Travis Justice by Colleen Shannon Page A

birthright before she touched it, he knew it now. It was almost as if the priceless, shining blade cleaved to her, rather than she to it.
    Finally, Hana glanced their way, saw their grim scrutiny, and realized she’d only confirmed their darkest suspicions. She froze midstrike.
    With a slight, very Japanese bow, she sheathed the blade and offered it back to Travis, the hilt resting on her elbow. “Thank you, Mr. Travis. It’s the first time I’ve ever touched the Nakatomi katana and I could not resist. It was confiscated from my grandfather in 1943 after Pearl Harbor.”
    When they all settled at the table again, she said calmly, “What you see as a supreme example of the art of warfare, I see as a legacy bearing the blood and tears of many ancestors. So while the law may be on your side to possess the blade, given the huge sum you paid for it, I’d argue there is a moral duty that clouds that right because it was stolen from my family in a time of paranoia. I’d further point out the federal government has acknowledged the internment camps imprisoning Japanese-American citizens were so wrong they’ve paid restitution in recent years. I cannot help but wonder . . . in this new age of strife and paranoia how would a jury of my peers view my supposed theft?”
    When John scowled, this time she stared right back. Her voice went very soft. “And lastly, I wonder what your own esteemed ancestor, Colonel William Barrett Travis, would say if I tried to purchase his pocket watch at auction after it had been confiscated from you in a time of war?”
    That mark hit home. For the first time, John Travis looked hesitant as he too stared at the disputed antique.
    Without pause, she added matter-of-factly, “And no, I did not murder either the Taylors or anyone else, despite my ability with the blade. I’ve trained with every weapon imaginable since I was a small child. From the time I could walk, my grandfather encouraged me in it to keep my Japanese heritage alive. I’ve sparred many times with both wooden bokkens and real blades.” She leaned forward and emphasized, “But I’ve never killed anyone with a sword or anything else.”
    Looking skeptical again, Travis turned to Ms. Doyle. She opened a thick file, but didn’t glance at it.
    Hana had the feeling she knew every line in the file.
    The woman said softly, “Ms. Nakatomi, we know your background. We know this katana was once owned by your family. There was no evidence during your prior . . . incursion at the Travis home that you wanted anything but the sword. What we don’t understand is why it was so urgent that you obtain the sword. Urgent enough to risk capture a second time at the transit agency. Can you explain that?”
    Hana was glad to shift her attention from John Travis to meet the clearest gray eyes she’d ever beheld, clearer even than Ernie’s . . . Ernie. Hana swallowed hard, but the guilt she felt at drawing him into this hurt far more than the shackles chafing at her ankles. Just tell the truth. Maybe that would help. She’d never been good at lying, anyway.
    So she told them about Jiji, how the sword was so important to her family, not mentioning Kai. Limiting her information wasn’t the same as lying, she told herself.
    When they began to grill her about her alibi on the night of the Taylor murders, she had none, because she’d gone straight back to her hotel room to continue her research when the sword was nowhere to be found. She noted all three of them watched her body language very closely as she spoke. Hana recalled reading about the newest interrogation methods, where exhaustive study had yielded very strong predictions of guilt or innocence by careful attention to tells. Just like in poker, human beings tended to fidget in an interrogation room when they were bluffing.
    So Hana stayed very still, hands clasped before her, answering yes, sir , no,