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Conor and I were transported, still handcuffed, to the FBI’s Phoenix office, then put in separate interrogation rooms. Velasco and her partner, Special Agent Danny Gleason, repeatedly questioned me over our failed rescue attempt. When I realized my explanation was getting me nowhere, I invoked my right to counsel.
By that time, the bitter coffee and stale vending machine snacks had their intended effect. My back teeth were floating when my attorney, Kirsten Pasternak, stepped into the interrogation room. Yellow-framed glasses on a chain. Gray silk jacket over a white blouse. She stood a good three inches taller than Agent Gleason. I’d met her at the transgender support group and had found her an invaluable, if expensive, resource.
“I represent Ms. Ballou and Mr. Doyle,” she told the
