Federation really exists. The text to Mojo was initiated from the Southeast Side.”
“The Southeast Side is a big place. We need to narrow it down.”
“Then we need to get to Al-Shahid.”
* * *
The young man smiled as he listened to Mojo on WGN-radio. She had been contacted by the Islamic Freedom Federation—a name he had made up that morning.
Not earth-shatteringly original, but it got her attention .
His smile broadened when Mojo reported that the IFF had threatened to set off bombs until Hassan Al-Shahid was freed. She interviewed a retired general who had served in Afghanistan. He speculated that the Islamic Freedom Federation was affiliated with Al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula.
He lowered the visor of the stolen Mercedes and pulled into the underground garage. He slumped down in the driver’s seat to avoid being seen by the security cameras as he approached the ticket dispenser. As he pulled into a parking space near the payment machines, he chuckled to himself.
Al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula. Right.
Chapter 9
“WE NEED TO TALK TO
AL-SHAHID”
The Cook County Criminal Courthouse was touted as a state-of-the art facility when it opened on a rainy April Fools’ Day in 1929. The stately seven-story structure at 26th and California had classic Doric columns with sculpted figurines representing law, justice, liberty, truth, might, wisdom, and peace. It also had stiflingly hot courtrooms with terrible acoustics, inadequate plumbing, and horrendous access to public transportation. Then again, the site wasn’t chosen for the convenience of judges, lawyers, and jurors. It was in the middle of the Twelfth Ward, which was run by Alderman (and later Mayor) Anton Cermak, who doled out courthouse jobs to his political followers who enjoyed a pleasantly short commute to work. Cermak died in 1933 when he threw himself in front of an assassin’s bullet intended for President Roosevelt. Over the next eight decades, the six blocks surrounding his courthouse evolved into a razor-wire-enclosed penal colony with a dozen Stalinesque jail buildings. It was cut off from the rest of the Southwest Side by railroad tracks, a sanitary canal, and the Stevenson Expressway. It made Rikers Island look like the Palmer House.
Assistant State’s Attorney Laura Silver’s phone rang as she sat in her cramped office on the eleventh floor of the utilitarian office building that was shoe-horned between the old courthouse and the jail compound in the seventies. She took a final bite of the fruit salad she’d scooped into a Tupperware container that morning, then she put the empty receptacle in to her bottom drawer. She recognized the phone number on her console, put on the headset she’d bought on her own dime, and punched the Talk button. “Silver.”
“Gold .”
Their customary greeting had started as a play on the happenstance that both of their surnames were precious metals. Now it was a matter of habit. Silver’s heart beat faster as she lowered her husky voice. “How close were you to the bomb at Art Institute?”
“Not that close. I’m fine, Lori.”
Thank goodness . She absently-mindedly twirled the tight curls of her shoulder-length auburn hair. At thirty-six, she needed a little assistance from a bottle to hide the streaks of gray. Her locks framed a wide face highlighted by full lips, a prim nose, and large hazel eyes. Her petite figure was toned from an arduous daily pre-dawn ride on the exercise bike in the basement of her townhouse in Hyde Park. She hadn’t missed a workout since her marriage had imploded two years earlier. The logistics of mixing life as a felony prosecutor with her responsibilities as a single parent made it hard to get to the gym. “I left you a message,” she said.
“I’ve had a busy morning,” Gold said. “Are the courts open?”
“No. The presiding judge shut them down. Security hasn’t been this tight since Nine-Eleven. The jail is locked down. Are you getting
“The Southeast Side is a big place. We need to narrow it down.”
“Then we need to get to Al-Shahid.”
* * *
The young man smiled as he listened to Mojo on WGN-radio. She had been contacted by the Islamic Freedom Federation—a name he had made up that morning.
Not earth-shatteringly original, but it got her attention .
His smile broadened when Mojo reported that the IFF had threatened to set off bombs until Hassan Al-Shahid was freed. She interviewed a retired general who had served in Afghanistan. He speculated that the Islamic Freedom Federation was affiliated with Al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula.
He lowered the visor of the stolen Mercedes and pulled into the underground garage. He slumped down in the driver’s seat to avoid being seen by the security cameras as he approached the ticket dispenser. As he pulled into a parking space near the payment machines, he chuckled to himself.
Al-Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula. Right.
Chapter 9
“WE NEED TO TALK TO
AL-SHAHID”
The Cook County Criminal Courthouse was touted as a state-of-the art facility when it opened on a rainy April Fools’ Day in 1929. The stately seven-story structure at 26th and California had classic Doric columns with sculpted figurines representing law, justice, liberty, truth, might, wisdom, and peace. It also had stiflingly hot courtrooms with terrible acoustics, inadequate plumbing, and horrendous access to public transportation. Then again, the site wasn’t chosen for the convenience of judges, lawyers, and jurors. It was in the middle of the Twelfth Ward, which was run by Alderman (and later Mayor) Anton Cermak, who doled out courthouse jobs to his political followers who enjoyed a pleasantly short commute to work. Cermak died in 1933 when he threw himself in front of an assassin’s bullet intended for President Roosevelt. Over the next eight decades, the six blocks surrounding his courthouse evolved into a razor-wire-enclosed penal colony with a dozen Stalinesque jail buildings. It was cut off from the rest of the Southwest Side by railroad tracks, a sanitary canal, and the Stevenson Expressway. It made Rikers Island look like the Palmer House.
Assistant State’s Attorney Laura Silver’s phone rang as she sat in her cramped office on the eleventh floor of the utilitarian office building that was shoe-horned between the old courthouse and the jail compound in the seventies. She took a final bite of the fruit salad she’d scooped into a Tupperware container that morning, then she put the empty receptacle in to her bottom drawer. She recognized the phone number on her console, put on the headset she’d bought on her own dime, and punched the Talk button. “Silver.”
“Gold .”
Their customary greeting had started as a play on the happenstance that both of their surnames were precious metals. Now it was a matter of habit. Silver’s heart beat faster as she lowered her husky voice. “How close were you to the bomb at Art Institute?”
“Not that close. I’m fine, Lori.”
Thank goodness . She absently-mindedly twirled the tight curls of her shoulder-length auburn hair. At thirty-six, she needed a little assistance from a bottle to hide the streaks of gray. Her locks framed a wide face highlighted by full lips, a prim nose, and large hazel eyes. Her petite figure was toned from an arduous daily pre-dawn ride on the exercise bike in the basement of her townhouse in Hyde Park. She hadn’t missed a workout since her marriage had imploded two years earlier. The logistics of mixing life as a felony prosecutor with her responsibilities as a single parent made it hard to get to the gym. “I left you a message,” she said.
“I’ve had a busy morning,” Gold said. “Are the courts open?”
“No. The presiding judge shut them down. Security hasn’t been this tight since Nine-Eleven. The jail is locked down. Are you getting
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