Chapter 1

Ted lumbered through the foyer of his home, following the sound of his wife’s guitar back to her office. He waited for a few minutes outside the door, listening as she picked out a simple but beautiful tune on the instrument. The air smelled normal, plain, like nothing in particular. That meant that she had not had a chance to cook dinner, which meant she was overcome either with work or depression. And the fact that she was playing the guitar meant it was probably the latter, or maybe both. Ted pushed open the office door. 

“Hi, Clyde,” he said. “You had a day, too, I see.” 

She stopped playing. “Hey, you,” she said kindly. “No, I was just thinking.” 

“Thinking. Sounds pretty scary. Or depressing,” he said without cracking a smile. 

She paused to gaze at the man towering over her in a suit coat and tie. Her eyes seemed to dwell on his graying rooftop. 

I feel old, Ted thought. Too old to be working twelve-hour days. Too old to dragging my butt home late, again.

He bent down to kiss her. Their lips lingered over each other for a moment, and then they pressed gently but passionately together. Ted tenderly stroked her loose, fiery curls. Then he admired her creamy, slightly freckled skin, her arched eyebrows, her soft complexion.

She sighed. 

She looks too young for me, he thought. Too precious, too passionate.

“What’s for dinner?” he said. 

“Well, I wanted to make chicken-curry soup, but I got distracted.” 

“So… Nothing for dinner?” 

“Well, I was working on the QX project, and then the phone rang.” 

“So nothing for dinner.” 

“Well, I guess whatever you want. I had a late lunch, so I’m not really hungry. There’s some bologna in the fridge.” 

Ted turned toward the kitchen. 

Clydene set down her guitar and followed him. 

“So I was working on the QX project. They’re still screwed up. Another story.” She took a breath. “And Mira called.” 

“Great,” he said. “What does she need now?” He grabbed the bologna and a bottle of mustard, and headed for the kitchen table. 

Clydene’s curls bounced as she walked, like tight, little springs hanging from her head. 

Really looks too young for me, Ted thought.

“She doesn’t need anything. Well, nothing new, anyhow. She’s been planning for that demonstration outside Town Hall.” 

“Yes.” Ted snatched a loaf of bread from the shelf behind him. 

“She thinks she’s in trouble,” Clydene said. 

Ted paused. Then he breathed in. “She probably is.” 

Clydene regarded him. “Why? What do you know?” 

“I know only what you do. Less, probably.” He returned to his sandwich ingredients. “What do you know?” 

“Remember I told you about that web form I coded up a couple weeks ago?”

“Yes.” 

“I spent almost a whole day trying to get it working the way the analyst suggested. That was stupid. I should have stuck with my instincts.” 

“Okay.” 

“So I started over, and did what I should have done in the first place. And I had it done in an hour.” 

“That’s a nice story. Is Mira designing software now?” He squirted a trail of mustard onto each of two slices of bread. 

“No, but—“ Clyde stammered. She started again. “When she gets a feeling that something is wrong, she’s usually right.” 

“Okay. What’s wrong?” 

“Mira knows political activism.” 

“She hasn’t been ‘an activist’ any longer than you or I,” Ted retorted. He was beginning to get annoyed and wished that Clyde would stop beating around the bush. 

“But she’s better at it than we are,” Clyde countered. 

“She’s also a perfectionist. And she sees problems that don’t matter to the rest of us.” 

“So what? You think that means she’s not in trouble?” 

“I think that means we have to wait and see,” Ted said. 

“Wait and see if she gets hurt?” Clydene was clearly disturbed. 

Ted stopped and looked at her. “No—” 

“You believe in the Committee as much as I do. At least I thought you did.” 

“Ironic, isn’t it? If she succeeds, I’m out of a job.” That wasn’t actually true, but a part of Ted liked arguing. And he was just too tired to be nice. 

“You mean you’d have to get bona fide work, instead of defending victims? Is that your problem?” 

Ted stared at her. “My problem is that I don’t know how to read the future.”

“That’s not funny, Ted.” 

“I’m not laughing, Clyde.” 

A pause. Clyde was staring at the ceiling. She seemed to be gathering her thoughts. Ted wished, if she wanted him to do something, she would just ask him, so that he could say “No,” eat his sandwich, and go to bed. And if she didn’t want anything, she would just say that, too, so he could just eat his sandwich and go to bed. 

Clydene finally said, in that sad but firm voice that only Clyde knew, “I wish you could be a little more sympathetic.” 

Ted’s heart softened. He really was old: old and tired. Too old to learn any new tricks, and too tired to try. 

He replied as sweetly as he could, “Clyde, I’m glad Mira’s your friend. And I’m fond of her, too. All I meant was that she’s standing up to Sam Baedes. It stands to reason that she’ll get into trouble. I don’t know how or when. I’ve gone over the plan with her. She’s not doing anything wrong. We both know that. But do you think that’s going to stop him?” 

“Exactly!” Clyde said. 

“Indeed. And we’ll both be there to stand up for her when the time comes. Right?” 

Clyde was now staring at the pattern in the kitchen linoleum. Ted knew that pattern well. He had stared at it himself. 

“Right?” he repeated, reaching out to caress her cheek. 

“Right,” Clyde agreed. 

“Unfortunately, the next step is to wait and see what happens.” 

Clydene looked back up at him. “I just wish you could show a little more sympathy.” 

Ted touched her shoulder. He breathed in, then breathed out. Apologizing was the most difficult thing Ted had ever had to learn to do. But for numerous months, he had been making a concerted effort to be more understanding to those around him, and to apologize quickly, whenever he might have offended someone, even if he didn’t really understand why they were offended. This was one of those cases. He knew he was arguing with Clyde, and she didn’t feel like arguing, and the conversation was upsetting her, even if he didn’t know why this particular conversation was different from any of the other friendly debates they had.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He had learned the form of the apology from Mira herself. “I’m being insensitive. I’m tired, and I’m not thinking about how you feel. Please forgive me.” 

Clyde sighed and smiled a little. “I would really like a hug,” she said. 

So he held her for a while. 

---

Mira knew Chief Beady-eyes was out to get her. Of course, he was out to get her. Everyone knew he was out to get her. But Mira also knew he was on the verge of action. 

She knew he was on the verge of action. But she didn’t know how she knew. She just knew. She just had a feeling. It wasn’t fear that gave her this feeling, because she didn’t feel afraid. This surprised people when they first met her. This tiny, dark-eyed, raven-haired woman, not much bigger than a girl, stood up to tall, strong Sam Baedes, because there was only so much he could do to her. And because someone needed to stand up to him, and no one else would do it.

Maybe she had this feeling because none of his goons had harassed her in weeks, despite the fact that she had been planning for a big demonstration at the town hall, with protesters and victims telling their stories and hecklers and reporters drooling all over their notepads and everything. But that alone wasn’t enough, because Baedes didn’t make it a habit to get on her case indiscriminately. He always had a good excuse, no matter how contrived it was, and he never did anything overtly illegal. Besides, she had organized political protests before with no fallout. Even so, this was the biggest yet. Her demands for an independent council to investigate abuses in Beades’s department had started her troubles. That Baedes would be called to account, this was the vision she held in her mind. And Lando Benitez, he was the victim she held in her memory.

There was something she had heard at the last envelope-stuffing party, something that troubled her, though she couldn’t say why. It was an off-hand comment someone had made. The words still rang in Mira’s ears: 

“He’s all in on this one. You can be sure of it. Ol’ Beady-eyes is gonna stop us, even if it takes all of his men, even if someone knocks over the Tangelo Street Diner.” 

The Tangelo Street Diner was a well known cop hang-out. Clearly, this was supposed to be a joke, to build morale. Because nothing pleases an activist more than to hear that he’s the top priority on his adversary’s hit-list. An activist’s biggest fear is that he will be ignored. But the comment still gave Mira pause. Not that she was concerned about herself. She wasn’t. She was, however, concerned that the protest go as planned. If something went wrong, it would grieve and anger her to have the press show up Monday morning to a non-event. 

Of course, if he tried to shut it down, that could make for an even bigger story for the press release:

Police-Abuse Protest Squelched by Chief

Abe’s Turn Chief of Police Sam Baedes today at the local town hall oversaw the arrest of numerous demonstrators, who were protesting abuses of power by the local police force.

“This is a perfect example of the kind of abuse of process we’re talking about,” protest organizer Mira Jayson said from her jail cell. “We just want to have our say, to take part in the democratic process. But he consistently shuts down dissent on a technicality. Can’t he take honest, peaceful criticism?”

And so forth. 

That part about the technicality was just speculation on Mira’s part. And that was the problem. She knew something had to go down. She just didn’t know what, or when, or who, or where, or how. 

She had another concern, too, one that she tried to push to the side every chance she got. While she was happy to be arrested for the cause, she always grieved when others were attacked along with her. Yes, she knew it was good for morale and good for the cause. People who are willingly arrested for what they believe in only believe in it more. But these were people, human beings, and they were people she considered her friends. 

These thoughts filled Mira’s mind as she drove quietly down the road. She even forgot Ike sitting in the passenger’s seat next to her, until he broke the silence. 

“Did you miss your turn?” he said. 

Ike had been resting his eyes after a long, hot day on top of a roof. He was sweaty and sticky and smelly and dirty. 

Dirty. Mira loved the sound of that word, especially sitting next to Ike. And sometimes she loved how he sweated and how he stuck and how he smelled. And sometimes she loved the rugged look of his five-o’clock shadow. Or the way his short, straight hair clumped together after he woke up from a nap. She blinked and forced herself to breathe, to get her heart beating again. Thoughts of Ike often distracted her.

Being an apprentice roofer was hard, dangerous work. But it was good work. Mira was glad he was making the job work, and that she had not misjudged him. Not many people would trust a parolee, and she called in some heavy favors just to get him the opportunity. She smiled at the thought.

He was right, though. She had missed the turn. Deep in thought, she had forgotten that she was going to drop Ike off at his place, on her way home from work. 

“You’re right. Sorry. I’ll double-back,” she said. 

It was then that she noticed the flashing red and blue lights in her rear-view mirror. 

“How long has he been behind us?” she asked, as she pulled the car over to the side of the road. 

“Don’t know,” Ike replied. 

Now that they had fully stopped, a uniformed man with a crew cut stepped out of the car with the flashing lights. He sauntered up to the driver’s-side window of Mira’s car and looked in. He was older than the two in the car, by at least ten years, but as fit as Jack La Lanne. Still, time had etched hard lines into his grim visage. His voice resonated with a deep basso quality. 

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” 

“No, Chief, I don’t,” Mira replied politely, “but I’m sure you have a good reason.” There was a note of sarcasm in her tone that only she could detect. 

Baedes pursed his lips. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, motioning to Ike. 

“Just a friend. Isn’t it a little unusual for you to be making traffic stops?” 

“In a small town like this, we all do our fair share.” He looked in at Ike. “What have you been up to? Staying out of trouble?” 

“Yes, Sir, I have.” 

“Think again.” 

By the look on his face, Ike could’ve been playing poker. Mira eyed him carefully. But she believed him when he said he was keeping out of trouble.

The man at the window turned back to Mira. “Your registration expired last week.” 

A sudden tightness gripped Mira’s chest. 

“Driving with an expired registration is an arrestable offense,” the chief added. 

Silence. No one asked what he was going to do. No one even asked whether he had called in backup, though he surely knew whose car he was following and that Mira Jayson would offer no physical resistance. 

Mira knew what was happening, though. This was it. This was his move. True, Abe’s Turn wasn’t all that tiny, and it was unusual for the chief to be making a traffic stop, no matter what he said. But Mira didn’t have to deduct the true purpose of his stop. She could see it in his eyes. 

He continued speaking to Mira. “You’re also a convicted felon. It’s a violation of his parole to be associating with you.” 

That sounded like bullshit. Neither Mira nor Ike challenged it, however. 

The chief continued. “Mr. Morgan, slowly get out of the car, hands on your head, and come to the back of the car. Then you, Miss Jayson.” 

He followed Ike around to the back. Mira opened her door as instructed and was getting out, when suddenly a loud banging noise came from behind her. She swung around to see. The chief had Ike in a headlock. Ike was scraping wildly to get out of it. Suddenly, Ike was free and staggering backwards toward the side of the road. The chief came after him and knocked him to the ground. 

Without thinking, Mira had run up to the back of the car, and now she tried to get to Ike, who was struggling to sit. Suddenly, the chief’s billy club, propelled by great force, whacked Mira in the forehead, sending her body smashing sideways against the car. She might have seen Ike pinned and then handcuffed, were she not unconscious.

---

“I need you to export the brochure to Flash and download it to their server before you leave.” 

Michael looked up from his desk at his boss’s face. “Uhm… Why do you need that?” he said, grinning slightly. He decided to play a little cat-and-mouse with the pointy-haired one, since it was already half past six in the evening, a time when normal people had already gone home for the day. 

“I told them we would do it today.” 

All at once, there were squeaking and shuffling noises from the adjoining cubicles. 

“O-kay,” Michael sang, as though considering carefully his next words. “We’re happy to do whatever needs to be done,” he said. “And I’ll do my best. But I need you to check with me first before promising the client something that makes no grammatical sense.” 

The man smiled. “Riiiight,” he said, playing along. 

Michael continued, “I mean, if I have to promise to deliver gibberish, you at least have to get my sign-off on the gibberish I’ll have promised to deliver.” 

The woman on the other side of the cubicle wall suddenly guffawed loudly. 

“Michael Kelly, everyone!” said the man. “Let’s all give him a big round of applause!” 

The office erupted in applause and hoots and laughter. 

Michael segued into his best Elvis impersonation. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” 

After the commotion died down, the man continued, “Seriously, though, can you do that?” 

“Uh, seriously, it’s gibberish.” He found that the direct approach almost always worked the best. Besides, it gave him a chance to verbally poke at the man, and that was always good for a laugh.

The boss’s eyes narrowed, his face turning into a scowl. 

“I’d be happy to call him and see what he wants,” Michael quickly added. “If it’s easy enough, I can even bang it out before I leave. Probably it is. Otherwise, I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.” 

The man shook his head. “I’d rather that we arrange a conference call tomorrow.” He meant he wanted to arrange a meeting, using the conference room’s speaker-phone. 

“Okay,” Michael said. “We can do that. But he’s probably waiting for something. That’s why he called you. Let’s try to set something up right now. Is there a conference room free?” 

“No, the—“ 

Michael put up his hand. “I’m going to call him right now and clarify what he’s expecting.” 

“I don’t think that’s such a good—“ 

“If we can’t deliver it tonight, I’ll hand the phone over to you, and you can schedule a meeting for tomorrow morning. Okay?” 

The man frowned, sighed. “Go ahead.” 

But before Michael could make the call, the phone rang. 

He lifted the receiver to his ear. “Hello. This is Michael.” 

“I’m glad I caught you,” said the voice in slow, measured tones. “This is Ted Jackson. You’ll never believe what happened.” 

“Um. The Abe’s Turn Post Office now opens all mail for signs of inflammatory political truth?” Michael sneaked a peek at the expression on his boss’s face. 

“No, but close enough,” the voice continued. “Mira’s been arrested.” 

“Well, she should have been staying out of trouble,” Michael said in the deepest voice he could muster, mimicking the big, burly police chief. 

“Not so funny today, I’m afraid,” Ted said.

“Hey, mocking Beady-eyes is always funny.” 

“Hilarious.” 

“You’re making fun of me,” Michael said. 

“What tipped you off?” 

“Sometimes, I don’t get you, Ted. Are you joking, or are you pissed?” 

“I’m pissed at the world, pissed at the system, pissed at God, and pissed at the man who thinks he ought to be telling God what to do.” 

“You know, for a minor character, he sure does use up a lot of our legitimate complaining time,” Michael observed. 

“You think he’s a minor character?” 

“He ought to be a minor character. Humble public servant and all that.” 

“I’m afraid you’re not being realistic,” Ted said. “The system doesn’t actually work that way.” 

Michael sneaked another peek at his boss, who was waiting impatiently. Michael held up an index finger and mouthed, “Just one second.” 

“No witty rejoinder?” Ted said. 

“What did he pick her up for?” 

“Driving with an expired registration.” 

“Shit,” Michael said. “I knew I forgot something.” 

“Doing the right thing is sometimes as hard as getting away with murder,” Ted said. 

“Murder might be preferable. Anyways, I have to get to a meeting. Thanks for telling me, though.” 

“Isn’t it a little late for a meeting?” 

“It’s a late meeting.” 

“Speaking of which, can you stop by my place tonight? So we can have a late meeting, too.” 

“Or a prayer vigil,” Michael said. 

Chapter 2

Baedes was in the middle of filling out an arrest report in his office. He looked up from his desk to regard a tall, athletic woman dressed in a blue uniform, who had just entered. She was awe-inspiring, not just for her physical prowess and beauty, but even more for her accomplishments. Pale and soft from one angle, she stood as an amazon from another. Her academic achievements were significant, having earned a degree in Criminal Justice, having graduated from the police academy with flying colors, and now having made an outstanding young officer. She brought passion and dedication to the job. 

All of Baedes’s force was made up of fine officers. He stuck up for them, and they were loyal to him. But occasionally, Baedes met one that made his heart swoon. Not in a romantic way. Pamela Burns was much too young for him. She made his heart swoon in a proud, fatherly way. Just her being here was a credit to Abe’s Turn and to him for hiring her and to the society he had worked so hard to build here. His chest swelled with pride, but he suppressed the feeling. 

“I have those records you wanted,” she said. 

“Good,” he said. “Has Miss Jayson been processed?” 

“Yes, Sir,” she said. 

He took the folder full of papers.

“Ike Morgan is still waiting outside,” she said. 

“I know,” Baedes said. But before she left, “Do you know why I haven’t talked to him yet?” 

“Not exactly.” 

“Because he’s a bargaining chip.” 

The woman looked confused. 

“Sit down, Burns.” 

She sat. 

“Unfortunately, the law doesn’t always do so well on its own. Sometimes the guilty need a little help to bring them to justice.” 

“Ike Morgan needs a push?” Pamela looked confused. 

“No, Mira Jayson does.” 

“You aren’t talking about…” 

“I needed to make sure she was arrested in a way that would stick.” 

Officer Burns nodded. “That makes sense.” 

“So I made sure Ike Morgan and I got into a scuffle. That would guarantee not only driving an unregistered vehicle, but also resisting arrest, attempted assault, and anything else I can think of to throw at her.” 

“But what do you put in the report? Do you lie?” 

“No!” Baedes said. “Never lie. Everything in my report is one hundred percent God’s honest truth. Morgan and I were in a scuffle. That’s the truth. Jayson charged at me. That’s the truth. I made a split-second decision. That’s the truth. All truth.” 

“Didn’t you risk exposing yourself by getting into a scuffle?” she asked. 

“Know your adversary,” Baedes said. “These two probably wanted to be arrested. I was safe.” 

“Well, I guess she’ll have some trouble getting on her high horse from the depths of a jail cell.” She smirked. 

“Indeed.” Baedes grinned. “Don’t worry, you’ll pick it up quickly enough. You just need to get a little street-smarts under your belt.”

“I appreciate your tutelage, Sir,” she replied. 

Baedes still grinned. “Send in Ike Morgan on your way out.” 

“Yes, Sir.” Officer Burns nodded, rose, and was out the door. 

Ike entered, his hands handcuffed in front of him. 

Baedes had returned to his report. Without looking up, Baedes motioned Ike to a chair. 

Ike sat. 

“I’m just finishing up your arrest report,” Baedes said, still writing. “But I haven’t decided yet what to do with you.” 

---

Clydene had never been to a prayer vigil. And this night, she really didn’t feel like praying. Cursing, yes. Punching a bag, maybe. Ripping a pillow to shreds, definitely. But praying? No way. She was all prayed out. So instead of praying, the three friends sat in the Jackson’s living room and chatted and nibbled stale cookies and sipped burnt coffee. Or rather, Michael and Ted chatted and nibbled stale cookies and sipped burnt coffee, while Clydene seethed. 

“I must admit,” Ted began, “I didn’t let you in on the whole story over the phone.” 

“Didn’t think I could handle it, eh?” Michael said. “Well, you were probably right.” 

Michael’s spooky, sapphire eyes cut through the air between them. Actually, the spookiness came more from how his irises were set off by his black hair. The contrast made them stick out visually, like little glowing blue orbs. 

Who can? Clydene thought.

“I do think you can handle it. But I thought I should tell you in person,” Ted said.

Michael took a notebook and pen from his pocket. “Okay. What’s the situation?” 

“I’m going to meet with Mira again tomorrow morning. She’s currently being held at the county jail. 

“She was driving Ike Morgan home from work. You remember him. Mira met him through a colleague and has been helping him out.” 

“Right,” Michael said. “The bum. A ‘professional’ relationship.” He used finger-quotes around the word professional.

Clydene had been staring into her coffee. At this point, she looked up. Oh God, Ted, you started it now. Her expression showed nothing.

“I admittedly haven’t inquired deeply into their relationship,” Ted said. “But I do believe it’s currently on a professional level, or semi-professional at least. They don’t have a client-counselor relationship, but I don’t think they’ve been… untoward.” 

“But her feelings are distorting her judgment,” Michael said. 

Yeah, so what? That has nothing to do with it.

“You don’t know that,” Ted said. “And even if they were, I don’t think it matters in this case. Ike didn’t get her arrested.” 

“Still, she may not be giving you the whole story. She may be giving you the edited version,” Michael countered. 

Jeez! With friends like this…

“Fine. May I continue now?” Ted seemed annoyed, but Clydene was still wrapped up in her own thoughts. 

Of course, she’s giving the edited story. So what? She doesn’t want anybody to get hurt.

“Sure. Go ahead.” Michael prepared to write. 

But she’s still going to tell the truth.

“The official complaint is that she resisted arrest, aided the attempted escape of a convict in custody, and attempted assault on a police officer.”

Instead of writing anything down, however, Michael looked surprised. “Mira?” 

“Yes.” 

“Resisting arrest.” Michael was clearly stunned. 

“Yes.” 

Clydene quietly observed the two men. Unfortunately, she had already heard the whole story from her husband. Her teeth were clenched. 

“But Mira likes to be arrested. It’s her thing. Helping the cause and all that.”

“Yes, I know.” 

“And assault? Mira doesn’t even like to kill spiders. They’re saying she attacked another human being?” 

More likely the other way around!

“Based on these accusations, the D.A. has already met with the judge ex parte and she is being held pending a bail hearing tomorrow.” 

“Wow. Must have been like being assaulted by an ant. Uh…” Michael paused. “Did she do it?” 

No, she didn’t.

“No, I don’t believe she did.” 

“You don’t believe she did.”

“At this point, I have only my belief, based on the official reports and especially on Mira’s side of the story.” 

And that isn’t good enough for you?!

“Okay. What is Mira’s side of the story?” Michael made a note in his notebook. 

“She was pulled over for driving with an expired registration. Oh, and you should add that to the list of charges.” 

“Sure. Gotta get those unregistered drivers off the road! Crazy sons of bitches are a danger to all us drunks.” 

Clydene smiled, a short, angry, evil smile. Her teeth were still clenched. 

“It’s an arrestable offense, but most officers don’t arrest for it. They just demand that you get the car off the road immediately—tow it if necessary—until you get the registration renewed.”

“Well, most officers don’t work in Abe’s Turn. Besides that, the paperwork is a pain.” Michael chuckled. 

“Yes, and most officers don’t have a personal ax to grind with Mira Jayson.” 

Michael looked up. “What do you mean?” 

“Baedes handled this one personally,” Ted explained. “He’s listed as the arresting officer.” 

He wanted to make sure it went down without a hitch.

“He’s finally been demoted?” Michael joked. “That’s great news, right?” 

He knew only he would be willing to do whatever it took.

“No, he was just ‘getting in some street time.’” Ted’s tone changed slightly to indicate these were not his words. “At least that’s what he said when I met him in the hallway.” 

“Street time.” Right. Hit the pavement! Jerk.

“Okay, so Beady-eyes tried to arrest Mira. What happened then?” 

“He also arrested Ike.” 

“Well, maybe Beady-eyes isn’t all bad,” Michael quipped. 

Shut up already about it, will ya?

“He claimed Ike was associating with a felon, thus violating his parole.” 

“He was associating with a felon?” Michael stared quizzically. 

“Mira.” 

“Mira was associating with a felon.” That seemed to make more sense to Michael. 

Clydene closed her eyes for a moment. She thought she might be getting a headache, because she understood exactly what Ted meant the first time. 

“No, Mira is a felon,” Ted clarified.

“She is?” 

“No, she isn’t. But Baedes said she is.” 

“What?” Michael seemed even more confused than he did before. 

No, What’s on second. Who is on first. If you were inside of Clydene’s head, this joke would have been funny.

Ted started over again. “Baedes claimed Mira was a felon. Therefore, he said, Ike was violating his parole by associating with Mira.” 

But surely he knew this wouldn’t stick.

“Why would he say that?” 

He must have something else in mind. A bigger plan. What? Clyde couldn’t have told you why she thought there was a bigger plan, but it seemed logical to her.

“He was mistaken.” Ted pushed on. “While he was handcuffing Ike, a physical conflict ensued. Mira ran to Ike’s side, but Baedes must have thought she was— That she had another goal in mind.” 

“Fine.” Michael scrawled on his pad. “So he hasn’t been demoted, but he has lost all his marbles.” 

“Exactly,” Ted said. 

This is news? Now, that was a funny joke.

“And,” Ted added, “I’ll try to get you a photo of her with the bruise across her forehead.” 

“Beg pardon?” 

“Where Baedes hit her and knocked her unconscious.” 

Shithead. Effing shithead jerk. Similar incidents were commonplace in Abe’s Turn. But Clyde was particular angry about this one. Mira was, after all, her closest and dearest friend, and Clyde knew what it was like to be beat up by a crazy son­of­a­bitch, and Mira didn’t deserve it. No one did, but Mira especially.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” Michael said. “How much of this can we use?”

Clydene felt ill. 

“None of it,” Ted said. 

“What?!” Michael looked exasperated. “Why did you tell it to me?” 

“Firstly, you need to know.” 

“I do? You’re kidding? I don’t need to know anything! I know nothing. I see nothing. I hear nothing.” 

Shut up. You talk too much.

“But this you do need to know, and I’ll tell you why.” 

“This ought’a be good,” Michael said. 

“Tomorrow, we’re going before the judge, and I’m hoping he will dismiss the whole thing as a simple misunderstanding,” Ted explained. “I expect it to be a cinch. In that case, we’ll need to issue an immediate press release making us sound triumphant and victimized at the same time.” 

“No problem,” Michael said. 

Not good enough. Thinking about Beady-eyes, He deserves a stronger tongue-lashing than that.

“But if we lose,” Ted continued, “we’ll need to announce Mira’s arrest and trial. I want you to write that one first.” 

“I thought you said it was a cinch.” 

“There’s a chance that it won’t be.” Ted paused. “Something feels wrong about this case.” 

You didn’t believe me when I said that.

“What do you mean?” Michael asked. 

“I think the D.A. has something hidden up his sleeve, something he got from Baedes.” 

“Like what?” 

“If I knew that, it wouldn’t be hidden up his sleeve.” 

“Voodoo litigation? You gonna argue that in court?” Michael stared at him sideways. 

“Let’s just be prepared, okay?” Ted said. 

“Sure. Just give me more work to do.”

“That’s Mira’s way,” Ted said. 

“What does that mean?” Michael asked. 

“She gets herself into these situations all the time.” 

You really don’t understand, do you?

“Yeah, well, she makes waves,” Michael agreed. 

Suddenly, Clydene opened her mouth. “Shithead jerks! Even on our side you’re shithead jerks!” She stammered for a second. “God!” she shouted. And then she slammed her coffee cup onto the table and stormed out of the house. 

---

“All rise!” 

Ted stood, as did everyone else in the courtroom. Beside him stood Mira, a bruise stretching across her forehead. But she looked smart in her gray suit and skirt, and stood as tall and proud as her stature would allow. When just a few minutes earlier she had wished him a happy birthday, Ted had brushed off the sentiment, because he thought it was stupid. Now, he wondered whether he had hurt her feelings, because things like that seemed to matter to Mira. Ted peeked at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked proud, not hurt. 

“Criminal court is now in session, the honorable Nathaniel V. Spiller presiding.” 

The judge took his seat, as did everyone else in the room. He was wearing a long, dark robe and a long, dark scowl to match. 

“Docket number 07233, State versus Jayson—” 

Ted stood. “Defendant waives reading and moves for dismissal.” 

“On what basis?” the judge asked. 

“Lack of probable cause, Your Honor. The official police report gives no indication of any plausible aggression by Miss Jayson. She was carrying no weapons, and she is much smaller than the arresting officer; therefore, she posed no credible threat. All we have to go on is the feeling of the arresting officer.

“Furthermore, the official report omits several facts, in favor of my client—” 

“Do you mean to say that the report is incomplete?” the Judge asked. 

“I do not know whether the arresting officer faithfully reported all that he saw. But I do know that no jury in the state would convict my client based on the evidence.” 

The judge turned to the prosecutor. 

“There is additional evidence, Your Honor. Ike Morgan, who was in the car with her, will testify to the fact that Miss Jayson threatened him, and that she then attempted to assault the officer who was arresting her.” 

“Ike Morgan was also picked up at the same time Miss Jayson was. As a parolee, he no doubt feels great pressure to back up the government’s case,” Ted countered. 

“A question for a jury, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said. 

The judge spoke. “I tend to agree, Mr. Jackson. This case is not cut and dry.” 

“Before you make that determination, we ask for an immediate probable cause hearing. We also ask that Miss Jayson be released on personal recognizance.” 

“You’re kidding!” the prosecutor said. “These are serious charges.” 

“Miss Jayson is an upstanding member of the communit—” 

“With an arrest record a mile long!” 

“But always in the context of non-violent protest.” Ted knew he was visibly fuming, desperately trying to restrain himself, to keep his mind on track. “She is well known for her political activism and non-violent political protests.” 

“Well,” the prosecutor quipped, “I guess she ran out of non-violent ways to get her point across. Now she’s a terrorist with a martyr-complex.”

“Fear-mongering and speculation. Ridiculous, because there isn’t one shred of evidence to support any of it! More to the point: Miss Jayson poses an extremely low flight risk, because she has always appeared at court when required, and her activism gives her strong ties to the community. ” 

A sudden quiet fell over the court room. Ted could hear his own heavy, labored breathing. He could feel his heart still pounding inside his chest. His mind was racing, already listing all the points at which he might have gone wrong. 

The judge finally spoke. “Let’s have a probable cause hearing. Tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock?” He scanned the nods of the attorneys. “Bail is set at one million dollars. Court is in recess.” And he banged his gavel. 

Later, Ted met Mira at the jail. He sat at a solitary table in the center of a small room, facing a sturdy, windowed door. The place stank the musty smell of a government facility. The door opened and a uniformed guard led Mira in and watched her sit in the vacant chair opposite her lawyer. The guard exited, closing the door on the way out. Ted could see him through the door. 

Ted began. “Ike is now saying you bragged about having a weapon and that you threatened Baedes. He also says he relayed this information to Baedes, which is why he reacted the way he did.” 

Mira gave him a desperate look. It could have been bewilderment. It could have been betrayal. Or maybe it was just anger. “But— I— I didn’t have a gun. Are they saying I had a gun?” 

“No, you didn’t have a gun. And I don’t believe Ike. His story has more holes than a colander.” 

Mira interrupted. “What’s he getting out of it?” 

“Getting? You mean Ike?” 

“Yes, what’s Ike getting out of it?” 

“Well, I hear they’re dropping all charges against him. They’re saying it was just a misunderstanding but that you seized the opportunity to attack Baedes.”

“They’re dropping the charges.” Mira stared at the floor. “Ike is desperate,” she said. 

“I’m sure he is. But we’re desperate, too, Mira. Baedes is clearly threatening Ike in order to get to you. And because of the position Ike is in, that’s exceedingly easy to do.” 

“And there’s nothing illegal in that?” 

Ted scoffed. “What’s legal anymore? Anything a person can get away with. And Baedes can get away with this.” 

“Where do I get a million dollars?” 

“We could get you out with $100,000.” 

Mira nodded. 

“Do you have $100,000?” Ted asked. 

“No. Can we raise it? Isn’t that awful high?” 

“For a misdemeanor? Yes, excessively.” 

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” 

“Our options are limited. And none of them is likely to work before the weekend.” 

“I thought as much,” Mira said. “He’s trying to shut us down, isn’t he?” 

“It would appear so.” 

“Michael could stand in for me in a pinch. But it’s gonna hurt. I’m afraid the volunteers will be too scared.” 

“It’s an end-run around free speech,” Ted said, “and artfully planned and executed, I’m afraid. Baedes is knowledgeable, experienced, and connected, a triple threat.” He paused. “I don’t know how we’re going to get you out of this.” 

Chapter 3

Clyde made her way past the convicts and accused, each seated at a table. All were dressed in orange prison garb. Some conversed with visitors, each seated across from an inmate. Others were waiting for someone like Clyde, someone from the outside, to pay attention to them. None smiled. Old lighting fixtures hung from the cracked ceiling, as did drab, green walls. The room smelled like a government school or a town hall. 

Clyde at first didn’t recognize her friend. Mira looked battered, her hair, slightly disheveled. Bags hung from her eyes, and her cheeks sagged. She looked beaten down, run down, older. Then she noticed Clyde, and that all changed. Her face lit up like the full moon on a clear night, and Clyde suddenly felt light and energetic. Clyde wanted to run up to her, hug her, and plant a kiss firmly on each cheek. And she would have, too, except she knew it was against the rules. 

Instead, Clyde sat and smiled, and she calmly and quietly said, “Hey, you. Weren’t we supposed to do this at Bertucci’s?” 

“Ah, but this place provides much better service,” Mira joked. ”Bertucci’s doesn’t frisk you on the way in.” 

Clyde grinned, but the lightness of the moment had left her. Her teeth clenched.

“Sorry,” Mira said. “Not so funny, I guess.” 

“It’s not your fault.” 

“Better me than Ike.” 

“What’s going on with him?” Clyde asked. She knew how Mira felt about Ike. 

“What do you mean? How much did Ted tell you?” 

“Not much. Nothing, really. Only the official version, same as the press release.” Clyde wondered what Ted could have told her. What did Ted know about a woman’s feelings? 

“Any more news on that?” 

Clyde was confused for a moment. “The press release. No. It went out, but no one seems to care. The only thing worse than being lambasted is being ignored.” 

“You’d think we’d be used to it by now,” Mira said. 

“So what’s with Ike? He turns state’s evidence on you? You should have seen Michael smoking at the ears!” 

“Michael’s jealous of Ike’s butt,” Mira said. 

“Hey, I’m jealous of Ike’s butt!” Clyde giggled.

“What do you mean? Ted’s is nice, too,” Mira said sweetly. 

Clyde was aghast in mock indignation. “You just keep you’re eyes where they belong, okay?” 

“Oh, that’s right. It’s almost Wednesday.” 

Clyde widened her eyes and dropped her jaw. “Well, when was the last time you got any?” 

Mira contemplated the question. “Too long ago,” she said. “But don’t you two have special plans for tonight?” 

“Why should we?” Clyde asked. 

“Birthday sex,” Mira said. 

Clyde giggled. “I don’t think so. But maybe if throw him a party, I can drive him to sleep on the couch.” 

“That’ll teach him,” Mira said. “He can watch all those depressing retrospectives on TV. Why doesn’t Ted like birthdays?” 

“I don’t know. He thinks they’re stupid. I think birthdays are just too sentimental for his tastes.”

“How old is he?” Mira asked. 

“Forty,” Clyde answered. 

“That’s a milestone!” Mira said. “Are you sure you’re not going to have birthday sex?” 

Clyde wanted to change the subject. “Is that what this thing with Ike is about?” 

“What?” 

Clyde wondered how she could say it without seeming boorish. “I mean, did you— and Ike? You know…” 

“Oh.” Realization washed over Mira’s face. “You mean, did we have sex?” 

“Well…” 

Mira smiled sweetly again. “What’s with you?” 

Clyde just blushed. 

“No, nothing like that. It’s just…” She paused. “No, nothing.” 

“But what was with him getting into a fight with Chief Beady-eyes? And now—” 

“I wouldn’t call it a fight. More like Baedes was beating up on him. That’s probably what it was, too. Come on, the guy’s as harmless as a fruit fly.” 

Clyde shook her head. “I still don’t get it? Do you think Baedes beat him up into finking?” 

Mira’s expression turned vacant. She stared off into space. 

Now Clyde regretted asking. “He’ll never get away with it,” she reassured her friend, craning her head to see into Mira’s eyes. “I promise.” 

Mira turned back toward her friend. She spoke cautiously. “Thanks, Clyde. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. But please leave Ike alone.” 

“I meant Beady-eyes,” Clyde said. 

Mira stared back. She just looked angry and sad. 

“He’s gotta be behind it,” Clyde continued. “We’ll figure it out and get him.”

Mira’s eyes narrowed. “Oh damn. And why don’t you repeal the law of gravity while you’re at it?” 

Clyde said nothing. 

Mira continued. “You know, I’ve never admitted this to anyone before. I’ve been thinking about this for awhile.” 

Mira’s tone got Clyde’s attention. 

“You know, this whole thing started with Lando Benitez. Poor guy, wrong ancestry, gets caught sitting in his car in the wrong part of the wrong town. The cops rough him up, arrest him, trash his car, and for the privilege, they stiff him hundreds of dollars he can’t afford in bogus fees and fines. You’d think it was just some clueless jerks with uniforms and badges, who need a judge to remind them of the Fourth Amendment, right? After all, there are some of those in every city. But no, they actually get the judge to side with them. And then when poor Lando can’t pay, they harass him, arrest him, and charge him again. 

“This was back before there were any of us to even help. And Lando was still able to get out within hours. Back then, if I had realized how much higher the stakes were going to get…” 

Mira shook her head. “This whole situation is just so screwed up. I don’t belong here. I don’t even know why I am here. It’s not doing any good. I’m not helping anybody, and I… I just feel like a fool.” She regarded Clydene. “And now I’m pissing off my best friend.” 

“Hey, you,” Clyde said tenderly. “You’re not a fool, and it’s not your fault. And you’re not pissing off your best friend.” 

Mira’s face remained expressionless. 

Clyde said, “Please, continue venting.” 

“That’s okay. The venting is over. Thanks for listening.” 

“Always, Mira.” 

---

Clyde had collected about a teaspoon of cumin in her palm. Now, she tossed it into the chili pot, muscled a wooden spoon through the thick stew, raised the spoon to her lips, blew on it until it was cool, and tasted. 

She stopped a moment to consider the flavor. “Mm. Just about right,” she said out loud, to herself. “Just spicy enough, but it’s missing a bit of twang.” 

She stirred in several more grinds of black pepper and a dash of ground mustard seed. All the while, she hummed a tune she made up on the fly, a jazzy number patterned on a 12-bar blues. She tasted again. 

“Yes. Perfect,” she said. 

She lidded the pot, opened the oven, and with two sturdy oven mitts carefully placed the pot into the oven. She always cooked chili—or any type of stew—in the oven, not on the stovetop, because that was the easiest way to control the temperature, to cook it slowly and evenly. In Clydene’s hands even this simple peasant stew was gourmet cuisine, a dish to be fine-tuned and pored over. But now that the fine-tuning was done, all that was left to pore over was a sink full of dirty dishes. She would check back every hour or so to peek in and stir. But otherwise, now she just felt like resting. 

Clyde turned on the kitchen faucet, squeezed out a dab of soap into one hand, took a splash of water in the other, and scrubbed the two into a thick lather. She thought it was such a fine metaphor, soap and water. Sometimes you can’t stop the devil from touching your life. All you can do is to work up a froth of tears and wrath, of drizzle and ooze, of sadness and anger. She rinsed away the slippery, sudsy residue and wished she could do he same in real life. 

Clyde plodded into the den, wiping her wet hands on her jeans. She flopped down on the couch. She had hoped cooking would have taken her mind off of her troubles. And it had, but only temporarily. Again, her mind was as stuck as always. She had visited Mira in jail many times but would never get used to it. Seeing her without makeup, without stylish clothes, with that ugly bruise made this proud and beautiful woman seem homely, diminutive. Many people didn’t understand the bond between Clyde and Mira. They were like two sides of a coin. One heads, the other tails. One in the limelight, the other in the shadows. One a people person, the other a fact person. One a natural-born leader, the other coming into leadership only now in her late thirties.

But they had more in common than they were different. They were both quick on the draw. When Mira decided to put together this protest, she was making arrangements even before the idea was complete in her head. That was Clydene’s life, always deciding at the last minute what to work on next, or what to do, or what to make for dinner. But they were also both perfectionists, always tweaking everything to make it better. You kinda have to be that way when you’ve only partially thought through what you’re doing. That’s not to say that Clydene thought quickly on her feet. The phrase “unanticipated situation” to Clydene was terrifying, because it meant “stressed out, stammering, and saying something stupid.” 

But Mira and Clyde both drew rapid conclusions based on little information. And they were both usually right, at least with anything they knew about. Yes, Clyde had made bum predictions before. Like when she predicted the outcome of the 2000 presidential election; her prediction was not even close to what really happened. But tell her about a software system you’d like her to design, and she understood the architecture of it even before you finished, and long before there were any architectural diagrams on paper. In music, Clyde could tell you exactly what notes to play to make your song sound better, having heard it only once. 

Mira was like that, but with people instead of things. Mira did successfully predict the outcome of the 2000 presidential election, right down to the battle over Florida. She didn’t predict the hanging chads, but once they had been mentioned in the news, Mira knew immediately what would happen next. Nothing surprised her. Mira could read through a press release and tell you exactly how it would be received, and by which groups of readers. That’s why she loved working with Michael; she almost never had to ask him to revise his press releases. Or she could read a news story and immediately see opportunities to leverage it for PR, opportunities that no one else ever saw.

Given the current situation, Clyde didn’t feel like thinking about her friend, because it frustrated her and angered her. That’s why she felt like cooking. Now, however, she met a giant lull in the cooking process. And she was again thinking of all that bothered her. Maybe it was time to tend to those dirty dishes. 

Clyde leaned forward and grabbed the TV remote from the coffee table. Click. Within a few seconds, the Mythbusters appeared on the screen, trying to find the fastest way to cool a 6-pack of beer to 40 degrees.

“Ooh! Is this the Baghdad battery episode?” Clyde said to nobody in the room. “That was a nasty trick Tori and those guys played on Adam.” 

She set the remote back down on the table and picked up a magazine. On the cover was a giant colorized green and orange photo of a retrovirus. The headline read, “Computer Viruses Strike Back: How a new breed of computer virus is terrorizing today’s office.” She had bought the magazine on a whim, now opened it, and began to read the article. Apparently, hackers were now imbuing their email worms with artificial intelligence, allowing them to hide themselves. Yeah, right, she thought. It sounded too fantastic to be accurate. Besides, she still hated the word “hacker” in that context, even though most of the rest of the world had learned to accept it. Damn it, she herself was a hacker, a computer maestro, a wizard’s wizard. She could hack code with the best of them. Yet she had never cracked into a computer system.

Cracker was the correct term, because a cracker was someone who cracked into another computer system. But crackers didn’t write worms, and worms aren’t viruses. Two separate things, Clyde thought. And what this article was talking about was Trojan horses, not “email worms.” It was probably old technology, anyhow, easily blocked with any off-the-shelf virus scanner or personal firewall. If they really wanted to talk about computer security threats, they’d talk about cross-site scripting attacks, and XSS viruses.

She tried to read the article, but every time she got through a few sentences, her mind would go off on a tangent. She was just too keyed up, and not actually interested in the article. Still, she struggled to read it, probably because the alternative would be even more uncomfortable, even with the TV to distract her. 

In the middle of all this, Gary called to complain about the QX project… Again. She muted the TV before picking up the phone. Gary said the software was malfunctioning. Except that the software was behaving exactly as they had specified. This was just the latest call in a long series of exasperating communiqués. She had repeatedly explained, if the computer wasn’t doing what he wanted it to, all he had to do was to tell her what he did want, and she would make the computer do it. And she did. And then he changed his mind without telling her about it. How can a company run this way? she thought. Oh, forgot. Government contract.

No, he said, it was still not working right. So Clyde stepped into her office and pulled up the latest specification on her computer. Unfortunately, Gary wasn’t at his computer. He doesn’t have a computer in his office? Where was he calling from? His car? She read him the corresponding part from the spec, but if that isn’t what he wants, she can change it to do whatever he wants, as long as he explains what he wants. Yes, he agreed that what she read was all true, but that part of the specification didn’t apply in this particular case, and didn’t the spec say so? No, it didn’t. And if he had actually read it, Clyde thought, he might even know that. Good thing Clyde had an ongoing hourly contract with them, so she could charge thm for all the time she wasted going around in circles on this project, dancing with the project manager and business analyst. Otherwise, she’d be paying out of her own pocket for all this fun.

She said, “The behavior as it is now is what was specified. As I’ve explained, I’m happy to make the software do whatever you want. You just have to tell me exactly what you want.” 

He said he’d have to get back to her. They hung up. This phone call was only the latest volley in a long chain of pointless complaints, and Clyde was beginning to wonder whether she’d be working on the project very much longer, or whether it would be worth it if she did. 

The QX project was fun to work on. That is, she got to play with some interesting technology. She even got to meet interesting people, on the few occasions she visited the client’s site for meetings. But Clyde began to wonder whether it was turning her into less of a human being. She worked on this project as a sub-contractor for a government contractor. The project itself was a workflow application being deployed in a number of local government offices, including those in Abe’s Turn. It helped government employees keep government records and do their jobs. 

That was the ultimate irony. Clyde was doing business, indirectly, with the very people against whom she passionately fought. Fought, not hated. Even in her mind, she avoided the word hate, because hate was far too weak a word to describe what she felt. She honestly believed these people were going to hell. Not all of them, but a few at least. They surely were not making it to heaven. She knew this, because of the bible story, about the rich, young ruler.

The rich, young ruler comes to Jesus, asks him what he needs to do to make it to heaven. Jesus tells him to follow all the commandments. He replies that he’s done that since he was little. Okay, so Jesus tells him the only other thing he needs to do is to sell everything he has, give it to the poor, and then follow him. The guy can’t do it and walks away, sad. Jesus turns to his disciples and says, “Verily, I say unto you, it’s easier for a camel to squeeze through the eye of a needle than for a politician to get into heaven.” Or words to that effect. 

But with regard to the QX project, Clyde calmed her conscience by pushing it off to the side. She was not, after all, doing evil. She was merely providing technology that could be used for good or for evil. That some people would use it to execute evil or misguided actions, was that her fault? Occasionally, however, her conscience refused to shut up, and she wondered whether she was fooling herself. Some part of her knew that if God asked, she may not be able to justify herself in good conscience. And isn’t that what morality was all about? 

Interestingly, these thoughts plagued her most at certain times, those times when what she accomplished were forgotten by the corporate machine, those times when corporate politics took precedence. When Clyde first worked with a larger corporation, she was surprised at how rabid the politics were. She delivered exactly what she was asked to deliver. Unfortunately, the project manager didn’t actually sign off on it, in writing. Then when one of the managers at the client complained, they blamed her for reneging on the contract. From then on, she got specifications in writing, and kept written records of all communications with the client. And she used these things as political ammunition. She very quickly learned how to blame someone else, even though it made her feel slimy, dirty, sick to her stomach. And Clyde sometimes felt being in this situation made her less of a human being, because she couldn’t trust her co-workers, even though they were all on the same team.

Despite her quiet, reserved demeanor, Clyde enjoyed working with and trusting others. And situations that involved big-company politics tore her in two. On one side, she trusted; on the other, she was logical. The trustworthy side, versus the cold side. The person who stuck up for others and what was right, versus she who was crudely practical about getting the job done. In Clyde’s mind one side was not better than the other. She had always lived with both, learned to respect both, to value and admire both equally. And she hated when the two were in disharmony, when she felt she was being forced to choose one or the other. 

And too many clients did force her to choose. Big corporations had built-in lethargy and in-fighting that kept them from accomplishing anything. Stupid. And so they hired her to get the job done. Then they put roadblocks in her way and dragged her into their fights. Stupid. Big companies are stupid. As Professor Bernardo de la Paz said in one of Clydene’s favorite novels, “More than six people cannot agree on anything, three is better—and one is perfect for a job one can do. This is why parliamentary bodies all through history, when they accomplished anything, owed it to a few strong men who dominated the rest.” Or a few strong women. 

But Clyde didn’t see herself as one of those few strong women. Yes, she had the drive and the initiative. But she was a technology person, not a people person. 

Clyde stood from her chair in her office and began to return to the den and her TV show, now almost over.

They really were clueless. You’d think a government project would be constructed with more care. But QX was designed merely according to predominant industry standards, which means what it sounds like: a piece of crap. The software was full of bugs, and the project team just accepted it. There was little oversight over the development process. This caused issues with the project, and any of them could become a problem at any time. And QX was even connected to the Internet. What if some Internet cracker got in? Theoretically, there could even be saboteur on the project team. 

Rather than a government project, QX was run more like a government contract, which it was. Naturally, the project was plagued with cost overruns and schedule slips. As a result, corners were cut. The first thing to go was the test plan, because test plans take time. It’s much quicker to throw software together and ship it without testing it, without knowing whether it actually works. But at least they peer-inspected the code, right? Are you kidding? That would use up several man-hours a day. Who had time for that? They didn’t even do security background checks. After all, this wasn’t a stealth bomber they were building. 

Good thing, too. Because Clydene had seen the code. The QX project had more holes than a colander. Ironically, all these holes could be plugged easily. But no one was willing even to pay for a security audit and come up with some safety guidelines. As she worked on the project, Clyde did what she could to fix problems and plug security holes. But she was just one engineer, and a mere sub-contractor at that. In order to fix QX, she needed help from the project team. But the project team did not care; Clydene had asked. 

At least her mind was no longer dwelling on Mira. 

Clyde picked up her magazine again. If only these reporters knew how bad it really was, what kinds of new-fangled threats there were on the Internet, and how vulnerable most software was to attack, especially corporate software. They would have another issue they could ignore, because it’s too complicated, as they claim, for the layman to understand.

---

Mira’s probable cause hearing went about as Murphy would have predicted. And this depressed Mira even more than she had been before the hearing. 

Baedes testified, weaving a tale Stephen King would have admired. It involved a crazed woman, shouting obscenities and reaching for a weapon while she lunged at him. The judge asked almost as many questions as the prosecutor, which was a little odd. Maybe the D.A. was off his game. Baedes’s awesome presence on the stand indeed intimidated everyone in the courtroom, except the judge, Ted, and Mira herself. At least that was what Mira thought. Far from intimidating her, Baedes incensed her. Maybe that’s why he hated her so, because she was one of the only people he couldn’t bully. 

Ike also testified for the prosecution, and perjured himself in the process. Mira feared for him for what could happen if it became known that he was lying under oath. Part of her just wanted to give up, in order to keep this truth secret. Ted seemed to have no such fear. He tried to break Ike’s story. But someone had thought his story through very carefully. There was no way to prove it was a tall tale. And Ike stoically maintained his version of the tale, even as Ted threw around words like friendship, betrayal, lies, and perjury. 

Judge Spiller had no choice but to bind her over for trial. But Mira knew by looking at him that this is what he wanted to do, and he would have found a way to do it, no matter what the evidence was. 

Chapter 4

Michael started. “We can resurrect Martin Luther King, Jr., get him to do his ‘I have a dream’ speech.” 

“If it were possible, someone else would have thought of it first,” Ted replied. 

“Well, that’s it for me. I’m out,” Michael said. 

Ted paused. “You’re kidding.” 

“Yes, I am.” Sometimes Michael joked a little brusquely, but sometimes it was the only way he knew how to cope. 

Without missing a beat, Ted continued, “Well, let’s wait for Clydene to get back. Maybe she’ll have some better ideas.” 

“How is business for her?” Michael scooted to the edge of the couch so he could reach his coffee on the coffee table. 

“Pretty good. She’s been putting in a lot of time on the QX project lately.” 

“Fleecing them pretty good, I hope.” 

“I imagine so,” Ted said. “She’s also been working on a new project. I’m not sure what.” 

“Something top-secret for the CIA?” Another joke. 

“I think SD-6. How’s your new boss? Still clueless?” 

“Always.” Michael really enjoyed quick-witted banter. “Today he wigged when my team had a brain-storming session without him.” 

“Sounds like he might have control issues.”

“Definitely. He could actually be pretty good, if he didn’t have to be in the middle of everything all the time.” Michael actually felt sorry for the poor guy. This single character defect held him back, but boy was it a doozy. 

“What are you going to do?” Ted asked. 

“No problem. I’ve dealt with bosses before.” 

Clydene entered the room. “Hey, you,” she greeted Michael. 

“Hey, Clyde.” Michael saw how hard her friend’s incarceration had hit her, and he forgave her for her occasional outbursts of temper. “Ted tells me you have a new client,” he remarked. 

She looked confused for a second. “No. I’ve been working on a side-project, just experimenting with a new technology is all. Nothing really interesting, though.” 

“Well, more for the resume, I guess.” Michael said. 

“Uh, yeah.” She smiled coyly. 

Ted interrupted and got the meeting on track. When Mira was unable to make a meeting, he usually took up the reigns. 

Their purpose for this meeting was to decide what to do about the upcoming demonstration. Mira’s preference was to go on with the event as best as possible, even if she couldn’t make it. But Ted, Michael, and Clyde would be in the hot seat. She would back whatever they decided. 

The thing was, Mira was the personality behind the protest, and behind the campaign to oust Baedes. It was her cause, her passion. Her petition would be the culmination of this campaign. Mira had given up volunteering for other projects, and had even cut back on her caseload, in order to spend more time on the Committee for a Fairer Future. Yes, it had been a collective idea, as far as Ted could remember. That is, all four of them had come up with the idea of forming an organization to fight Baedes, because he was the driving force behind the police state that was coming to Abe’s Turn, all in the name of peace and order. All four friends had been incensed and heartbroken when they realized what had happened to their hometown. But Mira was the one who had put in her time and passion, had taken a crash course in politics and law enforcement, had assembled mentors, had devised strategy, had scoured newspaper articles, had dug up research, collected statistics, had thought up PR opportunities, had interviewed victims, amassed personal anecdotes, had gotten them on board, had drawn volunteers, had kept them fired up. Mira had spearheaded the project. On top of all that, Mira drilled herself constantly on tough questions regarding the campaign. As much as she admitted she hated doing it, she studied and learned to be an apologist for the campaign. She knew more about this cause than anyone else involved. And she was who all the local newspapers called for comments. If she couldn’t make it to her own protest… Well, that was going to be the story.

Ted, Michael, and Clydene went down the list of their options. They could call off the event, but that would mean they’d throw away all the effort they’d invested in building up to it. Besides, it would show Baedes that he could bully them, and they didn’t want to send that message. Another alternative was merely postponing. That was a little better, but not by much, because they’d still lose momentum, and Baedes would still get the message that he could bully them. Now, if there were some other reason for postponing, then they could use it as an excuse. But none of them could think of such an excuse. They agreed to postpone only as a last resort and to keep an eye out for any excuse they could use to rationalize the postponement. 

Clyde spoke up. “Okay. We have signs and materials. We have volunteers. We have permits and equipment and everything else we need. Everything’s scheduled. Now… Refresh my memory again. Why does Mira need to be there?”

Michael answered. “Because she’s the personality behind the campaign. She’s got to be on hand to give a speech, answer questions, drive the demonstration, and so forth. Besides, it would look really bad for her to miss her own event because she was arrested. The press is going to take Beady-eyes’s side and paint her as a criminal.” 

“Okay. There are other people who could answer questions. Like you, for example.” 

“Or you,” Michael said. He really didn’t want to be in the hot seat, even though he was the most qualified. Yes, he loved the limelight, but this kind of publicity was not what he needed. 

“I guess so,” Clyde said awkwardly. She clearly didn’t look forward to the prospect. 

“But most of the questions would be hostile questions about Mira’s arrest,” Michael noted. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes trying to answer those.” 

“You’d probably do a better job than me.” She was beginning to raise her voice. 

“But you believe in the idea more,” Michael countered. This wasn’t exactly true. They all believed in the idea. 

“But you coached Mira. You helped her go through the questions she might be asked. You’re the right one for the job. Or instead of a speech, she could issue a prepared statement. One of us could even read it.” 

“A prepared statement? Like a politician?” Michael hated politicians and had urged Mira to distance herself as much as possible from their double-faced tactics. 

Clydene leered at him. 

“Let’s settle down,” Ted interjected. 

“Besides, even politicians read their own statements,” Michael said. When he got worked up, he just couldn’t leave well enough alone. 

“You know,” Ted interjected, “if we could raise $100,000, we could bail her out.”

“Yeah,” Michael replied, “and if I were Superman, I could break her out.” 

“You don’t think an urgent phone and Internet campaign could raise the money?” Clyde asked. 

“Not likely,” said Michael. 

“Well, what part of the money could it raise?” Ted said. 

“Maybe 5 thou, or 10 if we’re lucky.” Even that was a stretch, he hated to admit. 

“Are there any rich benefactors waiting in the wings?” 

“Don’t you think I’d be on them already if there were?” 

“Maybe. What about prospects? A wealthy lion from whose paw Mira may have pulled a thorn?” 

“Not that I know of,” Michael said. “But you should ask her next time you see her. She doesn’t always share with me all her connections. For all I know, she may have done a favor for Michael Corleone.” 

“Hmm.” Ted nodded. “There’s one more option.” 

“What’s that?” Clyde asked. 

Ted spoke soberly. “We could disclaim Mira and go forward with Michael as spokesman.” 

Clyde was livid. “Who’s side are you on?” 

“I’m on our side—“ 

“And you, Michael, here you have a perfect opportunity to do something that will show Mira you really care about her, and you won’t do it. Sometimes you really make no sense. And you would get to be the center of attention, too! Since when do you turn down a chance to be the center of attention?” 

“Ouch,” Michael said quietly. That hurt. 

Clyde sighed. “Well, I’m sorry to deal from the bottom of the deck, but that’s the truth.” 

Michael thought she was full of anger and bullshit, but he knew when to talk and when to listen.

“My point is,” Clyde said, “Mira’s the victim here. We can’t let that beat us down. We have to use it for ammunition.” 

Quiet. 

Clyde’s dedication for her friend was certainly admirable. And she was right: Mira was the victim. And Beady-eyes was the aggressor. They had to find some way of spinning this to their favor. There was no other option. 

“What do you think, Michael?” Ted said. 

Michael spoke carefully. “If we have to go in without Mira, then we’ll do the best we can. But we’ll face a challenge. All the press is going to be looking at the fact that she was arrested for assault. They’re going to say that the judge considers her dangerous.” He quickly backpedaled as he turned wide eyes to Clyde. “I know she didn’t do anything wrong. She couldn’t. It’s not in her nature. Beady-eyes is a creep. And that judge is full of it. Or full of something. 

“The press cares about the drama. They don’t give a damn for the truth. So I think our best bet is to work our view into the drama, maybe with a show of solidarity and support. And spin it as example of the kind of abuse we’re trying to stop. And then hope for a one-liner.” 

“Or a sound-bite,” Clyde said. 

“I don’t follow,” Michael said. 

“A sound-bite on the evening news is worth how many column-inches?” 

“A bunch. But there the TV reporters haven’t been knocking down our door. Our best bet would be if we had some proof that Beady-eyes had arrested her for personal reasons. That would raise some questions. Or that he manipulated the evidence.” 

Ted said, “If we had proof that he manipulated the evidence, instead of subjecting it to press scrutiny, I’d introduce it in court. We wouldn’t be having this conversation. In fact, any evidence that he was acting improperly could help.”

“Well, he surely has been,” Clyde said. 

Ted looked at the ceiling for a moment. “We’re biased.” 

“What?” Michael said. Yes, they were biased, but only because they were right. 

“We think Baedes is up to no good, because we believe he has been up to no good in the past. That has served us, because we’ve only had to convince fellow activists. Now, we have to convince a judge. That means we need hard evidence.” 

“What sort of evidence?” Clyde asked. 

“Maybe if one of his colleagues came forward with testimony.” 

“Fat chance of that,” said Michael. “We’d do better to bug the place. I’ll get some black body-suits, and Clyde can break through the security system.” Sometimes when he got upset, Michael’s sense of humor ran rampant. 

“That’s another joke, right?” Ted said. 

“Yes,” said Michael. 

Ted spoke sternly. “Because it would be blatantly illegal. Not only could we not use the evidence, but I wouldn’t want to think of what would happen to us if we got caught. As an officer of the court, just telling me about such a plot would be disastrous.” 

“Ted—“ Michael put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It was a joke, just a bad joke. Sorry. I’m ticked.” 

Ted nodded. “There’s a lot of that going around lately.” He took a breath. “You know, the biggest part of examining a witness is knowing what questions to ask. It’s not as important as people think, to find a witness who wants to give the right testimony. Because if you can ask the right questions, you can get almost any testimony you want. So we don’t actually need anyone to come forward, if I knew who to ask and what to ask him.” 

Indeed, the four were all under tremendous stress, because they were trying to pick up the slack in risky and demanding circumstances. But quantifying the problem made it easier to come up with a plan and made Michael feel a little better. They would postpone only if there turned out to be no other option. They could make that decision over the weekend. In the meantime, Michael would send out personalized messages from Mira to each volunteer, including pleas for help. That was a job and a half, but Michael felt the motivation. The goal was to collect pledges toward Mira’s bail. This was an emergency, because if they couldn’t collect enough pledges before Friday, the event all the volunteers had worked so hard on may never even happen.

However, this was only one side of a two-prong attack. On the other prong, Ted had a court appeal left. He would use that appeal, and any other evidence he could dig up, to try to reverse the bail decision, or at least to reduce it, and to get Mira released. 

---

By the time they were through and Michael had left, it was late. Clyde made the excuse that she just wanted to check her email before going to bed. She sent Ted upstairs and sat down at her computer. She looked at her email in-box. There were about a dozen new messages, but she didn’t do anything with any of them. She didn’t read them, delete them, move them to another folder. She didn’t even ignore them. Instead, she opened a console window on her computer. As a software developer, she knew all about the internals of her computer, and she frequently used old-style command-line programs that she created herself. 

She paused for a long minute, deep in thought. This was the moment of no return. She had been working on this project ever since Mira’s arrest. Initially, she couldn’t even tell you why, what good it could possibly do. But she had a feeling. She knew she could uncover something, as long as she didn’t get caught. And that was the danger. This was the moment of no return. Beyond this point, she could not undo what she was about to do. And if someone were to discover her, her life would probably be over. Why should she risk it? Simple. Because this is what she had been working toward. Yesterday, she believed this secret project held the answers to Mira’s dilemma. What had changed between yesterday and today? Nothing, except Clyde’s fear. And she couldn’t let mere fear control her life. There’s nothing to it but to do it, she thought.

With trembling fingers, she typed the cryptic command pyx_loader. The letters appeared in green on a black panel, like the old-style green-phosphor monitors. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and pressed the enter key. For another few seconds she didn’t even breathe. Then computer responded with several lines of equally cryptic response, all in green on black:

Logging to pyx.log
Found hole 4 at 172.27.201.183
Administrator access
Attached to EXPLORER
Installed re-attacher, all methods

Clyde was dizzy. Pyx had found a security hole in a deployed QX server, a hole which allowed her to break into the system and gain administrator privileges. She didn’t know what computer was specifically at the IP address 172.27.201.183, but she knew it was within Abe’s Turn. Pyx had installed itself on this server, and now it would begin spreading, like a virus, onto any other government computer it could. And it would begin surreptitiously sending back information, any information it could find, for Clyde to sift through. And if anyone figured out what was happening and that she caused it, yes, it was a federal crime. There was no going back now.

As if in a dream, she entered the follow-up command pyx_scan, to which the computer replied:

Scanning... Found 5 messages.

Suddenly, nervousness grabbed Clyde’s heart, as though something had gone wrong. Yes, she had planned to infiltrate a government computer system. But seeing it actually happen brought a reality that freaked Clyde out. But there was no going back, only going forward. 

She typed more commands to display the log. It showed records from 5 separate computers, and that Pyx was sending back data. She began looking at this data. Page after page of pointless memorandums, dense documentation, boring emails. But each new one made Clyde more tense, or maybe more excited. 

“Oy,” Clyde whispered. 

“Clyde,” Ted said from behind her. 

Clyde yelped and spun around in her chair. What the hell was he doing sneaking up on her? He was supposed to be upstairs falling asleep. He was supposed to be an early riser, and late nights were supposed to knock him out. And he was definitely not supposed to see what she was working on! If he did, she feared, he would feel an obligation as an officer of the court to turn her in. He had told similar stories of clients he had defended. And it always upset him, but he always did “the right thing,” his words, not Clyde’s. 

Ted giggled. “I’m pouring myself a glass of wine. Do you want— No. Correction: I’m pouring one for you, too. Stop working and come to bed.” He was smiling. 

“Sorry, I just got distracted by—“ 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it before. We’re going to relax, and we’re going to forget all about our problems.”

She stared at him blankly. This definitely didn’t make sense. It was late. He was tired, or so she thought. And he apparently wasn’t noticing anything on the computer monitor. 

“It’s Wednesday night, remember?” he said. 

“Oh, right,” she said. 

Every Wednesday before bed and every Sunday after church, like clockwork, that was when they got intimate. It was part of their routine, and there were very few exceptions. Clyde would have thought that the regularity of it all would have made sex boring, but Ted always found a way to make it exciting and new, adventurous. In any case, this also explained why Ted cared not a whit what she was doing, only that she wasn’t getting ready for bed. She had lucked out. 

“Okay, I’m coming. Right now,” she said. 

Ted went back to the kitchen to pour the wine. 

Clyde turned to her computer and closed the console window full of text. She breathed deeply. Then she turned off the computer monitor and went upstairs. 

Chapter 5

When Clydene was a girl, 9 years old, she wanted to make orange pie. She didn’t have a recipe, but she really wanted to make orange pie. She figured she could make an orange-flavored pie crust. And if she substituted oranges for some other fruit, she figured she’d be all set. 

Her mother, of course, would never allow it. Clyde had never baked anything before. And she was also known for the clutter she left behind her whenever she did anything in the kitchen. She loved to experiment, loved to create, and absolutely hated to clean up after herself. Truthfully, she didn’t even consider whether her mother would allow it or not. All she knew is that she wanted to make orange pie, and she knew how she wanted to do it. So this 9-year-old girl laid out all the ingredients she needed and set about making a pie crust using fresh orange juice instead of water. 

Now, making a pie crust from scratch is not trivial. That’s why pre-made pie crusts are so popular. There are too many things that can go wrong and spoil the crust. You start by combining flour with a fat, like butter or shortening. You have to make sure the fat is cold, though, or it won’t combine correctly with the flour. Then you mix in cold water, or a water-type liquid, until the dough is just sticky enough. Then you refrigerate, and after that you can finally roll it out into a pie crust. Naturally, this all comprises only the start of baking a pie.

Clyde never made it past step one. She used her hands to combine the fat and flour, and overworked it until it resembled a roux. She attempted to save her project by covering the glop with wax paper and popping it in the freezer to chill it— the freezer, because she was too anxious to wait for the refrigerator to do the job. Then she went into the next room and watched TV. But she didn’t make it back to the kitchen until her mother walked in to find what she described as “an explosion at the bakery.” Ironically, the cookbook Clyde was using specifically said to combine the fat and flour with butter knives or a pastry blender, not your hands, because the heat from your hands would warm up the dough and ruin it. Also ironically, her mother had a pastry blender in the silverware drawer, but Clyde had always thought it was for mashing potatoes. 

She finally did come up with a recipe for orange pie, using many other orange pie recipes as references, and after many trials and unsuccessful variations. But that all happened much later, after she had grown to be an adult. Adulthood brings a certain circumspection to one’s activities. Still, a person’s basic personality, they say, sticks with one from the time one is a child. As we grow older, we add to those simple childish tendencies, we balance them out, but we can never escape them. Who we are is with us always, even unto the grave. 

That’s why it would be no surprise to someone watching Clydene, now that she was desperate to clear Mira. She also wanted to sock it to the evil monsters who had hurt her friend. Now an adult, she behaved just as she did as a child, with one important addition: This time, she was paranoid about how others would react and careful not to get caught. It was because of this paranoia that she was not excited at her discovery. Rather, it gave her heartburn like a pepperoni and coffee-bean pizza. It was the kitchen table when she was 9, covered with flour and goo and melting margarine, an incriminating scene just waiting for the wrong person to happen upon it. Her discovery came in the form of a computer file, a simple document she was not supposed to have a copy of. She was not even supposed to be able to access it. And yet it was now staring her in the face.

Clyde had been very careful in testing her Pyx virus and injecting it via the QX system. The security hole she exploited was not something she had added to the system. In fact, it was in an area of the system she had never directly worked on. The network connection she used to exploit the hole was neither monitored nor logged. And now that the virus was installed, it sent data back to her, encrypted, over the public Internet. She never had any direct contact with it. There was no realistic way anyone could trace it back to her. Yes, if someone were to discover it, they could shut down Pyx. And if they suspected Clydene of being the receiver of these encrypted Internet transmissions, a security expert could prove it, because only her computer could decode the information. Therefore, they could prove she was the culprit by proving that only she could receive Pyx’s transmissions. But at least for now, no one was even looking. And she didn’t plan on keeping the jig going long enough to be discovered. 

She was actually surprised at how quickly Pyx spread and started sending data. Within several hours it had spread to the police department’s computers. And within a day, it had pulled up a gem from Baedes’s own hard drive. Clyde found it by searching for “MJ.” She had set up a number of other searches, too, that her computer automatically executed, looking for anything about Mira. But this one struck pay dirt, the chief’s own notes detailing his plans to arrest Mira, charge her with assault, and keep her in jail. As he had executed each stage of the plan, he had kept track. Baedes appeared to be a compulsive note-taker.

As Clyde pieced together what she learned from the files with what Mira had told her, the whole story began to take shape, like a picture coming into focus. Beady-eyes had been keeping tabs on Mira for a while. He knew her patterns, that she always took the same route home at about the same time each day. He also knew how much work she and her volunteers had been putting into their cause. At first, they came across as just a bunch of crackpots. But all that work was beginning to bear fruit, and this made her a plausible threat, as he saw it. So he figured he’d kill two birds with one stone. He’d shut down the protest and demoralize her troops, all at the same time. 

He timed her arrest carefully, close enough to the protest that it would send her organization into panic, but early enough that most people wouldn’t connect it with the protest. He could have arrested her on any charge. He could have made up one if he needed to. The expired registration was just a happy coincidence. He planned to charge her with assault and resisting arrest. He didn’t originally intend to grab Ike, whose arrest was also fortunate happenstance. The chief was the one who started the scuffle with Ike, in order to provoke Mira. And it worked. Then he extorted testimony from Ike, basically by threatening him with prison. Since Ike was a parolee, that was the easy part, because there was no hard evidence against Baedes, just the word of a criminal and the word of a jailbird. And they weren’t even likely to corroborate each other’s testimony. Then he asked a sympathetic judge to put Mira away for a while— not in those words, of course. He and the D.A. dressed it up in legal hocus-pocus, but it all amounted to the same thing. 

Baedes himself had probably originated the story that Ike told the court. Or maybe he dragged it out of Ike, while making sure Ike told it right. Clydene certainly knew enough about that sort of persuasion. She set her teeth.

Baedes had also shared parts of this plan with “PB.” A little research via the other files revealed that PB was Officer Pamela Burns, whom was apparently one of Baedes’s protégés, one of his crew that Baedes had taken a personal interest in. In this case, he relied on her to perform research, and he shared with her aspects of his plan, but he made sure she was not a witness to anything that occurred. 

Clyde felt like a voyeur, as though she were looking into someone’s window, invading his private room, staring at his nakedness, a sight which was holding her, hypnotically. She woke for a moment from her trance, swept her eyes through her office, afraid someone might be looking over her shoulder. But there was no need. She was the only one in the house. All she heard was the hum of the computer’s fan and of the refrigerator down the hallway. She was there alone, and only she knew how to access the information she had unearthed. Good thing, too. She shivered to think what Ted might say if he knew what she had been up to. 

She also felt like it was too simple to be realistic. If she were in a spy novel, everything would be hopelessly convoluted or involve mysterious technology that couldn’t actually exist in real life. But that felt realistic. This truth was stranger than fiction. Baedes had simply written down all of his misdeeds, kept a record, almost as if he were confessing to his priest. And then he left them in an unlocked room with a door big enough for Godzilla to walk through. 

All of these thoughts and feelings hit her at once in an eerie blast of mental twilight. But thinking about Ted brought her back to Earth. Indeed, Ted would freak out like only Ted could, angry, upset, betrayed, if he knew what she had done. He would be afraid for her and for himself. He would feel an ethical obligation to turn over all the evidence of her misdeeds, yet a moral obligation to keep her confidence. He would be afraid of losing her and of losing control of the situation, and he hated to lose control. Yet Ted was the man who needed to know what was in the file.

“So how,” Clydene said, “do I clue him in, without getting either of us in trouble?” 

Yes, she could send him an anonymous email. But she couldn’t give specifics, because she didn’t know how much this Pamela Burns actually knew. Clyde didn’t even want anyone to know that Baedes’s files had been compromised, because that would provoke them to seek out the person who had compromised the files. And an anonymous email could still be traced back to her, if a court ordered it. And if Ted thought the sender were someone inside the government, he might just seek such an order. 

But what if… Suddenly, the answer was clear. 

She had built a feature into Pyx to allow it to upgrade and expand itself, if she told it to do so. She could issue Pyx commands via the same anonymous, secure channels it sent back data. She quickly wrote a script that sent an email. The email claimed to be from an anonymous, inside informant; it was specific enough to identify Burns as a source of information in Mira’s case—and so that Ted would know it’s not a piece of random spam; and it was vague enough not to give away where the information came from. The email appeared to come from Baedes’s email address, but if anyone looked closely, it would clearly have been sent from a public computer terminal in a separate government office, a computer that she noticed was also infected with the Pyx virus, a terminal almost any government employee could have had access to. The email would be almost impossible to trace, if anyone even tried. 

Clyde tested the script using a simulator, without actually sending the email. Then she packaged it in a command to Pyx. She opened up a terminal window and typed pyx_send in the green letters on black background she was used to, followed by the name of the command file, pb_email.pyc. The computer responded:

Logging to pyx.log
Command pb_email.pyc encoded
Posted to alt.test
Transaction id 200709201120A

There. It was off. She expected confirmation from the target machine within 12 hours. 

---

Baedes took a swig from his water bottle. He had been running for almost a half hour, and he was dripping with sweat. 

“It’s been 30 minutes, and there are people waiting,” he said to the younger, short-haired man on the treadmill next to him. He disliked cutting down his run time, but those were the rules. If someone was waiting, use the treadmill for only 30 minutes at a stretch; then give someone else a turn. 

“Right.” The other man pushed a button to begin the cool-down cycle. Then he checked his pulse and distance. A Friends rerun was just starting on the TV. “I don’t get this show.” He pointed at the television. “I mean, I know it’s supposed to be one of the funniest ever made, but it does nothing for me.”

“Television is pretty much useless,” Baedes said. He wouldn’t even have one if it weren’t for the sports channels. 

“I think you may be right. Though the History Channel has some pretty interesting war documentaries.” 

“You know I don’t have time for that.” 

“Right. That’s why you’ve watched every single pre-season NFL game so far this year.”

“That’s different.” 

“Sure it is,” the man said in a sarcastic tone. 

“Yes, it is.” Baedes was serious. “Football is a contest of skill and strategy. Twenty-two men go at it, all at once, on the same field. But each with his own unique skills, all for his team. And that team under the direction of a single man, who orchestrates the battle. But only the strongest and smartest team wins. There’s no second place.” His face, covered with drops of sweat, showed a disturbing excitement. “Why watch a documentary, son, when you can see the war?” 

Indeed, to Baedes a football game was a genuine battle, with tactics and strategy and skill. And with a few sacrifices. It was order out of chaos. While most fans just rooted for their team, Baedes usually didn’t care who won. But he took pride in being able to understand the intricacies of the game, on multiple levels, from multiple perspectives. 

The younger man didn’t respond. Either he had nothing to say, or he was searching for words. Regardless of which, before the conversation could continue, a cell phone began to ring. Baedes picked it up, flipped it open, and spoke into the receiver. 

“Baedes here,” he said. 

“This is Officer Burns, Sir. Ted Jackson wants to talk to me about the Mira Jayson case.” 

“Okay,” Baedes said. 

“I don’t know why he wants to talk to me or what he wants to ask me. But I thought you should know.” 

“Thank you. I appreciate being informed.” 

He knew Burns would not betray him, but he wondered what prompted Jackson to talk to her. Still, it wasn’t her responsibility to put her neck on the chopping block for him, because he was the boss. It was his job to stand up for and protect his people, and he would do so. Besides, the more she hedged, the more Jackson would keep digging.

Baedes added, “Cooperate fully with him.” 

“I see. Do you have any guidance on what I should tell him?” she asked. 

“I think you should tell him the truth.” 

Silence. 

“Just tell what you saw, but don’t interpret the facts, don’t repeat hearsay, and don’t offer information,” Baedes said. 

“Yes. I understand,” Burns said. 

“Call me afterwards, please.” 

“I’ll keep you informed,” she said. 

After they hung up, Baedes thought about this turn of events. He was in no personal danger from anything she could say. It could mean a short end to Miss Jayson’s incarceration, but not until next week at the earliest. Jackson could have gotten Burns’s name from the duty schedule or police blotter. Still, it disturbed him that the enemy thought her valuable. 

---

“Officer Burns,” Ted said. He extended his hand and introduced himself. 

Ted honestly didn’t know what he was doing speaking to this young officer, didn’t know what he expected to get from her. A tip from an anonymous inside source, completely unverifiable, yet somehow it felt right. Ted had checked the police blotter and peeked at the duty schedule—Ted had his own inside sources. Indeed, Baedes had taken a car and gone out and had arrested Mira. That’s it. The only thing he did was to arrest Mira. He issued no citations, responded to no dispatch calls. It was indeed as if he had planned it. And now that Ted was out of leads, he was desperate. 

One of Ted’s only hobbies was the study of magic. He loved the intricacies and mysteries of illusion, sleight of hand, mind-reading, psychokinesis, deception and trickery, hypnotic regression, psychic surgery, mind games of vanishing, levitation, prediction, and the all other products of the magician’s skill and cunning. Ted knew that magic is not real. Magic happens in the mind, as a result of how the magician presents it and in how his audience accepts it, a result of what the audience does and does not know. And psychics, they are a special class of magician. They use surprisingly simple mind tricks to make their mark believe they have some supernatural source of information, all the while pulling that information from the mark himself. Now seated in a private room with young Officer Burns, Ted started playing psychic.

“Do you know Sam Baedes?” he began. 

“Yes, we all do.” 

“Does he ask you for special favors?” Ted was hoping his phrasing would rattle her. 

She looked askance at the lawyer across the conference-room table from her. 

“No. Well, nothing unusual or inappropriate,” she said. 

“So when he told you about the Mira Jayson case, that must have made you feel uncomfortable.” 

“No,” she said, shifting in her seat. 

“Really?” Ted raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “It would make me uncomfortable to hear one of the other partners at my firm admit to the sort of tactics he admitted to you.” 

“He did nothing wrong,” Pam insisted, staring off to the side. 

“What he did was akin to falsifying evidence.” 

“Look,” Pam stared at him and spoke adamantly. “The report says that Miss Jayson charged at him, and that’s completely true.” 

“But what about the non-existent weapon she supposedly had?” Ted challenged her. 

“Sometimes in the middle of a situation, you have to make split-second decisions, for your safety and for everyone else’s, and you don’t have time to gather evidence first. I’m sorry your client got hurt, but she shouldn’t have been trying to help.”

“But Baedes attacked Ike Morgan, and he did it expressly to create a situation. That’s entrapment.” 

“You have no proof of that,” she said. She shifted her weight again in her seat. 

“On Monday, September 10,” Ted said, “did Sam Baedes take a car and go out to make traffic stops?” 

“Yes, you know he did.” 

“Do you know why he did so?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe he wanted to get out of the office that day.” 

“Are those the words he used?” 

“Yes—“ She cut herself short. 

“He said he wanted to get out of the office,” he said. 

No response. 

“Did he say why he wanted to get out of the office?” 

“No.” 

“Hmm.” He looked into her eyes. “Are you sure?” 

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m sure.” 

“Why do you think he wanted to get out?” 

“You’d have to ask him,” Pamela said. 

“But I want to know what you think,” Ted said.

“Well, I don’t know the answer.” 

“You don’t know what you think?” 

“I don’t know what he wanted, or that he wanted anything, and I’m unwilling to speculate.” She was trying to backpedal. 

“Take me through the conversation. From the start.” 

“What conversation?” she looked confused. 

“The conversation where he told you about arresting Mira Jayson.” 

“Why don’t you just ask him what he did instead of pursuing hearsay?” She grinned slightly.

“Does the chief usually do the job of a duty officer?” 

“No.” 

“So that was atypical.” 

“Yes, but not unheard of.” 

“But all he did was to stake out the road Mira was riding home on. That sounds incredibly boring. Why would he want to do that?” 

“He said,” she explained, “that Mira Jayson was a violent person, that he expected her to be driving in an unregistered car, and that he needed to bring her in. And he wanted to personally make sure it went down without a hitch.” She immediately closed her eyes for a moment, as though she didn’t mean to say that. 

But Ted tried not to appear to notice. “He said that? Just like that? That Miss Jayson was ’a violent person’?” 

“No, those weren’t the exact words he used, but—” 

“What exact words did he use?” 

“I don’t remember. But that was the sentiment.” 

Ted took a breath. “Are you familiar with Miss Jayson’s reputation?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is her reputation that she is a violent person?” 

A pause. “No.” 

“So did you believe Chief Baedes when he said that she was?” 

She paused again. “No.” 

“So, did you seek any clarification of his statement?” 

“Yeah, but…” 

Ted waited before saying, “Okay. What was it?” 

“I told the chief I had heard that Miss Jayson was a pacifist.” 

“And what was his explanation?” 

“And he said he thought this time she would get in more trouble than she usually does.”

“Sad. Like Ike Morgan, more trouble than he usually gets into.” 

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “He’s got it made. He dodged a bullet, that one. I dug through the files myself. We have so much we could charge him with. He’s in such deep shit, he’s lucky he’s walking the streets.” 

“Fine then,” Ted said. “I won’t worry about him.” 

---

Judge Spiller refused to hear any more on the bail issue. Friday afternoon, Ted appeared before a Superior Court justice, with Mira, to argue that Mira’s bail should be lifted. He brought up all the same arguments that had not worked before, with two additions: 

“Judge Spiller erred in increasing bail,” he said. “In the typical case, the court would issue a restraining order, for example, to order Miss Jayson to keep at least 100 feet from Chief Baedes. But a law officer’s job is to deal with conflict. What if he needs to arrest her? In fact, that very situation is the one in which Miss Jayson was alleged to have assaulted Chief Baedes. Therefore, a restraining order in this case is silly—ordering Miss Jayson to stay at least 100 feet away from a law officer. 

“The very reason it is silly is the same reason the court should discount the argument. In the typical case, if the court had issued a restraining order, and if the defendant were to have violated the restraining order, she would have violated the terms of her bail, and she would need to be taken into custody by a law officer. In this case, however, if Miss Jayson were to commit an arrestable offense, that in itself would violate her bail. Therefore, releasing Miss Jayson in this case has a substantially equivalent effect to issuing a restraining order in the typical case. Therefore, she should be released on her own recognizance without surety.

“Furthermore, Officer Baedes sought to entrap Miss Jayson. Then he used his position to compromise Mr. Ike Morgan, the only witness to that entrapment. The details will need to be hammered out at trial. However, for the purposes of this appeal, this indicates that Mira Jayson was not—and is not—a danger to him. She should therefore be released on her own recognizance without surety.” 

A lot of legal mumbo-jumbo that basically amounts to: Let Mira go, because it’s unfair to keep her in jail. 

The Superior Court agreed. Mira was finally free. 

---

First thing after she stopped at home and cleaned up, she went to see Ike. She found him at a job site, taking a break, standing in the driveway, chewing on a slice of pizza. A haze of clouds covered the sun, casting a cool, fuzzy light over the scene. A light breeze blew through Mira’s hair, carrying the scent of new shampoo and fragrant perfume out across the field next door. 

“I heard they let you off the hook,” she said. 

“Yeah, they did,” Ike replied. 

“I just wanted to make sure…“ She faded, then tried again. “I don’t know what happened with you after they arrested us.” 

“Well—“ Ike began. 

“And I don’t want to know.” 

“Okay,” he said. 

She gathered that he had been put in an impossible position, and she had turned hero in order to save his skin, and she had already rationalized his innocence in her own mind, and she didn’t want to revisit the subject, because she blamed herself for all that had happened. Still, she felt she owed him an explanation, but she had to loosen some words from her brain by shaking her already trembling hands.

“Because,” she said, “it would just get me upset all over again.” 

Ike just nodded. 

“At Sam Baedes.” 

Ike looked inquisitive. “I don’t understand,” he said. 

Mira continued. “I’m so sorry I got you into this. And whatever they did to you… I’m so sorry. I just hope you can forgive me and maybe we can get back to some… normal.” 

Ike had a pained expression. “I’m afraid you don’t realize… what I—” 

“Yes, I know all about that. But they forced you to say those things. I don’t know how…” And she didn’t want to know how they forced him. She didn’t want to know what they had on him. She didn’t want to know what kind of deep trouble he was in, because she firmly believed in the basic goodness of this man. “I’m just sorry I got you into this.” 

---

Later that day, the District Attorney’s office mysteriously dropped the charges against Mira. No one knew why, except Clyde, who noticed an update in Chief Beady-eyes’s computer file. Apparently, he was disturbed by “the attack,” as he wrote, “on PB.” And he was afraid that pursuing this case would be worse for him than if Mira Jayson were simply allowed to continue, for now. So he had gone privately to the prosecutor and persuaded him that the case was no longer worth pursuing. His file didn’t indicate what methods he used to persuade a prosecuting attorney that an active case was not worth pursuing. Clyde almost searched through the files for dirt on the D.A., but she changed her mind at the last second. She decided the question was probably better left unresolved. 

He had, however, added a final new note to the file. It read: “Information leak. Informant in office? Outside subversive?” 

---

In his hand, Ted held a tall, thin, stemmed glass half-full of sparkling Brut, as did everyone else seated at the dining room table. He looked out over the collected guests. It was only a small dinner party. Mira brought Ike. Michael brought a woman named Annie, a sultry brunette he knew from somewhere or other. And naturally, the hosts were in attendance. 

Clyde had orchestrated the entire menu, a mouth-watering spread: garden salad with homemade lemon vinaigrette; Clydene’s garlic-herb chicken and couscous, with a chicken-vegetable gravy; green beans, carrots, and corn; and a couple bottles of Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, an economical but wonderful wine, a zesty, straw-colored white that burst with citrus and melon. And on deck, cheesecake and coffee, not burnt this time. As it turned out, the coffee pot just needed to run through a cycle in the dishwasher. As she had told Ted exactly what to do to help her prepare each dish, he happily took a back seat and let her drive. This was her province. 

Ted said, “Before we begin, I asked Michael to say a few words.” 

Michael stood. “Over the past week,” he said, “I’ve had little opportunity to tell Mira how much we appreciate her. It’s ironic; usually I have the opportunity, but I don’t feel the need. This past week has made me acutely realize the debt we all owe her, and how frequently we each ought to take the time to let her know her how much we appreciate her. 

“Working with Mira has taught me more about my craft than any of you know. She brings passion and meaning to every life she touches, and I’ve aspired to be more like her in that respect, even though I’ve done a poor job of it. 

“Now, she came into our lives when Ted and Clyde were facing a particularly difficult time. And I daresay without her friendship, they wouldn’t have the wonderful marriage they do, the envy of husbands and wives everywhere, one of the happiest and most well-adjusted marriages I’ve ever witnessed. And that includes my own.”

Everyone laughed. Ted recalled Michael’s story of the one time he was engaged, which ended in disaster. 

“And she has of course also graced Ike with many undeserved gifts.” Michael paused a moment. 

He raised his glass. “Mira, absence is a horrible thing. And it’s pitiable that circumstances must beat that truth into my head with a sledgehammer. I miss you, and I’m glad you’re back.” 

“Hear, hear,” Clydene softly said as she raised her glass. 

“Hear, hear!” repeated Ted. 

And there were other murmurs of “hear, hear” from around the table as they all clinked glasses and drank. 

Mira blushed. Ted knew enough to notice that, and he knew enough to smile fondly in her direction. 

“Well, let’s eat,” Ted said.