Scott was supposed to be a judge. But he couldn't. At that moment, he was only a father.

"Mr. Daniels," Karen said, "the government does not dispute that in order to combat terrorism it is abandoning enforcement of the immigration laws?"

"No, sir ... ma'am."

How did they use the restroom bound and blindfolded?

"I've got to pee," Boo said.

"Again?" the good brother said.

"It's only my second time today."

"Oh. Seems like more with both of you going."

She heard footsteps come close to her and felt his hands on her shoulders.

"If it would be easier for you, we can go together."

"I do not care"-he whispered now-"but Abdul ... my brother would go apeshit."

Boo shrugged. "Have it your way."

"Let the little bitches piss their pants," the bad brother named Abdul said from a distance.

"No," the good brother said, "I will help them."

They had worked out a pee routine with the nice brother. He helped Boo to her feet then led her a short distance; when her socked feet came off the hard wood and slid on the slick tile, she knew she was in the bathroom. He untied her hands but did not remove her blindfold. She could never see their faces; if she did, the bad brother Abdul would cut their heads off. So she waited until she heard the door close, then she knew it was safe to remove the blindfold. Then she peed. He always waited right outside the door, which made her nervous. He could hear her peeing. Yuk.

"I'll be a little longer this time."

"Why?"

"Because I have to, you know, go number two. That falafel runs right through me."

"Oh. Okay, I will come back in a few minutes. But please do not come out until I return."

"I won't. I promise."

She didn't really have to go number two. But she wanted a few minutes to look around the bathroom without him listening at the door. So she peed quickly then pulled up her undies and pants. She wore jeans and a sweater.

The bathroom was small but very nice. It had a fancy toilet and pedestal sink and a walk-in shower. There was a window in the shower, but she couldn't see outside and no one could see in; it was made of those glass blocks like in the gym bathrooms at school. She could not climb out the window or wave for help to anyone outside.

She searched for something sharp to use as a weapon or to cut the bindings, but there was nothing. Just liquid soap in a squirt bottle and a nice little hand towel. There was no cabinet under the sink like in her bathroom. Where did they put their toothbrushes and toothpaste and stuff? Then she remembered A. Scott's bathroom; there was a medicine cabinet behind the mirror above the sink. She tugged on the mirror, and it opened. Tucked into the wall was a shallow cabinet. On the little shelves were toothbrushes, toothpaste, dental floss, tweezers, and a nail clipper. She took the clipper and put it in the back pocket of her jeans where she could reach it with her hands tied. She shut the mirror and stared at her reflection. She looked older.

Pajamae saw his face. Abdul, the bad brother. He didn't see her seeing him. Her blindfold had slipped down just enough for her to see everything. Until her view was suddenly blocked.

"What are you doing?" the good brother whispered.

He quickly stood between her and Abdul then squatted, and she saw his face, too. He had green eyes. He replaced her blindfold and tightened it.

"Please do not tell your sister. If Abdul finds out that you have seen our faces, he will cut your head off, and hers too. And your father's. Maybe even your maid's and her baby's. Promise me you will not tell."

Pajamae was so scared she thought she would wet her pants. But the wet came from her eyes.

"I promise. I promise I won't tell anyone. Please don't let him cut our heads off."

Abdul abruptly stood. "Where is the little white girl?"

"She is in the bathroom."

Abdul handed the remote to his little brother. "You watch the football on TV, I will check on her."

"Why?" He stood; his voice sounded loud to his own ears. "Why, Abdul?"

"Because she is old enough."

"For what?"

"To be my sabaya."

For the first time in his life, he stood up to his big brother.

"No, Abdul."

"Yes."

"No."

"She is an unbeliever. It is allowed. It is halal."

"By whom?"

"The Koran. Al Baghdadi. The caliph himself took the American hostage as his sabaya."

Their father had always been Abdul's man of haqq-the truth. Now the caliph was that man.

"You are not al Baghdadi. This it not Syria. We are not ISIS. And she is not your sex-slave!"

"I am Muslim. I am ISIS. I have pledged bayah to al Baghdadi."

"I will not allow it."

Abdul snatched a paper off the table and read with great anger. " 'Enslaving the families of the kuffar and taking the women as concubines is a firmly established aspect of the Sharia-that if one were to deny or mock, he would be denying or mocking the verses of the Koran and the narrations of the Prophet.' That was in Dabiq, the words of great Islamic scholars. Are you a great Islamic scholar, little brother? Do you deny or mock the Koran?"

"If the Koran truly allows that, then I do deny it. And I do not want to be a Muslim anymore."

Abdul slapped him. His face burned, but he did not flinch.

"Why is that little girl supposed to be raped by you? Why am I supposed to die at twenty-two? Because someone wrote words in a book fourteen hundred years ago that says God hates Christians and Jews and so I must hate Christians and Jews as well. I do not. I do not hate Christians or Jews or anyone. I do not care if they believe in Islam. I am no longer sure I believe in Islam. Not if this is what it means to be a Muslim in the age of ISIS-I must be a jihadist, I must take innocent little girls as sex-slaves, I must kill innocent people in a football stadium. So sit down, Abdul jabbar! I will check on the girl!"

He walked off, but he heard Abdul's voice.

"No one is innocent, brother."

"You finished?"

He was back.

"Just a sec."

She flushed the toilet then replaced the blindfold.

"I'm ready."

She heard the door open. He retied her hands and checked her blindfold to be sure it wouldn't slip down. He led her back to her sister.

"You okay, Pajamae?"

"Whereas."

She did not sound whereas. But the good brother giggled.

"Whereas. You sound like a law student."

Boo froze: They're law students! Which made her think. A. Scott was always giving them teaching moments when he tried to explain the choices in life and help them make good choices instead of bad choices. Maybe she had a teaching moment with the good brother.

"You know, you don't have to help your brother kill people."

Abdul was a man. A bad man. He was just a boy. A good boy.

"Abdul, he hates Americans. Me, I like them."

"You're not American?"

"No. We were born in Pakistan. We have been here thirteen years. We're naturalized citizens."

"Then you're Americans. Just like us. You belong here."

"We do not belong to any country. We belong only to our religion. That is what Abdul says."

"Oh. See that's the problem. We're Baptists on Sundays, the rest of the week we're Americans."

"We are always Muslims."

Cat texted Scott for the sixth time at three.

Scott, please talk to me. I gave myself to you because I care for you. I might even love you. Please don't shut me out.

He shut her out.

The call came at four.

"Release the Imam."

He hung up.

"Scotty, we need to call in the FBI," Bobby said.

"Beckeman said they communicate over the dark Internet."

"What's the dark Internet?" Louis said.

"A place you can't google," Scott said.

"We need a hacker," Carlos said.

"I know one."

Louis drove; Scott evaded the FBI security detail at the garage exit by hiding in the back seat of the Dodge Charger. They arrived at the federal minimum-security prison in Seagoville south of Dallas at five. What the press had dubbed a "Club Fed" prison, as if the inmates were lounging poolside reading the Wall Street Journal after a round of golf. There was no golf course; there were tennis courts and white inmates. This penitentiary was home to cheats, crooks, conmen, and other white-collar criminals-white men who had committed financial crimes. Black criminals were in state prison. Scott had called ahead. The warden was waiting for him. Louis stayed in the car; prisons scared him.

"Uh, Judge, this is a bit unusual-okay, it's never happened before-a federal judge coming to see an inmate he sentenced. What's up?"

"I need his help."

"What kind of help?"

"It's a personal matter. And a confidential one. But nothing illegal. Nothing that would get you in trouble."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm just visiting an inmate."