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officers and demand classified documents to establish his alibi. If that happens, the Justice Department will file an action in federal court under the Confidential Information Protection Act to quash those subpoenas. That will only delay the trial, and we are sensitive to the fact that Mr. Mays, who lost his daughter, and Officer Paulo, who lost his eyesight, have already waited long enough for justice. Granting this motion would avoid further delay. Denial of this motion and allowing the defendant to pursue this alleged alibi would be tantamount to turning NASA upside down to show that he was abducted by aliens and taken to another galaxy.”
    Neil rose, again a little too eager. “Judge, that is simply not true. Although the government refuses to admit it, there have been numerous reports about sites in Eastern Europe.”
    “Rumors,” said the prosecutor. “No proof.”
    The judge raised a hand, putting an end to the cross-debating. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Goderich. Is it true, as you just stated, that your client has never stated publicly that he was detained in Prague before going to Gitmo?”
    “Well, yes. That is true,” said Neil.
    “So am I to infer that Mr. Wakefield never told anyone that he was held in a secret detention facility until he spoke with the victim’s father last night—until after he was indicted for murder?”
    Neil froze, seeing where the judge was headed. “I can’t answer that question without breaching the attorney-client privilege,” he said.
    Jack did a double take. The implication was clear, and Jack didn’t think Neil really wanted to go down that road.
    The judge leaned forward, as if he were cross-examining Neil. “Are you affirmatively representing to this court that prior to his indictment Mr. Wakefield told you that he was detained in Prague?”
    Neil paused, and Jack could almost hear him tap dancing.
    “I’m simply saying that I am unable to give a yes-or-no answer to that question without breaching the attorney-client privilege.”
    “That’s nonsense,” the prosecutor said. “Mr. Goderich filed a detailed memorandum in federal court setting forth the entire history of his client’s detention. He wrote in detail about his apprehension by Ethiopian troops in Somalia and his alleged forced confession. He wrote in detail about his transfer to and detention at Gitmo. In fact, Mr. Wakefield pretended to speak only Somali for his entire three years in captivity, until he was charged with murder. If Mr. Wakefield had been detained in Prague, we would have heard of it by now.”
    Neil fell silent, realizing his mistake.
    Jack rose. “Judge, may I speak?”
    “No. I’ve heard enough.”
    “Shit,” Neil said under his breath. “I pissed him off with that attorney-client smoke screen.”
    “The government’s motion is granted,” the judge said. “The defendant will be allowed to testify at trial about his alibi if he so chooses. But until you show me more than Mr. Wakefield’s own belated claims of a secret facility in Prague, the defense will not have the subpoena power of this court to compel government officials to testify or to produce records about an alleged secret facility.”
    “But—”
    “That’s my ruling,” the judge said with a bang of the gavel.
    “All rise!” said the bailiff.
    Jack and Neil climbed to their feet as the judge made his way to his chambers. The side door opened, the judge disappeared into his chambers, and the lawyers gathered their papers. Neil looked as if he’d just been shot in the chest—or worse, as if he’d shot himself in the foot.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve never dropped the ball like that in my life. What in the hell was I thinking?”
    Jack wasn’t one to judge, especially when it was someone as talented and ethical as Neil. Besides, Jack suspected that something else was at work—something much bigger than a misstep by his co-counsel.
    “No worries,” said Jack.
    “Swyteck,” said the