“Cal, we’re seeing outrage at the behavior of the defendants in the Garden Island trial in Oslo, Norway.”

“Some. When defendants John and Paul Andersen were brought into court, their first move, once the handcuffs were removed, was to make what I can only describe as a white power salute, right arms out, fists clenched. A gesture intended to shock, but which was met with derision. Far more serious were details that emerged about the Oslo police, who failed to act on an eyewitness description of the suspects, along with the license plate of the vehicle they drove to Garden Island. That number was on a handwritten note that sat on the desk of Police Chief Tvist himself. Yet no one thought to look at the note. Not until after the massacre was over and the men were in custody.

“Meanwhile, we await clarification on two major points: The police are stating that the organization to which the men claim to belong, the Tactical Brigades of the Knights Templar, is simply a dog whistle to other white extremists, and does not exist beyond the imaginations of John and Paul Andersen. Given the demonstrable incompetence of the police, how far can we trust such a claim? And point two: These men tested and perfected a powerful fertilizer bomb. So where is the laboratory where the men produced that bomb? No mention of this rather significant hole in the investigation. You have to ask: Are the police even looking?”

I looked up, saw the clock tick down to zero.

“Thank you, Cal.” A click on the line and Carly’s voice became distant. “A brave man bearing witness at the trial of the presumed murderers of his daughter.”

I stepped out from the white tarpaulin walls of the studio. I joined the line for the scanners; I put my press accreditation around my neck, took off my belt and my shoes, put my laptop and phone in a gray plastic tray.

Tvist turned in his seat as I entered the courtroom. I smiled and nodded. Tvist smiled carefully in response, but I saw the scowl he tried to suppress. He had heard my radio piece, I guessed.

Elsa’s seat was empty. On it was a small envelope, with Cal Curtis written in fine cursive script. I looked about me. Tvist had turned away, but I felt eyes on me.

I looked up. The judges were entering.

I looked down at the envelope in my hands.

I looked up. Paul Andersen now, fitting a lump of chewing tobacco between his upper lip and his gum, all the while trying to lock his eyes onto mine.

I turned to the woman on my left. “Excuse me,” I said as I got up to leave.