Lucy Conlon may have been a mouse, but she was finding her inner reserves right now. She leaned forward with her finger in his face, every inch of her body shaking in anger. “I will not repeat myself again. My son was not a terrorist. If you say that he was, I will sue you and everyone you’re associated with. He’s never had any contact with that man who was arrested.” Fletcher ran his palm across his forehead. They’d been at it hammer and tongs for nearly twenty minutes now, and he was getting tired of the battle. “Ma’am, no one is saying he was a terrorist. But your son’s computer contains some rather disturbing information. You can’t deny he was working on some sort of manifesto. It’s all right here.” Fletcher tapped the lid of the laptop. “I told you. It’s not a manifesto, it’s a research paper. He was studying their lifestyle. He wanted to be an anthropologist.
