Free Salvation Boulevard by Larry Beinhart Page B

sheriffs with automatic rifles, one of whom had to hold him by the arm to guide him.
    Watkins looked up like he was seeing a dreaded apparition. And he wasn’t the only one.
    â€œWho’s this?” he asked, sounding bewildered, which was peculiar since everyone in the state knew who was in his courtroom that afternoon.

    DeStefano stood up and said, “That’s Ahmad Nazami.”
    The man with DeStefano stood up too and said, “I’m from the Justice Department.”
    Watkins turned his head toward the prosecutor’s table with a heavy, ponderous motion, as if his thick, gray, swept-back hair held the weight of a centurion’s iron helmet, and said, “That’s federal, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, sir. I’m representing Homeland Security.”
    â€œThis is a state court,” the judge said.
    â€œYes, sir. I’m aware of that.”
    â€œSo, sit down,” the judge said.
    â€œYour Honor,” DeStefano said.
    â€œYes, Mr. DeStefano. It’s always good to see you. What brings you to our courtroom today?”
    â€œThis prisoner, Ahmad Nazami. We would like to remand him to federal custody.”
    Manny was on his feet. “Objection!”
    â€œMy, my, my. Emmanuel Goldfarb and ADA Daniel DeStefano in my court together. And so . . . operatic. Tell me, Mr. Goldfarb, to what do you object?”
    â€œMy client—”
    â€œThis man?” He looked at Ahmad, who was moving his head around the way blind people do. There was snot dripping from his nose, and he couldn’t wipe it, so he was making sniffling noises as he tried to suck it back in.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œI thought so, though we haven’t been properly introduced yet.”
    â€œHe’s charged with an ordinary state crime, and he belongs in this court and should be tried in this court’s jurisdiction. I cite—”
    â€œDon’t cite.” The judge turned to his clerk. “What’s he charged with?”
    His clerk indicated with as subtle a gesture as was possible in the circumstances that Watkins had the list of defendants and charges directly in front of him.
    â€œOh . . . murder. Murder’s not federal. We do that right here at home. Yes, indeed.”

    â€œYour Honor,” DeStefano said.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThis was a terrorist act.”
    â€œOhhh.” Something between a moan and a sob escaped from Ahmad.
    Watkins looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time.
    â€œWhat’s that on his face? Is there something wrong with his eyes?”
    â€œYour Honor,” DeStefano began.
    â€œWhy is this man in chains? In my courtroom?”
    â€œHe’s a dangerous terrorist, Your Honor,” DeStefano said. The armed deputies stood straighter, looked more alert, and held their rifles as if they were ready to spring into action.
    â€œHe’s crying,” Watkins said.
    â€œIt’s a trick. They train them to do that.”
    â€œUnshackle this man. And take that thing off his eyes.”
    â€œHe’s dangerous,” DeStefano said.
    â€œThis is a criminal court,” Watkins said. “We have dangerous people here all the time. That’s what we do. But are we afraid? No, we are not. Unshackle this man. And take the thing off his face. And you people with the guns”—the judge waved the backs of both his hands at them, brushing them away—“back, back. Let’s all be able to breathe.”
    â€œThank you,” Ahmad said, his head turning as he tried to figure out which direction the judge had spoken from. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
    â€œDon’t call me ‘sir,’” the judge said. “Call me ‘Your Honor.’”
    â€œYes, Your Honor, sir.”
    â€œAnd get those things off his face.”
    One of the deputies moved to follow the judge’s order, and in the first moment, as the goggles came off, you could see how