The Voting Machine

The Seventh Letter

As I was leaving the theater, I heard a familiar voice call out to me from behind. In the middle of the exiting crowd, there was Fatima, carrying a student's backpack, dressed in a black headscarf and a long denim coat. Once we were outside in the plaza she called my name discretely, then she passed directly in in front of me as we walked beside the outdoor chairs and tables of a coffee shop.

Without looking back at me, she gave a subtle hand gesture to follow after her, leaving the plaza and turning onto the sidewalk, heading north on Figueroa. . I continued like this for several blocks, trailing a few paces behind her, until she ducked into a diner at the corner of 9th Street.

"You're safe," she said in an astonished tone once we sat facing each other in a leather-seated booth. She had tea and I ordered fries with a grilled cheese sandwich. After week of starving on the run, I was taking the opportunity to load as many calories as possible into every meal. "We didn't want to drop you off at night in that part of town."

"You didn't have a choice."

"I've been trying to find out what happened to you ever since I saw the news reports. They wouldn't tell us anything about what happened at Castle's estate."

"Who is 'they'?"

"The police. The FBI. Everyone from law enforcement. They are stone-walling. They're worried my family is going to press charges in the wrongful death of my father."

"Stevens wants to keep this as quiet as possible."

"I am sure he does." She clenched both fists and held them out above the table. "They are right to be worried about me. I am going to hit them with a wrongful death case like they've never seen. I've got calls from the best civil rights attorneys in the country asking to take it pro bono. Best case, we get Stevens on criminal charges and lock him up as an accessory to murder. Worst case, if we can't find a prosecutor willing to take the case, we hit the FBI with a civil suit. We get the trial in front of a jury, they'll be paying out so much in damages they'll need a taxpayer bailout after we're finished with them."

I chewed on my sandwich. It didn't seem right talking about money and lawsuits. I knew she was out of sorts, grieving, confused, heartbroken over losing her father. But she would never say that. Talking about the legal stuff gave her something to focus on, a way to extract justice and make someone pay for the horrible thing that had happened either through prison time or cold, hard cash. She was studying my face, gauging my reaction as she talked about bankrupting the FBI and locking up the Special-Agent-in-Charge.

"How is Stevens' treating you?" she said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "He's probably being really nice to you now? He probably had a perfectly good explanation why he hasn't made any announcement about your innocence."

"He's asking me to help in the ongoing investigation."

"He thinks you're going to help him."

"Chet wasn't the only enemy. Someone is still out there. And I think they are the ones who killed David and Zeke. They did it to get to Chet. And they still have my daughter."

"That's what Stevens is telling you? You have to keep quiet and help his case if you want to hold on to any chance to find your daughter?"

I shrugged. "I believe him."

"Don't you see, Temo? He's trying to trick you! You are the only one who knows what they did to my father. He needs a reason to silence you. Without your testimony, they can deny everything that happened."

"He didn't kill your father. He wasn't part of that."

"How do you know?" she yelled, tears in her eyes, slamming her palms on the table. The other diners in the crowd turned with startled stares. "They'd say anything to avoid taking responsibility. That's always the way it is. He's turning it into a trade-off because it helps him, not you. 'Keep quiet and help the FBI if you want us to do our job and find your daughter.' It's a false choice."