TWELVE.

Sunday, 24 January 14 days before the Super Bowl Scott sat in church. He practiced his freedom of religion as guaranteed by the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Just as the Imam practiced his freedom of speech guaranteed by the same amendment. They shared the same rights, but they did not share the same beliefs. Scott loved America; the Imam hated America. Scott was Baptist; the Imam was Muslim. Scott believed in separation of church and state; the Imam wanted his church to rule the state. Scott believed in freedom of religion; the Imam believed in his religion.

He did not believe in America.

He had a right to live in America but not believe in America. The Constitution guaranteed that right. Just as the Constitution prohibited detention pending trial unless the defendant was a flight risk or a danger to the community. There are no Guantanamo Bays in America. We cannot imprison an accused person because we think he might do something bad in the future. The danger to the community cannot be at some unknown date in the distant future; it must be here and now: If he is released, he will harm someone.

Would the Imam?

The Bill of Rights was written to protect people we don't like. People who don't agree with us, believe like us, or think like us. People with different religions, creeds, and colors.

People like Omar al Mustafa.

If Scott detained the Imam pending trial despite the lack of evidence-that is, in spite of the Constitution-everyone would be pleased. The president, the attorney general, the U.S. Attorney, the FBI, the public, even Frank Turner-everyone except George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, and Benjamin Franklin. The Founding Fathers would not be pleased with Judge A. Scott Fenney.

"Immigration and the Imam-it's all about Judge A. Scott Fenney today."

Mac hated these Sunday morning political talk shows, but he always watched. Part of the job description when you're a political appointee and wanted to remain so for another four years. The moderator of Election 2016 introduced that morning's topics and then the talking heads around the table, all veteran political commentators whom Mac knew well. He knew them to be morons.

"Let's tackle immigration first since that's a high-stakes political case," the moderator said. "But let's start with a basic question. What exactly is an executive order? Stan, you're the constitutional law professor from Harvard, would you explain for us?"

Stan was middle-aged and wore a bowtie and tweed jacket. Mac never hired Harvard lawyers or lawyers who wore bowties.

"An executive order is a legally binding directive issued by the president to a federal agency pursuant to his authority under Article Two of the Constitution. An executive order cannot be challenged by Congress, but it is subject to judicial review. An executive order can be overturned if the president is making law, but not if he is enforcing the law."

"What if he is refusing to enforce the law?"

"That's the question here."

"And what's the answer?"

"Ask Judge Fenney."

Ralph, another head, jumped in. "The president's executive order is unprecedented!"

"Not at all," Stan said. "Prior presidents have issued hundreds of executive orders, but the opposing party always complains that he exceeded his constitutional authority. Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation was an executive order. So was FDR's Works Progress Administration during the Depression and his internment of Japanese-Americans during World War Two, as well as Truman's desegregation of the military and nationalization of the steel industry, the latter having been subsequently overturned by the Supreme Court."

"Then what makes this executive order so special?" the moderator said.

"It's an election year, and it involves immigration," Stan said.

"It involves the president," Ralph said, "who is mad because the Congress won't change the immigration laws according to his desires, making law to suit himself rather than the American people."

"So does Judge Fenney please the president or the Republicans?" the moderator asked.

"The president appointed him to the bench. He'll rule for the president."

"Ralph?"

Ralph frowned. "I'm afraid he's right. Judge Fenney will rule for the president. He's a lawyer, which means he's ambitious. No doubt he wants to move up in the judicial world. Rule for the president, and he will. Rule against the president-against twelve million Mexicans-and he'll never be Supreme Court Justice Fenney."

Mac smiled. Their liberal guy was letting the judge know via television that his decision would affect his professional future. Play ball and move up. Don't play ball and sit on the trial bench in Dallas the rest of your life. Politics in America.

"He was appointed by the president, but more by the late Samuel Buford, the legendary federal judge in Dallas."

"The legendary liberal federal judge in Dallas."

"The president will have his victory."

The heads nodded in consensus, and the show went to a commercial for an antidepressant. After the break, they took up the terrorism case.

"Will Judge Fenney detain Mustafa pending trial?"

"He'd better. This man is a danger to the community. We've all heard his ranting on YouTube-we've heard his ranting on this show. He's a radical Islamic cleric who wants America brought down."

"But there doesn't seem to be any evidence against him."

"Do you want him on the streets?"

"I want him in Guantanamo."

On that all the talking heads agreed.

The priest talked, and the congregation listened. He spoke Spanish; they understood Spanish. The Cathedral Shrine of the Virgin of Guadalupe in downtown Dallas offered three English Masses and three Spanish Masses each Sunday, including this 10:30 service. Catalina Pea loved Mass; just to sit inside the magnificent cathedral was a religious experience. Perhaps it was the stark contrast of the cathedral and her job.

Mass offered hope; her job did not.

Or perhaps it was the setting itself: the stark white walls, pillars, and altar offset by tall stained glass windows; the high arched ceilings; the carvings of the Stations of the Cross mounted on the walls; the brown wood tabernacle and pews. When she sat in a pew in the cathedral, she felt blessed. She wondered if the other members felt as blessed. Many if not most were illegal immigrants from Mexico, including Diego and Sofia Pea, whose only dream was the blessing of American citizenship that she possessed-because she had been born north of the river and not south. One hundred and sixty-eight years ago, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ended the Mexican-American War and established the Rio Grande as the international border between the U.S. and Mexico. Ever since, Mexicans had tried diligently to give birth to their children north of the river; every Mexican knew that a child born north of the river would have a shot at the American dream, while a child born south would only dream. Cat glanced at her parents kneeling next to her in the pew; they had given her a shot, even if they had to live in the shadows. She worked for the FBI, enforcing the laws of America; one such law mandated that Diego and Sofia Pea be removed from America.

"Let us pray," the priest said, "that the president's executive order is upheld by the courts so that we can live in the sunlight and not in the shadows. The president is a good man. He cares about the lives of Mexicans."

The poster nailed to the wall was of the president holding a cute Anglo baby at a political rally with the caption: You're lucky you're an American baby because I kill Pakistani babies with drone strikes.

Another poster showed a little Arab boy writing in blood on a wall below an image of an American Predator drone: Why did you kill my family with a drone strike?

Another showed a dead Arab child with the caption: The American president has killed more children with drones than all other Nobel Peace Prize winners combined.

Abdul jabbar felt the rage rise within him. He knew the statistics: 421 drone strikes in Pakistan; 2,478 Pakistanis killed; 423 civilians killed. Just numbers on a page-unless your father was among the 423. As his was. America had taken his father from him when he was just a boy. He had grown up without a father because America waged war against Islam. He hated America more every day.

"Touchdown!"

But his little brother loved all things American, and nothing more than the Dallas Cowboys. There he sat in front of the big screen television eating falafel like popcorn and watching the Cowboys play the Packers. He wore a white-and-blue Cowboys cap on backwards and a blue-and-white Tony Romo jersey. He was still a child at twenty-two.

"Come," Abdul said. "We have much work to do. Tomorrow is a big day."

"Do we have to?"

His little brother was a bit of a whiner.

"Yes. We must. It is Allah's will. And remember, my brother, there is a reward: seventy-two virgins in heaven."

"I would be happy with one on earth."

"Well, you had better find her fast."

His little brother muted the sound on the TV and turned to him. "Abdul, you are my older brother, and I respect and honor you. I have always looked up to you for guidance, more so than our father. I have always followed you."

"Then follow me now."

"Abdul, I understand your anger, but I must advocate against this course of action."

"You sound like a lawyer."

"Abdul, please, I don't want to kill people. I want to love people. I want to love a girl. I want a girlfriend. I want to kiss her and hold her hand and sext her like other people do. I want to be a lawyer. I want a good life in America, not a glorious death. This is wrong."

"Wrong? Was it wrong, my brother, for that drone missile to kill our father?"

"Yes, of course, but-"

"But what?"

"Is this what our father would have wanted for us? We are educated. We can have good lives in America."

"How can our lives be good in America when America took our father's life in Pakistan?"

When the U.S. government had moved their mother and her two sons to America as recompense for killing her husband and their father, the younger son soon fell in love with America. The older son fell in with radical Muslims at the mosque. He watched other boys in the neighborhood playing soccer with their fathers, and his anger grew stronger each day. He could never forgive America. America had taken his father from him. One did not forgive such an act; one sought revenge for such an act. Neither ISIS nor the Imam had radicalized Abdul jabbar; an American drone missile had.

"Come, brother. We must go to the law school. We can stop by Krispy Kreme on the way."

A donut always lifted his little brother's spirits. But not that day. His brother sighed heavily and turned back to the television just in time to see the Cowboys score on a long pass. But he did not shriek like a little girl as he always did. His voice was soft.

"The Cowboys will go to the Super Bowl."

"So will we, brother."

Abdul wanted to kill Americans. Four days before, he learned that he had the intestinal fortitude to kill. His little brother, not so much.

"The Cowboys are going to the Super Bowl!" Pajamae shrieked. "I wish we could go."

She watched the game, Boo read her book, and Scott pondered his cases. His mind double-tracked between the immigration case and the terrorism case; the two most controversial cases in the country had found their way to his courtroom. He did not seek the cases; they had come to him. The parties came to him for a decision, and decide he must. He could not say, "Go ask someone else." In America, the people come to a judge for an answer. Judge A. Scott Fenney would have to give an answer at ten the next morning. His phone rang and jolted him from his thoughts. It was the attorney general.

"Wondering if you'd call."

"Didn't want to disappoint you."

"And?"

"Don't disappoint your country."

"Mac-"

"Scott, we're fighting evil. These people want to end Western civilization, just like Mustafa testified. They want a world under Islamic law. We're looking to the future, they're living in the past. They want to rid the Middle East of Christians and Jews-'allies of the cross' they call us."

"And then?"

"Then they're coming for us. Imagine a nine-eleven every year. Every month. Every week. Imagine suicide bombings every day in grocery stores, movie theaters, schools, subways, shopping malls, high school football games. Beheadings in the streets. That's the life we'll live. Is that the life you want for your girls?"

"How do we prevent that?"

"We kill or capture every jihadist in the world."

"Is that possible?"

"No. But we have to try. We can't defeat ISIS in Syria because we can't kill civilians. The president wasn't a soldier. He doesn't understand that civilians die in war. The only question is which civilians-theirs or ours? We know the answer now: ours. So we have to kill the jihadists here at home. As fast as we can."

"Mustafa says our drone strikes are creating more terrorists."

"Then we'll kill them, too."

"There's no peaceful resolution?"

"How do you negotiate for peace with people who will strap suicide vests to their children and send them to their deaths? We dream for our children. They kill their children. In the name of Allah."

"Even if all that is true, Mac, the law requires some evidence to detain Mustafa pending trial."

"I told you, there is no evidence. Not yet. But we'll find it before trial, I promise you. Just don't release him."

"We could kill him."

"You want to kill Mustafa if the judge releases him tomorrow morning?"

"I didn't say I want to kill him-well, actually, I do-I said we could kill him."