Directed Verdict (12 page)

Before she reached Ahmed, his burly sidekick barreled into Nikki with a force that sent her crashing against a wall. Nikki gasped as the air left her lungs, and she collapsed to the plush floor. Pain shot through her left shoulder, which had hit the wall first, bearing the main brunt of the brute who assaulted her. He stood over her now. Her world spun, and she blinked to fight back the converging blackness and stars.

Dazed but still conscious, Nikki realized she still held the envelope containing the suit papers. She threw the envelope across the floor so that it slid within inches of Ahmed’s feet.

“Congratulations,” she gasped. “You’ve been served.”

Ahmed sneered, his lips curled ever so slightly into an arrogant little smile, and the eyes sent an unmistakable message of their own. She had seen the same eyes before, the same pent-up fury, the same smoldering violence. It was the look of her own father, remembered across a decade of time, as if it were yesterday. It was the look she remembered from that split second in time before he would strike out at her mom . . .

“Get up,” the stocky man barked as he yanked Nikki to her feat. Mack Strobel was telling shell-shocked secretaries to call security.

“Get your hands off me,” Nikki shouted back. “You’re hurting me. Someone call the cops!”

But the man just twisted her arm tighter, and with pain shooting through her shoulder, Nikki stopped resisting. One gawking secretary found the presence of mind to get security on the phone and hand the receiver to Mack Strobel. With the envelope still lying unopened on the floor, and Mack Strobel preoccupied on the phone, Ahmed came over to Nikki and leaned so close to her that the hot stink of his breath brushed across her face.

“You will pay,” Ahmed said slowly and emphatically.

The words shot through Nikki’s rattled nervous system, putting her flight instincts on full alert. Yet her sense of bravado never betrayed her.

“Promises, promises,” she snapped back.

She stared hard at Ahmed, unblinking, until his friend yanked her back down the hallway and toward the lobby, ignoring her threats to sue the pants off him. He marched Nikki right past Bella, who was now sitting in a chair, wet paper towels plastered on her forehead, breathing fitfully. Nikki glanced sideways at her compatriot, who in turn acknowledged Nikki with an almost imperceptible nod of the head, then resumed her tortured performance as a heart attack victim and her loud complaining about how long it was taking the ambulance to arrive.

Ahmed Aberijan had been served.

13

A SPECIAL SENSE OF RELIEF
washes over the body of a law student as she puts down her pen at the end of semester exams. Sagging shoulders straighten, a smile replaces a furrowed brow, and a bounce in the step replaces the exam week shuffle.

For Leslie Connors, this invigorating relief was underscored by the anticipation of spending the evening with Brad. He had asked her to dinner, ostensibly to discuss her work on the
Reed
case. But Leslie believed—and hoped—that the real reason had more to do with personal motives. Leslie had not seen Brad since she started exams two weeks ago, and she did not look forward to spending the summer away from him in England, separated by the Atlantic Ocean rather than the Chesapeake Bay.

Leslie was nearly thirty years old and experiencing emotions from her schoolgirl days. She felt a bit guilty for craving his attention so much. Though her tidy life plan left no room for a relationship with Brad, her emotions suggested such a relationship was exactly what she needed.

Tonight she vowed to throw caution to the wind and enjoy herself. Brad had insisted she choose the restaurant. It was an easy choice. The most romantic restaurant around was The Trellis, a quaint and elegant throwback to another era in the heart of Colonial Williamsburg. The Trellis sat on prime real estate, fronting on Duke of Gloucester Street, strategically located in the middle of Williamsburg’s historic district.

Duke of Gloucester Street, or “Dog Street” in the parlance of the locals, was a passageway to a simpler time. The colonial architecture, the gravel road, the manicured lawns, the authentic historical costumes of the workers, and the exact replicas of the colonial buildings, all combined to make visitors a part of history. Any tension remaining from exams left Leslie’s body entirely as she strolled down Dog Street, killing time. It was the perfect setting for a promising night.

* * *

Like all drivers in Tidewater, Brad despised the bridges and tunnels that surrounded Norfolk and Virginia Beach. He hated them most when, like tonight, he was running late and heading north, because traveling in that direction meant crossing the Chesapeake Bay through the mother of all traffic jam generators: the Hampton Roads tunnel. The tunnel
never
backed up on those rare occasions when he was on time. But somehow, the desperation of his personal situation seemed to trigger the most gnarly jams. Tonight, with Brad running late, a stalled car performed the honors of backing up traffic for nearly a mile.

Inching his way along, Brad whipped out his cell phone and dialed.

“Strobel here.” The words blasted. Strobel was on his speakerphone, and the echo made him hard to understand and louder than life.

“Take me off the box,” Brad said.

“Who’s this?” Strobel bellowed. He had the tone of a man who was not used to taking orders from a stranger.

“It’s Brad Carson, returning your call, and I’m not going to talk to you if you don’t take me off that blasted speakerphone.”

“Bradley, thanks for calling back.” Strobel was still on the speakerphone. Brad simmered. Nobody called him Bradley. “Look, old boy, as you obviously know based on that cute little stunt your paralegal pulled, we’ve been hired to defend the
Reed
case, and I thought I owed you a courtesy call before we file the kinds of motions we’re preparing. You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here,” Brad responded. He had now put his cell phone on speaker mode and laid it in the seat next to him. Two could play this game.

“What types of motions are you talking about?”

“Say what?” Strobel shouted.

“I said, what kinds of motions are you going to file?” Brad said it slower and louder, emphasizing each word.

“Well, Bradley, I’ve been practicin’ law a long time, and you’re a good lawyer, but I’ve never seen a case more desperate than this one, except maybe some of those
pro se
cases filed by prisoners complaining about jail food. Unless I’m missing something, you don’t have squat. Am I out in left field here? Are you aware of some case law or authority I haven’t stumbled across?”

Strobel was obviously on a fishing expedition, trying to flush out Brad’s best arguments so he could address them in his opening brief. Brad was not about to bite that hook.

“You’re the expert on international law. You tell me.”

An audible sigh. Strained patience. “All right, Bradley, I will tell you. Your claims against Saudi Arabia are barred by the doctrine of sovereign immunity. In addition, the only witness you have to support your claim of torture is your own client. And her credibility is—how shall I say this?—shaky at best.” Strobel paused, apparently wanting the thinly veiled threat to sink in.

“Our only choice, under these circumstances, is to file a motion to dismiss and to also ask the court for Rule 11 sanctions against you and your firm for filing a frivolous claim. I don’t like filing such motions against my colleagues, Bradley. That’s why I’m calling. If you voluntarily dismiss the case by week’s end, we’ll forget the motion for sanctions. We all go home, on to the next case. Your choice, Bradley, what’s it gonna be?”

* * *

Mack stopped pacing and yakking long enough to listen. Only then did he realize that the sound on the other end of the phone line was a dial tone.

Mack had his answer. This case was about to get personal.

* * *

Leslie arrived ten minutes before seven o’clock and verified the reservation. By 7:15 there was still no sign of Brad. Leslie knew Brad typically began meetings and appointments by apologizing for being late. Tonight would be no exception.

As the minutes clicked by, she felt the magic of Dog Street waning. Leslie and Bill had eaten at The Trellis just once, a few months after the diagnosis. The evening was quite possibly the first since the disease became part of their lives that they spent the entire evening without mentioning it. Bill had resolved not to spoil a perfect date, and Leslie had followed his lead.

Now, as she sat here waiting for Brad, the memories of that night—the smells of fresh bread from the ovens, the sounds of laughing tourists, the sight of William and Mary undergrad just a few blocks away, the very feel of this area of Colonial Williamsburg—simply overpowered her. She felt a sudden need to be alone, to savor one more time the special relationship she had had with Bill, the one man who knew her completely—warts and all—and accepted her totally. She stood up to go home, pour herself a nice glass of wine, and unwind on the dock overlooking the Chickahominy.

She sighed and sat back down. All at once, tonight felt like such hard work, like it would be her job to impress Brad with an outgoing and fun-loving personality. She would have to guard against lapses in the conversation, against saying anything that might betray this building sense of depression eating at her. Why was it so hard to enjoy a night with someone she liked so much? Why did she suddenly feel so much pressure to make this work? And why, on tonight of all nights, was it so hard to get Bill out of her mind?

By 7:30, when Brad finally came jogging over from a nearby parking lot, Leslie’s anxiety was in full bloom. As he approached, she felt her pulse quicken, but she put on her poker face and did not smile, a little psychological punishment for being late.

“Hey, Leslie. Sorry I’m late,” Brad said, catching his breath. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

They faced each other awkwardly as Brad seemed to vacillate between a quick hug and shaking hands. Leslie stuck out her hand as further punishment, and Brad took the cue. She immediately felt silly. She decided to put him at ease. Her poker face disappeared, replaced by a bright smile. She followed the handshake with a quick hug. She congratulated herself on her studied act of spontaneity.

“Don’t worry about it. For the first time in weeks, I’ve got no deadlines.” She was keenly aware of her unenthusiastic tone and wondered if Brad noticed. “But I am starving. Let’s see if they’ve still got a table for us.”

“I really am sorry,” he repeated as they walked into the restaurant. Brad opened the door and placed a gentle hand on Leslie’s shoulder as she passed through. The spontaneous touch sent chills through Leslie’s entire body. The ghosts of Bill again. The gentle hand on the shoulder as she entered a restaurant, the soft spontaneous touch—these mannerisms belonged to Bill. Leslie had never realized how much she missed them, these little habits, until this moment.

“We should have something in about twenty minutes,” the maître d’ promised.

Brad leaned close to the man and whispered intently, as if the two were lifelong friends. Two minutes and twenty bucks later, the host seated Leslie and Brad at a remote window for two that overlooked Dog Street.

The conversation started slowly, weighed down by Leslie’s melancholy. But before long, her queasiness began to melt away in the face of Brad’s relentless determination to have a good time. He put his personality on overdrive. He had quips and stories galore, and he even managed to strike up a nice conversation with the waitress, whom Leslie suspected of trying to hit on her date. But that was one of the things she liked most about Brad—his ability and desire to put people at ease. To make them feel good about themselves.

Despite her formidable defenses, Leslie found the Carson charm working. The conversation flowed more easily through dinner, time disappeared, and suddenly the server asked if they wanted dessert. Brad allowed the flirting waitress to talk him into Death by Chocolate. Leslie passed.

Brad didn’t mention the
Reed
case until after his first bite of the life-threatening dessert.

“I talked to Mack Strobel today,” he said out of the blue.

“You know how to ruin a perfectly good meal.”

“He’s going to file Rule 11 sanctions against us.” Brad said it matter-of-factly, then took another bite of the rich, dark chocolate cake with chocolate icing and smothered in chocolate sauce. “Wants to give me another taste of jail food.”

“Speaking of which, how’s Nikki?”

“Bella didn’t call you?” Brad pushed the dessert toward her. Leslie started to push the plate back, then caught herself. She shook her head in answer to his question and sliced off a small piece with her fork. No telling what this one small bite would cost her—probably three pounds, directly to the hips. But it tasted great . . . actually, beyond great, though the guilt of the calories hit before she swallowed.

She pushed the plate back.

“Four hours in jail, and we pleaded her out on misdemeanor trespass. I did the whole thing over the phone. Six months’ probation—no time. I think the prosecutor actually thought it was funny.”

Leslie eyed the chocolate. It was disappearing fast.

“But then this assistant U.S. attorney gets involved,” Brad continued. “Angela Bennett—colder than ice—and threatens to file charges for assaulting a foreign dignitary.”

“What’d you do?”

“You mean after I peeled Nikki off the ceiling?”

Leslie grinned at the thought of Nikki’s reaction.

“Bennett was in our conference room, making these accusations face-to-face.” A smirk curled across Brad’s lips as he recalled the scene; then he chased the smirk away with another bite of chocolate. “So Nikki flashes her bruises, then stomps over to the phone and starts dialing a friend at a local television station. ‘Let’s just give the media a call,’ she says, ‘and let them know that this
foreign dignitary
beat me up, threatened me, and now you’re going to pile on by filing charges.’”

Brad smiled broadly. He held his fork up with another bite of dessert, as if toasting Nikki’s brilliance.

“Case dismissed,” he said, then devoured the forkful.

“Was she hurt?” Leslie asked.

“She’s pretty bruised, still threatening a lawsuit, but she’ll be fine. She said that jerk from Saudi Arabia threatened her, but Nikki doesn’t scare easy.”

“She’s got to be more careful.”

Brad suspended his fork in midair and seemed to ponder this offhand comment.

“No,” he said, looking serious. “The practice of law is the art of taking risks. You prepare and calculate the best you can, but at the end of the day, you just roll the dice, and your client’s entire life is changed by what comes up. You can’t be effective if you’re not comfortable with risk.”

Leslie thought about this as she watched Brad devour the remaining dessert. Risk was not her thing. Perhaps it was just Brad’s style, or perhaps he was right. She would force herself to take a few more risks. She would start now.

She picked up her fork, thought about the calories again, and set it back down. She wondered what risk-taking Nikki would do with this dessert.

And the thought of Nikki behind bars suddenly struck her as funny.

“Did you ever think about doing lawyer ads featuring you and Nikki in jail?” Leslie reached out her hands and grabbed the imaginary bars. “Carson & Associates, it takes one to spring one.”

“Very funny,” Brad said. But he couldn’t help smiling.

* * *

An hour later they walked in silence down Dog Street, enjoying the brisk night and basking in the tradition of Colonial Williamsburg. Brad had stopped his running commentary, sensing a comfort between them that did not need to be broken with makeshift conversation.

While they strolled, Brad quietly fought his own inner war. He had mixed business and pleasure before with disastrous results—including devastated feelings and a lost case. The pressures of litigation had ways of forging romances that never lasted under normal circumstances. He had long ago established a hard-and-fast rule that he would never again date a lawyer involved in one of his cases.

Besides, his lifestyle left little time for meaningful relationships. At times he regretted that fact. More often, he realized he was still not ready to trade the thrill of pursuing the big case for the mundane life of a suburban husband and dad. But tonight his heart told him he should allow himself a loophole for a romance with this beautiful law student, a loophole that seemed particularly compelling as he glanced at Leslie’s auburn hair shimmering in the soft moonlight. What made her even more beautiful, Brad decided, was that Leslie had no idea how pretty she was.