Chapter 29

The lawyers and their clients returned to the main courtroom and seated themselves at their respective tables. A spontaneous

hearing allowed for no advance public notice, so the entire gallery, even the media section, was empty. The only other people

in the courtroom were the bailiff, the stenographer, and the clerk.

“Where is Yasmin?” Zahra whispered.

“Let’s see what the judge has to tell us,” said Jack.

Jack had told his client exactly what Judge Carlton had said about Yasmin’s third drawing. Beyond that, the only clue as to

the judge’s plan was the flat manila envelope on the mahogany tabletop before them. It was marked sealed—do not open . Farid and his lawyer had an identical envelope.

Judge Carlton entered from the side door to his chambers. The lawyers and their clients rose on the bailiff’s command.

“You may take your seats,” the judge said from the bench. “Here’s what I’ve decided to do, in consultation with the court-appointed

child psychiatrist. In a few moments, I will direct each side to open the envelope in front of you. It contains the drawing

at issue. The drawing will not leave this courtroom. Each side will have ten minutes to review and discuss it. Yasmin Bazzi

will then be brought into the courtroom and sworn as a witness.”

Jack could hear his client gasp, which drew a reaction from the bench.

“Mr. Swyteck, is there a problem?” the judge asked.

“No, Your Honor,” said Jack, and he gave his client a reassuring touch on her wrist.

“As I was saying,” the judge continued, “Mr. Swyteck will question the witness first. Ms. Beech, you may cross-examine if you wish. I admonish both sides to bear in mind that the witness is a six-year-old child.”

Beech rose. “Not to quibble, Judge, but today is actually Yasmin’s seventh birthday.”

The judge’s expression soured. “We’re doing this on her birthday ?”

“Not that Mr. Swyteck’s client cares,” said Beech.

“Really?” said Jack. “Judge, I object.”

“Ms. Beech, enough with the cheap shots. Whether she’s six or seven, my point is that we are dealing with a child of tender

age. Mind yourselves accordingly. Are there any questions?”

Jack spoke. “Judge, would it be possible to speak with Yasmin before questioning her?”

“Absolutely not,” the judge said. “As I stated, I made this decision in consultation with the child psychiatrist. I am adopting

this procedure to avoid any possibility of witness coaching by either side. Yasmin created this drawing while she was completely

alone, influenced by no one. I don’t want anyone—stepmother, father, lawyer, judge, or psychiatrist—putting ideas in her head

about what her drawing means. Yasmin’s testimony will be completely untainted.”

“Understood,” said Jack.

“Any other questions?” the judge asked.

There were none.

“All right, Counsel. You may open the envelopes.”

Andie spent the sunny afternoon in Bayfront Park, taking a walk along the seawall with a confidential informant.

Loco Lenny was a member of Miami Murda, a violent street gang in the Liberty City area. Andie wasn’t officially assigned to the Gang and Criminal Organization Unit, but years of experience as an undercover agent made her the go-to liaison between the Miami safe-streets task force and nervous informants. Lenny was having second thoughts about wearing a wire to his next meeting with a local rapper named Piss-Tahl, the lead suspect in the execution-style murder of two spring-breakers who stiffed the wrong drug dealer and ended up on the wrong end of Piss-Tahl’s pistol.

“Piss-Tahl gonna shoot me in the head, and then light me on fire.”

Or he might light Lenny on fire and then shoot him in the head. But Andie didn’t go there. All she could do was reassure him and, when that didn’t work, give him

a hard dose of reality.

“If you back out now, Lenny, we can’t protect you. You’ll be on your own.”

It was the recurring theme of her pep talk. By the hour’s end, Lenny was solid. Andie left him at the bronze statue of Christopher

Columbus and walked alone to the park exit on Biscayne Boulevard, Miami’s main north-south thoroughfare. Four lanes of bumper-to-bumper

traffic flowed in each direction, divided by the elevated tram platform and a mile-long row of fifty-foot palm trees. Andie

was in the long shadow of office towers across the street, waiting at the crosswalk for the green light, when a man wearing

a suit and dark sunglasses stopped beside her.

“Agent Henning?” he asked.

She didn’t recognize him. “Do I know you?”

“I came to discuss your application to the international corruption squad.”

Miami was the fourth field office—joining New York, Los Angeles, and Washington, DC—to have an entire squad of senior agents

and forensic accountants dedicated to combating foreign bribery, kleptocracy, and other complex investigations into transnational

corruption with a US connection. The required coordination with foreign law enforcement and FBI legal attaché offices made

it Andie’s dream assignment, and she’d been waiting almost six months for a promotion. But not many people knew that she’d

even applied.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Someone who is concerned for you. The application seems to have hit a wall.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Walk with me,” he said.

He started up the sidewalk. Andie hesitated for a moment, then walked with him, the park to their right and northbound traffic

to their left.

“It has come to our attention that you ran a Brian Guthrie through the FBI database.”

One more thing that was known to very few—Andie, Isaac, and the geeks who conducted the occasional IT audits of the system.

But Andie wasn’t about to confirm or deny anything until this guy identified himself.

“Are you with headquarters?”

He ignored her question. “Have you figured out what ‘locked’ means, Agent Henning?”

She didn’t respond; they continued walking.

“It means Mr. Guthrie is one of us.”

“Us?”

He stopped, and so did Andie. He flashed his badge. His name—Hartfield—meant nothing to her. But she recognized the agency.

“You’re CIA?” she said. “Guthrie is CIA ?”

“One of us,” he said, driving the point home.

“Well, you’re late to the game,” said Andie. “The State Department made it crystal clear that my husband is jeopardizing the

negotiations for Mr.— Agent Guthrie’s release. They already asked me to get him to back away from the ‘Ava is dead’ theory.”

“We play harder than the State Department,” he said.

“Meaning?”

“We’re not asking. We’re telling you.”

“I get it. Do as I’m told or kiss my promotion goodbye. Is that it?”

“Promotion?” he said with an extortionist’s chuckle. Then he turned serious. “Unauthorized use of the FBI database is no small

thing. You’ll be lucky to keep your current job.”

Andie was speechless.

“Have a good day, Agent Henning.”

Andie watched him walk away, suddenly feeling as though she had fewer options than Loco Lenny.