Free The Bomb Maker's Son by Robert Rotstein Page B

my parents—my pops—wouldn’t talk about Ian, didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Or his baby son.” He looks down at his hat. “Not your fault. But it sounds like you did good. I mean, you were a famous kid actor. Hell, you’re famous now. Who would’ve thought?” He frowns. “I guess Ian is famous again, and that’s not so great.”
    Time to play lawyer again. “You came all the way down from the Bay Area for this hearing, Jerry?”
    “Yap. As soon as I read about Ian. I wondered where he was all these years. Missed him. He’s my little brother, but he was like my big brother. Smarter, braver, nicer than me. He protected me from bullies. I thought I’d never see him again. I thought he was dead or something.”
    “Look, I’m going to defend him in this case, and I need your help.”
    “You’re his attorney,” he says. Yew his attoonee .
    “Because the events—the bombing, I mean—took place forty years ago, you might be able to help me piece together what happened.”
    He nods. “The war. Nam. I served, you know. I think that’s why Ian done what he done.”
    My cell phone buzzes. It’s a text from Lovely: “Client free but big problems courthouse steps NOW!!!”
    As I gather up my things, I say to Jerry, “How’d you like to say hello to your brother?”
    “Yes, I sure would, Parker.”
    “Let’s go.” I head out of the room at a near sprint but slow down when I realize that Jerry can’t move very well.
    “You have to go fast, so go fast,” he says. “I’ll catch up with you. Where will Ian be?”
    “Courthouse entrance. Two flights down.” I actually do start sprinting, balancing my briefcase and hoping that I don’t trip while running down the escalators. I wish I’d inherited Ian Holzner’s gymnastic abilities.
    When I get to the automatic double doors, the problem is obvious—Holzner, now dressed in the clothes that I wanted him to wear to court, is surrounded by a media throng. “. . . and frankly, I’d be bullshitting you if I told you otherwise,” he says in his resonant sixties-rabble-rouser voice. “No way am I remorseful for what happened in the seventies. The bombs we set off in the seventies were the clarion call of the masses, the chimes of freedom protesting a capitalist system that lined the pockets of the rich at the expense of working people and the poor. It’s no different today. The American government mires itself in foreign wars, keeps widening the gaping crevasse between rich and poor, rewards the multinational corporation for its exploitation of children, develops the latest technology not to solve the nation’s ills but to invade the privacy of its citizens. In the words of Malcolm X, ‘There’s no such thing as a nonviolent revolution.’ So I make no apologies for taking a stand. To tell you the truth—”
    Just then, Jerry Holzner limps out of the courthouse doors. There’s a concussive jolt, shouts, shrieks, and moans, and only when daggers of glass shoot out from a courthouse window does my father stop talking.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    I’m on the ground, on top of Lovely, shielding her body from debris or another explosion or follow-up sniper fire. There are screams and shouts. Lovely groans and tries to get up.
    “Stay down!” I shout.
    She relaxes in my arms. I rise up slightly and look around. I feel oddly detached. People are slowly getting to their feet, taking anatomical inventory. A woman I recognize as an online legal blogger has a bloody gash on her forehead, though fortunately she’s sitting up. A few others are bleeding but alive. Thankfully, I don’t see anyone who looks seriously injured. If that’s true, the bomber either made a mistake or didn’t want to kill anyone.
    I feel a hand on my back. “Parker, Lovely. Are you kids all right?”
    I look up to see Ian Holzner, his brow furrowed in concern.
    “Lovely, are you okay?” I say. I hold my breath, waiting for an answer that seems to take forever.
    She looks up