The Voting Machine

The Final Version

"In the back," he ordered. "That way no one sees you." I stepped to the rear and saw a second figure in the shadows. She was clad in jeans and a long-hooded sweatshirt that covered her hijab.

"I've been checking the video cameras every day," she whispered. She introduced the driver as Salim, a man who worked in the family business.

"There's something I have to tell you about your father, Fatima?" I said once we were on the freeway.

"He's dead isn't he?" She had expected to hear this but she burst into tears all the same. She buried her face in her hands. I put my arm around her and let her sob.

"Do you know who did this?" she asked when she was finished.

"That man and woman who came into your store, they're the ones responsible."

"Those FBI agents?"

"That's not what they really were. They worked for a company called Secure Strategies." I handed her the company ID badges I'd collected from their bodies. "You need to keep these as evidence."

"This becomes part of the case."

"I have more for you."

The van slowed down as we approached a checkpoint on the freeway. Highway patrolmen were waving vehicles through one by one, sometimes asking a driver to pop the trunk. Fatima moved into the front passenger seat. Salim said something to her in Arabic and she uncovered her head.

"He says I should hide the hijab. That way we look normal."

The traffic inched along as the cars merged into a single open lane, passing through the checkpoint one by one.

"I remember when I first started wearing it in high school," she said. "Everyone thought I was a freak. The other girls wore tight clothing and painted their faces with makeup, trying to look like models and pop stars. Some showed off their bodies, some pierced themselves all over. But I was the one they called a freak. One of the ninth grade boys would always tease me in the stairwell. He'd try to yank it off until one day I couldn't take it and I pushed him hard against the wall. I told him I'd kill him if he ever tried to touch me again. He tried to laugh it off but he never bothered me after that. That was the first time I ever stood up to anyone.

"My father told me that America was a place where you could have a good life even if you're on the outside. America has lots of laws and lots of money, more than other countries, he said. And you can use those all those laws and money to build a fortress and protect yourself. It seems like he was wrong about that. The laws don't matter as much as he thought they would. And the money is running out."

We finally reached the checkpoint. Fatima and Salim smiled as the officers motioned us along. The lanes opened up on the other side and we were cruising at full speed once again.

"Your father told me about the money, Fatima. There's a friend of the family in Orange County right?"

"Jamal."

"He's the one who had direct contact with Shiro through the hawala. He can help us expose the group that killed your father."

"We're going to meet him," she said. "I've been trying to reach him ever since my father disappeared. He's going to be at the mosque in Irvine for the evening prayer. He says he can help us clear his name. I know my father made mistakes with money. He knew as well. I don't think he felt like he had a choice."

"He told me he got involved a long time ago, back when he was in Egypt, trying to fund a network that would bring democracy to his homeland. Then he found out the network was doing things he didn't agree with but it was too late to get out."

"I am not surprised," she said. "We could argue about politics sometime. To play or not to play. That's the hardest choice isn't it? Play the game and you get your hands dirty. But if you don't play the game then someone else gets to set the rules. My father said it's not simple to do what's right. You pray for guidance but sometimes the signs aren't clear. We believe in two angels called the honorable scribes. They record every thought and action in life. One angel sits on the right side and writes down everything good. The other sits on the left side and writes down everything bad. And then on judgment day, they tally up all the good and bad. My father said he was never sure what his book was going to look like."

"He's not the only one," I said.

The traffic stopped again and we could see police lights up in the distance. Helicopters buzzed overhead. We were in the city of San Bernardino now and many cars taking exit ramps to avoid the gridlock.

"Let's get off," Salim said. "We're sitting ducks here on the freeway."

We pulled onto the ramp and descended into a residential neighborhood.

"Why don't you let me out here," I said.

"What are you talking about?"

"The choppers and police cars are looking for me. I don't want to hold you back. You need to get to Irvine to meet Jamal tonight."

"What are you going to do in San Bernardino?"

"I have a few ideas. But it's probably better if I don't tell you. That way, anyone asks you can honestly say you have no idea where I am."

"What if they track you down?"

"If you want to worry about me, worry about clearing my name. Follow the money trail and tell everything you know to Annabelle Davis. She has money, lawyers, connections. Between the two of you we tell the final version of this story."