Directed Verdict (10 page)

11

THE MONDAY OF HER SECOND WEEK
at Carson & Associates, Nikki burned up the phone lines talking to friends. As usual, she closed her office door, both to keep Bella from prying into her personal business and as a buttress against the cigarette smoke that wafted in whenever Bella came within spitting distance.

The phone calls were, of course, done on company time. Nikki believed it critical, for a variety of business reasons, to stay plugged in to the paralegal rumor network.

“No way!” Nikki exclaimed. She wore a headset and spoke into a small mike hanging on an attached wire, freeing both hands to type an e-mail to another friend. “Who told you that?”

“I heard it from Jessica, that new paralegal at the Jones firm. She’s good friends with Marisa, who, as you know, has a thing going with a certain unnamed partner at Kilgore & Strobel.”

“You mean a certain unnamed partner with wavy dark hair, broad shoulders, two BMWs, and a cute little tush?”

“You didn’t hear that from me.”

“Hear what?” Nikki laughed.

Her friend cackled, then started off on another story of romance and intrigue. But this time Nikki wasn’t listening.

She was already formulating a plan.

* * *

By the time he finally touched down in Norfolk, Ahmed was irritable and exhausted. The flight from Riyadh to Norfolk took a full nine hours. Even on board the Saudi government’s luxury jet, he felt cornered and caged. At least he wasn’t flying with the unwashed masses on a cramped commercial airline.

The unimpressive size of the Norfolk airport surprised Ahmed. He found it hard to believe that the mighty government of Saudi Arabia was being forced to answer groundless legal allegations in a city like this.

The palpable decadence of the American people threatened to smother him. He could see it in the magazine and bookracks, in the billboards lining the concourse, in the spring dress of the women. In his country, women saved themselves for the pleasure of their husbands. Here the women seemed to strut, to advertise themselves, to dominate the men. Surely it was only a matter of time before Allah judged this pagan culture.

Ahmed would spend as little time here as possible. And he would hate every minute of it.

Tidewater was hot, but he could handle hot. The humidity, however, threatened to undo him. Though it was nearly ten in the evening in the first week in May, Ahmed’s short walk caused him to break a sweat. He enjoyed nothing about America. Except, perhaps, the ease with which he might successfully execute his plan.

* * *

At five minutes after ten, Nikki’s cell phone rang. The caller identified himself as Johnny, the desk clerk at the Marriott.

“He’s here,” Johnny whispered. “His name is Ahmed Aberijan, and he has checked in for just one night. As we discussed, I cannot give you his room number.”

“You’re a sweetheart,” Nikki said, also in hushed tones. “Did he sign the paperwork?”

“How ’bout that!” Johnny exclaimed. “It seems I forgot to have him sign the rate sheet.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Nikki hung up the phone and grinned at her luck.

Eighteen minutes later she entered the spacious lobby of the Marriott and glanced in Johnny’s direction. After she caught his eye, she crossed the lobby to the winding, open staircase on the other end that ascended to the second-floor restaurant and bar. She climbed the stairs and crouched behind the railing, where she could inconspicuously observe the first floor and the check-in desk. She winked at her new friend behind the desk, and he picked up the phone.

When Johnny finished his call, he gave her a thumbs-up. She crouched down, eyeballed the elevator, and waited.

A few minutes later, the elevator door opened, and Ahmed stepped out, heading straight for the front desk. Nikki watched an animated discussion between Ahmed and the clerk, voices raised, hands expressing frustration. Finally, Ahmed leaned over and signed the cards with a flourish, threw his pen down on the counter, and turned around. In one quick motion, he glanced around the enormous lobby and then up, looking straight in Nikki’s direction. She ducked, hugging her knees behind the railing.

Even as she held her breath, not daring to look, she realized how much she loved this element of risk and danger.

Ahmed would be out of range in a matter of seconds. If he saw her, she was history. If he didn’t, she must work quickly.

She exhaled quietly and raised her head just over the railing. He had leveled his gaze and was crossing the lobby. She raised herself up a few more inches. He kept walking, unaware of her.
There. Keep going. Don’t look up now, buddy.
A few more steps and he would be in the crosshairs.

She focused, aimed, squeezed her finger, and took three shots head-on.

* * *

Rasheed Berjein responded quickly to the secret knock. The special sequence and rhythm always made his heart beat faster. His mind raced with expectancy and with dread. It could be another visitor, any one of a number of people he had mustered the courage to tell about this worship service. Or it could be the Muttawa. They had infiltrated the church once. There was no guarantee they would not do so again.

Rasheed looked through the peephole.

To his great surprise, the eyes that greeted him belonged to his brother, Hanif. Rasheed had shared his faith with his family and mentioned these meetings, but so far they had responded with only scorn and ridicule. Still, he prayed for his family morning and night. And now this! With tears welling in his eyes, he flung open the door, threw his arms around Hanif’s neck, kissing each cheek, and invited him in.

As Rasheed introduced his brother, he thought about the phone call many months ago that had already meant so much to the struggling Christian churches of Riyadh. Hanif, a police officer for the city, had learned about the planned raid by the religious police. Though Hanif detested the church his brother attended, he was still family. Hanif reluctantly tipped off Rasheed, who in turn called Sarah. It was the only thing that kept the Muttawa from discovering records in the Reeds’ apartment exposing a whole network of churches. It was no stretch to say that Hanif had saved them.

And so, tonight, Rasheed wanted to return the favor. He wanted nothing more in life than to show his little brother a very different type of salvation.

* * *

The Berjeins’ living room boasted only sparse furniture—one old couch, a recliner, a rickety coffee table, and a wooden chair. Most guests sat on the floor. None noticed, or could even see, the small electronic listening device that Ahmed’s men had placed on the underside of the couch. Nor did they notice a similar device stuck to the bottom of the kitchen table. Nor the device embedded in the receiver of the phone. As soon as Ahmed received word of the lawsuit, he’d instructed his men to plant similar devices in all the homes of the former members of the Reeds’ small church.

Tonight’s service would be special not only because Rasheed’s brother was present, but also because the listening devices would transmit every word by shortwave radio to a nearby van where two of Ahmed’s men would join the worship. The church in Riyadh now had an unplanned media ministry, but there was no chance that the sinners in the van would think of repenting. Instead, they recorded the service on state-of-the-art digital equipment and smiled. Ahmed would be pleased.

* * *

On this night, with a family member present, Rasheed was more nervous than ever as he started preaching. His voice was hoarse and high, hardly recognizable in its nerve-induced tone.
It’s so hard to share these things with my own brother. He knows me too well—knows every character flaw and shortcoming I have. How can I have any credibility with him?

But as Rasheed talked, with the faithful church members spurring him on and muttering their
amen
s, he gained confidence and began focusing less on himself as the messenger and more on the message. He kept it simple and delivered it with a genuine sense of humility—one sinner to another, one blind beggar telling another blind beggar where to find bread.

Hanif responded immediately, with tears flooding his cheeks. Rasheed embraced him again with a huge bear hug of acceptance, making no effort to stem the tide of his own tears. Others formed a close circle around Hanif, reaching out to touch him as Hanif prayed a prayer of repentance and committed his life to Jesus Christ. By the time the last
amen
was uttered, there was not a dry eye in the place.

Rasheed felt like he was floating, and he couldn’t stop himself from slapping Hanif on the back and exclaiming, “Unbelievable,” over and over.
My brother! My own brother!
Rasheed thought, shaking his head. The entire group seemed caught up in the enthusiasm and soon broke into spontaneous praise songs. Nobody sang louder than Hanif, though he obviously didn’t know the tunes. The service lasted thirty minutes longer than normal, and even then, Rasheed had to practically force the people out the door.

Hanif was the last to go. As he stood in the doorway, Rasheed grabbed him by both shoulders, squeezed tight as if making sure that this whole scene was real, then looked him square in the eye. “I love you, Brother,” Rasheed said for the first time in his life.

The new convert glanced down at the floor. “Thanks,” he said softly, fighting back more tears. Then he kissed Rasheed on both cheeks, smiled broadly, and disappeared into the night.

The door had hardly closed before Rasheed dropped to his knees in grateful prayer.

* * *

The phone’s harsh ring woke Sarah. She sat straight up in bed and tried to focus on the clock. It was nearly 11 p.m. She picked up the receiver before the phone could ring again and wake the kids.

“Hello.”

“Sarah, this is Nikki Moreno, Brad’s new paralegal. We spoke on the phone last week. Brad’s out of town doing some depositions, and I’ve got something real important I need to discuss with you about your case. I can’t talk about it over the phone. Can you wait up for another half hour or so?”

Sarah was bewildered. She could tell Nikki was calling from a cell phone. She didn’t like the idea of this lady she had never met coming to her house in the middle of the night.

“Can’t this wait till tomorrow morning?”

“It really can’t, Sarah. When I explain it, you’ll understand. It’s like, you’ve got to trust me on this one. I promise I’ll be there before midnight, okay?”

After a long pause, Sarah agreed. She hung up the phone and headed to the kitchen to fix a pot of coffee. She wondered what she had gotten herself into.

* * *

Just before midnight, Nikki arrived at Sarah’s home in a quintessential Chesapeake suburb, located on a small postage-stamp lot on one of the hundred cul-de-sacs in this residential neighborhood. Standard-issue beige vinyl siding and blue and red trim lined the “Great Bridge Special,” so named because it had the same floor plan as a thousand other single-story ranch houses in the Great Bridge community. As she pulled into the driveway, Nikki reminded herself that she never wanted to live like this.

Sure, the houses here were a step up from the shacks in South Norfolk, where Nikki had spent her childhood. But inside the four walls, inside the
home
, the struggles would be the same—single parents, dysfunctional families, constant friction. As she walked from the driveway to the front stoop, Nikki found herself wondering how Sarah was really doing. Nikki knew how deceptive appearances could be.

Forbidden thoughts of her own childhood flooded forward, unleashed by subconscious forces beyond Nikki’s control. But as she knocked quietly, she banished those thoughts completely. That was behind her. Ancient history. She had overcome.

“Hi,” Sarah said, sticking out her hand and forcing a smile. She answered the door in some worn-looking pajamas, with a housecoat thrown over top. “Come on in.”

The two women settled in at the kitchen table and got right down to business. Nikki declined coffee. What she really needed was hard liquor, but Sarah said she didn’t even have beer.

“As you know, when we filed this case, we sued Saudi Arabia and nine John Does,” Nikki explained. “The John Does were named to represent those men who actually abused you and killed your husband. We didn’t name specific individuals because the U.S. courts would not have what lawyers call ‘personal jurisdiction’ over someone who had never actually been inside the United States. Under our Constitution, individuals can generally be served with a lawsuit only if they actually appear on U.S. soil. Does that make sense?”

“Not really,” Sarah admitted. She looked bewildered and only half-awake.

“Anyway, here’s the bottom line. I took some pictures tonight at the Marriott hotel in downtown Norfolk of a guy from Saudi Arabia who is here to meet with some lawyers. If you can identify him as one of your torturers, we can legally serve him with an amended complaint tomorrow while he’s still in this country. That way, even if the judge throws out the case against the nation of Saudi Arabia, we can still proceed against this guy and the other John Does.”

Nikki slapped the photos down on the table, proud of her handiwork. The zoom had worked nicely; you could see every wrinkle on the man’s leathery face. You could see the hatred in the bloodshot eyes, the wiry black beard, the broad nose, and the dark eyebrows.

“The clerk said his name is Ahmed Aberijan,” Nikki said. “Isn’t he the head of the Muttawa?”

Sarah picked up the photos, and her hands began to tremble. Tears started rolling down her cheeks. She made no effort to stop them.

“Are you all right?” Nikki asked.

The question seemed to jar Sarah back to reality. She nodded a yes and took a few deep, jagged breaths.

“He was the leader,” Sarah offered. “He’s the one who told his men to strip me and search me.” Her voice was hoarse with emotion, her gaze far away. “I’m sure he’s the one who ordered Charles killed. I can’t believe he has the audacity to come to this country as if it never happened.”

“Then he would be John Doe number one in the lawsuit,” Nikki said softly. She shifted in her seat, never taking her eyes off Sarah. “Here’s what I’m going to do,” Nikki said, as reassuringly as possible. “I’m going back to the office right now to rework this lawsuit. We will substitute Ahmed Aberijan for John Doe number one and file the amended complaint first thing in the morning. By noon, we will personally serve the amended complaint on Mr. Aberijan, and there will be no question as to whether he is subject to the jurisdiction of this court.”