Neil Goderich spent all of Thursday in court and ate a microwaved frozen dinner at his desk in the office. Long days were the rule for him. Friends often asked him what his tiny salary came out to on an hourly basis, but he would just smile and shake his head. People didn’t get it. There was no minimum-wage law for lawyers at the Freedom Institute.
“Can you please turn on the air-conditioning?” asked the doctor.
The day had been unusually warm even by Miami standards, and Neil was in a windowless room with a new client: the doctor who had come to Ethan Chang’s aid on the Lincoln Road Mall, and who feared he had been exposed to the same deadly toxin.
“Sorry,” said Neil, “there’s no budget for AC after five P.M.”
The doctor dabbed his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “I’d sure hate to be in here in the summertime.”
“You get used to it,” said Neil, and he meant it. In twenty-eight years, the run-down house on the Miami River that was the Freedom Institute had changed little. Four lawyers shared two small bedrooms that had been converted into offices. The foyer doubled as a storage room for old case files, one box stacked on top of the other. The bottom ones sagged beneath the weight of denied motions for stay of execution, the box tops warped into sad smiles. Harsh fluorescent lighting showed every stain on the indoor/outdoor carpeting. The furniture screamed “flea market”-chairs that didn’t match, tables made stable with a deck of cards under one leg. The vintage 1960s kitchen was not only where lawyers and staff ate their bagged lunches, but it also served as the main (and only) conference room. Hanging on the wall over the coffeemaker was the same framed photograph of Bobby Kennedy that had once hung in Neil’s dorm room at Harvard.
The other lawyers had gone home, and Neil was with Dr. Spigelman at the kitchen table. The old refrigerator made a strange buzzing noise, which Neil silenced with a quick kick to the side of the appliance. It didn’t exactly convey the image of powerhouse legal representation, and Neil could hear the concern in his client’s voice.
“Are you sure you’re equipped to handle this case?” the doctor asked.
“Absolutely,” said Neil. “Granted, our typical client is not a retired physician.”
“Unless that retired physician is also a murderer, I presume.”
“Accused murderer,” said Neil. “But let’s get beyond that. Jack Swyteck steered this case in my direction because he thought it was a cause I would want to fight for. And he was right. You were a doctor for forty years. You witnessed a man die with your own eyes. You’ve clawed for information as to the cause of death, and in your professional opinion, the medical examiner may be covering up evidence that a synthetic toxin was released in one of the most famous outdoor malls in the country.”
“In a nutshell, that’s it. But hearing you repeat it back to me gives me some pause. Do I sound paranoid?”
“A little. But you came to the right place.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We know things about Ethan Chang that lend credence to your concerns.”
“Like what?”
“The night he was killed, Chang was on his way to see Jack Swyteck. He was going to hand over photographs about a government secret that would help us defend a man who was held overseas as an accused terrorist. When you’re talking about government secrets and accused terrorists, there are any number of entities, foreign and domestic, that could have access to nerve gas or a similar toxin.”
“Holy cow,” said the doctor. “I really could be at risk.”
“I don’t mean to diminish your personal right and need to know if you should start taking an antidote. But if someone used a weapon of mass destruction-and that’s what these synthetic toxins are-then the public has a right to know.”
“So how do you get the medical examiner to give us the information we need?”
“Obviously, time is of the essence. I’ll draft the complaint and emergency motion tonight, file the papers in the morning, and request an immediate hearing. The case will go before the emergency duty judge, and-”
Neil halted at a loud crash in the other room.
“What the hell was that?”
Neil started toward the hallway, but the cafe door flew open before he got to it. A man dressed in black burst into the room. A ski mask covered his face, and in one quick motion, he raised his right arm and took aim with his pistol.
“No!” the doctor shouted.
Neil braced for the crack of a gunshot, but it was the muffled sound of a silenced projectile. The doctor’s head snapped back, and as he tumbled backward in his chair, the crimson spray of blood reached all the way to the framed photograph of Bobby Kennedy.
Neil shrieked and ran for the other door. It led to the alley, but the second half of the attack team was right outside, dressed in the same black fatigues and playing lookout. The triggerman grabbed Neil by the ponytail and took him down hard. Neil’s spectacles flew from his face and slid across the linoleum. The wind rushed from his lungs as the attacker drilled his knee into Neil’s back. The man yanked harder at the ponytail, forcing Neil’s chin up from the floor. A cold, serrated blade was pressed so firmly to his throat that he could feel the blood starting to trickle down his neck, moistening his shirt collar.
“This is not going to end well for you, Mr. ACLU. So you might as well talk.”
Neil’s body was shaking, and his mind flashed with the memory of what Jamal had told him about his abduction three years ago.
“What… do you want to know?”
The masked man leaned closer, burrowing his knee deeper into Neil’s spine.
“I want to know everything about Jamal Wakefield,” he said, hissing into Neil’s ear. “You can start with what he told you about Prague.”