“I’d sure appreciate any help you can give me,” Kevin replied, wondering what Bud had been up to with Maria’s family, and if the Bureau had known about it. “It would be confidential. Obviously, you’re not going to be a witness in my case. I’m trying to locate a list of men fighting in a paramilitary unit called the Black Dragons in the war in Bosnia. I represent the commander of that unit. They called him Draga.”

Maria Jones’ eyes widened. “You represent Draga?”

“Yes. So, you know about him?”

Maria ignored the question. “Has he told you what he did during the war?”

“Well, no. That’s the problem. He isn’t cooperating in his defense. He loves to talk about American football and eat pizza, but he hasn’t told me a thing about his case.”

Maria nodded understandingly. She was silent for a while.

“What do you know about Draga?” Kevin asked, practically holding his breath.

“I was in the unit that coordinated intelligence information on Yugoslavia. I know a lot about Dragoljub Zaric.”

“Do you know where I could find a list of the Black Dragons under his command? There apparently were people in Bosnia going around committing war crimes pretending to be members of the Black Dragons. Those crimes are going to be hung around Draga’s neck unless I can prove they were committed by people not under his command.”

“So you really don’t know.” Maria put her hands together and brought them to her lips. She was obviously thinking of something, but Kevin couldn’t seem to get it out of her.

“What don’t I know?”

Maria looked down at the napkin in her hand. “This could get me in a lot of trouble, Mr. Anderson.”

Kevin was perplexed. He decided to remain silent and see what Maria Jones would do.

She wrung her hands. “Your client was the most significant operative the CIA had in Yugoslavia,” she said finally.

“What do you mean?”

“Draga worked for the CIA. He passed on the best intelligence information we had on the war and on President Milosevic.”

Kevin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How do you know that?”

“I read the reports of his handler, William Evans. That was my main job for three years at the CIA.”

“I’m speechless,” Kevin said after a long pause. “My client has never even hinted at such a thing.”

“The Agency probably promised to take care of him when his trial is over. They did the same to my husband and me. Then they gave him life and me twenty years.”

Kevin’s brain was working overtime to digest this new revelation. Then, reality set in. “I’ll never be able to prove it,” he said dejectedly.

“Yes, you will,” Maria said, looking Kevin directly in the eyes. “I kept copies of the reports.”

A shiver ran through Kevin’s body.

“My mother has them. She lives in Oakland.” Maria wrote her mother’s address on Bud’s napkin, along with a short note. “She’ll give you the papers. You might also want to talk to William Evans. He retired. I think he works for Hilton Hotels now, in security.”

Kevin thanked Maria profusely. His mind was racing as he drove directly to Oakland to see Maria’s mother. If what Maria told him was true – and he had no doubt that it was – how would this impact his defense of Draga? In passing vital information to the CIA, had Draga been working to prevent war crimes, not commit them? Could his first client as a defense lawyer really have been on the side of the good guys?

Kevin wondered why Draga hadn’t told him of the CIA connection. Was he willing to sit silently in prison for the rest of his life? Or had the CIA promised Draga his freedom, as Maria, who knew about these things, had strongly suggested?

As he drove on the freeway, Kevin suddenly wondered if he was being followed. The prison authorities could have notified the CIA of his visit to Maria Jones. They could have even bugged the conference room at the prison.

Kevin got off at the next exit. He checked his rearview mirror; three other cars were also exiting. He waited at the red light at the bottom of the exit ramp. When the light turned green, he continued straight ahead and re-entered the freeway. He looked to see if any of the other cars were doing the same maneuver. They were not.

Although he was still not sure if he was being followed, Kevin was anxious to see Maria’s mother as soon as possible. He wanted to get his hands on the reports before they disappeared like his graymail motion had vanished into thin air.

As he exited the freeway again and approached what he thought was the right street, Kevin decided to once again be cautious. He circled a few blocks, and then stopped to look at his map. He did not see anyone following him.

Maria said her parents had moved to Oakland from the East Coast after her imprisonment. Kevin could see they were living in a multi-ethnic, poor neighborhood of single-family homes. If the whites, blacks, and Hispanics ever started fighting each other in the United States like the Muslims, Serbs, and Croats had in Bosnia, this neighborhood would be ground zero.

Kevin passed the house. It was a white, wooden single-story house with a small lawn in front. There was an old Chevrolet Impala parked in the driveway. The house needed a paint job, but the lawn was immaculate and was landscaped with nicely kept bushes. Around the yard was a chain-link fence. In this neighborhood, by necessity, all the houses were well fortified with security bars on many windows and doors.

After circling the block and not seeing anyone following him, Kevin parked. He opened the chain-link gate and walked up a few steps to the front door. The screen door was closed, but the inside door was open.

“Hello,” he called, “is anybody home?”

There was no answer. Kevin called again. There was still no answer. A feeling of dread crept over Kevin. People did not leave their front doors open in this neighborhood. Had someone been here before him? He rang the bell. No one came to the door. Kevin thought about calling 911 on his cell phone, but decided to walk around to the back of the house. He slowly backed down the steps and followed the driveway alongside of the house. When he reached the back yard, he saw a woman tending to some plants.

She had apparently not heard his calls or the front doorbell.

“Excuse me,” Kevin said from the edge of the yard.

The woman looked up. She was a stout woman with a wide, pleasant face. She looked to be in her seventies, and her brown hair was neatly in place. When she saw Kevin, she put down her pruning shears and walked over to him.

Kevin did not wait for her to speak. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Kevin Anderson, a lawyer from Santa Rosa. I’ve just come from visiting your daughter, Maria, and she asked me to come here and give you this.” He pulled out the napkin and displayed it for the woman to see.

The woman looked surprised at the mention of her daughter. She took the napkin. “I need my glasses. Come on in.” She led Kevin into the house through the back door.

Kevin found himself in a small kitchen with a wooden table placed against the back window overlooking the yard. “Sit down. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“Oh, no thanks.”

“How about some tea, or milk? I’ve got some soda, or even some wine.”

“I’ll take a soda, thank you.”

Kevin looked around the kitchen. He saw the refrigerator, filled with photos held up by magnets. He had come to believe that you could tell a lot about a family by looking at what was posted on the refrigerator. From his seat at the table, Kevin saw pictures of a large Italian family, and several pictures of Maria in happier and younger days. He saw none of Maria’s husband.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” Kevin said as Maria’s mother came back to the table carrying a pair of eyeglasses and a glass of cola.

“Alice. Alice Mancini.”

“It’s nice to meet you. And thank you for welcoming me into your home.”