Sacrifices of Joy by Leslie J. Sherrod

for any additional suspects, stating that evidence supports the notion that Jamal Abdul acted alone. A possible motive has not yet been identified and questions remain about the nature of the explosive device used and how Abdul was able to get it past airport security and checkpoints.”
    My heart began racing again as the hairs on my arms came to attention. Everything about the report made me queasy. Everything felt wrong.
    These are trained government officials. They have proof. They have evidence. They have the right man in custody. I fixed my mind on the facts and tried to squash yet again the nagging fear that all was not what it seemed.
    â€œSo sad.” The woman with the tablet noticed me listening in. She wore a pale pink business suit with a single strand of pearls, and her blond hair was secured in a tidy bun. “I’m glad they at least got the bastard.”
    I tried to say “yeah” but the word got lodged in my throat.
    â€œThese nutcases need to go back to their desert sand piles, or, in this case, the jungles where they come from,” she continued. “Seems like they are letting anyone into the country these days, and they need to simply stick to having real Americans in our land to reduce these types of terror risks.”
    â€œUh . . .” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Did the suspect they had in custody come from another country? I completely understood the anger, but I wasn’t sure what she defined as “real Americans” and how she differentiated between fake and authentic.
    â€œNo offense to you.” She looked at me sympathetically, confirming my suspicions. “You look like you’re a shining star in your community. Beautiful, proud black women such as yourself give me hope that everybody is capable of assimilating to the American way.” She smiled at me like we were friends, confidantes, almost equals.
    â€œExcuse me,” I managed to squeak out as I stood and walked away. The range of my emotions had widened, and not toward the happy end of the feelings spectrum.
    Laz, dinner, or not, I headed back to the suite.
    As I walked to the elevator, I realized what bothered me more than the confusing exchange I’d just had with the woman in the lobby.
    The news reporter had stated that the suspect said he was about to fly out to Chicago at the time of the blast, the same place that mystery man had said he was headed. Was Jamal Abdul and his family at the same gate as that man? I strained to remember if I had seen that polished bronze face with the huge smile sitting or standing across the aisle. Perhaps if the media showed pictures of his wife and children I would recall seeing them there.
    Knowing that the suspect had been on his way to Chicago gave me a strange comfort. Maybe my gut feelings were right. Maybe the sense that I really had looked at or talked to the perpetrator was correct, I just hadn’t realized it at the time. I remember feeling like I’d missed something as I boarded the plane; maybe I’d seen Jamal Abdul in passing and realized on a subconscious level that something was awry.
    This new line of thought did not fully jibe with what I was feeling, but I was determined to be logical in my approach. Truth was, there were probably several flights headed to Chicago. I still did not know where exactly in the airport the explosion had occurred. I needed to see more news coverage. And I needed to make what I felt fit in with the facts, not let a loose, unfounded instinct keep my stomach in knots.
    It was 6:02. If Laz truly had reservations for dinner at six, we weren’t making it tonight. I wasn’t upset about it; I actually felt relieved. I wanted to do nothing more than make my way back to Baltimore and get ready for the week ahead.
    I had clients waiting for me in the morning and a return trip to San Diego to plan. Not to mention, the nameless man from the airport had left a message indicating that