Leave No Child Behind

  “No, I’m tellin’ you, Dee Dee, this guy’s hot for you. I can tell the way he looks at you. Besides, he saw me in the hallway and asked if you were here today.”

  When I fought my natural urge to ask a hundred questions, she pressed the matter, a little more quietly this time. Fishing money out of her purse, she said “Don’t you act like you don’t care either!”

  We stepped back out into the cafeteria and into the constant din of an adolescent lunch period. I turned and said loud enough for her to hear, “Let’s just say I wouldn’t say no.”

  As we walked through the chaos, I glanced down to see a student deep in thought reading a novel. I was again amazed how anyone could hear, much less be able to read in the lunchroom. From where we stood, the cafeteria stretched out like an elongated square with doors to hallways that spun off like the arms of some monstrous octopus. The rear wall of the lunchroom was lined with glass doors, which led to the deck overlooking the lake. The kitchen and chow line, complete with obligatory swinging aluminum doors, was nestled in one rear corner and the teachers’ lunchroom was stuck in the opposite corner, so we had to navigate across the entire cafeteria, trays in hand. The seats around every table were filled with teenagers who were doing more talking than eating and the result was raucous pandemonium. We weaved our way through the teenage crowd to the door of the teacher’s lunchroom.

  As we entered, I noticed that Jesus was already sitting on the other side of the table, facing the door. He looked up and smiled. I smiled back.

  The small room was nearly full. On one side of my would-be date sat Hal Thompson, our fearless principal, and across the table from them was Bob Holden. Hal was talking to Jesus and Bob, except that Bob was stuffing his face behind this week’s copy of Sports Illustrated. Janet Striker, the matron of Home Ec, overflowed the one seat with her large bulk and Brian Foley, our young, new, wet-behind-the-ears, French teacher slouched in the other.

  Jesus turned to Thompson and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Thompson,” and then to us, “Ladies, won’t you brighten our dreary table and join us?”

  Holden flapped his magazine loudly on the table and, through a full mouth of ketchup-drenched French Fries said, “Give it a rest, Jesus. Some of us are eating.”

  “We can see that, Robert. In fact, we can see, I think, a little too much of that,” Jesus said.

  Everyone in the room laughed, everyone except Bob of course, who slapped the magazine back up in place.

  Christie, as usual, was quicker than I. “Thank you, Jesus. I do believe we will,” she said and we took the two remaining unoccupied chairs. Christie grabbed hers first, making sure I had to take the only seat left, the one next to Jesus.

  “You were saying, Jesus, what you thought was one of the biggest differences between American schools and schools in your country. What country was that again?” asked Hal Thompson, as he absently checked the state of his comb over.

  “Ecaudor,” said Jesus and smiled at me again.

  I glanced across at Christie and she was brandishing her “See I told you” smirk. Then my eyes roamed past her to the deck and lake outside. The slashing rain that I had waded through this morning in my leather boots had turned to snow and the flakes were beginning to cover the surface of the wood on the deck like tiny white leaves. Seeing the frigid weather, I shivered.

  Hal Thompson looked across at me and then followed my glance to the window behind him. “I didn’t know it had started to snow. This could get nasty,” he said, snatching up his tray from the table. “Sorry, we’ll have to pick this up later,” he nodded to Jesus. “I better get up to the office and talk to Jim, that’s our superintendent, about an early dismissal.” With that he was out the door, releasing another brief sound wave of the student cacophony.

  “Boy, it’d be great to get out early today. I’m so tired,” said Bob from behind his magazine to no one in particular.

  “Yeah, I’m sure holding up that magazine all day can really tire a guy like you out,” said Christie.

  “Shut up, Ferguson!”

  Jesus interrupted before Christie could say anymore. “Good to see you again, Miss Sterber,” Jesus began, turning to me. And then, almost as an afterthought, “You too, Miss Ferguson.”

  “I’m glad to see that you got another sub job,” I said. “Who are you today?”

  “Can you not tell? Today I am Carl Bernard, algebra expert. And before I forget it,” he added, “I want to tell you I am quite grateful for the tour of the school you gave me last week. It has helped me in ways you cannot guess.”

  “Jesus,” Christie piped up, her voice bubbling, “if you need somebody to show you around town, Dee Dee can handle that, too.”

  “That would be very nice,” responded Jesus, as if he and my best friend had scripted this part. “Is there an evening that would be convenient for you, Miss Sterber?”

  “Dee Dee, please.”

  Just then Jerod burst through the door and, as soon as he saw me, started babbling. “Oh good, here ya are, Dee Dee. I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you. I need to talk to you.”

  “Jerod, I’m eating now.” I said firmly without looking up. “I’ll catch you after lunch.” I kept my eyes on Jesus--no trouble doing that.

  But Jerod doesn’t get subtlety. “I don’t think it can wait,” he said. He leaned close and said in a whisper, “It’s about Rashid.” But the whisper was so loud, that instead of keeping the comment between us, everyone started up from their eating.

  Still looking across at Jesus’ face, I saw a flash of recognition in his eyes. I asked, “Do you know Rashid?”

  Jesus looked flustered at first and then said, “I met him in one class I subbed in last week.”

  Before I could even think, Jerod butted in again. “Dee Dee, I need to show ya something in your room!”

  “Can I at least finish my measly bowl of fruit?” I said.

  “Bring it with you,” Jerod insisted.

  Before I could object, Jesus was up and moving. “It sounds important, Miss Sterber,” he said, “and I need to get to my 5th period Algebra class. We can continue our discussion of possible sightseeing later ... I hope.”

  With that, he was out the door before I could even voice an objection. Jerod just stood there, holding the door open as Jesus walked out. I got up and exited too.

  Stomping across the cafeteria, I walked ahead of Jerod and cut over to the side hallway. I heard Jerod’s rapid footsteps pounding the tile behind me and then he pulled up beside me and grabbed my arm. I stopped and turned to face him, now a few feet from my classroom door.

  “Sorry, that I interrupted your lunch,” he started. “I found out somethin’ important and thought you’d want to know.”

  I studied the geometric pattern on the floor and refused to look at him.

  He sighed and said, “Oh, excu-use me, Ms. Sterber, I didn’ know lunch was such a big deal.”

  “Never mind!” Then I turned, forcing him to let go of my arm, and unlocked the door to my classroom. “What did you have to show me about Rashid that couldn’t wait?”

  He ignored my peevish tone, “What was the reason Rashid gave for offerin’ to accompany you on your interview with Akadi?”

  “Jerod,” I said, “I really don’t feel like playing Twenty Questions!”

  “Humor me, Dee Dee. Why?”

  “He said he could help with the translation,” I said.

  “You told him you knew Farsi, right?”

  “Yes, but he said he could speak the same dialect as Akadi because he grew up in the same province in Pakistan. But I told you all this before we went to HBE.”

  “Dee Dee, I checked with a friend a’ mine at the FBI and he said that Akadi’s not from Pakistan.”

  “You have friends in the FBI?”

  “Yeah, a’course. Anyway, he said that Akadi is not from Pakistan and his primary language is Dari Persian-Afghan.”

  “That’s not what Rashid said. Are you sure?”

  “John seemed pretty
damn sure of himself. He knew the army translator who worked with Asad when he was captured.”

  “That can’t be right. I was there,” I protested. “Jerod, I heard them talking. Rashid used the same dialect as Asad. Remember, I told you that I thought Rashid told Asad to watch what he said because I knew Farsi.”

  “I know, you told me that when you got back. I thought there might be more to it. That’s why I went to John. Dee Dee, I believe you heard what you said you did,” he said. “But John said you had trouble translating because they were not speaking West Farsi. He thinks Rashid and Akadi were both talkin’ in Dari Persian-Afghan part of the time,” he began.

  “Could be. Maybe that’s why I had so much trouble following. So what?”

  “They don’t speak Dari Persian-Afgan in Pakistan,” he said. “According to the FBI translator, it’s only spoken in certain remote parts of Afghanistan. The same parts that some of al Quaida training camps have been found.”

  “How can that be right? Rashid said he lived in Pakistan. There’s got to be some mistake. Maybe some parts of Pakistan speak that dialect. I’ll ask Rashid when he comes in.”

  “I’m not sure asking Rashid is such a good idear just yet. Here, look at this,” he said as he handed me a manila folder. I recognized it as a cumulative student folder from the office and read the name typed across the top, “Rashid Hermani.”

  “How did you get this?” I asked, holding the folder and looking at him. ”Only authorized staff are supposed to have access to these files.”

  He grinned and said, “That Lisa who works the office is a nice gal. I just told her that ya needed to see Rashid’s folder and sent me to get it.”

  “You mean, you schmoozed her.”

  Jerod shrugged his shoulders. “You didn’ know it, but I knew you needed t’ see it.” Leaning over my desk, we flipped open the folder and I ran my finger down the entries to find the listings for previous school and previous address. I read aloud. “See, it’s right here. He put down that his home and his last school was in Bannu, Pakistan.”

  “And we all know everythin’ in these folders are checked out thoroughly.” He let that hang. “Have you had an opportunity to talk with Rashid’s uncle?” He looked down and read the name from the file, “Jamal Serstani?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  He grabbed the phone off my desk, handed it to me and said, “No time like the present. Let’s call right now.” He read the phone number out loud and punched in the numbers, “793-2665.”

  “What am I going to say?”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  After the third ring, I heard the line pick up and opened my mouth to speak. Then an electronic voice informed me that the number had been disconnected. Not trusting Jerod’s dialing, I checked the number myself and punched it in again. After the obligatory three rings, the non-human voice went through the routine again.

  After the second attempt, I looked across at Jerod. “You knew it was going to do that, didn’t you?”

  He shrugged those big shoulders and said, “Mebbe.”

  I picked the phone back up and punched in 411. When Jerod started to say something, I put up my palm to stop him and at the same time, I heard another disembodied phone voice ask, “City and state, please?”

  I said, “Hammerville, Ohio,” trying hard to enunciate clearly for the telephone computer. My words must have registered because a human voice came on the line and stated in a flat tone, “What listing?” I glanced down at the folder again. “Could I have the newest listing for a Jamal Serstani at 5644 Copeland Ct., Hammerville?” I asked, spelling the last name for the operator.

  “One moment,” the voice said and I waited. The pause seemed interminable but was probably only about ten seconds. I stole a glance at the clock and then at the small window in the door. The students would be here in two minutes. Then I heard the operator in my ear again. “Ma'am?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “We have no listing for a Jamal Serstani in Hammerville or anywhere in Ohio,” she said. “Do you want me to check another state?”

  “No, thank you.” I was just about to let her go when I thought of another question. “What if he has an unlisted number?”

  “Ma'am, if he had an unlisted number, I couldn’t give it to you,” the operator responded. “But I can tell you that I do not have a number for your party, listed or unlisted, in the area.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well?”

  “The operator said there is no one like that listed around here.”

  The door slammed open and the students began to pour in. We both watched the teens flooding into the room. Then Jerod said to me, “I think you were right, though.”

  I closed the folder and slid it under a stack of papers and asked “About what?”

  “I think we need t’ talk to Rashid and soon, especially since there’s only one day before Akadi is scheduled to be executed,” he said above the noise of the entering students. “I’ll see if I can find him.” Then he moved from behind my desk, turned and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter 27

  “Okay, Harold, your update,” said President Gregory.

  This team meeting was in the Situation Room in the White House. The five men sat at one end of a large, polished cherry conference table and Samson noted that all the King’s men were again here. Around them large-screen monitors flashed images and menus and bright, interactive maps of the regions of the world stretched across two entire walls. Another set of massive monitors projected the real-time images of national security satellites, small dots blinking red and blue on the screens. At the far end of the room, beyond the large oval table were several smaller tables and trays, with phones, laptop computers and other communication devices, ready to be pressed into use.

  Samson gathered his breath and tried to take it all in, this room, this team, his responsibility. “Mr. President, we have received two important reports in the last 24 hours.” Handing each man a manila folder stamped “Top Secret” across the top, he removed the first sheet from his own. “We received the lab report on the State Trooper car pulled from Lake Findlay in Pennsylvania. The CSI team was able to isolate several fingerprints as well as several fibers and hairs in the vehicle, though most matched Jeffrey Birch, the slain officer. There were a few others, but we could not find a match for them in any national or international database.”

  He glanced around the table, studying the faces of his colleagues. The distinct features of the large oval face of Tom Dickson were hard, unmoving, his brown eyes focused intently on Harold. Next to Dickson, Jerry Garcia stared absent-mindedly at Samson, the gray eyes blank as slate. Harold could not tell if Garcia was unconcerned or even paying attention. Sitting across the table in the chair next to the president perched Dean Settler, White House Chief of Staff, his tall, emaciated frame looked like it could slide right out of the chair. Settler’s scowl seemed permanently etched--at least whenever Harold was present--and he wondered idly how President Gregory could stand to have him around all the time.

  Harold brushed the folds of his bow tie and then unconsciously pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Yesterday, the Cleveland Police pulled two bodies from the Cuyahoga River.” He pulled two black and white photos from the folder. “What you have are faxed copies of the photos of the two bodies. The color originals will arrive later this morning. Although we’re not sure--the water had affected the condition of the corpses and the faxed copies are not the best--we believe the body in this first photo,” he held up the one to illustrate, “is, or rather was, Mohammed Armdi.”

  Samson stared directly at the President. “You will remember, Mr. President, that this is the man we captured on camera, at the tollbooth on I-90.”

  “The man your analysts thought the cameras caught,” corrected Gregory.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened to him?” the President asked.

  “Sir?”

 
; “How did he die, this man you believe to be Mohammed Armdi?”

  “He was shot in the back of the head, execution-style.” Samson pulled the next page out of the folder.

  “What about the other man?” This was from Dickson, his body leaning forward. “Do you have an ID on the second body?”

  “No, Tom, not yet,” Harold turned toward the FBI Director and then read from the sheet he was holding. “Unidentified Mideastern man, dark skin, brown eyes, age approximately 27, medium height but strong build and weight about 250.”

  “Same manner of death?” President Gregory asked.

  “Yes, sir. One shot to the back of the head,” answered Samson. “Based on the trajectory of both fatal bullets, we assume both were executed in the same manner.”

  “Executed,” Gregory said aloud.

  With that comment, the posture of the other three men at the table shifted, all three now leaned forward, arms sliding slightly forward on the polished wood.

  Harold continued, “We isolated DNA markers from both bodies--Mohammed and the second Arab--and found that we could still get a decent set of prints from them. We were able to match the prints and the hairs found in the Pennsylvania police car. So we can place these two,” he pointed to the two faxed photos, “one a confirmed terrorist and the other likely one as well, inside the police car of a slain Pennsylvania State Trooper.” He waited to see the President’s reaction before going on.

  All four men looked to President Gregory, who studied the photos in his hand. He let the pictures drop to the polished surface of the table and pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket. Without looking up, he said, “Your assessment, Harold?”

  “Sir, as a prosecutor, I would need more solid evidence than this to convict, but this certainly looks like these two were members of a Mideast terrorist cell that has entered the US. I would speculate that these two encountered Officer Birch and killed him as I described to you last week.”

  “How did this encounter take place?” asked Garcia

  “We obviously don’t know, but according to the dispatcher, Officer Birch radioed in that he was pulling over a driver who was driving erratically and he suspected was DUI.” He selected another paper from the report. “According to the preliminary autopsy results, the digestive systems of both men contained traces of alcohol. So we suspect Armdi--or the other man--was the driver Officer Birch pulled over. We also suspect that they overpowered and murdered the officer.”