Resolved

11

Karp read one last time through the background material describing each member of the jury in People v. Gerber amp; Nixon. He was not a great proponent of the theory that the case is either won or lost when the jury is impaneled, because he still believed in juries and believed that a perfectly designed prosecution case would compel any jury to convict. The defense bar did not believe this for a second, which was why in expensive cases like this one they spent small fortunes on jury consultants. Of course, Karp understood that he was not getting, nor had he ever gotten in his long career, a jury composed of a random selection of New York voters. As the courthouse saying had it, juries were actually selected from the pool of people too stupid to avoid jury duty. Although there were a huge number of college-educated professionals in New York County, world center of finance, publishing, the media, the arts, an island city studded with medical and educational institutions, none of these were on his jury. Instead he had a plumber, a house painter, a retired naval petty officer, a retired electrician, a carpet installer, and a clerk in a tire store. Those were the men, average age forty-seven, one black, one Hispanic, the rest white. The women were a waitress, a postal clerk, a home health aide, two homemakers, and a retired bookkeeper, average age forty-four, two black, three Hispanic, two Asians, the rest white.

Collins had used his peremptory challenges to seat as many minorities as possible, and Klopper had used his to do the opposite: the state wanted the bleeding hearts, the defense wanted the Fascisti. They'd collected the inoffensively ordinary. Collins had at least kept the panel free of singletons, which was the one place Karp thought that jury selection counted a little. If you needed a unanimous verdict, you didn't want one jury member feeling isolated, rushed, pressured.

Yet the character of the jury was not foremost in Karp's mind as he packed his files into cardboard folders in preparation for the walk to Part 34 and the trial. What held that place, and itched like an unhealed wound, was his failure to find what he had been looking for since he took the case, since, in fact, his last conversation with Terrell Collins. The key, the lever, the angle, the fatal discrepancy that would torpedo the testimony of the two lying cops. And he had looked until his eyes filled with grit and tears: all the transcripts of the trial and the grand jury, the medical examiner's report, the Q amp;A done immediately after the crime, the ballistics reports that explored in boggling detail the fate of each of the seven bullets that had passed through the body of the victim, where they were probably fired from in relation to the victim and where they had finished their flights.

He had pored over the report by Hugo Selwyn, the defense's ballistic man. Selwyn told a story that explained the bullets' fates in a way favorable to the defense. This story, naturally, required an implausible number of bullet miracles to have happened, implausible to Karp, who'd seen zillions of such reports, but perhaps not to a jury of high school grads and dropouts. Bullets did occasionally do weird things; even Karp, even the state's own ballistic guy would have to admit that. But not seven little miracles, that was pushing it, and Karp would have to convince the jury of that. Not easy; millions of people still believed the Warren Report and its own miraculous bullet.

A quick stop in the men's room to check appearances: no lettuce on the teeth, no egg on the tie. He practiced an honest look, adjusted the knot and the collar. A little butterfly here, as just before a game. Nothing else gave that feeling. His sole addiction.

He was thinking about the bullet, as he walked into the courtroom and took his seat at the prosecution's table, and suddenly he stopped, right at the edge of the table. It was almost there, on the edge of his mind: it was the bullet, one of the seven… no, not the bullet per se, something to do with how it got shot, something wrong with the defense's story, not a ballistics thing, something clear, an impeaching fact, undeniable… and damn it! It had skittered out of reach. Being Karp, he found it easy to blame himself: getting old, stupid to take this case, a loser, twenty years ago he would have had it on the first try, the brain cells not what they once were, too many other worries crowding the case out, the kids, Marlene…

He realized he had frozen behind the table, and that people were starting to stare. He sat down and arranged his materials. He nodded to Roland Hrcany, who was seated at the defense table, looking relaxed and confident, along with the two defendants and another lawyer, Barnett, from the detectives' endowment. Karp wondered whether Roland ever had butterflies. In their long relationship it had never come up. Karp supposed he himself looked relaxed and confident to all the many defense lawyers he had faced. Over at the Legal Aid Society he was genially known as the Prince of Darkness. Nothing was as it seemed in the institution whose whole ostensible purpose was divulging the truth. The judge entered and they all rose.

A male voice says, "Auburn Correctional Facility," and Marlene says, "Yes, this is Marlene Ciampi and I'm at the district attorney's office, New York County. I'd like some information about the disposition of the body of a prisoner who died in custody."

She looks around the office she's poaching. Yes, that wasn't a lie- she really is at the district attorney's office. The man says, "Just a minute, ma'am," and puts her on hold. While there, she hears a recorded ad encouraging her to apply to become a correctional officer. The cheerful voice mentions pay, pension, and benefits, and omits the regular inundations with urine and feces, but Marlene thinks it sounds pretty good- steady work, not all that demanding, she doesn't really mind being besmirched with human wastes… and then a man comes on the line wanting to know who she is and what she wants, a deputy warden, no less. Marlene tells him; he says he can't release that information over the phone, and Marlene says it's vital to an ongoing investigation and speed is essential and she would be glad to have a subpoena drawn up but hopes that isn't necessary because she would also have to have the DA send a note to the head of the department of corrections, cc to the governor, wondering about were we all playing on the same criminal justice team or what. The man asks for her number and she gives him the number of the DA and the extension at the desk she has appropriated. He calls back in five minutes, with the name and address of the cousin to whom the late Felix has been delivered, and the funeral home that has actually received the body. Marlene thanks the deputy warden, hangs up, and dials information. Number of Evan Murphy and Sons Morticians, in New York? Sorry, no listing. Again, number of a Bruce Newton, address in Queens? The mechanical voice gives her a number. Interesting, a phony funeral home and a real cousin.

She checks her watch. Time for her appointment. If you had an appointment with the DA you were supposed to wait down in the tiny lobby at the DA wing entrance on a little side street off Foley Square, but Marlene just flashes a ten-year-old ID card and slips past the guard station into the waiting elevator. Dumb trick, but it gives her a little lift. A dumb Marlene trick, Karp would have said.

"Can I help you?"

A woman stands in the doorway of the tiny office, dark, petite, wearing her hair short and her tan linen suit crisp. Marlene slides off the edge of the desk and holds out her hand. "I'm Marlene Ciampi. You must be Ms. Palmisano." The woman shakes hands with her, but the uncertain expression stays on her face. She stows her briefcase, which Marlene notes is highly polished leather on a shoulder strap, equipped with brass fittings that look as if they'd come off a Clydesdale.

"Did they call up?"

"No, I was in the office for something else and I just came over to sex crimes. I used to work here."

Marlene can see the wheels spinning. A smile appears on the little pixie face. "Oh, of course. I should have recognized the name. You're a famous figure."

"Infamous maybe." A shared chuckle, a little social small talk. They sit. What can she do for Marlene? Marlene says, "I didn't mention it to the secretary… I've just been retained by Paul Agnelli."

A puzzled look, the social smile fades. "You mean retained to represent him?"

"Yes, I thought we could talk informally, see where we stand."

Palmisano nods. She sits stiffly behind her desk, like an old-fashioned schoolteacher facing an errant pupil. "I don't see where we have much to discuss, Ms. Ciampi. Unless you were thinking about pleading guilty."

"What, you mean to the one thirty-point-twenty-five?"

"Right, the rape in the third. Cherry Newcombe was fourteen years of age when your client had sex with her in the back of his car. And she looks fourteen. Have you ever seen her?"

"No. But it doesn't matter what she-"

"Here's a picture," Palmisano said, opening a folder on her desk and pulling out an eight-by-ten glossy print. Marlene looked at it. It showed a pretty light-skinned African-American child, her hair in the traditional bunches and a sad expression in her huge liquid eyes. The photo showed her from the waist up, wearing what looked like a fancy little-girl's party dress, with ruching down the front and puffs at the shoulders. She had no breasts to speak of and looked about twelve.

"When was this taken?" Marlene asked.

"At about the time of the crime in question."

"The alleged crime. I understand you have good forensics."

"We have terrific forensics. Everything we need to convict."

"Uh-huh. The problem is my guy says he didn't do it."

Roll of eye. "Well, duh!"

"Yeah, but as you know, the usual defense in a case like this is to say I thought she was eighteen. My guy's story is he never heard of this girl."

Palmisano tapped the photo. "Look at this face. No jury would ever believe that anyone would believe this girl was legal, or that any normal man would regard her as a sex object."

"Yes, but on the other hand, she got into a club where you have to be not just eighteen but twenty-one. Your case is based on her being in the club and the defendant encountering her there and seducing her out into his car. And I guarantee you that if she was in the Red Mill on the night in question, she did not look like she does in that picture. I notice that you don't present any testimony from anyone at the Red Mill regarding the alleged victim's presence in the place on the night of, or that she was seen in the company with the defendant, or what she looked like on the night."

"Why should we? We know she was in his car and we know he had sex with her."

"Yes, I know you think that, but the problem with it is, I know my client. My client is a sexually active man, even something of a lothario, but what he definitely does not have is short eyes. He's also something of a mild bigot. Therefore, a little black girl would be his absolutely last choice for a sexual target."

With a shrug Palmisano replies, "Tastes change."

"Not that much, they don't. In fact, as I'm sure you know, the constancy of sexual tastes is the basis of almost all rape investigations. Look, imagine that the basis of a case was that a lifelong committed lesbian had seduced and had passionate sex with a man. And say you had gallons of semen, all the forensics in the world. Wouldn't you at least wonder if someone was fooling around with the evidence?"

That one hit home, thinks Marlene. The other woman goes white around the mouth, narrow around the eyes. "What are you implying, Ms. Ciampi?"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm wondering why you don't think this feels all wrong."

"Maybe because I haven't sold out," Palmisano snaps. "I can't believe you coming up here, trading on your reputation, trying to catch a break for some scuzzball kiddie rapist." A little shrill here, the last few words.

"Calm down, counsellor," says Marlene in a quiet voice. "Let's keep this civilized."

"Fine! You came, you made your pitch, and now I don't think there's anything useful we can say to each other at this point. Have a nice day, Ms. Ciampi." The woman turns slightly away from Marlene, pulls a fat file from an in-box, arranges a yellow pad and some pencils, and begins ostentatiously to pretend to work.

Marlene doesn't move. Instead she stares fixedly, silently, at the side of Terry Palmisano's head. A minute passes. Two. Palmisano whips around, her chair squealing.

"What? Why are you still in my office?"

"Gosh, you know, I really think you're under the impression I came up here to make an argument for my client."

"Didn't you?"

"No, I came up here because you're making a major error. You're participating in a frame-up based on rigged evidence. I don't want to have to demonstrate that in court. I want you to look into it yourself. Is the victim kosher? Did anyone get to her? Is there anyone benefiting from Agnelli taking the fall? And so on. I'm doing you a favor."

Palmisano rises out of her chair. A bit of dark hair falls out of the mousse's grip and dangles fetchingly on her forehead. There are blotches of dark red on her cheeks. "Oh, give me a break!" she cries. "What I really want to know is how someone like you sinks into becoming a slimeball shyster. What's the secret, Marlene? You figure we'll all roll over and play dead because of hubby up on the eighth floor? 'Doing me a favor?' What kind of moron do you think I am?"

"I don't know what kind of moron you are," says Marlene, fixing Palmisano with her eye. Palmisano suddenly realizes that Marlene has only one eye, and recalls vague stories of how she lost it. She also recalls other stories about this woman. She wonders if she has gone too far. Marlene continues, "But you need to remember, before you impugn my character, that I was killing sexual predators with my own hands- these hands- while you were still in high school. I invented this office; I hired your boss. The idea that I would for some putative career advantage take on the case of someone I knew to be a child rapist is absurd, and would be seen as absurd by anyone who knows me."

"Please leave my office!"

Marlene gets to her feet.

"You need to ask around, Terry. There are still plenty of people in the system who'll tell you you're way out of line. Meanwhile, take another look at that evidence."

"Out!" Pointing to the door.

"As for me," Marlene says, pausing in the doorway, "my only curiosity is whether you are a witting or unwitting abettor of this conspiracy. And I intend to find out which."

Good exit line, she thinks, and then feels the lash of shame. She hates bullying like that, and descending to the level of made-for-TV movie tough-girl dialogue. She wishes that just once her life would shift of itself from the groove of grand opera to something closer to normality: Gee, thanks for pointing that out, Marlene, you saved us from a massive error. Briefly she considers going to Laura Rachman and putting the squeeze in there, but decides she doesn't have the heart for another confrontation. And it would be one, if she recalled Laura rightly. She pauses in a lobby cul-de-sac, takes a seat on a pile of cardboard case file crates, unlimbers the cell phone.

Daniel insisted on putting Lucy on the train at South Station, over her objections. Secretly, though, she was glad of it, since it showed he was, beneath the chromium surface of his intellect, a soppy romantic just like her. He helped her up the stairs as if she were wearing a brocade hobble skirt and not a pair of baggy shorts.

"If you dare to run along the platform crying my name and waving a handkerchief like you did last time, I'll never speak to you again."

He ignored this. "That's strange," he said, gawking, "it's all in Technicolor. I was expecting black and white. And there should be big whooshes of steam."

"You're such a dodo," she said, leaning into him, putting her face into the hollow of his neck. "If we were married, we would never have to do this. I'm feeling such a pang, now. This is really painful, you know?"

"Okay, let's do it."

"Seriously."

"Yeah, I'll ride into Manhattan with you and the conductor can marry us, like the captain of a ship. We can have our honeymoon in Providence."

"That's right, mock my little-girl dreams, grind them under your booted heel. Someday, when you're married to the phony blonde goddess of your perfervid imaginings and I'm buried in an obscure convent grave, you'll think back on this moment, and I hope you feel really, really bad."

The conductor made the usual announcement.

After they stopped kissing, she said, "Oh, this is awful. You're awful."

He stepped down to the platform. "Sell the emeralds in Mombasa," he called out. "Trust no one! I love you!"

The train pulled out. He ran down the platform after it waving a red bandanna, shouting, "Lucy, Lucy, don't leave me!"

She got some looks in the car, indulgent ones from an old lady, interested ones from a couple of teenage boys. That was something she'd noticed, when you didn't have someone interested in you, no one was interested in you, but when someone was, a lot of guys were. Maybe it was pheromones. She rummaged in her bag and brought out a falling-apart Everyman Catullus, and read dirty poetry in Latin all the way into the city.

"Ah, Jimmy, let it ring," said Nora Raney. "Let the bloody machine pick it up."

It was Raney's Regular Day Off, the baby was asleep for once, and Raney was in bed with his lovely wife. He was not quite in media res, but there was heavy breathing and athletic writhing going on. A few years ago, Raney had done an uncharacteristic good Irish son act and taken his mother back to County Clare, the family home place. There was a tedious little Great Famine museum there in Crusheen, which the old lady had dragged Raney off to one fine morning, and there she was, in a green museum guide uniform, Nora Muldoon. And wasn't it love at first sight? Yes, it was. Although the book on Irish redheads was unfortunately true, and there were blazing fights enough, Raney was happy as a king. Especially in the rack; Raney had been around the block a time or two, but he had not been prepared for the passion that a twenty-six-year-old convent-bred Irish country maiden could generate when at last she got her hands on a lawfully wedded husband.

So he cursed the interruption, but lieutenants of police do not let the phone ring, and policemen's wives must live with that. He reached across his wife's marvelous cream-and-pink breasts to the bedside instrument and read the caller ID numbers in the tiny window. Cursing again, he placed the receiver next to his ear. He thought he might caress one of the breasts while he talked but she batted him off with a flurry of blows, and moved as far away from him on the bed as she could.

"This better be good, Ciampi," he growled.

"Why, did I interrupt something? Is that strenuous breathing I detect? What, Raney, a nooner? You dirty dog!"

"I was mowing the lawn. What d'you have?"

"Well, the funeral home they gave was a fugazy. The next of kin is real on paper, although whether he's really a cousin or just someone screwing around with us remains to be seen. Anyway, the idea that it was a scam of some kind remains in play. How do you want to handle it?"

"Could you check out the cousin? I want it nailed that it's a scam before I go in to the bosses, because if he really did go out of a maximum house live in a coffin- holy shit, heads are gonna roll right up to Albany. But I'll look like a horse's ass if it turns out it's a clerical error or some garbage like that."

"No problem, Raney. I'll get right on it. Now could you do me one?"

"Anything you want, babe."

"Owen McKenzie, a third grade at the Five- you know him?"

"To look at. He came on the squad in my last year there. Why?"

"He's the arresting on a case I'm interested in. What's he like?"

"Middle of the pack. Not bad, not a superstar, either."

"Not a Jim Raney."

"Not. Why're you interested in his case."

"It's a statutory rape case. I'm defending the guy."

"Oh, fuck, Marlene! You know I can't screw around with a made case."

"Hello? What happened to 'anything, babe'? Besides, I'm not asking you to screw with it. Just call McKenzie and tell him there's a possibility that it's a frame, that the evidence is planted, and that he should talk to me. The story is we're interested in stopping what could be a major embarrassment for the department and to him personally. Plus the possibility of a collar on a corruption case that'd be a lot more juicy than one more pissy little statutory rape clearance."

A pause. "This is legit, Marlene? I mean, I'm a family man now, it's not like the wild west old days. I got to worry pension, health insurance… I mean, you're not presuming on our old friendship to, you know, win a case?"

"Jesus fucking Christ! You, too? What happened, it was on the TV I suddenly became a scumbag ambulance chaser? Look, you want the whole story? I ran into an old pal from the neighborhood, he definitely did not do the crime, he's totally wrong for it, the forensics are a little too good to be true, and the victim is a choir girl who just happens to hang out in a major meat market for the over-thirty set. The whole thing is yelling 'frame, frame.' And, in the extremely improbable event that I'm wrong, I will plead my client to the top count, and no harm done, plus I will kiss your ass in Macy's window."

Raney had to laugh. He agreed to call the detective and hung up. His wife was not laughing. She had the sheet pulled up to her neck, her arms akimbo and a blue glare in her eye.

"Sorry, that was business," he said, and reached, but she slapped his hand away.

"Business, was it? The famous Marlene, was it?"

Raney fell back on his pillow and laced his hands behind his head, gritting his teeth at the ceiling. "Yes, it was. She's helping me out."

"Helping you out. It sounds like you're helping her out. And putting your career at risk in the bargain. Anything, babe?"

"Nora, there is nothing going on between Marlene Ciampi and me."

"But there used to be."

"There never was."

"But you wished it, didn't you?"

"Yes. I had a lustful attraction for her, okay? That never went anywhere. I've told you this a million times."

"Have her over, then."

"What?"

"I want to set eyes on the woman across me own table, with you sitting right there. And God help you, James Raney, if you're not telling the truth, because I'll know. And here's Meghan wailing now, and so you've missed your chance at me milk white body, and serves you right!"

Felix was attending a council of war. The little shithead actually called it that, a council of war, when he told Felix he had to be there. It was held in the dining room of the Queens house. Rashid sat at the head of the dining room table, with an easel and a chalk-board behind him, flanked by Carlos and Felнpe (or whatever their real names were), and the other seats at the table and some folding chairs arranged in a couple of rows were all filled with young men that Felix didn't know. There were fourteen people including him, and none of them was speaking English. They were drinking mint tea, which Felix thought was wacked on a scorching August day; he wanted a beer himself, but Rashid had said no beer, so he had got himself a liter bottle of Mountain Dew. Felix had no idea that Rashid was running so extensive an operation.

After about twenty minutes of this yakking, Rashid rapped sharply on the table with his teaspoon. Somewhat to Felix's surprise, he spoke in English. He explained that since they all spoke different dialects of Arabic, and some did not speak Arabic at all- here a number of men glanced at Felix- he would speak in English, their one common tongue.

In English he spoke and it went on for some time. Rashid hit all the points in the fanatics' handbook: oppressed peoples, revolutionary vanguard, imperialistic lackeys, Zionist murderers, world Jewish conspiracy, lie of the Holocaust, bourgeois materialism, spiritual growth through violence, striking a blow in the Zionist-imperialist center, history is with us, my brothers. At the end there was applause, rather more polite than fervent. Felix wondered why there wasn't more God talk. The Muslims in jail were always on you about Allah this and Allah that and the Koran, but not these guys, or anyway, not Rashid. Maybe a different kind of Arab, not that he gave a shit himself.

Rashid was now at the chalkboard talking about the great blow, and here Felix's interest perked up. He had been wanting to know what all that high explosive was for and here it was: a plan to simultaneously truck bomb the four tunnels leading into Manhattan. Rashid assigned the various terrorists to different teams. One man in each team would drive the truck, another would drive a motorcycle, on which the driver and he could make their escape. Felix noted with interest that these were not the suicide type of Arab. Another team member would be responsible for driving the car to which the bombers would transfer after ditching the motorcycle. The two fake-Spanish guys, Carlos and Felнpe, would be responsible for assembling the bombs, which would be packed into septic tank pumper trucks. Two young men, one thin and one fat, Omar and Fuad, were introduced as technical support for the two fake Spaniards, although to Felix they looked more like a pair of goofy high school kids than hardened terrorists. Rashid explained that a small septic tank service firm had been acquired for that purpose. There was laughter at this, the stupid Americans.

Rashid sketched maps and indicated the location of safe houses, provided timetables, delineated phases one, two, and three, and provided all the minutiae of a carefully designed plan. Felix was impressed in spite of himself, and felt the first inkling of what it would be like to be part of something larger than Felix. To be the master of an organization was something he had never considered, but now as he saw Rashid swell like a frog or a strutting pigeon, he could imagine himself in the role. As master, of course, and not as the flunky he was just now. As Rashid droned on, Felix entertained himself with fantasies of taking over Rashid's organization, or better yet, starting his own terrorist band. It could work. Explosives were easy to get, he knew how to make bombs now, and getting a couple or three guys together wouldn't be a problem, for drivers and bomb planters and gofers. None of this political shit, except maybe as a cover. Blame it on the Muslims or the niggers, that would work, but basically you'd go into a city, make a couple of spectacular demolitions, and then do extortion.

That was another thing that interested him. The scale of Rashid's operation meant he had to have a ton of money from somewhere. He was keeping all these guys in couscous or whatever, he seemed to have bought a whole business to use as a base, and another one as a source of septic tanker trucks. He bought houses and cars and fake IDs without strain. Obviously money was the key, because without it, you'd have to steal vehicles and rent, and that was what would get you caught. It could not be in cash, as he had previously thought. There had to be accounts, wire transfers in and out. He would have to find a way of getting his hands on some of that money.

Rashid was asking for questions; there were surprisingly few, considering the complexity of the plan. Felix wondered whether all these guys had worked together before. He raised his hand. Rashid acknowledged him with an imperious gesture.

"Yeah, Rashid, I noticed you didn't give me an assignment. I'm not on this thing?"

"No, Felix, I want you to continue what you have been doing," said Rashid, "also, if you would stay after the others have left, I have some special instructions."

It took an hour or so for the place to empty, the men departing alone or in twos at intervals, so as not to draw attention. They spoke to one another in Arabic as they awaited their turns to leave, and ignored Felix. Finally, when only Rashid and the two fake Spaniards remained, Rashid turned to Felix and said, "The chief wants this Karp business taken care of, and also the information from the girl. I was under the impression that this was nearly in your hands."

Again Felix felt that odd repugnance associated with the thought of approaching Lucy Karp. "Hey, she clams up. She doesn't want to talk about your guy. I misjudged the situation. I don't think the soft shit is going to work with her. Sorry. I think we need to pick her up and work her over." His words hardly sounded convincing to his own ears, and it was all he could do to keep the humble, remorseful expression on his face.

What the terrorist said next was therefore something of a relief. "It does not matter. There is no need to deal with the girl directly. She has a brother, two brothers, and one of them is blind. They are often out of their house. The blind one plays music on the street." Then something in Arabic to the other two, who responded with laughter. "It should not be hard to pick one or both of them up. Then the sister will of course provide us with any information we want."

"You want me to pick up the kid?"

"No, someone else will take care of that. I want you to deliver another device. The wife must be eliminated first. She has a truck."

Felix smiled and thought about the bomb he had already made for Marlene Ciampi, killer of his brother. Oh, good, that saves me a bomb. He began to consider who would get it.

"What about Karp?" he asked.

"He'll be taken care of in due time. We have a plan for everything, as you saw just now. First you will make this one delivery and then we will see."

"Yeah, but it'd be good if I was a little more into the planning end, so I could get an idea of how everything fits together. I mean, why are we still planting these little bombs when you've got this big blast coming?"

Rashid responded with an icy glare, and, "You know, Felix, you are still on what we can call probation because of your recent betrayal. You will therefore be told only what you need to know. Don't get above yourself is my advice."

Felix made himself grin engagingly and nod. "Sure, whatever you say, Rashid."

"Excellent. I will give you the device shortly. And now, if you will excuse us…"

It was a dismissal. Felix left the room and as he did so, a notional lightbulb lit above his head as he realized how he was going to get the money out of Rashid. A smile bloomed on his face.

And on Rashid's. He turned to his two companions. "Well? What do you think. Is he hooked?"

They nodded and smiled and agreed that he truly was.