simple case that was in fact incredibly complex.
The judge knew that regardless of how he ruled later in the day, the case was headed a few blocks north and east to the Supreme Court. There was no way around it.
Chapter 17
Professor Thistlewood sensed he was being watched.
When he turned left out of the bar’s front doors, he was certain that the bum sitting a block away had snapped a picture of him. There was no flash, but as Thistlewood glanced over his shoulder and to his right, he caught a glimpse of something shiny hidden underneath the man’s coat.
When he got into the taxi, he was sure that the black sedan three cars back was following him to wherever he was headed. Thistlewood told the cab driver to take him to his office on campus rather than to his apartment. He’d be safer there, he thought. Plus, he had less than four hours until his 7 a.m. lecture.
Once in his office, he sat at his desk, looking pensively out the window, trying to identify the sixth Daturan.
There were seventeen possibilities, including Speaker of the House Felicia Jackson and Secretary of Veterans Affairs John Blackmon. He had no clue as to who their coconspirator might be.
He was relieved to know, however, that their efforts would be rewarded. For quite some time he had been unsure how any action by their small, motley band could be effective on a large scale.
If they had an insider on their team, the game was changed. His heart beat with excitement. Or maybe it was nerves. Either way, Thistlewood felt alive.
He took a deep breath and exhaled, looking to the north end of the quad. Below, he could see the crisscrossing asphalt paths that split the grass along the stretch of green space. His eyes moved from left to right and back, looking for anything unusual. It was empty, except for the occasional custodian. The sun was just coming up, and it was still hard to make out shapes.
Then he saw it. Next to a large oak, something was moving.
His eyes focused and he could tell the shape behind the tree, on a bench, was human. It was someone in dark clothing, trying to hide behind the trunk of the massive tree. The figure moved out from its position two or three times, and the professor thought he caught the reflection of light flickering toward the top of the figure.
Binoculars!
Thistlewood’s heart skipped a beat, and he could feel the blood pumping in his neck. He sank down in his chair and leaned back out of sight of the window.
His breath was quickening and getting shallow as he slid onto the floor. On all fours he crawled over to the door on the right side of the office. From a kneeling position, he reached up with his right arm to flip the light switch. He snagged the top of the switch with his middle finger and pulled down, cutting the light.
Thistlewood let out another deep breath and sat on the floor with his back against the door. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead and on the back of his neck. He rubbed his temples with his hands.
Thistlewood leaned forward onto his knees and crawled over to the window. When he reached the sill, he gripped it lightly with his fingers and pulled himself up. He rose just high enough to see the spot where the figure was hiding. He pulled the tree and bench into focus. Nothing. Thistlewood rubbed his eyes with his left hand and looked again. Still nothing. And then he heard rapping behind him. Someone was at his door. It nearly stopped his heart.
Who was it? Was the figure confronting him? Was he about to be arrested?
Another bang on the door. Three hard knocks.
“Who is it?” Thistlewood was still on the ground next to his window. He felt the sweat roll from his temple to the side of his jaw and rubbed it dry with a shrug of his shoulder.
“It’s George.”
George Edwards? What was he doing here?
“Uh”—Thistlewood struggled to his feet—“okay. Hang on, George. I’m coming.”
The professor stepped to the other side of the room and flipped up the light
The judge knew that regardless of how he ruled later in the day, the case was headed a few blocks north and east to the Supreme Court. There was no way around it.
Chapter 17
Professor Thistlewood sensed he was being watched.
When he turned left out of the bar’s front doors, he was certain that the bum sitting a block away had snapped a picture of him. There was no flash, but as Thistlewood glanced over his shoulder and to his right, he caught a glimpse of something shiny hidden underneath the man’s coat.
When he got into the taxi, he was sure that the black sedan three cars back was following him to wherever he was headed. Thistlewood told the cab driver to take him to his office on campus rather than to his apartment. He’d be safer there, he thought. Plus, he had less than four hours until his 7 a.m. lecture.
Once in his office, he sat at his desk, looking pensively out the window, trying to identify the sixth Daturan.
There were seventeen possibilities, including Speaker of the House Felicia Jackson and Secretary of Veterans Affairs John Blackmon. He had no clue as to who their coconspirator might be.
He was relieved to know, however, that their efforts would be rewarded. For quite some time he had been unsure how any action by their small, motley band could be effective on a large scale.
If they had an insider on their team, the game was changed. His heart beat with excitement. Or maybe it was nerves. Either way, Thistlewood felt alive.
He took a deep breath and exhaled, looking to the north end of the quad. Below, he could see the crisscrossing asphalt paths that split the grass along the stretch of green space. His eyes moved from left to right and back, looking for anything unusual. It was empty, except for the occasional custodian. The sun was just coming up, and it was still hard to make out shapes.
Then he saw it. Next to a large oak, something was moving.
His eyes focused and he could tell the shape behind the tree, on a bench, was human. It was someone in dark clothing, trying to hide behind the trunk of the massive tree. The figure moved out from its position two or three times, and the professor thought he caught the reflection of light flickering toward the top of the figure.
Binoculars!
Thistlewood’s heart skipped a beat, and he could feel the blood pumping in his neck. He sank down in his chair and leaned back out of sight of the window.
His breath was quickening and getting shallow as he slid onto the floor. On all fours he crawled over to the door on the right side of the office. From a kneeling position, he reached up with his right arm to flip the light switch. He snagged the top of the switch with his middle finger and pulled down, cutting the light.
Thistlewood let out another deep breath and sat on the floor with his back against the door. He could feel the sweat beading on his forehead and on the back of his neck. He rubbed his temples with his hands.
Thistlewood leaned forward onto his knees and crawled over to the window. When he reached the sill, he gripped it lightly with his fingers and pulled himself up. He rose just high enough to see the spot where the figure was hiding. He pulled the tree and bench into focus. Nothing. Thistlewood rubbed his eyes with his left hand and looked again. Still nothing. And then he heard rapping behind him. Someone was at his door. It nearly stopped his heart.
Who was it? Was the figure confronting him? Was he about to be arrested?
Another bang on the door. Three hard knocks.
“Who is it?” Thistlewood was still on the ground next to his window. He felt the sweat roll from his temple to the side of his jaw and rubbed it dry with a shrug of his shoulder.
“It’s George.”
George Edwards? What was he doing here?
“Uh”—Thistlewood struggled to his feet—“okay. Hang on, George. I’m coming.”
The professor stepped to the other side of the room and flipped up the light
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