Cal Jordan was starting to regain consciousness. He guessed he was in a moving vehicle. A van or a truck. He was lying on a hard surface with a black hood over his head and duct tape over his mouth. His hands and feet had been bound so tightly that it felt as if the circulation was slowly being cut off.
As his head cleared Cal became aware of the dull pain in the left side of his neck. And some oozing from a needle prick there. He didn’t know anything about the drug Nembutal, but he was certainly feeling the aftereffects of being injected with it. Even worse was the severe headache pounding inside his skull like a jackhammer.
But after assessing the pain and confusion, fear set in. What’s happening? I was in…my dorm room. Someone was there with me. Something about the lights…in the ceiling…we were looking at the ceiling. How’d I get here? Okay, I’m tied up. In a van or something. There was a guy in my room. He must have done this. I’ve got to get out. Now.
Cal struggled, but it was impossible to budge. Not only were his wrists and legs tied together, but his neck, torso and legs were strapped down to the floor of the van. As he tried to free himself, his breathing got labored. It was difficult for him to suck in air because of the tape over his mouth, and he tried to breathe through his nose but as he frantically tried to do that he panicked and hyperventilated and nearly passed out.
There was the sensation of movement, and the sound of road underneath tires and braking, and momentary stopping. Then it started up again.
For a moment, when he thought the van would stop, Cal felt somewhat hopeful that it all would end soon. But just as quickly, his perspective changed into something dark and dreadful. As if he had just walked past the warped mirrors of a carnival fun house.
What will happen when the car stops? I’ve been kidnapped, but by who? What do they want? Money. Mom and Dad would pay ransom for me. I’ll be okay. Just can’t look at the kidnappers—I’m okay as long as I can’t identify them.
Then the van started slowing down again. And it stopped.
But this time the driver put it into park and turned off the engine.
Cal’s heart was thumping so loudly inside his chest that he wondered if it was creating an echo in the van.
In that split second something became clear to Cal. His assumptions about his own faith were now being spread out onto a table of terror. Everything he thought he knew about God and his relationship with a Savior who guided his steps and indwelled his life. All of that was now being tested in the very center of the fire. He had once survived the mad riot of humanity in the train station that day when the missiles were coming. But even that didn’t compare with this. Nothing was like this.
He summoned his simple knowledge that there was an unseen Lord. And that He would surely listen and answer. He formed the words in his mouth and said them silently. Oh, God, protect me. Please.
A minute later came the sound of the double doors opening in the rear of the van.
Someone was climbing in. Then the doors slammed shut. Even with the black hood over his head Cal could tell that a bright light was now filling the area in the back of the van where he was strapped to the floor.
The hood was yanked off, and the duct tape was pulled off his mouth ripping the hairs off his upper lip.
A face was staring at him, backlit by the painful glare of a photographer’s lamp.
“I will give you a minute to get used to the light,” Atta Zimler said.
Cal thought he could recognize the voice. It sounded like the maintenance man in his dorm room. Then he could see the man’s face better. Yes, it was him.
Then Cal saw that the man had set up a tripod with a camcorder on it. Zimler was holding the hard copies of two e-newspapers.
“Cal Jordan,” Zimler said with a strange nonchalance. “You are going to make a little movie for your father. You are to say your name into the video camera. And today’s date. And that you have not been harmed. Then I want you to beg for your life. Because if your father doesn’t give me what I want, I will kill you, Cal. And I will videotape it all and put your execution on VideoNet so that millions of people can enjoy it. Do you understand what I have just told you?”
Cal was terrified and couldn’t speak, but he nodded his head.
Zimler screamed into his face, “Say it out loud—say that you understand me!”
“I understand you.”
“Good,” Zimler said with a weird pleasantness to his voice. Then Zimler added, “You know, Cal, this is going to be very interesting.” And he smiled at Cal. “Do you know why?”
Cal, still dumbstruck with terror, could only shake his head no.
“I’ll tell you why,” Zimler explained. “Because when this is over we are going to find out something important about your father, the great Joshua Jordan. I’ve really wondered about this…which does he love more? His son or his country?”
Less than a two-hour drive from Cal’s location in the back of Zimler’s van, Joshua Jordan’s legal fate was being debated. In the federal court building in Washington, D.C. Harry Smythe had managed to arrange a short hearing before Judge Jenkins. Only one assistant U.S. attorney representing Congress bothered to show up.
“I am requesting,” Smythe said, “that you drop the bench warrant for arrest issued against my client, Mr. Jordan. The basis of the warrant—that he had ignored a lawful subpoena issued by a committee of the U.S. Senate—is now moot because that subpoena has been withdrawn by Senator Straworth, the chairman. I would also emphasize that the government has no objection to our request.”
“All that is very interesting,” the judge snapped back, “but that doesn’t bind me in my decision. I have the discretion to execute my bench warrant regardless of the validity of the original basis for contempt charges. You’re a good lawyer; I’m sure you recognize that—”
“I do,” Smythe shot back. “But equity and fairness—”
“Is something for me to decide,” Judge Jenkins said, finishing his sentence. “And I’ve decided that this court needs to satisfy itself that Joshua Jordan has due respect for the rule of law. Particularly in light of his defiance of Congress and his disregard for this court. I’d like to address Mr. Jordan personally, here in my courtroom. Is he here?”
Smythe shook his head and prepared himself for another humiliation.
“He’s not, Your Honor.”
Harry Smythe had called Joshua earlier to suggest that he attend the court appearance with him but got his voicemail. He left a message but never heard back from Joshua, which was unusual. Smythe was now left without an explanation for the judge and had little to placate her.
Judge Jenkins took a minute to collect herself, but she wasn’t able to fully hide her fury. “If your client doesn’t have the respect for this court to appear personally to request the bench warrant be withdrawn, then I have no compulsion to withdraw it.”
“But, judge, you’ve put both me and my client on the horns of an intractable dilemma,” Smythe complained.
“That’s your problem,” Judge Jenkins countered. “The bench warrant continues in full force and effect. I’ve already ordered a small army of federal marshals to hunt down and arrest Mr. Jordan. Good day to you, Mr. Smythe.”