandfather’s nursing home.
“He’s being combative again,” the nurse said.
Jack got these calls about once a week. The usual scenario was that Grandpa was sleeping peacefully when the night nurse barged into the room, overpowered him with the health-care equivalent of waterboarding, and forced an unwanted and probably unnecessary medication down his throat fast enough to land her in the Guinness Book of World Records, Nursing Edition.
Who wouldn’t be combative?
Jack was tired of the arguments, and the sound of his grandfather ranting senselessly against the post office
