Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales

“Singer skillfully loosens the strings and reweaves them into a tale that entertains, surprises, and challenges readers to rethink justice and mercy.”

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
ON
THE LAST PLEA BARGAIN

“Another solid, well-crafted novel from an increasingly popular writer. . . . Its nonfiction origins lend the book an air of reality that totally made-up stories sometimes lack.”

BOOKLIST
ON
THE LAST PLEA BARGAIN
(STARRED REVIEW)

“
The Last Plea Bargain
is a superbly written book, hard to put down, and easy to pick back up.”

THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT

“Singer’s superbly researched plot charges out of the starting gate on page one and doesn’t rest until literally the last page.”

CROSSWALK.COM
ON
THE LAST PLEA BARGAIN

“If you’re looking for a mystery full of rich details and realistic scenarios, you will enjoy Singer’s latest. It is easy to see why Singer reigns with Christian legal thrillers. You’ll be guessing till the end.”

ROMANTIC TIMES
ON
THE LAST PLEA BARGAIN

“Intricately plotted,
Fatal Convictions
is . . . an exciting legal thriller with international overtones. In addition to the action and rich cultural information, realistic characters carry the action to its exciting conclusion.”

FAITHFULREADER.COM

“Singer’s legal knowledge is well matched by his stellar storytelling. Again, he brings us to the brink and lets us hang before skillfully pulling us back.”

ROMANTIC TIMES
ON
FATAL CONVICTIONS

“Get ready to wrestle with larger themes of truth, justice, and courage. Between the legal tension in the courtroom scenes and the emotional tension between the characters, readers will be riveted to the final few chapters.”

CROSSWALK.COM
ON
FATAL CONVICTIONS

“Great suspense; gritty, believable action . . . make [
False Witness
] Singer’s best yet.”

BOOKLIST
(STARRED REVIEW)

“A book that will entertain readers and make them think—what more can one ask?”

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
ON
THE JUSTICE GAME

“Singer artfully crafts a novel that is the perfect mix of faith and suspense. . . . [
The Justice Game
is] fast-paced from the start to the surprising conclusion.”

ROMANTIC TIMES

“At the center of the heart-pounding action are the moral dilemmas that have become Singer’s stock-in-trade. . . . An exciting thriller.”

BOOKLIST
ON
BY REASON OF INSANITY

“Singer hooks readers from the opening courtroom scene of this tasty thriller, then spurs them through a fast trot across a story line that just keeps delivering.”

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
ON
BY REASON OF INSANITY

“[A] legal thriller that matches up easily with the best of Grisham.”

CHRISTIAN FICTION REVIEW
ON
IRREPARABLE HARM

“
Directed Verdict
is a well-crafted courtroom drama with strong characters, surprising twists, and a compelling theme.”

RANDY ALCORN,
BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF
SAFELY HOME

Visit Tyndale online at
www.tyndale.com
.

Visit Randy Singer’s website at
www.randysinger.net
.

TYNDALE
and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales

Copyright © 2013 by Randy Singer. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph copyright © David Oliver/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

Designed by Dean H. Renninger

The author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, Colorado, 80920.
www.alivecommunications.com
.

Luke 19:10, quoted in chapter 2, is taken from the Holy Bible,
New International Version
,
®
NIV.
®
Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.
™
Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

John 15:13, quoted in the epilogue, and 2 Corinthians 5:17, quoted in the acknowledgments, are taken from the Holy Bible,
New International Version
,
®
NIV.
®
Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.
™
Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales
is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Singer, Randy (Randy D.)

Dead lawyers tell no tales / Randy Singer.

pages cm

ISBN 978-1-4143-8675-1 (hc) — ISBN 978-1-4143-7558-8 (sc)

1.  Ex-convicts—Fiction. 2.  Lawyers—Crimes against—Fiction. 3.  Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4.  Christian fiction. 5.  Legal stories.  I. Title.

PS3619.I5725D34 2013

813'.6—dc23 2013001140

ISBN 978-1-4143-8581-5 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8384-2 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8582-2 (Apple)

In writing this book, I was reminded how fortunate I was to have great mentors in my legal career. I’ve dedicated this book to them: Palmer Rutherford Jr., Conrad Shumadine, John Pearson Jr., and Bruce Bishop.

I hope someday to be a lawyer worthy of your investment.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

THE SCREAMS WOULDN’T STOP.

They were ear-piercing, pathetic cries for help. Pleading. Begging. The voice belonged to Fatinah Najar, the woman he loved. Once a beautiful and enchanting voice, it was now distorted by pain and fear, pleading rapidly in Arabic, denying that she knew anything her interrogators were asking about. She was in the next cell over, another dark, mildew-covered hellhole just like his, smelling of feces and vomit. They had set it up so he could hear everything.

The Syrian guards questioned her in low growls.

“Do you work for the American CIA?”

“You are in love with Mr. Phoenix, no?”

“What have you told him?”

There was a sinister rhythm to their interrogation techniques. Sean
heard them ask questions, then make accusations, their voices calm and deliberate, letting Fatinah know emotions were not part of the equation. Her denials were breathless, racked by sobs. She begged them to believe her. This would go on for half an hour, maybe more—accusations and denials. The calm voices promising her that if she just told the truth, it would all end.

But she never did. She stayed strong. Loyal.

Eventually new voices were added to the mix, loud and threatening. They cursed at Fatinah and described what was coming next, their words crescendoing into angry shouts.

Then the voices would drop again in resignation. “We can’t help you if you don’t tell the truth.”

That’s when the man in Sean’s cell, a giant Syrian military officer with an unkempt black beard, his body covered with hair, would snuff out his cigarette and remove Sean’s gag. Sean’s legs were spread, his ankle irons bolted to the floor. His arms were stretched wide and his wrists shackled to the wall so that his entire body formed an X.

His arms had long ago gone numb. But the guards hadn’t yet laid a finger on
him
. He was an American. A suspected CIA operative, to be sure, but an American nonetheless. And he knew that at this very moment the State Department was quietly negotiating his release. Its success would depend, in no small part, on whether he and Fatinah could maintain their composure and not give the Syrians anything to work with. He hoped against hope that the State Department would negotiate Fatinah’s release as well, although that part was complicated. Either way, they wouldn’t stand a chance if Fatinah admitted anything.

He reminded himself of this in the most anguishing moments of all, the silence that engulfed both cells as his captor extinguished his cigarette and stood to untie the gag.

He got right in Sean’s face, his breath nastier than the ambient stench of the cell, and he quietly demanded information. He had a tape recorder and made no effort to hide it.

“Do you want to know what happens to your girlfriend next?” he
asked. His voice was casual and conversational, as if the matter was of small importance.

“She hasn’t done anything. She doesn’t know anything. Let her go. Keep me.”

The Syrian grunted. “Ah, you Americans. So noble. So heroic.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “But so unable to keep your hands off our women.”

It was Sean’s fault that Fatinah was enduring this torture. He had befriended her, then recruited her, and ultimately he had fallen in love with her. She now worked with Sean and the CIA. She had used her charm and beauty to extract confidences from one of Syria’s most powerful leaders. Her name, in Arabic, meant “captivating, a restless intensity that defies relaxation.” She had proven to be that and much more to the Syrian general, a man who liked to boast about his exploits to a lover he was desperate to impress. But when he caught this same woman with Sean, the gig was up, and lust turned into rage.

Now the rage had turned into a psychological experiment. How could Sean and Fatinah be broken? How could they be made to talk?

“Your lover is feisty; she likes to fight back. But we bring in fresh men every time,” Sean’s captor said. He smirked as he talked, finding a perverse enjoyment in the pain he read on Sean’s face. “And you have such power, my American friend. You can stop all this—all these things I must describe to you in detail so you will know what is coming next. You are the one man in all the world—” he made a broad, sweeping motion with his hand, a little faux drama as he toyed with Sean—“who could stop this poor creature from suffering more.”

He placed both hands on the wall behind Sean and leaned in toward his captive. “Do you work for the American Central Intelligence Agency?”

Sean shook his head.

“Do you love the woman in the cell next door?”

“I’ve told you. We’re in love. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Has she shared any secrets?”

“We all have secrets.”

“Clever. But you know what I mean.” The big man took a step back, sighed, and then began describing, in exquisite detail, the abuse and torture that would happen to Fatinah next. Sean closed his eyes and tried to shut out the images being implanted in his brain.

When the Syrian was done painting his brutal picture, he gave Sean a few more minutes to think it over. Sean took advantage of the opportunity to shout encouragement to Fatinah.

Shaking his head, the Syrian stuffed the gag into Sean’s mouth and taped it back in place.

When Sean’s shouts could no longer be heard, the Syrian spoke to the men in the next cell. “Mr. Phoenix claims to know nothing,” he shouted. “He says we should ask Fatinah instead. He says we should do whatever we want with her.”

The man sat down and lit up another cigarette. A few minutes later, the piercing screams began again.

///

The interrogation continued for two days before Sean Phoenix was released. Unharmed. Untouched. His national security secrets still safe.

He was debriefed at the U.S. embassy, where he learned that the State Department had disavowed any knowledge of Fatinah Najar and her relationship with Sean. They had not tried to negotiate her asylum or pressure Syria into releasing her. The only issue they had addressed with Syria, in the strongest possible terms, was their desired release of an innocent American businessman named Sean Phoenix. He was not a spy, according to the State Department. And falling in love with a Syrian woman was not an international crime.

The strategy had been determined at the highest levels. The director of the CIA had personally instructed the American negotiating team to admit nothing. He was confident that Sean and Fatinah would not crack. The director’s right-hand man, a lawyer and bureaucrat who had
never put his own life in harm’s way, had convinced his boss that trying to negotiate Fatinah’s release would be tantamount to admitting she was a spy. It would create an embarrassing international incident. Sometimes you had to sacrifice one for the good of all.

After his debriefing, Sean returned to his flat in downtown Damascus. He had been told to pack his belongings for a flight back to the U.S. the following day. Instead, he put together a battle plan. The Syrians had confiscated his guns and ammunition when they had captured him, so he would have to buy new weapons on the streets of Damascus. He wasn’t an explosives expert, but he knew how to make crude bombs out of fertilizer. In the wee hours of the morning, he would launch his one-man attack on the prison. He knew his odds of success were infinitesimal, but he would rather die trying to free Fatinah than live with the knowledge that he had done nothing.

At midnight, three agents burst into his flat and told Sean that his flight had been moved up. There was a loud argument, followed by a fight. They carried him out unconscious. He woke up on an airplane headed to Germany.

///

Within thirty minutes of setting foot on American soil, Sean was meeting with the CIA director personally. The man called Sean a hero and talked about the sacrifices that had to be made so that the rule of law could prevail. He regretted that he couldn’t award Sean a medal, but he knew Sean would understand. Anonymity was part of the bargain. He was sorry they hadn’t been able to do more for Fatinah. She had not made it out alive.

The director talked about giving Sean some time off and a new assignment at higher pay. But Sean turned in his credentials. He walked out of the director’s office and made a list of every person, both Syrian and American, who had played a role in Fatinah’s death. He vowed to cross those names off the list, one at a time, as he exacted his revenge.

Sean was tired of hearing about the rule of law and the cost of freedom. He was sick of pompous men who lived and worked in luxurious
surroundings spouting off about high-minded concepts that would cost them nothing.

Patriotism. Democracy. Freedom. They were all ploys to get men like Sean to do the bidding of those in power. And when the power brokers had their backs to the wall, people like Sean and Fatinah became expendable. Assets to be written off. Another casualty or two. Another exercise in damage control.

Sean Phoenix was done with it. There had to be a better way.