Fighting for Dear Life by David Gibbs

last row. He appears to be intensely focused on every move you make. We’ve made the assessment that he could be a security risk.’’
    This was the first time in my career where a member of the audience might be present not to observe but to cause harm for some unknown personal agenda. Then again, maybe I should have anticipated a stunt like this—if that’s all it turned out to be. Now that Terri’s struggle had acquired a national profile, surely some nut case with a desire to cash in his fifteen minutes of fame would surface.
    I started to say something, but the officer cut me off. ‘‘Don’t worry, Mr. Gibbs,’’ he said, although the stiffness of his demeanor betrayed his unease. ‘‘The suspect entered through the security checkpoint so we assume he’s not carrying a knife or a gun.’’
    Assume? Even if this guy walked through the same security checkpoint as the rest of us, maybe he found a way around the safety measures. Did he manage to smuggle in a plastic bomb? Did he have an accomplice inside the court?
    â€˜â€˜As a precaution,’’ the officer said, interrupting my thoughts, ‘‘we’ve stationed a number of armed, plainclothes marshals in the room. Two have taken up positions on either side of him.’’
    Smart move. A smart legal move, that is. Doing so enabled the court to avoid a potential constitutional crisis by removing an individual just because he looked suspicious without proving an actual threat. Placing him under an immediate watch was a good start. I would have preferred to have heard that the SWAT team was on the way.
    Suddenly, I found myself fighting not only for Terri’s life but potentially for the lives of those around me. A thousand thoughts collided in my mind.
    Where was my family?
    Were they safe?
    My wife hadn’t planned to attend today’s hearing. Had her plans changed? As a homeschooling mother, she sometimes brought the kids to court to further their education. I had to know if they were in the gallery. I wanted desperately to turn around and search for their precious faces. Right then and there I made a decision that my family would no longer tag along with me to these hearings. No way. I couldn’t fathom what would happen if someone attempted to harm them.
    That’s when a new emotion pushed its way to the forefront of my mind: fear. Not a fear of dying perse . Rather, it was the inborn response that every father has when confronted with someone or some thing that threatens the safety of his family.
    In a way, I was experiencing firsthand a taste of the sheer panic, indeed the living nightmare that the Schindlers had been battling for years . It was the fear of a parent knowing that their child is going to suffer—and they had no legal means to stop it. Like the Schindlers, I knew I would be compelled to move heaven and earth to keep someone from harming one of my own.
    What sane parent wouldn’t?
    I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘‘Uh, Mr. Gibbs? Are you all right?’’
    I blinked the room back into focus. The officer was speaking again. ‘‘We don’t want to create a panic. However, I need for you to discreetly turn around and take a look. Tell me if you know this individual. Take your time. Be casual . . . and don’t stare. Just scan the faces in the back row. Our man is the third guy from the doorway.’’
    â€˜â€˜I understand,’’ I said, steeling myself.
    I turned, slow and steady, hoping my face didn’t betray the spike of anxiety within. I saw a guy, midthirties. His unshaven face and long, dark greasy hair came back to me, although I had never spoken with him. I remembered he was a somewhat unusual protestor; he was the sort of fellow who was kind of rough around the edges. I had no idea if he was a good guy or a bad guy.
    Then again, he was wearing far too much clothing for a Florida afternoon. His heavy,