"You'll enjoy it." She hesitated then said, "Are you okay, Scott?"

"This ain't fun and games, people. This is a fucking manhunt."

The task force had assembled for the morning meeting. So far the status had not changed. His agents had found exactly nothing. Again. And time was running out. The door to the war room opened, and Agents Smith and Pea entered. You'd have thought the Playmate of the Year had walked in buck-naked. The agents bolted from their chairs and fought to get to her first. Because she had more to offer than big tits and a tight ass; she had breakfast tacos.

"Finally," Agent Carson said. "What took you so long?"

"I had to run with the judge," Pea said. "And watch your tone of voice, Carson, or these'll be the last breakfast tacos you ever eat."

"Sorry."

Beckeman sighed. Hungry agents were worthless; and this would be the best meal they had that day. Hell, the tacos did smell good. So he pushed through to the front before the bastards took all the eggs, cheese, and bean tacos.

"How was the run with the judge?" Beckeman said.

He bit into a taco.

"He wasn't what I expected," Pea said. "He's young. Handsome. Fit. He was a star football player in college."

The other agents reverted to their college frat days and gave her an ooooh. She gave them her middle finger just as Agent Stryker barged in.

"Captain, we got an interesting statement from a male at the mosque. Said there were two men he didn't know hanging around now and then. One tall, one short. Thought he heard them say they were brothers. And get this-the tall one played on the mosque soccer team a few times. He was really good."

"And that means what to me?" Beckeman said through a mouthful of eggs, cheese, and beans.

"He wore yellow sneakers."

"Dude, you really love your beer."

He stood at the counter in the photo shop as Abdul had instructed.

"It must measure exactly one hundred inches wide and one hundred ten inches tall," he said.

"The hell you gonna do with it?"

"Uh ... I will place it on my living room wall."

"Your woman okay with that?"

"What woman?"

"Amen, brother."

The law mandates that persons residing illegally in the U.S. be deported. The president does not agree with the law. He could not convince the Congress to change the law. So he changed the law via executive order. That he may not do. As the Supreme Court said in Youngstown Sheet and Tube, when President Truman seized the steel mills by executive order, "In the framework of our Constitution, the President's power to see that the laws are faithfully executed refutes the idea that he is to be a lawmaker. The Constitution limits his functions in the lawmaking process to the recommending of laws he thinks wise and the vetoing of laws he thinks bad. And the Constitution is neither silent nor equivocal about who shall make laws which the President is to execute. The first section of the first article says that 'All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a Congress of the United States....' After granting many powers to the Congress, Article I goes on to provide that Congress may 'make all Laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying into Execution the foregoing Powers, and all other Powers vested by this Constitution in the Government of the United States, or in any Department or Officer thereof.' ... The Founders of this Nation entrusted the lawmaking power to the Congress alone in both good and bad times." The president's executive order violates the Constitution.

Professor John Bookman taught constitutional law at the University of Texas School of Law. He claimed to be the last known practicing Jeffersonian in America. Maybe, maybe not. But he knew the Constitution. He cited the Constitution, Supreme Court cases, and the Federalist Papers, articles written by James Madison, John Jay, and Alexander Hamilton and published in American newspapers advocating ratification of the Constitution by the thirteen states; the articles explained the intent of the Constitution by the men who wrote it. The phrase "human nature" was mentioned over and over again in the papers. The Founding Fathers understood human nature, man's natural desire for more-more money, more power, more everything. As Madison so famously wrote, "If men were angels, no government would be necessary." But they knew men were not angels, and they understood human nature. So they limited the power of man and government in the Constitution. Since 1788 when the Constitution was ratified, federal judges have been called upon to decide whether the president or the Congress exceeded their express powers under the Constitution. Now it was Judge A. Scott Fenney's turn to decide. Did the president exceed his power under Article Two when he issued an executive order that suspended all deportations of persons residing illegally in the U.S.? Perhaps his intentions were good; but good intentions don't count. The Constitution either granted him that power or it did not. The president claimed that he possessed that power. That his discretion was absolute.

Human nature, it seemed, would not be denied.

SIXTEEN.

Friday, 29 January 9 days before the Super Bowl Agents Pea and Smith had been waiting out front Thursday morning and were again that morning. He again ate a breakfast taco; she again wore running gear-black tights, white shirt, and the same red shoes and black waist pack. Scott again wore Under Armour apparel. She again looked him up and down with the same bemused expression.

"Judge, do you endorse Under Armour?"

"Heartily."

"Lots of money?"

"Yes. I pay lots of money to wear their clothes."

She laughed. It was a good laugh. They ran west on Lovers Lane. Agent Smith again waved them off with the taco.

"Any progress in finding those men?"

"The Arabs? No, sir."

"Can they execute the plot without Mustafa?"

"Beckeman says no."

"And what do you say?"

"I ... follow orders."

"I doubt that."

Scott had always enjoyed his runs, quiet time alone to ponder life and the law; it was no longer quiet time. Agent Pea talked nonstop. But he had to admit: it was nice to have someone to run with. He had always run alone. Rebecca had not been a runner. She had been a climber. A social climber. Lunches, dinners, and society balls. That was her course in life.

"Did your wife really run off with the golf pro at your country club?"

Coming from her, the question did not offend Scott. Of course, everyone in America now knew his life story.

"She did."

"And then she was charged with murdering him?"

"She was."

"And you defended her?"

"I did."

"What kind of man defends his ex-wife who left him for the golf pro?"

He had no answer. So she asked another question.

"Where is she now?"

"Somewhere with a man."

Cat Pea pulled the FBI sedan into the carpool lane behind the judge's big Expedition then felt silly for having done so. They could probably have ensured the judge's safety by pulling up to the curb just outside the carpool lane. Ace rode shotgun and carried one. He glanced around at the kids chatting and laughing.

"I feel dumb," Ace said.

"You look dumb, too."

"I mean, sitting in the carpool lane when we don't have kids to drop off."

"I'll drop you off. You're probably the same mental age as these kids."

The judge's two girls jumped out of the Expedition but not before kissing him goodbye. They were cute kids carrying backpacks that looked like they were ready for an Arctic expedition.

"You believe he adopted a black kid?" Ace said. "A hooker's daughter, no less." He chuckled. "Must have caused quite a commotion among these Highland Parkers."

All the Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, and Lexuses in the carpool lane were occupied by white people. Other than the judge's daughter, Cat saw no children of color. Or adults of color, except for the Latino men tending to the school landscape.

"The judge doesn't seem to care what people think," Cat said.

"A good trait in a judge."

"And in a man."

An Anglo teacher whom some men might find attractive-if a man went for a twenty-something with shiny black hair, five-five, one-twenty, full round breasts, and a tight ass-held the back door for the judge's daughters. After they had exited the vehicle, she ducked her head and gave the judge a coy little smile. She said something to him. Cat leaned forward and squinted; she tried to read the woman's lips.

"Did she say, 'Call me?' What the hell's that all about? He can't even drop his kids off at school without some horny teacher coming on to him like a drunken prom queen?"

Ace seemed amused. "Do I detect a twinge of jealousy in your voice, Agent Pea?"

"I mean, how old is she? Twenty-five? The judge is forty. He doesn't want to date a girl that young."

Cat was thirty-one.

"I don't know, she looks mighty fine from where I'm sitting."

"Fuck you. And the fucking horse you rode in on."

Ace whistled. "You've got a mouth on you, girl."

"I haven't had my coffee yet."

"Cat, you can't get a crush on our protectee. That's against the rules."

She caught a glimpse of the judge's blue eyes in the side mirror as he checked for oncoming traffic before exiting the carpool lane. After running with the judge the last three mornings, Cat did have a crush on him. He was handsome, smart, and single; he had defended his ex-wife against a murder charge; and he had adopted a black girl. What's not to like?

"Thought you were pissed 'cause Beckeman put you on the judge's security detail?"

"I was. I am."

"You don't look pissed off ... except at that cute teacher."

They followed the judge out of the carpool lane-Cat fought the urge to shoot the finger (or her Glock) at the cute teacher-and the two miles to downtown and the courthouse garage entrance where the SWAT team took over his security. The night-shift detail would escort him home. But she would see him the next morning. And every morning until the Arabs were captured or killed.

They were Arabs; thus, they were presumed guilty. The law school had become their Guantanamo Bay-no grand jury indictments, no trial by jury, no incriminating evidence, no presumption of innocence. They were treated as enemy combatants by conservative students and liberal professors alike. Fear transcended political affiliation. They felt the hot glare of suspicion, the noose tightening around their neck. Perhaps Abdul was right. Perhaps they would never really be Americans. Perhaps they would always and only be Muslims.

"Do not be afraid, little brother," Abdul said. "Allah is with us."

He wished he were as sure as Abdul that Allah was with Saddam Siddiqui. He had never been as devout or as determined as his older brother. He had always been more carefree, the type to go with the flow, to let the wind take him where it may. Making his mark on the world had never been a priority with him. That attitude had always infuriated his father. And then his father had been killed. Since their father's death, Abdul had been the strong wind in his sails.

"Come on, people, find the Arabs!"

"Captain, we're tracking down every Muslim male in Dallas," Stryker said. "But it takes time."

"We don't have time. The clock's ticking."

The president had called the director at 8:00 A.M. Eastern time; the director had called Beckeman at 7:15 A.M. Central time.

"Are you going to call me every morning?" Beckeman had asked.

"Yes. Because the president calls me every morning."

"That's why you make the big bucks."