Directed Verdict (11 page)

Sarah looked at Nikki with hollow eyes. Nikki dropped the professional demeanor and lowered her voice again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Sarah pursed her lips, nodded her head slowly, and promised she would be fine.

* * *

After Nikki left, Sarah slouched over the kitchen table and stared at her coffee. She was suddenly so very tired, so very lonely. The man in the photos had reached out and delivered a gut punch that knocked the wind out of her, destroying all of her heroic efforts to put this behind her.

She needed, at this moment perhaps more than any other, to be held by Charles. She missed him so very much. She could not go to bed, because closing her eyes would simply bring back the face of Ahmed Aberijan. The flashbacks would overcome her: the shattering front door . . . the men hitting Charles . . . the blood pooling on the kitchen floor . . . the stench of the man’s sweat and breath as he manhandled her . . . the heinous laughs as they ripped off her clothes . . . the struggle . . . the blackness. The nightmares were always the same. The faces of the Muttawa, the bloodied face of Charles, his hand reaching for her but never quite connecting, then visions of the casket.

She gently whispered Charles’s name, while the tears dripped off her chin and onto the table.

* * *

Nikki called Bella on her cell phone as soon as she pulled out of the driveway. It was now after midnight.

“What?” Bella answered, always the charmer.

“I need you to come into the office right away. I’ll meet you there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Fat chance.” Bella slammed down the phone.

Nikki hit Redial.

“What?”

“Bella, don’t hang up; this is serious. It’s about the
Reed
case. A guy named Ahmed Aberijan is in town—” Suddenly Nikki was listening to a dial tone. She hit Redial again. She would have slapped Bella if they were in the same room.

Bella didn’t answer, but after five rings her answering machine kicked in. Nikki punched
1
to leave a message.

“Listen, you lazy slug. We have less than nine hours to prepare an amended complaint in the
Reed
case, file it, and have it served tomorrow on one of the jerks that tortured Sarah and killed her husband. I can’t get access to the documents I need because they’re on your hard drive. If I have to, I’ll go in alone and retype everything, even if it takes me all night. But, Bella, I could really use your help. I wouldn’t call you this late at night if I wasn’t desperate.”

When Nikki arrived at the office fifteen minutes later, Bella was already at her desk. One cigarette smoldered in the ashtray; a second hung from Bella’s lips. She looked worse than usual, and for a fraction of a second, Nikki felt sorry for her.

“What took you so long?” Bella asked.

12

AT SEVEN THE NEXT MORNING,
Nikki and Bella camped out in the Marriott lobby’s overstuffed chairs with strong coffee and the local paper. Every twenty minutes or so, Bella slipped outside for another cigarette. Nikki was grateful to see another desk clerk in Johnny’s place. She didn’t want to start the day by breaking his heart.

At ten minutes before nine, Ahmed came out of the elevators carrying his briefcase. Nikki and Bella watched Ahmed go straight out the front door of the hotel, then followed him across the street, where he disappeared into the rotating door of the twenty-story office building immodestly labeled One Commercial Place. They entered the lobby just as Ahmed elbowed his way onto an elevator that serviced floors eleven through twenty. As the elevator doors closed, Ahmed and the other grim-faced office workers stared straight ahead.

Once the Saudi disappeared, Bella headed straight to federal court to file the amended complaint and obtain a service-ready copy to be handed to Ahmed. In the meantime, Nikki hunkered down for a stakeout in the lobby. She determined from the directory that Mack Strobel’s office was on the twentieth floor. Though she couldn’t be positive, the bigger-than-life Strobel was an obvious choice from the many lawyers at Kilgore & Strobel to handle such a high-profile case. She called the commercial airlines, posing as Ahmed’s secretary, and determined that he was not flying commercial. With nothing left to do but wait, she bought a magazine from a small deli and studied the latest fashions, leaning against the wall but always keeping at least one eye on the elevator doors.

Less than an hour later, Bella returned with the necessary papers.

The two women would wait patiently for the chance to slap a $150 million lawsuit into the bloodstained hands of Ahmed Aberijan.

* * *

Twenty stories up, Mack Strobel suddenly felt cramped in his large corner office. Despite its spacious decor and expensive Persian rugs, it did not come close to being big enough or plush enough to comfortably handle the egos that now filled the room. Mack had suggested just talking over the phone, but Frederick Barnes wouldn’t hear of it. “The client wants to meet his lawyer face-to-face,” Barnes had insisted.

Mack strategically suggested they work at the small round conference table in one corner of his office, immediately under the expansive picture of Strobel’s alma mater, the Virginia Military Institute. He made the suggestion to Barnes, who translated the request to Ahmed, who nodded his assent.

As Mack warily took his seat, Barnes reached into his suit-coat pocket and pulled out a small plastic cylinder containing an expensive Cuban cigar. Barnes removed the cigar from its case, gently licked one end, and placed it in his mouth as he patted down his other pockets in an apparent search for a lighter.

Mack looked on in disgust. He would have let it slide if Barnes intended only to chew on the nasty thing. But Mack was a reformed smoker himself and considered it his mission in life to keep others from lighting up.

“The air breathers would appreciate it if you would refrain from smoking in here. That stuff’ll kill ya, you know.”

“I don’t inhale,” Barnes replied as he finally found his lighter and flicked it to life. “Besides, I didn’t think I’d get any flack from the firm that represents Phillip Morris.”

“If you don’t inhale it, we’ll have to,” Strobel growled.

Barnes ignored him and watched with detached satisfaction as the cigar’s sweet, putrid smell quickly engulfed the room.

Client or not, Barnes knew how to push all the wrong buttons. Mack pushed politeness aside. “Either put that thing out, or go find yourself another lawyer. If you represented Phillip Morris, you’d stop smoking too.”

Slowly and deliberately, cigar hanging out of one corner of his mouth, Barnes stood and walked nonchalantly to the office door, opened the door, still puffing on his stogie, and smiled at Strobel’s young assistant sitting at her desk.

“Got an ashtray?” Barnes asked.

“No, sir, but I can get one for you,” Mack heard his assistant say.

Barnes just nodded and leaned against the doorframe, his eyes following the woman as she raced off down the hallway. She returned with a clear glass ashtray and offered it gingerly. He took it, turned to face Mack again, and begrudgingly ground his stogie into the glass. Barnes closed the office door, then slowly returned to his seat at the table, chewing on the cigar, and smiling broadly at Strobel.

In that moment, Mack resolved to cut Barnes out of the loop at the first opportunity. He would earn Aberijan’s exclusive loyalty as the case progressed. Mack had seen it happen a thousand times; he could always earn the grudging respect of even the most hard-to-please clients. When he did, Barnes would become expendable, and Mack would set him up.

“You ought to try one,” Barnes said, eyeing the unlit stogie as he twirled it around in his fingers.

“Let’s get started,” Mack replied gruffly. “Mr. Aberijan didn’t call this meeting so we could discuss cigars.”

For the next two hours, the men talked legal fees and strategy. Despite the rocky start, Mack soon negotiated a premium hourly fee for himself and the host of other lawyers who would work the case. Four hundred dollars an hour for Mack. A new record. A new cash cow. There would be excited whispering over the phone lines and in the hallways as Mack’s legend grew. There would be joy at Kilgore & Strobel.

* * *

In the lobby, Nikki fretted. Ahmed had disappeared into the elevator more than two hours ago. She knew his luggage was still at the hotel, and she was pretty sure he would have to come back through this lobby on his way out, but still the possibilities kept bubbling up in her brain.

What if someone from Kilgore & Strobel had seen her and Bella hanging out in the lobby? What if Ahmed took the stairs and slipped out one of the stairwell doors? What if he took the elevator down to the loading dock in the basement, where a car was waiting for him? What if, somehow, he just avoided Nikki altogether and made it back to Saudi Arabia without getting served?

How could she ever explain it to Sarah if Ahmed got away?

For reasons Nikki could not yet put her finger on, she knew the case had now become personal. Something had snapped in her when she saw Sarah’s distressed reaction to Ahmed’s photo. She had to serve this man. He had to be brought to justice. He must pay for what he had done to Sarah and undoubtedly to hundreds of others like Sarah.

He would not get away with it again; not on her watch.

Two hours was too long. She explained her plan to Bella, who immediately shook her head in protest.

* * *

Twenty stories up the phone rang. Barnes watched Mack answer it in a huff. He enjoyed seeing lawyers flustered.

“I told you to hold my calls. You know I can’t be interrupted in this meeting.” Mack listened and frowned. “Okay, put her through.” Another long pause while he listened some more. His voice dropped, but not out of Barnes’s hearing. “Bring me a copy immediately. Thanks for the heads-up.”

He put down the phone and looked at Barnes.

“We’ve got some trouble here,” Mack said. “One of our paralegals just returned from federal court. It seems an amended complaint naming Mr. Aberijan as an individual defendant has been filed. The plaintiffs also requested process papers so that Mr. Aberijan can be served personally with the suit while he is on American soil. This is the very thing I was talking about earlier when I explained that Mr. Aberijan should stay out of the country from now on. We’ve got to get him back to his plane before the plaintiffs serve him.”

Barnes spoke to Ahmed in Arabic. Ahmed nodded his head and responded vigorously.

“He left some items at the hotel,” Barnes explained. “I can go pick those up if you can get him to the airport.”

“I’ll call a limo to meet us in the basement. We’ll be at the airport in twenty-five minutes.”

* * *

Nikki got off the elevator at the twentieth floor and stepped onto the thick Persian rug of the reception area. Lavish testaments to the prowess and wealth of the boys at Kilgore & Strobel surrounded her. Polished oak floors, mahogany trim, stylish antique furniture. Even the receptionist, barricaded behind a beautiful oak workstation sporting the firm’s gold logo, looked like she had just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine.

She flashed Nikki a blinding white smile and asked with sickening sweetness, “May I help you?”

Nikki returned a smile with her own lips closed—no sense trying to compete with those teeth. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. . . . um . . .” Nikki shook her head in frustration at her own stupidity. “I can’t believe I forgot his name. . . . I was just in his office a few weeks ago.”

The receptionist gave her a wary look.

“Oh, you know,” Nikki continued, “I’ve got his name in here somewhere.” She started opening up the manila envelope she was carrying. She read a few lines of one document. “Here it is . . . that’s right. The guy I originally came to see was a Mr. Strobel—” she pointed down a hallway toward her left—“but then he hooked me up with the guy whose office was right next to his, and I can’t remember his name . . .”

The receptionist checked some papers in front of her. “Actually, the office right next to Mr. Strobel is one of our female associates, Andrea Gates.”

Of all the luck—the Kilgore firm couldn’t have more than a couple female lawyers total, and one of them had to be next to Strobel.

“Are you sure—,” the receptionist began.

“Which side of his office?” Nikki interrupted. “His office is in a corner, right?”
That’s a safe bet.
She motioned to an area behind her, on the northwest corner of the building.
Where is Bella? What’s taking her so long? Can’t she even do a simple thing like—

“Right, but it’s this corner over here,” the receptionist said helpfully, motioning to the southeast corner. Nikki gave her a puzzled expression and an innocent shrug.

“Okay . . . right,” Nikki said, turning a half circle as if getting her bearings.

“And the guy next to him on the other hallway is Brett Aikens,” the receptionist said. “I’ll give him a call.”

Don’t bother,
Nikki wanted to say. Instead, she forced out a thanks. Still no Bella. She’d kill her later.

“Your name?”

“Oh.” The request caught Nikki off guard. She’d forgotten to plan an alias. In the pressure of the moment, she said the first thing that came to her mind. “Bella Harper.”

“Thanks.”

The receptionist called the lawyer, and to Nikki’s great relief, he was not in. But Nikki insisted on waiting for him to return. It was a very important meeting, Nikki said. So she took a seat in the reception area, checked her watch, and began silently cursing Bella.

Five minutes later, precisely seven minutes behind schedule, Bella stepped off the elevators. Nikki picked up the manila envelope lying next to her on the floor.

The receptionist was on the phone and lifted a finger, indicating to Bella that she would be right with her. Bella glanced over at Nikki, who glared back, jaw clenched, showing her displeasure with the timing. Bella responded with a quick roll of her own eyes and a little headshake that just made Nikki steam even more.

“May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

“Yes, I’m Bella Harper, and I’m here—”

Nikki nearly jumped out of the chair.
What kind of idiot gives her own name when she’s part of a scam and hasn’t even been asked her name?

The receptionist’s puzzled look lasted only a moment, for in the very next instant a bigger problem demanded her immediate attention.

Bella clutched her chest and groaned loudly. The eyes of the receptionist widened. Bella’s face turned red, and she began staggering, fighting for air. With a fitful gasp Bella collapsed in a heap on the floor, falling thunderously and gloriously on the Persian rug, then flopping on her side, still clutching at her chest.

The receptionist put a hand to her mouth, stifling a scream. She looked down at Bella and frantically dialed a number. “Are you all right? Are you all right?” she kept saying.

Nikki wanted to watch this drama play itself out, but that was not the plan. “I’ll go get help,” she called out and bolted for Strobel’s office.

She had taken no more than five or six steps down the long hall—a virtual gauntlet of secretaries at computer terminals and open workstations—when three men emerged from the corner office at the end. She recognized one of the men as Mack Strobel and one as Ahmed Aberijan. The third man she couldn’t place. They huddled outside the doorway momentarily, talking to each other, no more than eighty feet away.

Nikki fixed her gaze straight ahead and quickened her pace.

She was halfway down the corridor when Mack Strobel noticed her coming and took a step in her direction. The shorter man grabbed Ahmed’s arm and steered him down the perpendicular hallway, away from Nikki.

“Who are you?” Strobel demanded, walking toward her. Some secretaries stopped typing; others put a momentary freeze on their phone gossip; almost all of them glanced up. “What are you doing here?”

When she was just a few steps away, Nikki started speaking rapidly, motioning wildly with her hands to emphasize the urgency of her message.

“Dónde está la oficina de Señor Aiken?”
she blabbered. A puzzled look crossed Strobel’s face; they were now standing no more than two feet apart.
“No entiendes ni una palabra que he dicho verdad, tonto?”

Strobel gave her a blank stare, and the muscles in his face relaxed ever so slightly. “Anybody know Spanish?” he asked, glancing around.

Sensing her chance, Nikki exploded past him, shoving him slightly with her free hand, deftly sidestepping the startled lawyer. She broke into a sprint, quickly turning the corner.

“Stop her!” Strobel yelled.

The shout got the attention of Ahmed and his sidekick, who were still half a hallway ahead of Nikki, ready to turn a corner down another adjacent hallway. They both pivoted on their heels, a brief look of astonishment on their faces. Nikki locked eyes with Ahmed and ran straight toward him.