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will return with
    more live coverage of the fire at the U.S. naval base in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, after these commercial messages.”
    Jack hit the mute button on the remote. “You still there?” he
    asked over the phone.
    “Yeah,” said Theo. “Can you believe he did it?”
    “Did what?”
    “They said it was a Cessna. Wake up, dude. It’s Operation
    Northwoods.”
    There was a pounding on the door. It had that certain thud of
    authority—law enforcement. “Open up. FBI!”
    Jack gripped the phone. “Theo, I think this lawyer may need
    a lawyer.”
    There was a crash at the front door, and it took Jack only a
    moment to realize that a SWAT team had breached his house.
    Jack could hear them coming down the hall, see them burst
    through the bedroom door. “Down, down, on the floor!” someone shouted, and Jack instinctively obeyed. He had never
    claimed to be the world’s smartest lawyer, but he was sharp
    enough to realize that when six guys come running into your
    bedroom in full SWAT regalia before dawn, generally they mean
    business. He decided to save the soapbox speech on civil liberties for another day, perhaps when his face wasn’t buried in the
    carpet and the automatic rifles weren’t aimed at the back of his
    skull.
    “Where’s Jack Swyteck?” one of the men barked at him.
    “ I’m Jack Swyteck.”
    There was silence, and it appeared that the team leader was
    checking a photograph to confirm Jack’s claim. The man said,
    “Let him up, boys.”
    Jack rose and sat on the edge of the bed. He was wearing gym
    shorts and a Miami Dolphins jersey, his version of pajamas. The
    SWAT team backed away. The team leader pointed his gun at the
    floor and introduced himself as Agent Matta, FBI.
    “Sorry about the entrance,” Matta said. “We got a tip that you
    were in danger.”
    44
    “A tip? From who?”
    “Anonymous.”
    Jack was somewhat skeptical. He was, after all, a criminal defense lawyer.
    “We need to talk to you about your client, Jean Saint Preux.
    Did he act alone?”
    “I don’t even know if he’s done anything yet.”
    “Save it for the courtroom,” Matta said. “I need to know if
    there are more planes on the way.”
    Jack suddenly understood the guns-drawn entrance. “What
    are you talking about?”
    “Your client has been flying in the Windward Passage for some
    time now, hasn’t he?”
    “Yeah. He’s Haitian. People are dying on the seas trying to flee
    the island. He’s been flying humanitarian missions to spot rafters
    lost at sea.”
    “How well do you know him?”
    “He’s just a client. Met him on a pro bono immigration case I
    did ten years ago. Look, you probably know more than I do. Are
    you sure it was him?”
    “I think you can confirm that much for us with the air traffic
    control recordings.” He pulled a CD from inside his pocket, then
    said, “It’s been edited down to compress the time frame of the
    engagement, but it’s still highly informative.”
    Jack was as curious as anyone to know if his client was involved—if he was alive or dead. “Let’s hear it,” he said.
    Matta inserted the CD into the player on Jack’s credenza.
    There were several seconds of dead air. Finally a voice crackled
    over the speakers: “This is approach control, U.S. Naval Air Sta-
    tion, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Unidentified aircraft heading one-
    eight-five at one-five knots, identify yourself.”
    Another stretch of silence followed. The control tower repeated its transmission. Finally, a man replied, his voice barely
    audible, but his Creole accent was still detectable. “Copy that.”
    Jack said, “That’s Jean.”
    45
    The recorded voice of the controller continued, “You are en-
    tering unauthorized airspace. Please identify.”
    No response.
    “Fighter planes have been dispatched. Please identify.”
    Jack moved closer to hear. It sounded as though his client was
    having trouble breathing.
    The controller’s voice took on a certain urgency.