Swope's Ridge By Ace Collins, Chapter 1

ZONDERVAN Swope’s Ridge Copyright © 2009 by Andrew Collins This title is also available in a Zondervan audio edition. Visit www.zondervan.fm. Requests for information should be addressed to: Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Collins, Ace. Swope’s Ridge / Ace Collins. p.  cm. — (Lije Evans mysteries) ISBN  978-0-310-27953-2 (pbk.) 1. Lawyers — Fiction. 2. Murder — Investigation — Fiction. I. Title. PS3553.O47475S96 2009 813’.54 — dc22

2009018441

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1 October 11, 2001 Waxahachie, Texas It was just past eight and, as usual, Omar Jones was running late. As he glanced at the clock, the twentyeight-year-old computer programmer picked up a half-filled cup of coffee and splashed a last lukewarm gulp down his throat. He heard Charlie Gibson on Good Morning America voicing yet another story on the attacks in New York and Washington. Had it already been a month? He still couldn’t begin to fathom how anyone could fly a jetliner into the World Trade Center towers or the Pentagon. Why would anyone become a terrorist? Why would anyone choose to die like that? Jones switched off the TV and set down his coffee. He had thirty minutes to get to work, and traffic was sure to be snarled due to construction around Desoto. Hurrying toward the door, he stopped in front of a mirror to make sure his coal-black hair was neatly combed and his thick mustache showed no sign of the oatmeal he had just eaten. Satisfied, he pushed open the side door of his modest three-bedroom track home. The scene that met him in the carport nearly caused his heart to stop. There, no more than ten feet in front of him, stood a police officer pointing a gun at his chest, with a dozen other officers — all

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heavily armed with weapons aimed and ready — spread out behind him. “Omar Saddam Jones?” A man in a black suit stepped toward him. Unable to manage a verbal response, Jones simply nodded. “Put your hands on top of your head. Now.” Jones quickly did as he was told. Three men rushed up behind him, forcefully pulled his arms behind his back, slapped a pair of cuffs around his wrists, and patted him down. Then he was pushed twenty feet toward a squad car. Only then did Jones speak. “What’s this about?” His voice sounded almost childlike to his ears. “You must have the wrong guy. I’ve done nothing!” A large man in a dark suit walked to the car, leaned over, and said, “You know the Klasser family.” Jones nodded. “Sure, they’re my neighbors.” “They were your neighbors,” the man said. “Someone killed them. A month ago. Even the baby was murdered. Where have you been?” Albert Klasser wasn’t just his neighbor; he was a good friend. They played softball on the same city team. Emily was the ideal wife. She made chocolate-drop cookies for the neighbors. And the kids . . . Jacob . . . Sarah . . . They were dead? “The Klassers?” he whispered. “Jones, I’m Adam Horne, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” The tall, balding man showed Omar his identification, then looked around for another agent. “Take him downtown.” The interrogation room was stark, just like the ones Omar had seen so many times on television. He’d been waiting alone for a half hour. His palms were sweating. He needed to call his boss. The door opened and in walked Agent Horne, a thick manila file folder in his hand. The man sat down across the table from

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Jones and opened the file. He rifled through a few sheets of paper until he came to a specific report. “Jones, we have a witness who saw you come out of the Klasser home on the evening of September 10.” Omar had been gone a month. The tenth had been the night before he left on vacation. He’d arrived home late because he stopped to buy a few last-minute things for his trip to hike a section of the Appalachian Trail. A new sleeping bag and a rain poncho. “I got home late,” he said. He hadn’t seen anyone. This was all a horrible mistake. But he had to keep his wits and think straight. “What time did you get home?” Horne asked. “I don’t know. About eleven.” “Was anyone with you? Anyone see you?” “No. I live alone. But I bought some stuff at the mall.” “Then you have receipts,” Horne said. Panic set in. Jones hadn’t used a credit card or written a check; he had used cash. He’d thrown away the receipt that first night on the trail. He had grabbed a bite at a Burger King, but had used the drivethrough. It had been so long ago, no one would remember him. He’d killed some time watching kids playing football in a park in Red Oak, but he’d never gotten out of his car. No one had seen him there either. No one had called him on his cell phone and he hadn’t made any calls. He couldn’t prove where he’d been. “No, I paid cash,” Jones said. “I didn’t get home until almost midnight. I left before five the next morning. This is all a mistake. I love the Klassers like family!” The agent turned over a few more pages in the file. “Do you know Martin de la Cruz?” “Yes, he lives down the street.” “Mr. de la Cruz told us that he spoke to you at eight on the night of the tenth. That you talked for about five minutes right

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in front of the Klasser home. He saw you come out the side door of that house. Do you remember he asked what you were doing?” “No, it wasn’t me.” Horne ignored Omar’s denial. “And you told him you’d been arguing with Mr. Klasser over religion.” How could that be? He hadn’t seen Martin when he got home that night. He hadn’t seen anyone. Why was Martin lying? Why would he lie about anything? The man waited for an answer, then said, “Where were you born?” Suddenly everything became clear. Jones knew why he’d been arrested. On September 11 the whole world changed. When those planes flew into the towers, Omar Jones had been transformed from a naturalized citizen and college graduate with ten years in the workforce into an enemy of the state. It didn’t matter that he’d come to the United States at the age of sixteen months. It didn’t matter that he’d been adopted by Americans. It didn’t matter that he’d been raised as a Chris­tian or that he’d been an honors student and had a master’s degree. The only thing that mattered now was that he’d been born in Baghdad, in Iraq. On September 11 his Arab roots, his birthplace, had put a target squarely in the middle of his forehead. “Where were you born?” Horne asked again. Jones shook his head. “You know the answer.” “And you knew the Klassers were Jewish.” Jones nodded. “And that Albert Klasser worked for the Federal Aviation Administration.” With that final link, Omar felt as though he’d fallen into a hole so deep there was no light. Truth no longer mattered. He had been born to a Muslim woman. Even though he’d been adopted by Chris­tians, they saw him as a Muslim who lived next door to a Jewish man who worked for the agency that oversaw the aviation industry.

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One final question from the imposing agent removed all hope. “Jones, can you explain why your DNA and fingerprints were found at the crime scene?” Omar Jones stared at the floor. Being late for work no longer mattered. Nothing did. His life as an American was over. They believed he was a terrorist.