| |
AS SOON AS NAIM STEPPED outside of the Daly Building, he stopped thinking about the attorney-client privilege that bound him to hold the secret of his client. That was a big problem. A tidal wave of reporters and cameramen rushing towards him was another one. They all shouted questions on top of each other.
“Mr. Butler, what’s your client’s name? The Judge Killer?”
“How can you represent a terrorist?”
“When are you going back to New York? No one wants you here.”
“Who’s paying for your services?”
“Has the killer killed anyone else?”
He was speechless for the second time in minutes. Naim squinted at the bright camera lights and ducked and weaved his way towards the curb. He was not one to shy away from the fireworks and flavor; but, David Thurman gave him a new bid to be more humble. An act that demanded delicious dedication. Taking this case was a huge mistake, he thought. An ample mistake quickly cascading into a tragedy.
Naim continued up the sidewalk trying to get to the Judiciary Square Red Line Metro train station. That was his smartest move from a menu of bad options. If there were seven minutes in heaven, he wanted a double.