Minute Zero by Todd Moss Page A

United States and Britain didn’t say shit. Not a fucking word, Judd. The only person who tried to help those poor people get justice was a young attorney who was barely out of law school. She fought for those families, taking their cases to the courts, even to the United Nations. And she never accepted a dime.”
    “And?” Judd asked, flashing his ID badge to the security guard, who released the White House gate.
    “The Zimbabwean courts took up the case, but once the lawyer began to present evidence of the deaths and the army’s role, the witnesses started disappearing. And then the government removed the judge. Tinotenda appointed a new judge, whose first act was to throw out the whole case. He put pressure on the UN to bury it, which they did, claiming lack of evidence.”
    “Mariana, hold on for a second.” Judd set down his phone on the X-ray belt and walked through the metal detector. Once through to the other side and cleared by the marine guard, he picked up his phone.
    “So, Mariana, are you asking me to raise this case with the Justice Department?”
    “No. I’m telling you this story because that young lawyer is Gugu Mutonga.”
    “Your client.”
    “This woman is the real deal. And this election isn’t just about politics. It’s a mission for justice. This could be Zimbabwe’s fresh start. A chance for redemption.”
    Judd walked up the path toward the West Wing and had nearly arrived at the door, where another guard stood at attention.
    “It’s a chance for redemption for the United States, too,” she said. “That’s why I need your help.”
    “I’ll look into it, Mariana,” said Judd just as the marine opened the door for him. “I’m still getting up to speed on Zimbabwe.”
    “That’s why you need my help, too. I’ll be calling you again soon.”
    “I know you will, Mariana.”
    Click.
    Mariana set down the phone and returned inside to the hubbub of the campaign war room. “Where are we, Happiness? What’s the latest?”
    Happiness glanced up at Mariana from her laptop, pursed her lips, and shook her head. Then she stood up, walked over to the map, and replaced one more yellow pin with an orange one.

7.
    White House, Washington, D.C.
Thursday, 9:58 a.m. Eastern Standard Time
    J udd entered the West Wing, cleared another security post, and then took a short flight of stairs down into the secure complex. He dropped his BlackBerry in a cubbyhole, swiped his ID card one more time, and then entered the Situation Room.
    Every seat at the cramped conference table was taken, so he slipped into an empty chair in the outer perimeter by the door. All six of the flat panel screens were off. He scanned for a friendly face but didn’t see anyone he recognized. He still didn’t know why he was in this meeting, and he dearly wanted to catch his breath. Parker had told him to get on a plane to Zimbabwe
tonight
, and he had a lot to do beforehand. But if Parker wanted him here . . . Suddenly, the room went quiet as a tall man in a crisp white naval uniform marched in and stood at the head of the table.
    “Good morning, everyone. I’m Admiral Hammond, special assistant to the President and National Security Council coordinator for arms control and weapons of mass destruction.”
    The admiral was interrupted by the release of the sealed door as all eyes turned to see the late arrival. A young black man with a wide face and a short goatee slunk into the room. “Sorry . . .” he muttered, with an apologetic bow of the head. Judd’s face brightened as the man sat down next to him.
    “Sunday!” he whispered, with a paternal pat on the back.
    “Hello, Dr. Ryker,” Sunday whispered back. Sunday was a CIA analyst who’d been a big help with Mali. Maybe he knew what—
    “We’ve brought together this specific mix of DOD, State, and the Intelligence Community here today,” said Admiral Hammond. “You in this room are considered experts in countries with known deposits of