Thomas had filed objections, organized protests, testified at city council meetings. He'd stood in front of bulldozers with members of the Hopi and Navajo communities, holding signs and chanting, making sure every local news station had footageof indigenous people being forcibly removed from land their ancestors had inhabited for centuries.
It hadn't been enough. The project had moved forward anyway, approved by city officials who valued tax revenue over cultural preservation. And then, in one terrible day, the bulldozers had torn through the petroglyph site, destroying rock art that had stood for eight hundred years.
By the time he'd arrived at the site, the damage was done.
Ancient symbols ground to dust. Stories erased. Heritage obliterated in the name of progress.
He'd lost his composure that day. Standing in front of the destroyed petroglyphs, facing city council members and development company representatives who'd come to "assess the situation," Thomas had said things he probably shouldn't have said. Called them destroyers. Called them criminals. Told them that they had blood on their hands, that they'd answer for what they'd done to his people's heritage.
The local news had eaten it up, of course. "Radical Environmental Lawyer Threatens City Officials" had been one headline. His words, taken out of context and edited for maximum controversy, had made him look like a fanatic rather than someone rightfully outraged by cultural destruction.
Thomas's phone buzzed with a text. He glanced at it expecting to see Rebecca's name, but instead saw a message from his paralegal: Police are here asking for you. Two detectives. They said it's urgent.
Thomas frowned. Police? He hadn't been involved in any protests recently—the resort construction had actually halted after the petroglyph destruction, though he suspected that had more to do with investor nerves than any real concern for cultural preservation.
Maybe they wanted to interview him about threats he'd received. There had been several over the past few months—angry emails from people who thought he was blocking economic development, a few voicemails from individuals who'd made vaguely threatening statements about "radical environmentalists" needing to be stopped. Thomas had forwarded everything to the police but hadn't really expected them to follow up.
He texted back: I'll be right out.
Thomas saved the petition document, grabbed his coffee mug, and headed toward the reception area of his small law office. The space was modest: just him, a paralegal, and two part-time associates working mostly pro bono cases for indigenous clients. The walls were decorated with photographs of sacred sites, some still intact, others destroyed by development. A reminder of what they were fighting for.
Two men in suits waited in the reception area, their body language marking them clearly as law enforcement even without the badges they displayed as Thomas approached. One was older, maybe fifty-five, with graying hair and the kind of hard eyes that came from decades of police work. The other was younger, Hispanic, with a carefully neutral expression.
"Thomas Hatathli?" the older detective asked.
"That's me. How can I help you?"
"I'm Detective Marsh, Phoenix PD Homicide. This is Detective Rivera." The older man's voice was flat, just-the-facts. "We need to ask you some questions about your whereabouts on specific dates."
"Homicide?" Thomas felt his stomach drop. "What's this about?"
Detective Marsh pulled out a notebook. "Where were you on the evening of April 18th?"
Thomas thought back. April 18th had been... what, about two weeks ago? "I'd have to check my calendar. Probably here at the office, or at home. Why?"
"And April 25th?"
"Again, I'd need to check. What's going on?"
"Mr. Hatathli, I'm going to need you to come down to the station with us. We have some questions about your connection to Richard Garrison and Margaret Hoffman."
The names hit Thomas like ice water. Garrison—the primary investor in the Sunset Ridge Resort. Hoffman—the city planning official who'd rubber-stamped the development permits despite obvious cultural concerns. Thomas had confronted both of them publicly, had specifically called them out during protests and in legal filings.
"What happened to them?" Thomas asked, though part of him already knew the answer.
"They're dead. Murdered." Marsh stepped closer. "And we have evidence connecting you to both crime scenes."
"That's impossible." Thomas felt his heart hammering. "I never—I mean, I opposed the resort, yes, but I would never—" He stopped himself. The two detectives were watching him intently, no doubt waiting for him to say something incriminating. Better to shut up and let them do whatever they had come here to do.
"Mr. Hatathli," Marsh said, "I'm placing you under arrest for the murders of Richard Garrison and Margaret Hoffman." He pulled out a pair of handcuffs. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law..."
The Miranda warning continued, but Thomas barely heard it. His mind was reeling, trying to process what was happening. Arrested. For murder. This couldn't be real.
And even though he knew it was probably wisest to remain silent, Thomas found himself talking anyway.
"There's been a mistake," he said. "I didn't kill anyone. I'm a lawyer, I work within the system—"
"You have the right to an attorney," Marsh continued, ignoring Thomas's protests. "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."
