"There is," Louis said. "Muhammad Ali stood up for Islam the way it's supposed to be. Nonviolent. And he paid a heavy personal price because of politics. That was wrong. A federal judge could've righted that wrong, but nobody stepped up because they were scared to go against popular opinion. They were scared to do the right thing. They did what the people wanted."

"And you think I should do the right thing with the Imam?"

"I do, Judge."

"So tell me, Louis, what is the right thing?"

"What did the judge say?"

Mac had called to update the president.

"He's pondering."

"Pondering? Who the hell ponders?"

"That's what I said."

Scott stepped inside the middle school gym for Pajamae's game; the action abruptly stopped. The gym fell quiet, and all heads on the court and in the stands turned to the door. To Judge A. Scott Fenney. From behind him, Bobby muttered, "What the hell?" Every person in the place stood and started clapping, harder and louder, until the gym was filled with a thunderous applause. The last time Scott Fenney had received a standing ovation was back in college when he walked into each of his classes the Monday after his record-setting game against UT. It had been a heady experience. But not this heady.

"Judge," Carlos said, "is it your birthday?"

"See, A. Scott," Boo said, "you are a hero."

"I'm just a judge."

Scott found Pajamae on the court. She beamed with a broad smile and gave him a thumb's up. After a time, the applause resided, and they climbed the stands to their regular spot. Men greeted Scott with handshakes and women with hugs. Everyone wanted to be in his company.

"Great job, Judge," one man said. "We need strong judges like you keeping those people off our streets."

"ISIS in Dallas," another man said. "Unbelievable. I'll tell you one thing, Judge, I'll happily pay more taxes to buy more drones to kill more Muslims."

Scott pushed onward.

"Scott, I should've never fired you."

He stopped. Standing before him was Thomas J. Dibrell, rich real-estate developer and former rich client of A. Scott Fenney, Esquire. Tom was nearing sixty; he had given up on the comb-over and accepted his fate of baldness. He looked like an overweight Golomb. A model half his age stood next to him.

"Scott ... Judge ... you're the best lawyer I ever had. I was an asshole. Or maybe God wanted me to fire you so you'd be the judge on this case."

Or maybe you were just an asshole.

"Thanks, Tom."

Two more steps up the bleachers.

"Judge, thank you for keeping us safe," a woman said. "And for keeping my children safe."

And then Kim Dawson was hugging him. "Thank you, Scott. We're safe because of you."

She released him and stepped aside to reveal Penny Birnbaum standing there. With that look on her face. She grabbed Scott and planted a hard kiss on his lips. She closed her eyes, but he did not. He saw Kim look away and other spectators smiling; everyone in Highland Park knew Penny. She finished the kiss and whispered in his ear: "I'm so horny."

He pulled away from her clutching hands and pushed onward and upward, climbing the stands. Millionaires and billionaires and the lawyers who served them greeted him like a hometown hero. Handshakes and hugs and slaps on the back. Expressions of thanks and appreciation, as if he had saved the world. Or at least their world. And it finally dawned on Scott: more than any other basic human need, we need to be safe. Safe in our homes, safe in our communities, safe in our country. We hire police, troopers, and agents for the FBI, DEA, TSA, NSA, CIA, and Border Patrol who will keep us safe. We appoint prosecutors and judges who will keep us safe. We elect presidents who will keep us safe. Our need to be safe transcends race, religion, creed, color, and socioeconomic standing; people in Highland Park want to be safe just as much as people in South Dallas. Which is to say, rich people are just as afraid. And that is the object of terrorism: to create fear in the population.

Fear had come to Big D.

ELEVEN.

Saturday, 23 January 15 days before the Super Bowl Scott ran the streets at seven the next morning. Men retrieving the morning paper called out to him- "Judge Fenney!"

-people driving by waved to him- "Judge Fenney!"

-everyone he encountered greeted him- "Judge Fenney!"

And Penny stood naked in the second floor window at 4000 Beverly Drive.

"Blowing up Cowboys stadium? Damn, Judge, that place cost one-point-two billion to build."

Even the burly butcher at Whole Foods knew Judge A. Scott Fenney.

"Dos pollos, por favor," Consuelo said.

Consuelo and Maria had come with them that Saturday. The butcher handed two chickens to Consuelo and his cap to Scott.

"Would you autograph my cap, Judge?"

As if Scott were Tony Romo. He handed Scott a sticky pen. Scott signed and handed the cap and pen back then wiped his hands on his jeans.

"Thanks, Judge. And thanks for keeping Mustafa in jail where he can't hurt anyone."

"Judge, may I have your autograph?"

A woman held out an elegant pen and a brown-paper-wrapped package for him to sign. He took it and read the label: organic grain-fed rib eye steaks. He signed the brown paper. He handed the steaks and pen back to the woman, and he recognized her: George Delaney's trophy wife. Behind the counter, the butcher chopped meat with a cleaver.

"Hello, Judge." George made an appearance. He glanced at Consuelo and Maria holding his hand. "These all yours?"

"They are. This is Consuelo and Maria."

George grunted a greeting. Consuelo pushed the basket to the dairy section.

"Your life sure as hell changed since last week."

"It hasn't been boring."

George's mood turned pensive. "I don't get that guy, Mustafa. He's living in America, a country formed by men wanting religious freedom, but he wants to destroy America because we won't live under his religion. They're different from us, the Muslims. We're not a violent people. I mean, you don't see Baptists cutting people's heads off because they don't believe their way on abortion, do you? How can they cut through a person's neck with a knife? All that blood. But they're a bloodthirsty bunch, the Muslims."

The butcher raised the cleaver then slammed it down on the thick red meat with a thud. They stared at the sight until Scott's cell phone rang. He didn't recognize the number-it was a 202 area code, Washington D.C., probably the attorney general again-but he answered anyway just to escape George.

"Excuse me, George, I've got to take this."

He stepped away and answered. "Hello."

"Is this Judge Fenney?"

"It is."

"Please hold for the president."

"The president?"

Scott held. He heard George whisper to his trophy, "The president called the judge!" And her response: "You hate the president." Scott stepped farther away so they couldn't eavesdrop. The voice Scott had heard deliver the State of the Union address came across.

"Judge Fenney."

"Mr. President ... sir."

"I hear you're pondering?"

"Uh, yes, sir."

"Well, ponder this: ISIL has recruited hundreds of Americans to join the cause, homegrown jihadists to attack us in the homeland. They're desperate for another nine-eleven. We're working twenty-four/seven to prevent that. It's not going to happen on my watch."

He paused.

"Last summer, they called for attacks on the Fourth of July. So we rounded up every suspected jihadist in the country and held them until after the Fourth. It worked. We had no attacks on the Fourth. We're doing the same for the Super Bowl. Judge, I need you on the team."

"What team?"

"The anti-terrorism team."

"Sir, I'm just a judge."

"Look, Judge, I've made mistakes with these terrorists, as I confessed to the nation Wednesday night. I didn't take ISIL seriously at first, called them al Qaeda's JV team. I thought that would sound pithy on the news. Now it sounds stupid. Really stupid, after they brought down that Russian jet and slaughtered a hundred thirty people in Paris. But I'm taking them seriously now, Judge. I can't make the same mistake again. I can't let Mustafa out of jail."

"You wouldn't be, Mr. President. I would be."

"You can't, Judge. You can't make that mistake. You won't be able to live with that mistake. I know. People have died because of my mistakes. Their deaths haunt me. If you release Mustafa-if you're wrong about him-you'll have a hundred thousand deaths to haunt you."

"Sir-"

"Judge, ISIL is here, in America. They're not figments of our imagination. They're real. They're here. And they want to kill Americans. Imagine what will happen if they behead an American on the streets of New York or Chicago or L.A. Or Dallas."

Saddam Siddiqui tossed the head of lettuce into the shopping basket. He loved shopping at Whole Foods. He loved Starbucks coffee. He loved Dick's Sporting Goods. He loved the Dallas Cowboys, America's Team. He had been born in Pakistan, but he loved America. He was now a naturalized American citizen. He wanted to live the American Dream. He had forgiven America for taking his father from him.

His brother had not.

Abdul was his father's first and favorite son, to be sure. He was the smart son and the athletic son and the handsome son. He was a star in school and on the soccer field. He had confidence and charisma. Their father adored Abdul. So his death crushed his first son.

Saddam, being the second and less favored son, had never felt his father's adoration; so he felt less of a loss than Abdul. He had recovered and moved on; Abdul had not. He could not. He missed their father; he cried for their father. Over time, his grief had turned to anger. His anger had increased with each passing year. He began reading harsh Islamic literature. His view of the world changed. Saddam did not like the changes he had witnessed in his brother, but his big brother was a force of nature that he could not resist. He turned and bumped into a man he immediately recognized.

"Pardon me," Scott said.

The boy-a young man, actually-had the same appearance as the young Muslim defendants who had stood before Judge A. Scott Fenney the day before. He stared at Scott a long moment-or was it just his imagination?

"Have a nice day, Judge."

Scott looked after the young man as he walked away. Why did the encounter give him pause? Bumping into an Arab in Whole Foods wasn't the most unusual event ever, but it wasn't usual. But was it just a coincidence? He was the presiding judge in a terrorism case against twenty-three Arab defendants, and he bumps into an Arab man in Whole Foods-was it a coincidence or a message? After a moment, he shook it off as a hazard of the job: paranoia.

Scott sat between two thirteen-year-old girls on the couch. Boo wanted to watch Silence of the Lambs. Scott vetoed her choice.

"But it won the big five Academy Awards," she said. "Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Director, and Best Screenplay."

Scott had received emails and voicemails from high school, college, and law school classmates, teachers and professors, friends and lawyers he remembered and others he didn't remember, so many he felt as if he had won an Academy Award for Best Judge in a Leading Role.

"No."

"It's a classic."

America had been innocent before 9/11. Secure. Safe. So assured that the terrorists that afflicted the rest of the world would not-could not-cross the ocean that protected America. But cross it they had. And they took America's innocence.

They ate hamburgers, drank malts, and watched another classic, Sense and Sensibility. An old-fashioned, innocent, romantic movie. The way life is supposed to be, at least for thirteen-year-old girls. At least for a little while longer. The harsh reality of the world-of Silence of the Lambs and Islamic terrorists-would come to the girls soon enough. He was not going to hurry that day. A man keeps his family safe.

A judge keeps the people safe.

Black Hawk Down was Beckeman's second favorite movie of all time. His first was Zero Dark Thirty even though the hero was a woman; she fought for freedom. Watching the soldiers fight and die made him particularly sad. Good men died because a president could not make the hard decision. Some things are worth dying for. Mogadishu, Somalia, was not one of those things. Beckeman prayed the judge could make the hard decision Monday morning so innocent people didn't die.