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  “Thank you, I’ll take it from here,” Margaret said. “Sergeant, I’ve been trying to explain to these . . .”

  “Madam, you will speak only when you are spoken to,” the desk sergeant said. He turned to the two men who had brought her in. “Please forgive the interruption.”

  “We found this woman in an alley where, but moments before, by her own admission, she had been engaging in sexual activity with a man who was not her husband.”

  “Then I take it you will be filing a charge of adultery?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?” Margaret shouted at the top of her voice, unable to believe what she had just been told. “What are you talking about? I did not commit adultery! I was raped! What part of rape do you not understand?”

  “You will be able to tell your story at your trial,” the desk sergeant said.

  “What trial? When?”

  “Soon.”

  “Well, thank you very much for that. At least we’ll get this crazy charge dismissed. I want to make a telephone call.”

  “You are not authorized to use the telephone.”

  “What are you talking about? I have the right to make a telephone call.”

  “The only rights you have are those that have been granted you by the Great Leader, and he grants no rights to adulteresses,” the desk sergeant reminded her. He handed her a couple of safety pins. “Please pin your dress closed. I find your nudity offensive.”

  After Margaret pinned the top part of her dress together, the desk sergeant took a camera from his desk drawer and told Margaret to stand against the wall. He took several pictures of her, then ordered her to sit in a chair.

  “Are you going to take my statement?” she asked.

  “In due time. Just sit there for a moment.”

  After the two men who had brought her in left, Margaret remained seated in the chair, wondering what was going to happen to her. It sounded like the police sergeant was saying she was going to be tried, but as she thought about it, she realized that when he said “your” trial, he was probably referring to the trial of the rapist, and it was “hers” only in that it pertained to her. She took some comfort from that.

  She sat in the chair for nearly an hour, worrying now about Chris, knowing she should be home by now, and knowing he would be worried about her.

  A man, wearing a western suit, and a woman in a burqa, head scarf, and veil came into the station then. They stopped at the desk, spoke a moment, then came over to her.

  “I’ll be prosecuting your case,” he said. “Go with this woman.”

  Margaret followed the woman into another room and there, the woman opened a closet and pulled out a burqa, scarf, and veil. She pointed to them.

  Within half an hour, Margaret was dressed the same as the woman who was with her. Not once during that time did Margaret see the woman’s face, or even hear her speak.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Back in the apartment on Jordan Street Chris Carmack was beginning to get a little concerned. He had been sure that Margaret would be home by now. But as he thought about it, he had a pretty good idea of what must have happened. She had gone to invite Kathy, Margaret’s closest friend, to come to the wedding. No doubt they were planning the wedding right now.

  “What’s there to plan?” Chris had asked. “We just go see the civil servant, sign the papers, and we are married.”

  “If you don’t know, I can’t explain it to you,” Margaret said with a little laugh. “You just don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Chris smiled as he recalled that conversation. He was sure that Margaret and Kathy were planning everything down to the last, tiny detail. He was getting concerned about the steak, though. It cost too much to ruin by letting it sit too long after being cooked.

  Margaret’s trial was being held in what had, in the “before time,” been the Supreme Court building. The historic bas-relief features of Moses and the Ten Commandments had been removed. The nine justices of the Supreme Court had long ago been replaced by one Moqaddas Sirata judge, who had been born as Arnold Tate, but who now called himself Sulymam Ayambuie.

  It didn’t take Margaret long to realize that when the prosecutor called it “her trial,” he really meant her trial. As bizarre as it might seem, Margaret Malcolm was being charged with adultery. She was on the verge of panic, and though she had begged the prosecutor and the burqa-clad woman to let her get in touch with Chris, or to contact him on her behalf, they refused to do so.

  Margaret Malcolm was going through a trial for her very life, and without so much as one friend or advocate in the court.

  She sat at a table with her hands cuffed in front of her, wearing a gray burqa which covered her head and face, leaving only her eyes visible.

  “Your Holiness, prosecution calls its first and only witness,” the prosecutor said.

  The judge, if that was what he could rightly be called, nodded and lifted a finger. The court gallery was full, and they all turned as a young man wearing a dishdasha started toward the front of the courtroom.

  “That’s him!” she called out. “That’s the man who raped me!”

  The judge pounded his gavel and glared at Margaret. “The defendant will keep quiet. You will speak only when you are spoken to.”

  Margaret wanted to call out again, but she held her tongue.

  The prosecutor began interrogating the young man, who was now sitting in the witness chair.

  “Is it true that you had sexual contact with this woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you have sex with her?”

  “I couldn’t help myself. It was the way she was dressed. It provoked me into committing the act.”

  The prosecutor looked over at the prisoner.

  “Was she dressed like that?”

  “Oh, no sir. If she had been dressed like that, I would have known that she was a good woman.”

  “How was she dressed?”

  “She was dressed like a whore. She was wearing a short skirt. Her neck and arms were bare. She had no head covering, and she was wearing lipstick.”

  “Is this how she looked?” The prosecutor held up the photo he had taken of Margaret in his office, before he made her change clothes.

  “Yes.”

  “Would you say that you were incited into this act?”

  “What?”

  “When you saw her dressed like a whore, did it make you lose your sense of propriety?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you have had sex with her if she had been dressed properly? The way she is dressed now?”

  “No. As I said, if she had been dressed the way she is now, I would never have approached her. But the way she was dressed, it was the same as if she was asking me to do it. I didn’t want to, but she, be . . . be . . . that word you told me to say.”

  “You mean she beguiled you?”

  “Yeah. That.”

  “I have no further questions.”

  The judge looked at Margaret. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

  “Don’t I get a lawyer to defend me?”

  “No.”

  “But, I’m entitled to a lawyer. Everyone gets a lawyer, even if they can’t afford one. That’s the rule.”

  “That is not the rule of Moqaddas Sirata. I cannot, and I will not ask a man to put his soul at risk by defending a whore,” the judge replied. “You must defend yourself.”

  “I am not a whore. And I was raped. I was not a willing participant.”

  “Have you four male witnesses who will testify that you were raped?”

  “No, there was nobody there but me, and the man who raped me. If there were four male witnesses, don’t you think if they were decent men, that they would have stepped in and stopped it? The very concept of four male witnesses to a rape is ridiculous. What makes you think there would be four witnesses to something like that?”

  “The Koran, chapter twenty-four, verse thirteen, clearly states,” the j
udge said, then he read from the book. “Why did they not bring four witnesses of it? But as they have not brought witnesses, they are liars before Allah.”

  “I am not lying! I was raped!”

  “The law is quite clear. You cannot prove rape unless you have four male witnesses. And even if you were raped, it is a condition that you brought on yourself. That, you cannot deny, for this court has photographic evidence of the way you were dressed. Prosecution may give his summation.”

  The prosecutor again held up the photograph of Margaret Malcolm, showed it to the gallery, then showed it to the judge.

  “Your Holiness, I show this picture with great reticence, for I know its very licentiousness is an affront to all decency, and I beg your forgiveness, but I do so, only to make a point.”

  The prosecutor looked over the defendant, the expression on his face one of utter contempt. He pointed at the picture, then toward Margaret.

  “This is how this whore was dressed!” he shouted loudly.

  “This jezebel, for there is no other way to describe her, went out into the public dressed in the most beguiling way. And, I submit, she went that way for one reason, and one reason only. She was on the prowl, seeking sex from whomever she could entice.”

  “No, that isn’t true!” Margaret shouted.

  Imam Ayambuie pounded his gavel upon the bench. “Be silent, whore, while the prosecutor is making his case!”

  “But what he is saying isn’t true!”

  “Gag this defendant,” Ayambuie ordered. Uniformed SPS troopers stepped up behind her and tied a gag around the lower part of her face, drawing the veil into her nostrils, making it difficult for her to breathe.

  “Prosecutor may continue with the summation,” Ayambuie said.

  “Thank you, Your Holiness. As I was saying, the defendant, in violation of the dress code, presented herself in a most lewd and vile way, little caring that she was endangering the souls of all who gazed upon her impurity. And one innocent young man, who had left home only to go to the store to buy milk for his mother, a young man whose life up until that time had been pure and unstained, did gaze upon her, and was so seduced by her wantonness, that he could no longer restrain himself.

  “With Satan acting as her partner, this slut, Margaret Malcolm, enticed this poor, innocent young man to lose control of himself, and engage in sex with her. That this woman engaged in sex with this man is not denied, for by her own words has she confessed.

  “There can be but one verdict, and that is to find Margaret Malcolm guilty of adultery, and of corruption of the soul of this poor, innocent man.”

  Ayambuie looked over toward Margaret, whose eyes were wide in fright.

  “If you had held your tongue, you would be able to speak now, in your defense,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter, for no lying words you may speak can alter the truth. Therefore, I find you guilty of adultery. It is a hudud crime, and therefore I condemn you to death. Your temporal punishment is death by stoning. Your eternal punishment will be to writhe in the fires of hell forever.

  “Sentence is to be carried out immediately. Remove the gag.”

  The same SPS man who had gagged her now removed the gag.

  “No!” Margaret shouted as soon as she could draw a breath. “No, you can’t do this! I did nothing wrong!”

  “Take her to her punishment,” the judge said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  Margaret Malcolm was tied to a lamppost on a street corner, and hundreds of people who were merely passing by were forced into participating in the stoning. Most of them did it with a sense of horror, but nearly as many took a perverse glee in throwing the rocks. Margaret remained conscious, and crying, for the first five minutes; then she grew quiet. The stoning continued for an entire hour, even though there was nothing left but a bloody pulp on the ground.

  A TV camera moved in to get pictures of her, and of the judge, Imam Sulymam Ayambuie. A reporter began to interview him.

  It was now past six o’clock, and Margaret still wasn’t home. It wasn’t like her to be this late, not even if she was visiting with a friend. Chris couldn’t call, because Kathy didn’t have a telephone. If she hadn’t returned home by seven, Chris would walk over there and get her. He smiled as he thought of how embarrassed she would be, at having spent the entire day just talking.

  To calm himself somewhat, he turned on the TV.

  “. . . claimed she was raped this morning, but that claim was dismissed in court. The woman had to be forcibly restrained, and at one time, was gagged because of repeated interruptions to the lawful proceedings of the court.”

  The picture on the screen was of the defendant, but because she was totally covered by a burqa, he had no idea what she looked like.

  The picture returned to the male newscaster who was giving the news, with just the proper amount of condemnation in his voice. He held the microphone out toward a bearded man, dressed in black, and wearing a taqiyah.

  “We have much work to do in this county to educate women, and bring them into the righteousness of Moqaddas Sirata, due to the sinful way American females have been raised. This will be a lesson to all women.”

  The camera returned to a shot of the reporter.

  “That was Imam Sulymam Ayambuie, the Supreme Justice of the American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment, who took such an interest in this case that he handled it personally.

  “The whore, who had incited an innocent young man to have sex with her, was, rightfully, tried, found guilty, convicted, and condemned. She paid for her sin by being stoned to death in front of the court. It is not known if the woman, Margaret Malcolm, had any relatives. But of course, even if she did, no one would claim her, for fear of being tainted by her heinous crime.

  “The body was cremated.”

  Once, when Chris had been a young man, he fell from a tree and had the breath knocked from him. It had been a terrible moment, lying on the ground, unable to breathe, and not knowing if he would ever breathe again.

  Chris felt like that now, and he put his hand to his head as tears sprang to his eyes.

  “Nooooooo!” he shouted, his agonized cry heard by passersby in the street.

  Fighting back the tears, Chris went into his bedroom and, unscrewing the cap at the top of the bedpost, reached down inside to pull out a bottle of whiskey. As in the days of prohibition, all whiskey now was bootleg whiskey, and had to be kept hidden.

  Generally when Chris would take a drink, he would make certain that the window blinds were closed so that he couldn’t be seen. But today, he made no attempt to close the blinds, because he didn’t care whether he was seen or not. If ever he needed a drink—and these days it seemed that he was increasingly in need of a drink—it was now.

  He tossed the first shot down, feeling the burn in his throat, and the warmth in his belly. But it would take several more drinks before the pain in his heart would be dulled. As he worked his way toward that glorious drunk, Chris made a silent vow that, somehow, he would avenge this young woman.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Near Vaughan, Mississippi

  Vaughan, Mississippi is noted for being the site of Casey Jones’s famous train wreck, and in the “before time,” there had been a Casey Jones Museum there. On the evening of the sixth day after Tom and Sheri left St. Louis, they were making camp about five miles north of Vaughan, when they encountered their first trouble. Tom was standing by his bicycle, and Sheri was about to spread out their sleeping bags when someone suddenly leaped out from behind a tree and grabbed her.

  “Tom!” Sheri shouted.

  Tom reached under the bicycle seat and got his pistol.

  The man who had grabbed Sheri had one arm around her waist, while in his other hand he was holding a knife to her throat. Tom raised his pistol and pointed it at the intruder.

  “Let her go,” Tom said.

  “You better put that little popgun down, mister, before I cut your woman’s throat.”

  “Why would you do that? If y
ou kill her, I’ll kill you.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? Put that gun down, or I’ll cut her up bad.”

  “Do the Bud, Sheri,” Tom said calmly.

  Bud was the parrot Tom’s parents had once owned, and Sheri knew exactly what he was talking about, because when Bud wanted attention, he would sometimes bob his head back and forth.

  Sheri leaned her head to the right, and the punk who was holding her, caught by surprise, suddenly had one half of his head exposed. Without a moment’s hesitation, Tom pulled the trigger. His bullet struck the would-be mugger just above his left eye. He went down, dead before he hit the ground.

  “Are you all right?” Tom asked, holding the smoking pistol in his hand.

  “Well, I’m glad to know that you would have killed him if he had killed me,” Sheri said.

  “It’s the least I could do for the woman I love,” Tom said.

  Sheri laughed. “I don’t know why I’m laughing. Maybe it’s to keep from screaming.”

  “Nah, you did very well, you did exactly what you had to do,” Tom said.

  “Damn, did he ever have a bad case of body odor,” Sheri said. “What will we do with him?”

  “I’ll drag his sorry ass out into the woods so we don’t have to see him tonight,” Tom said. “Why don’t you open us a can of sardines?”

  “Last night was sardines,” Sheri said. “Tonight it’s kippers.”

  “They’re coming out of the same can, aren’t they?”

  “Oh but Tom, my sweet. It’s all a matter of perception, don’t you know?”

  Tom chuckled. “Then kippers it is.”

  SPS Headquarters, Arlington, Virginia

  The two Janissaries who had arrested Margaret Malcolm were Americans by birth, having been born Clint Anderson and Keith Darrow. In order to join the SPS they had converted to Moqaddas Sirata Islam, and had taken the Muslim names of Husni Mawsil and Shurayh Amaar. Shortly after joining the SPS, they were selected by Reed Franken to be members of the elite Janissary Corps.