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Marshall watched with detached emotion. All eyes were on him. Mbutu was the leader of the Brotherhood, a local black militant group. He was a brilliant and charismatic man, given to fiery oratory and stinging humor. The Brotherhood was a force in the black community, and Mbutu was a legend. He had impeccable civil rights credentials, and had been a Black Panther and advisor to several national leaders. Whatever he was up to, it was big. He was embarrassing the department, daring them to arrest him.

  "Should we pick him up?" asked Sommers. "My men are ready."

  "Yes, but let's let him hang himself a little more," said Marshall. "Let's see what else he's got. He hasn't said the magic words. He hasn't said he killed him."

  "Right," said Roberta. "All he said was 'I took care of him.' "

  "But in reference to Marshall, he said 'He should be shot, too,' " said Walter. "Isn't that an admission that he shot Douglas?"

  "No," said Marshall and Roberta together. They both smiled a little.

  "Mbutu would need to say something direct about his involvement. Let's just see how stupid he is."

  "Well, my men are ready to grab him on a second's notice," said Sommers.

  Marshall wondered if it could be true. Mbutu certainly had a reason to kill Douglas. They were opposed on every issue. Marshall remembered what he had read in Toby's materials on assassination. An assassin always killed his victim as a symbol of something else he wanted to destroy. Farrel Douglas was a symbol of conservatism, and worse for Mbutu, black conservatism, which in Mbutu's mind meant a weakening of militarism and an end to his reason to live.

  ". . . Where's the big, bad government?" asked Mbutu. "I'm here, ready to do battle."

  "What proof do you have that you're involved?" asked an Asian reporter. "You won't admit to killing Douglas, but you're here trying to get arrested. Give us all something we can use."

  Mbutu smiled at the reporter. "Okay, my Asiatic sister, I will give you all something. I have played this game long enough. Black people are still hostages in the country. We were taken by violence and subjugated by violence. We were forced first to work as slaves, then later to live as subservient citizens, supporting the country's elite. We limp along in America, desperately looking for the humanity in the inhuman ruling classes. We are lost, but I am here to lead us to a new promised land. The only thing that America understands is violence. It is the basis of everything this country has and will have. And only by violence will political and social change come. That is why I took action." Mbutu gestured to one of the men. He reached into a duffel bag and pulled out a long black case. Mbutu opened the case and lifted out a rifle. It was a short black gun with a big scope. "This is my sword."

  Mbutu held the weapon high over his head. The FBI men pulled their weapons, training them on Mbutu and his men. The reporters recoiled, moving away from Mbutu. A cameraman tripped and fell. Man and equipment tumbled backward onto the hard ground.

  "Justice is mine," said Mbutu. 

  In the conference room, an audible gasp could be heard. All eyes turned again to Marshall.

He tried to ignore the stares of his team as he thought. He could almost feel the tension and energy coming from Sommers. She was ready to take action. The investigation was dragging along, and for whatever reason, this fool had fallen right into their hands.

"Okay," said Marshall. "Take him down."

M
arshall faced Mbutu across the table. To no one's surprise, Mbutu had waived counsel. He had been arrested right in front of the Federal Building and had not put up a fight. Marshall was playing into his hands, but once he saw the rifle, he could no longer let Mbutu command the spotlight.

  Mbutu was a handsome man beneath his ragged dreadlocks. He was about sixty and looked a little tired. This was understandable. He had just half-confessed to murder, and given them the probable murder weapon.

  Marshall was in the room alone with the suspect. The interrogation room was small, sparse, and claustrophobic. One wall was dominated by a mirror where the litigation team watched in the adjacent room.

  By now every major news group in the country was running the story. Nate Williams and Toby had both called from Philadelphia and were updated. Each of them expressed their desire to either prove Mbutu was the shooter or eliminate him as a suspect as soon as possible.

  The news organizations had learned that the mystery man who was killed was not the shooter. Marshall was angry about the leak, but knew it was only a matter of time before it would have gotten out anyway.

  Mbutu had refused to talk to any FBI men. He wanted Marshall. Mbutu was known to be an expert on the law even though he had never gone to law school. Marshall could see that Mbutu wanted to match wits with him. And the prospect angered and excited him at the same time.

  "Quite a show," said Marshall. "I knew you were given to theatrics, but I never thought I'd see you do something like this."

  "I had to," said Mbutu. "It was only a matter of time before you'd come looking for me or someone in my organization. I know how to play the media as well as the next person."

  "Better, I'd guess," said Marshall. "So, who was the man we shot?"

  "Come on, Counselor, you don't think it's gonna be that easy, do you?"

  "Why not?" asked Marshall. "You came here voluntarily, trying to embarrass us."

  "And I succeeded."

  "Maybe, but still we have you here in custody. You haven't demanded a lawyer. So, why play games? Tell me the man's identity."

  "Sorry, you know that if I know him and he can be linked to the killing, then so can I. Find out the best way you can."

  "That little rifle you had, it's called a Wagner .308WIN. They make them in Germany. It's very expensive and illegal. Where did you get it?"

  "At Wal-Mart. They had a sale." Mbutu laughed.

  "Okay, then how about this one. Did you kill Farrel Douglas?"

  "He killed himself," said Mbutu. "With his traitorous political agenda and disdain for his own people."

  "So, you killed him because of his legal opinions as a judge?"

  "He died because he was a threat to black people. America has tried everything to stamp us out of existence. Douglas was just the latest invention."

  "You haven't answered my question," said Marshall. "Did you do it?"

  "You're testing the gun I had. Let science make that determination."

  "Why the game? Either you did or you didn't. If that gun matches, do you know what will happen to you?" Mbutu had no way of knowing that they couldn't match slugs from the gun. Marshall was trying to scare the truth out of him.

  "I know. The attorney general made it clear that she will seek the death penalty, even though Michigan doesn't have one."

  "This is a federal crime," said Marshall. "The federal statute allows capital punishment."

  "Hmm," said Mbutu. "I need to brush up on my law."

  "I know you, Mbutu," said Marshall. "You never do anything without a reason. What do you hope to do by this? Media coverage, a platform for your views? Your organization is still powerful, but recently, you are less and less relevant to the people."

  "I am as relevant as ever."

  "No, you're not. We know your organization has been losing membership. As the black middle class grows, more and more of them and their children move away from your kind of radical views and toward more conventional forms of protest."

  "They are lost black people who've forgotten their tradition and heritage. I will reeducate them."

  "Even the downtrodden brothers are leaving you. Many of them embrace Islam and other religions as a way of dealing with their problems. Old, broken-down militants are a thing of the past."

  "The people need to be led!" Mbutu slammed a fist into the table. "They don't know what's good for them. The white man's plan has always been to separate and disable us psychologically. I will change all that."

  "Your day is over. Admit it!"

  "My day is just beginning. That's why I—" Mbutu stopped, collecting himself. He smiled at Marshall, shaking a finger at him. "I see you're smarter than I thought, Counselor. Yes, my efforts have been appreciated less by our people, but when they see what I have done, they will know that my way is the only way."

  "Are you trying to start a race riot or something?"

  "I'm starting a race re
volution,
" said Mbutu with a smile. "There's a difference. I don't necessarily want violence. But I do want change."

  "So you want black people to kill anyone who is opposed to what they want?"

  "White America does it. Lincoln destroyed the South and bang, he caught one. Kennedy wanted to change society, and stop Vietnam—bang. Dr. King, Malcolm X, Robert Kennedy, bang, bang bang! This is our country, brother. This nation was built on the bones of millions of Native Americans and black slaves. Genocide as social progress. Who's the real assassin here, me or your bosses?"

  Mbutu's words cut deep. Marshall could not divorce himself from the truth in his words. Undeniably, there was violence in America's birth, a violence that had shaped society and changed the course of human history. And one man's patriotism was another man's bloodbath. But reasonable men understood that this was a matter of humanity, not politics, race, or philosophy. Men were violent, and no one race had a monopoly on that savagery.

  "Your soapbox is old, Mbutu," said Marshall. "Our people are past believing that our problems are some kind of personal hate crime. We are all part of this country, good and bad. I'm the good; the question today is, what are you?"

  "I'm your conscience," said Mbutu.

  Marshall had made a mistake. Mbutu battled with words and ideology, and he'd moved Marshall onto his turf. If this interview was to yield anything, then he would have to get back to the business of lawyering. Mbutu was an intelligent man, but his rage and his love of black people were his weaknesses.

  "Okay, I will agree with that," said Marshall. "You believe a lot of things that many of us have abandoned, perhaps against our better interest. But someone killed a black man, a man who had risen to the top of his profession, a man who marched with Dr. King and served on the board of the NAACP. Whatever else he may have been, he was one of us, and now he's gone."

  "He was a traitor!" yelled Mbutu. "He used black people to get those jobs, hid amongst us until he saw his chance to cross over and use his knowledge to help hold his people down."

"Even if that is true, he didn't deserve to die."

  "Oh yes, he did. I was not going to let him live another moment as a symbol of our failure." Mbutu trailed off. He knew he had said too much. His eyes were wide and angry, then he smiled. "You are my brother, Counselor, and yet you seek to crucify me with my own righteous anger. I will no longer talk to you. Either charge me, or release me from this prison."

  "You can count on being charged," said Marshall, rising from the table. "And don't ever use the word
crucify
in reference to yourself. You are not Jesus. You are a murderer with a big-ass mouth."

  Marshall ignored Mbutu's cynical laughter from behind him. He walked out of the room and joined his team, who had been watching behind the mirror.

  "Clever man," said Roberta. She wiped her glasses.

  "He didn't cop to anything," said Ryder, "but he's in this somehow. I can feel it."

  "Mbutu has always been a showman," said Marshall. "His method has been to embarrass the establishment and add followers to his cause. Up to this point, murder has not been his thing."

  "But you said it yourself, Marsh, his day is over," said Walter. "Something like this could bring back his organization."

  "Maybe," said Marshall. "Let's wait him out. The gun will let us know what game he's playing."