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“The Florence ADMAX confines very bad people—and I mean really confines: Prisoners are not allowed contact with any other prisoners and are released from their one-man cells for exercise for one hour per day. They are allowed one-hour family visits every other month, provided, of course, their behavior has earned them that privilege.
“And by very bad people, I mean, for example, Robert Hannsen, the FBI agent who was caught spying for Russians, and—of special interest to you—both Omar Abdel-Rahman and Ramzi Yousef, the Islamic terrorists who bombed the World Trade Center in 1993. They are all going to spend the rest of their lives without the possibility of parole in the Florence ADMAX. Personally, I think all traitors and terrorists, or those who help them, should be executed, but the court showed those scumbags leniency. Perhaps they will, too, in your case.
“I wouldn’t bet on that, though, Tubby. You’re an Aggie. You were an Army officer. You knew better than to do what you did. I really can’t see a jury—especially a Texas jury—recommending clemency for you. Question?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Kenyon said, having mustered just a little more bravado.
“The next time he volunteers a mistruth, Yung, Taser him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tubby, you’re not actually going to deny, are you, that you sent $1,950,000 from accounts you probably thought no one knew you have in the Caledonian Bank and Trust Limited in the Cayman Islands to the Aari-Teg mosque in Easton, a religious group with known connections to Muslim terrorists?”
Kenyon’s skin paled. His eyes widened.
“Are you?” Castillo pursued.
Kenyon sat up abruptly and vomited on the floor.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Edgar Delchamps said, disgustedly.
“Go back to the bathroom, Tubby,” Castillo ordered. “Get some paper towels from the cabinet and clean up your mess.”
Kenyon raised his handcuffed wrists.
“I noticed,” Castillo said, as the vile smell spread. “So what? Hurry up. You’re stinking up my aircraft.”
Kenyon struggled to his feet from the low couch and walked to the rear of the fuselage.
“Looks like something stung Tubby on the ass, doesn’t it?” Delchamps asked.
The others laughed.
Kenyon came back down the aisle with paper towels in his hands, dropped to his knees, and started to mop up his vomitus. No one said a word.
Yung, a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, went aft and into the head, came out with an aerosol can of air freshener, then emptied it as he came forward in the cabin.
When Kenyon thought he had finished, he looked at Castillo, who shook his head.
“Clean, Tubby, means clean,” Castillo said.
It took Kenyon three more trips to the toilet for paper towels and a lot of scrubbing before Castillo nodded and said, “Sit down.”
“Okay, where were we before Tubby disgraced himself?” Castillo asked.
“I didn’t know those people in Philadelphia were terrorists,” Kenyon blurted.
“I didn’t say you could speak,” Castillo said. “The next time you speak without permission…”
He mimed shooting the Taser.
Kenyon recoiled as if Castillo’s finger were the real thing.
“Are you going to talk to us, Tubby? Or wait for the people waiting for you at Florence?” Castillo asked.
Kenyon remained silent.
“Your choice,” Castillo pursued. “What’s it going to be?”
