He reached out to hug her.
She ducked under his arms and rushed down the path. It hurt too much. She just had to get away from him.
The support network that Foster Reed had cultivated in the great churches of the Bible Belt paid off. Along with the president and Congress, the mainstream press and conservative radio were bombarded with letters, phone calls, and e-mails demanding the end to religious oppression. A senator from Kansas gave a floor speech demanding that Amolie Nutter and Bob Park be tried for treason.
Emmy had strong but invisible support from academe, just enough to weather the threats and criticism—until she was stopped at airport security.
On one of several trips she made each year to the experiment at CERN, in Geneva, Emmy was schlepping her carry-on bag and dreading twelve hours crammed into a coach seat, when a kind young security officer asked her to step aside for a “routine safety screening.” She was guided to a small windowless room where she submitted to an X-ray search and was then left alone.
Emmy knew that this experience was part of her fight. She sat on the floor, pulled her legs into the lotus position, and exhaled slowly. It took an hour to relax, but eventually she lowered her heart rate to fifty beats a minute. She looked inside and went back in time, then forward. From when she was three years old, her first memory was Neil Armstrong walking on the moon—a vivid memory of Dodge pointing at the moon while her father pointed at the TV. She recalled wielding a hammer in kindergarten. She’d told everyone she was making a ship anchor out of wood. She worked through every year of her life up to the present and then went back and forth again.
As the hours passed, Emmy looked ever deeper inside. She liked being a physicist. She loved discovery and the simple awakenings of understanding. There was one other thing she wanted. At first the thought teased her; she felt a yearning but couldn’t figure out the object of that desire. It was like the weird way that we know when we’ve forgotten something. She knew it was there but couldn’t figure out what it was.
Another hour passed, and she brought her heart rate lower, relaxed into a deep calm, and that desire resolved itself. It surprised her. She’d been pushing against the idea for weeks. Every time Ryan had entered her mind, she shoved him out, getting almost physical pleasure at the expression of anger. But now, in the strange peace of this cell, with her thoughts running in every direction, she let him into her mind and finally admitted it to herself.
She wanted to wake up next to Ryan McNear every day. And she wanted to be there holding his hand when Katarina graduated from high school. She wanted to help Ryan carry boxes into a dormitory when Katarina went to college. She might even want a little red-haired baby.
A TSA officer opened the door without knocking.
Emmy, still sitting on the floor, looked up. She let him mistake her tears as fear or anger or whatever he wanted. He helped her up and she got ahold of herself.
His was the only apology she would receive. He told her that her name was on the FBI’s no-fly list. There was no further explanation and no written record that she had been detained. The only documentation was the unused boarding pass for a nonrefundable ticket.
She girded herself for battle, and the next day, from her Berkeley office, she ranted at the Department of Energy official who funded her research. When that got her nowhere, she called her congressman. The FBI wouldn’t take her calls, but an investigator from the Office of Homeland Security appeared on Fox News saying that as long as Emmy’s name appeared on websites “known to pose a threat to national security,” she would remain on the no-fly list. Conservative talk show hosts and Bible Belt congressional representatives lauded the event as evidence that the Patriot Act was working.
Finally, two months after the CNN interviews, the Union of Concerned Scientists composed a letter to the Senate Subcommittee on Defense Appropriations, voicing specific doubt that vacuum fluctuation energy extraction was technically viable. The evangelical senators from Kansas, Mississippi, Arkansas, and Texas responded by calling themselves the “Union of Concerned Defenders of Spiritual Freedom and American Ingenuity” and argued that basic research bloated the federal budget and did nothing more than “subsidize the attack on America’s fundamental spiritual ideals.”
The National Engineering Group maintained what, to most American citizens, appeared to be the moral high ground: “NEG’s investment in alternative energy sources can relieve the country’s reliance on foreign fossil fuels, reduce greenhouse gases, and provide a new technical backbone for American security.” The Union of Concerned Defenders of Spiritual Freedom and American Ingenuity negotiated sole-bid status for NEG in a defense appropriations bill for top-secret missile technology.
The Union of Concerned Scientists delivered a letter to the president bearing the signatures of seventy-five Nobel laureates demanding that “all documents related to vacuum fluctuation energy extraction be declassified,” any defense contract related to these “questionable technologies” be subject to peer review, the two patents related to the technology be reexamined, and, finally, Professor Amolie Nutter’s right to freely travel be restored. The letter was published on page fifteen of the New York Times and page seventeen of the Washington Post. It didn’t appear in either the Chicago Tribune or Dallas Morning News.
Ryan received a certified letter from Creation Energy after the end of his second week of work.
Standing on the front porch in his stocking feet, Ryan handed the pen back to the postal carrier. He turned to go inside. Dodge was standing at the threshold, blocking Ryan’s way.
“You’re an idiot, McNear.”
“Dodge, get out of my way.”
“You’re settling for chump change,” Dodge said. “As your attorney, I recommend that all communications with Creation Energy flow through me. The more contracts they get, the higher the price tag on your rights.” Then his voice went coy. “Read that offer carefully. Stock options on technology that has no value? I can get you cash.”
Ryan looked at the unopened envelope. “Nutter, get out of my way.” He pushed past Dodge, walked inside and up the stairs.
Dodge called after him, “Don’t forget my twenty-five percent.”
“Wait a minute,” Ryan said, calmer now. “How do you know what’s in this envelope?”
“Nothing happens in this house that I don’t know about.”
“Only two people know what I’m doing, and neither of them would tell you.” Ryan started up the stairs again but stopped.
“Did you trick Katarina into telling you? She’s got enough problems without—”
“Nope, not Kat…” Dodge coughed on his raspy chuckle.
Ryan rushed to his room, his heart racing. He paced in front of the whiteboard and, slowly, his heart broke.
Emmy must have informed Dodge of everything.
Betrayal spread from his chest to his limbs, and his world went cold. All this time, he believed that she would come to understand why he did what he did, believed that their love would survive, but no, he really had lost her.
Ryan leaned back in the beach chair, Sean’s football on his lap, Katarina’s scratch paper cluttering the floor. He had the job and would have some money in a couple of months. With his pay at director level, it would be a good chunk of change. The beach chair thumped forward, and Ryan pulled a box from under the desk. Near the bottom, he pulled out the arrest warrant that Constable Holcomb had set on the counter back at Oil Xchangers.
He punched the number into the phone—the Fort Worth courthouse—and asked for Constable Holcomb. After a long wait, he heard, “Holcomb here…” He was a bailiff now, too old to go running around handing out summons.
Ryan identified himself and explained that he was ready to come back and turn himself in.
Holcomb didn’t sound impressed. “What’s it been? Darn near three years since I served you? I shoulda collared you back when.”
“I need some advice,” Ryan said. “Three months’ pay at this job should be enoug
h to impress a judge—how long can I be on a Texas payroll before your office finds out?”
“About the length of time it takes your plane to taxi to the gate, if I find out what flight you’re on.”
“Like you said, I can’t pay anything from jail—Officer Holcomb, I need some time in Texas to sort things out before I turn myself in.”
“McNear, just do the right thing. Get yourself a lawyer here in Fort Worth, and get it done.”
“What am I looking at?”
“That check you’re talkin’ about will help get things started, but you’re walkin’ into a helluva legal dust cloud.” Holcomb paused. “Awright, you need a family law attorney with a heap of experience—you got anything other than the warrant I served you?”
“Isn’t leaving a state to avoid paying child support a federal charge?”
“Yup.”
The thought of having Dodge represent him flitted through his mind; he swatted it like a fly on a window. “Do you know an attorney?”
“Now you’re talkin’,” Holcomb said and then gave him a name and phone number.
The attorney’s name was Cynthia Robins. She listened as Ryan explained his situation. It took him half an hour. He wondered about her hourly rate. She whistled when he told her how much he owed and said something about that “just being the principal.” When he finished, Ms. Robins told him to collect copies of the canceled checks that he’d sent to Linda. Then she took a deep breath.
“Mr. McNear, Officer Holcomb put it accurately when he said that you’re entering a legal cloud of dust. Nothing about this process will be straightforward. Over the next six months, you will submit to weekly counseling, drug testing, and court appearances—you will pay for every single one. Your child support will be neither reduced nor forgiven. We will plead the federal charge into a fine. You will not see your son until the court is convinced that you are clean and will stay clean. It’s remarkable that your ex-wife managed to have the restraining order renewed every three months—it does not bode well for you.”
Ryan chuckled, “Sounds like I shouldn’t be shopping for a new ski boat just yet.”
She didn’t laugh. “Now for the good news.”
“There’s good news?”
“Yes, the finish line. If it is true that you’re off of drugs, have a steady high-paying job, and can produce character references from reputable people—if things go perfectly, you will be granted thirty consecutive days of custody this summer. I want you to be able to explain to the judge how you will use this time to repair your relationship with your son. Include counseling and perhaps a vacation of some type—you need to look like a good father in court.”
Thirty days with Sean? Ryan stared out the window at the mountains.
“I’ll start filing next week,” she said, “and set an appointment for you in Fort Worth next month—February sixth?”
“Um, the sixth?” Ryan laughed again. “This is going to sound strange, but I’ll be in court here in California that day.”
Ms. Robins was silent.
“Not for me,” Ryan said, “for my friend, sort of like my niece, I guess.”
“Mr. McNear,” she said, “you cannot be in or near trouble. If that’s too much to ask…”
“February eighth?” Ryan explained in as few words as possible that Katarina needed him to accompany her to court.
“You’re there to help her?”
“Yes, of course.”
“As almost a surrogate parent?”
“More like an uncle.”
“Have the file sent to me. If it checks out, then we can meet on the eighth.” Ryan could hear her hesitate. Then she said, “If you don’t do every single thing that I tell you to do, jf you stray from my instructions in any way, and it won’t matter whether it’s by mistake or if you have an excuse, I will drop your case, bill you in full, and see to it that no decent divorce attorney in the state of Texas will ever take your case. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m doing this because I believe that boys need their fathers. Do we understand each other?”
“Thank you, Ms. Robins.”
“I’m not going with that bitch.” Katarina crossed her arms and clenched her teeth. It was Ryan’s first glimpse of what she must have looked like as a two-year-old. The funny thing was, prior to the outburst, Ryan had been thinking that she looked mature, more like a twenty-year-old. She wore a pressed skirt with a subtle design along the hem, Feynman diagrams of course.
“If your mother isn’t standing next to you in front of the judge…” Ryan looked down the hallway. The door to Katarina and Jane’s apartment was open. Maybe Jane was listening. He spoke softly, “You want to be a foster child? Ward of the court? Or do you want to stay here in the glorious Nutter mansion?”
“You’ll be there,” Katarina said. “What do we need her for?”
“I’m not your legal guardian.”
“You could be my legal guardian—you just don’t want to be.” She kicked Sean’s football. It ricocheted off the wall underneath the whiteboard. A marker fell from the tray.
“Cut the drama,” Ryan said. “Like a judge would grant a wanted felon who is a deadbeat dad custody of a junior criminal like you.”
“What about Emmy? She would be my guardian. Why not you and Emmy?”
Ryan hadn’t had the heart to tell Katarina that Emmy had betrayed him, that they were finished. The twinge of pain caused him to speak without thinking. “Emmy doesn’t want kids, and besides, we’re through.”
Katarina unfolded her arms and looked down. She mumbled something.
“Shit,” Ryan said. “I’m sorry. Emmy loves you—if you asked her, she’d do it. And I swear, if I could do it, I would. But Katarina, right now we need to get to court and look like as happy a family as you and your mom and I can.”
“You’re going to get back together,” Katarina said. “You’re made for each other.”
“What?” Ryan said.
“You and Emmy are the perfect couple.”
“Katarina, you need to focus.” Ryan gripped her shoulders. He wanted to shake her. Instead, he waited until she looked up at him. “We are going across the hall. You are going to hug and support your mother, and, when we get to court, you will hold her hand—if you have to prop her up and hold her eyelids open, that’s what you’ll do. Do you hear me?”
Katarina started to laugh.
Good, she was getting it. Make it a game, learn to survive. “If all it takes to keep your ass out of jail is to fake a healthy relationship with your mother…”
Ryan patted her on the head. Good, the Katarina who seemed like a twenty-year-old was back.
Ryan and Katarina walked on opposites sides of Jane into the pseudomodern, orange-and-blue, juvenile-friendly courtroom. Ryan reached across Jane’s shoulders and rested his hand on the back of Katarina’s neck.
They sat in the back row behind dozens of youths and their parents—mostly single moms with rebellious-looking kids, plus a few sets of well-dressed parents with conservatively dressed teenagers. Sitting in the row ahead of them, a teenage boy wearing khaki pants and a turtleneck sweater looked at Katarina. He shrugged. She rolled her eyes.
The bailiff called Katarina’s name, and, following the example set by other families, the three of them stood. Ryan guided Jane up the aisle. Katarina walked to a podium. Ryan and Jane stood a few feet behind her. The judge was a woman about twenty years older than Ryan. She had a warm, energetic countenance but eyes that threatened to pierce through her glasses at any provocation.
The clerk listed the charges—public indecency, lewd and lascivious behavior, possession of controlled substances, and resisting arrest.
Ryan saw Katarina’s back stiffen. She was about to say something stupid, so he whispered, “Chill.”
The judge glared at Ryan. He offered a slight bow as penance.
She stared at Katarina for a few seconds before speaking and then spoke so that Katarina
had to strain to listen and the rest of the court could hear very little. Katarina described what happened that night in much the same way that she had described it to Ryan the day after it happened. Ryan felt a surge of pride at Katarina’s calm honesty. Jane stood straighter, and at first, he thought Jane shared that pride, but she looked downward and whispered to herself. Ryan caught her words: “I’ll be with you soon.” He realized that every indication of Katarina’s maturity encouraged Jane to withdraw further into her bizarre mourning. He tightened his grip on her arm.
Katarina stood during the examination without breaking eye contact with the judge. Her only mistake was asking how she could be charged with “possession.” The judge lifted the report at an angle to accommodate her bifocals. “Miss Ariadne, the police found a pipe with methamphetamine next to your clothes—did you use drugs that night?”
“Yes.” She sounded nothing like a scared teenager.
“You are fortunate that the police were there to protect you.”
Katarina stared at the judge. Ryan silently prayed, “Lord, please make her behave for five minutes.”
The judge asked Katarina the same thread of questions that she’d asked the previous first-time offending juveniles. The theme of the questions was Katarina’s vision of her future. Katarina said that she hadn’t decided yet whether she wanted to be an experimental particle physicist or a mathematician. The judge took her glasses off, as though sensing sarcasm, and asked Katarina to repeat herself. Katarina’s matter-of-fact tone and attitude belied her core innocence. Katarina had no idea that her ambition was any greater than to work in a bookstore like her father had. She just didn’t want to work in a bookstore, that’s all, so particle physics or math would have to do.
The judge must have noticed Ryan beaming—she looked at Jane and then at him again. Ryan mistook the look as a question and stepped forward to Katarina’s side. He unfolded a sheet of paper and leaned toward the microphone. “Your honor, I have letters from Katarina’s science and math teachers—Katarina is a brilliant girl. She’s already learned relativistic quantum mechanics and is studying calculus and differential equations.”
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