"Watch how they die," Abdul said. "It is a horrible death."

He watched. In horror. As the Mexicans gasped for air. In their dark eyes, he saw the desire to kill the two Arabs standing before them; but their bodies could not fulfill that desire. Their bodies could only lie there and twitch. They clawed at their chests as if to open a hole through which to breathe ... they clawed harder and harder until they clawed through their shirts and brought blood from their skin ... drool escaped their mouths ... followed by vomit, uncontrollable vomiting ... their bodies convulsing and their pants turning wet with piss ... and finally their eyes widening but their pupils constricting to pinpoints ... and then it stopped.

They were dead.

The stench of puke was joined by the stench of shit. He felt his stomach turn and cramp; he ran to the far side of the warehouse, ripped off the mask, and threw up. This had gone too far. Abdul had often talked of killing, but never before had he killed. Until now. His big brother had just killed two men. Mexicans, sure, but still. He had thought this would go away, Abdul's obsession with killing and beheading and jihadism, that he would grow out of it, as he had grown out of his obsession with soccer. Of course, that had not happened until he became obsessed with jihad. He wanted to run away, to race out of this warehouse and drive away. Somewhere. Anywhere. He did not want to be a part of this madness. He wiped his mouth, replaced the mask, and returned to his brother.

"Abdul, why did you do that?"

"I wanted to see how it killed these two Mexicans. Now I know this death befits the Americans."

"Mexicans die to come to America," the president said. "They risk their lives to cross the border. To give their families a better life."

The other side of the aisle stirred. Immigration was red meat to Republicans, and the president had just tossed out a fresh carcass.

"I have asked this Congress for immigration reform since the day I took office. But Republicans have opposed every effort at compromise I've made. So I reformed the law myself. I changed the law myself!"

Mac grimaced. He really wished the president would stop saying that.

"I issued an executive order granting amnesty to the twelve million Mexicans living here in the shadows, hard-working, law-abiding, God-fearing people who want better lives. Twenty-six states have sued me in federal court to void my order. But I will win that fight as well. The twelve million Mexicans will win that fight. They will be put on a path to citizenship so one day they too can vote. Republicans should keep that in mind. One day, they will vote."

And that was Diego Pea's dream: to vote in America once before he died. To be an American citizen when he died. To know that his wife, Sofia, was an American citizen. That she would never be deported.

Was that too much to ask of life?

He had often asked that question of God. For the last thirty-two years, the answer had been yes. That was too much to ask of life. So they lived in the shadows of America, neither here nor there, neither citizen nor voter, neither Mexican nor American. And now the president promised that one day they would live in the sunlight, one day they would be American citizens, one day they would vote. He cried.

Cat Pea wiped a tear from her cheek. Her parents sat in front of the television almost in reverence, as if the president were the Pope saying Mass. He was offering salvation to them. Amnesty. Citizenship. Safety. Security. They had fled the cartels, north to safety; America accepted refugees from the terror wars in Somalia, Iraq, Iran, Egypt, and Syria, but not from Mexico. Perhaps that would require an unpleasant acknowledgement by America: Americans aided and abetted Mexico's terrorists. Americans funded the cartels; we sent $40 billion south each year, money paid for illegal drugs. Americans armed the cartels; we sold 10,000 high-powered weapons to the cartels each year. We were the cartels' customers and their co-conspirators; we fund them, we arm them, and then we deny any responsibility for them. If you know that your money will be used to corrupt police and politicians and purchase weapons that will be used to kill innocent Mexicans, are you not as guilty as the cartel gauchos who pull the trigger? If Americans were being killed in America, the answer would be yes. You would be charged with murder. But only Mexicans in Mexico were being killed, so Americans' drug use was just "recreational." Tell the families of the dead Mexicans that you were just having fun; that will make their pain disappear.

"Republicans love football, too, so we applaud the president in continuing the Bush policy in the war on terror. That policy saved the Super Bowl."

The Senate Majority Leader gave the Republican response to the president's State of the Union address. Mac had to hear this.

"But we do not agree with the president on immigration. The Fourteenth Amendment that grants citizenship to any person born on American soil has been abused by too many people who come here just to have American babies. The FBI busted a citizenship tourism scheme that brought pregnant Asian women to California, put them up in luxury hotels, and took them on shopping sprees until their babies were born. Then they returned home, knowing that one day their children could return to America and enjoy the benefits of American citizenship even though their parents had never paid their dues-or taxes-in America. That is not the American way. We are a generous people, but we don't like being taken advantage of. And that's what these people are doing to us. We believe in the rule of law; they don't. So we must deport all twelve million illegal aliens. They should then apply for visas in accordance with the law, as million of legal immigrants have done. We obey the law. We don't expect to intentionally break the law and then be rewarded for having done so. We expect to be punished. That is America, too.

"If we reward them with citizenship for breaking the law, how do I tell my children to obey the law? To respect the law? Why shouldn't they cheat at their taxes? Why shouldn't they run stop signs when no cop is around? Have you ever noticed how Americans stop at stop signs and red lights even when no cop is around? When no other cars are around? Why do we do that? Because it's the law. The law says stop, so we stop. We are not a nation of cheaters. We are law-abiding people. We respect the rule of law. Illegal aliens do not. They knowingly and intentionally broke our law, now they want to be rewarded rather than punished."

NINE.

Thursday, 21 January 17 days before the Super Bowl By Thursday, life had returned to normal-or at least as normal as life could be with twenty-three alleged Islamic terrorists residing ten floors below his courtroom and the FBI SWAT team standing guard outside. The protestors had decreased; only a few determined ones remained. The others had gone back to work. The girls' attention had died away, but Scott's speaking requests had not. He had been invited to speak at local, state, and national bar association meetings, civic clubs, and athletic banquets at local high schools and colleges. He declined them all.

"She wants another baby," Bobby said. "And to be a full-time mom. I created a monster."

"She doesn't like working for the judge?"

"She doesn't want a nanny raising our child. Was Rebecca like that?"

"No."

Scott and Bobby Herrin had been best friends since ninth grade, two renters in Highland Park. But Scott could play football, so he had moved up in the world and taken Bobby with him. They were Batman and Robin all through high school, college, and law school, right up until the day Scott hired on with Ford Stevens. They didn't see each other for eleven years, until Judge Buford appointed Scott to represent Pajamae's mother and he tried to punt her to Bobby. Shawanda refused. Scott lost everything, but regained his best friend. Bobby held no grudges; he was like that. Scott tossed him a toffee.

"What will I do if she quits?" Scott said.

"What will you do? What will I do? She makes eighty-five grand."

"You need her paycheck?"

"Maybe not need. But it's nice to have. I mean, I make one eighty-five a year, that's a fortune by my standards. But the house is a money pit-"

They had bought an older home in the M Streets and were renovating room by room.

"-and if we have another kid ..."

"Maybe she could work from home, come in for trials."

"You think that would work?"

"She can think just as well at home."

"Thanks, Scotty." He relaxed, as if he had just been told he didn't have cancer. After a moment, he said, "You ready for tomorrow?"

"As ready as I'll ever be. Mike Donahue, Frank Turner, and the most dangerous man in Dallas in my courtroom ... it'll be interesting."

"Think Mustafa will testify?"

"Frank's not that stupid. He won't give Mike Donahue a chance to bait his client."

"Frank sure was scared. Wonder what Mustafa said to him?"

"Nothing?" the U.S. Attorney said.

"Nothing," Beckeman said.

Mike Donahue had called him just before noon at FBI headquarters.

"So I'm walking into court tomorrow morning holding only my balls."

"I'll be there with you ... not holding your balls, but I'll be there."

"You'd better be. You're the only witness I've got."

He sighed as if his dog had been run over by a milk truck.

"Frank Turner is going to kick my ass."

Bitzy's parents have lodged a complaint against Boo for punching her at the basketball game. Judge Fenney, I hate to bring this matter to you at this time. I know you're busy fighting those Muslim terrorists, but we have procedures for bullying that must be followed.

The principal's email pinged in just as Bobby walked out of Scott's chambers. The blonde girl bullied Pajamae, but now her parents claimed Boo bullied her. Seemed like the world was full of bullies these days.

" 'I will cast terror into the hearts of the infidels.' "

Omar al Mustafa held the Koran. He waved it. He jabbed the air with it. He wielded it like a weapon. Perhaps it was.

" 'God is the enemy of the unbelievers' ... 'God does not love the unbelievers' ... 'The unbelievers are your inveterate foe' ... 'Do not grieve for the unbelievers' ... 'The only true faith in God's sight is Islam' ... 'God's curse be upon the infidels' ... 'Make war on them until idolatry shall cease and God's religion shall reign supreme.' "

He paused for effect and held up the Koran to the camera.

"These are not my words. These are the words of God. Shall we ignore God's words? His will? His orders? The Americans came to the Muslim homeland to spread democracy through violence. Why cannot Muslims go to the American homeland and spread Sharia through violence? If America can fire drone missiles into the Muslim homeland, why cannot Muslims detonate bombs in the American homeland? Why can Americans act violently against Muslims, but Muslims cannot act violently against Americans? The U.S Army thinks it can outsource its war on Islam. They think they can hire Muslims to kill Muslims. They spent $25 billion to train and equip the Iraqi Army. But when ISIS forces marched into Mosul, the Iraqis threw down their weapons and stripped off their uniforms. Why? Because they knew the words on the ISIS flag speak the truth: There is no god but God. Muhammad is the messenger of God. Because the Koran forbids a Muslim to kill another Muslim. Because Muslims are united in their fight against the Christians and Jews. So they will die as the Koran informs. The messiah will come back to earth. He will defeat the Antichrist. He will purify the world of unbelievers. He will conquer the world for Islam. For Muslims. So it was written. So it will be done."

The girls were sleeping, and Scott was watching the Imam on a YouTube video cited in the government's detention brief. As an American, Scott did not appreciate Mustafa's point of view; as a U.S. district judge, he knew it was within the First Amendment's guarantee of free speech. The phone rang. It was the attorney general calling from Washington.

"You have my home phone, too?"

"And your cell."

"What about my email?"

"Your girl sounds like a real pistol. Did she really deck Bitzy? Name like that, she's begging to be punched out."

Mac chuckled.

"How'd you get that email?"

"It's called the NSA, Scott."

Working for the federal government offered new disillusionment on a daily basis. He started to debate the right of privacy with the AG, but decided not to waste his breath.

"Did you watch the State of the Union?" Mac asked.

"I did."

"The president sure was happy."

"Seemed so."

"Don't make him unhappy."

"And how would I do that?"

"By releasing Mustafa."

"This case has gone to the president?"

"It's been with the president since the tip came in. Scott, you're talking the Super Bowl. A credible threat goes straight to the top."

"I'll hear the evidence tomorrow."

"There is no evidence! I told you that! Were you not listening?" He exhaled heavily. "Why are you so focused on the evidence?"

Now Scott laughed. "Because I'm a judge. Because tomorrow we'll be in a court of law. Because the Constitution requires evidence to hold a person in custody."

The AG said nothing, but Scott could hear him breathing.

"You're a young man, Scott. The Supreme Court justices are old men. There'll be a vacancy on the court soon. The president will nominate the next justice. Could be you. The judge who kept the Super Bowl safe. That would get you Senate confirmation on a voice vote."

More disillusionment.

"Is everything political, Mac?"

"No. Who sits on the Supreme Court is, but who lives or dies on Super Bowl Sunday isn't. That's not political, that's not judicial. That's reality. Mustafa wants to kill Americans. The president isn't going to let that happen. He's asking for your help. I'm asking for your help. Scott, I serve at the pleasure of the president."

"I don't."

"I'd like to keep my job, but more important, I'd like to keep the American people safe."

He sounded sincere, and Scott had no doubt he was. The AG had served in Vietnam; he had been a prisoner of war for two years. His country had abandoned him, but he had never abandoned his country. Karen had googled J. Hamilton McReynolds III and written a memo to Scott. She did not allow her judge to be uninformed.

"I'm watching Mustafa on YouTube," Scott said.

"And do you think he's a good guy?"

"No. But he might be an innocent guy. At least of this crime."