Directed Verdict (31 page)

Hanif looked around the room. Heads were nodding. Those who knew Rasheed seemed glad to see the rumors put to rest.

“I wish I could tell you more, but I may have already said too much. At the right time, not so long from now, you will understand completely. ‘Now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face.’ Until then, hold all these things in strictest confidence. Now let us pray.”

As Hanif closed his eyes to lead in prayer, he wondered if he had done the right thing. “Tell the truth and trust the people,” Rasheed once told him. But maybe there were some things better left unsaid.

* * *

Nikki’s peaceful Sunday morning faded a bit more with each click of the remote. Coverage of the trial was everywhere. Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline’s intemperate remarks at the close of court on Friday sent a shock wave of urgency into the public relations war. The Christian Right sensed another betrayal coming from the leftist and elitist judiciary. Conservative talk-show hosts and firebrand preachers took up the cause and filled the airwaves with dire predictions and sky-is-falling rhetoric.

In the other corner, the radical Muslim groups used Baker-Kline’s comments to paint the picture of a case built on evidence so flimsy that not even a judge biased against their cause would buy it. What a travesty, they suggested, if such a spurious case went to this prejudiced jury, who would then find against them based solely on Arab and Muslim stereotypes.

Nikki poured herself another Diet Coke, energized by the caffeine and the controversy.

The renewed intensity of the debate sparked threats of protests and civil disobedience from various antiestablishment groups. The leftist fringe groups, from hard-core environmentalists to libertarians, took the opportunity to rail against a corrupt American judicial system and to promise all sorts of trouble for the overworked police. The right-wing militias could not sit idly by as their counterparts on the left took up arms. The militias railed against the corrupt American judicial system and threatened to take matters into their own hands if the police couldn’t handle the nuts on the left.

National networks and cable news channels, loving the hailstorm of controversy, spent their time interviewing the most colorful and outspoken proponents of the various causes and reminding the public of upcoming special coverage. Even the president got into the act. He called for cool heads and peaceful protests and, together with the governor of the Commonwealth, ordered the Virginia National Guard to be on standby with full riot gear when the courtroom opened on Monday morning.

“I can hardly wait,” Nikki muttered and turned to MTV.

* * *

“I don’t know why you’re so stubborn about when Shelhorse is going to testify,” Leslie huffed, her arms folded in exasperation. Friday night seemed distant. The happy couple had morphed into two strong-willed, disagreeing attorneys by Sunday afternoon.

“I told you, we’ve got to finish strong,” Brad insisted. “We already have one dynamite rebuttal witness. If we save Shelhorse for rebuttal as well, then we’ll finish with a very strong one-two punch before the case goes to the jury.”

“We may not even get it to the jury if we don’t put on our best witnesses when we have the chance,” Nikki argued. “Shelhorse is strong. She may help turn Ichabod before it’s too late.”

Brad had cleared a path for pacing around his side of the large conference room table. He gnawed on his glasses.

“But if we put her on before Strobel’s case, before Strobel shows the videotaped testimony from those former church members, her testimony will lose its impact. If we wait, she’ll make it plain that Khartoum is a liar. Putting her on first will just cause Strobel to withdraw the testimony of Khartoum and not show the videotape.”

“He can’t do that,” Leslie said. “He’s already showed portions of those videotapes in his opening statement.”

“And you think that will stop him?” Brad asked, his voice rising.

They had debated this for thirty minutes, and Leslie sensed that any further argument would fall on deaf ears. She instead tried to convince Brad with stony silence, pursing her lips and pinning her eyes to the table. When all else failed—especially with a guy who’s nuts for you—pout.

Nikki joined her in this quiet conspiracy.

“Look,” Brad said finally, “I know you don’t agree with this strategy, and if Bella were here it would probably be three against one, but my gut tells me this is the way to go. We put Aberijan on the stand as a hostile witness for cross-examination on Monday. Then we put our police-brutality expert and our other docs and nurses on the stand Tuesday and Wednesday. We end our case with the kids on Thursday.

“Then we hunker down for Strobel’s case. He’ll play the videotapes and put about ten experts on the stand to contradict everything we’ve said. That will take two weeks. Then we call our rebuttal witnesses—including Shelhorse—and leave their compelling testimony ringing in the ears of the jury just before closing arguments. Do you really think that’s such a bad plan?”

“Yeah.” Nikki shrugged.

Leslie still had her arms folded and lips pursed. “Does it matter?” she asked sarcastically.

“Not really,” Brad said. “Let’s get busy.”

“You’re such a chauvinist.” Leslie could not let it go.

“Don’t give me that,” Brad said. “This has nothing to do with what sex you are; it has everything to do with who’s financing the case and who has twenty years of experience, and who’s ultimately responsible for calling the shots. I highly respect you and Nikki and your opinions. But on this one, I’ve got to go with my gut.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Leslie retorted. “This ‘go with your gut’ thing, this ‘make the tough call on your own’ mentality even if everybody else thinks it’s a bad idea—it’s all such a macho deal to you.”

To Brad’s credit he stood his ground in silence for a full minute as the women stared at him.

“I’ve got to make this call, and my gut tells me this is the way to go,” he said finally, almost to himself.

Leslie and Nikki looked at each other and shook their heads. “He’s a chauvinist,” they said in unison.

* * *

Bella had dreaded it all weekend. But she absolutely knew she needed to speak to Nikki. She had tried on Friday night, but the timing wasn’t right. Saturday and Sunday had been major workdays, and now it was already Sunday night.

Bella decided to have one more cigarette first, just to calm her nerves. She shuffled down to the kitchen, feeling more guilty than ever about her cigarette breaks. One more nail in her coffin, as Nikki would say. She was definitely going to quit. She was dead serious about it. Since becoming a Christian, she had started praying that God would take this habit away. If He didn’t do it by the end of the
Reed
case, then she would take matters into her own hands.

One way or the other, she was going to quit. Definitely.

She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, the very rhythm of it calming her down. She craved her smokes more than ever these days. Just knowing that she would soon quit had her thinking about it all the time. She sucked on the thin white stick again, a long and smooth breath, and sent smoke rings toward the ceiling.

How would Nikki react? Would she scream and cuss? faint? just stand there stunned?

Another drag, this time not as hard. She wanted to make this one last. Afterward, with no excuses, she would march straight into Nikki’s office and confront the matter. No sense rushing that moment.

Quicker than she would have liked, her cigarette was gone. She snuffed it out, thought about another, and talked herself out of it. She would come back after her talk with Nikki. She would certainly be entitled by then.

She walked slowly down the hallway, her head down. Against all of her rationalizations, she walked straight to Nikki’s office, defeating one by one each of the excuses her brain was throwing at her. The door was open, and she walked in.

To her great surprise, and even greater relief, the place was empty. Nikki had already left.

It must not be God’s will to do this,
Bella thought.
At least not tonight.

She had tried. God knew she had tried.

She sighed and headed back toward the kitchen. She covered the same ground more quickly this time, and her lighter was in her hand before she made it through the kitchen door.

33

MONDAY MORNING,
after a few hours of last-minute cramming, the trial team from Carson & Associates piled into Brad’s Jeep for the morning commute. Bella stayed behind to call witnesses and tend to other office matters. Leslie drove so that Brad could spend a few more minutes going over the planned cross-examination of Aberijan.

“You ready?” she asked.

“I don’t really know. You tell me at lunch whether I was ready. I ought to be done by then.”

“I expect him to break down on the stand and start crying, Perry Mason style,” Nikki said from the backseat. Brad immediately thought about Sarah’s performance as a witness, and an awkward silence followed.

The point appeared to be lost on Nikki. “Hey, can you turn that up?” she asked. The radio station was playing one of her favorites.

“Actually, could you turn that off for a few minutes?” Brad asked. “I need to go over this one more time, and it’s hard to concentrate.”

“Tomorrow, I drive my own car,” Nikki declared. “You can’t get ready for trial without tunes.”

Leslie killed the radio, and the crew drove on in relative silence. While Nikki hummed, Brad looked through the contents of his briefcase one more time, reviewing the tools of his cross-examination.

He glanced over the marked and indexed deposition transcript of Aberijan. If the man tried to deviate from the deposition in the slightest way, Brad was prepared to beat him up with the prior testimony. He double-checked the exhibits he would be using as well: medical records for Charles and Sarah Reed, the police report from that fateful night, and the court records of the former church members who testified against Sarah.

Brad’s briefcase nearly overflowed with weapons for cross-examination. Aberijan didn’t know it was coming. He would never guess Brad would call him to the stand as an adverse witness in the middle of the plaintiff’s case. Brad couldn’t wait to see the look on his face.

There was nothing Brad liked better than trial by ambush.

* * *

As Brad and his team walked around the corner and onto Granby Street, they got an up-close look at the chaos outside the federal courthouse. The huge block-and-mortar special, built during the public works projects of the Depression years, spanned the entire block. The sidewalk in front was cordoned off by police tape and a human wall of law enforcement officers and National Guardsmen, working valiantly to keep the sidewalk open for court personnel and others with official business.

Demonstrators pressed against the line of officers and spilled out into Granby Street, blocking traffic. As usual, the camps squared off against each other in the roadway.

As Brad walked toward the volcanic mass of humanity, he had a feeling that something didn’t seem quite right; something other than the magnitude of the crowd was different today. In the next instant, he realized what it was. For some reason, possibly having to do with who arrived first at the courthouse that morning, the demonstrators had switched sides. Today, the people who were sympathetic to Saudi Arabia and the various leftist causes stood between Brad’s team and the courthouse.

There would be no high fives this morning. Instead, Brad and the team would have to run the gauntlet of a hostile crowd.

Brad instinctively picked up the pace and moved in front of the women on the sidewalk. He pulled Sarah close to his right side. Nikki fell in step behind Brad, Leslie behind Sarah. Brad missed Bella.

“It’s Carson and Reed,” a cameraman yelled.

As if on cue, a wave of demonstrators pivoted in the team’s direction and hurled themselves forward in fits and surges. The police line held, their shields and arms forming a barrier for Brad and his team. Brad stared ahead and set a faster pace, concerned about the uncontrollable sea of wild-haired radicals, some with signs and others with that possessed look in their eyes, pressing in on the police officers. The crowd lunged again, and the officers hoisted riot shields and started pushing against the crowd, holding them back.

Who started what, Brad had no idea, but screams and the sound of breaking bottles filled the air. The mob panicked.

“Run!” Brad yelled.

He and the women sprinted for the courthouse steps. He reached out to grab Sarah’s arm and glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a protester with a leather vest and orange hair break through the police lines and grab Nikki. Brad turned and swung his briefcase with all his might, catching the demonstrator on the shoulder and neck, knocking him to the ground. Nikki’s blouse ripped, but she pulled free, kicked off her heels, and raced toward the steps.

The police instantly subdued the demonstrator, but by breaking ranks they allowed another wave onto the sidewalk. Bent on revenge, the angry group grabbed Brad and mauled him.

He landed on the ground with what seemed like two tons of humanity on top of him. Pain shot through his right knee and hip. He tried to catch himself, but his arm buckled and his elbow bounced on the hard surface. He tried swinging his arms and kicking his legs against this suffocating mass. A fist caught him in the right eye. He tried desperately to get up, but his arms and legs were pinned beneath the mass of bodies, the piles of beefy flesh on top of him.

He heard somebody yell “tear gas,” and he closed his eyes and held his breath. In the next moment, he felt the bodies rising off of him. He struggled free, squinting to see. A huge mountain of a man helped him to his feet. The man propped Brad up, wrapped a thick arm around his slender shoulders, and shielded the attorney as they walked toward the courthouse. Brad coughed and hacked, his eyes watering. He saw at least two bottles bounce off the man’s shoulder as they advanced together toward the steps.

The man opened the door and nearly threw Brad inside; then he followed and pulled the door shut behind him. Leslie and Sarah, who had each somehow avoided the clutches of the mob, embraced Brad. Nikki sat in the hallway in her stocking feet. She looked stunned. Brad’s benefactor and new friend helped her to her feet. He wore a federal marshal’s uniform. The man’s massive back muscles heaved as he caught his breath.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m great,” Nikki answered. She had apparently conquered her initial fear and now looked thirsty for revenge. Fire blazed in her eyes. “Let me borrow your piece, and I’ll go out there and calm things down.”

The man laughed deep and loud, then turned to look at Brad. “You okay?” he asked.

“I guess,” Brad said, letting out a huge sigh as he let go of Sarah and Leslie. He extended his sore right arm to shake the man’s hand.

“Clarence!” Brad suddenly exclaimed. He threw his arms open and gave Clarence a huge hug. “Where would I be without you, man?”

“I reckon you’d still be a human punching bag outside,” Clarence drawled. “Where’s that beefy secretary of yours when you really need her?”

Brad laughed—it felt good to laugh—and then he began taking stock. He had lost his briefcase in the struggle, and his arm ached where his elbow had hit the pavement. His ribs hurt, his right eye throbbed, and both eyes stung from the tear gas. He wondered if the right eye would bruise and make him look like a raccoon. His knee and hip, however, hurt the most. He noticed a small tear on the knee of his pants and a slight trickle of blood. He was beaten and bruised, but worse, he couldn’t remember landing a single good punch.

As the adrenaline began to wear off and pain surfaced in its place, the voices in the hallway became distant. Clarence and the others swirled around him. Nausea. Vertigo. Brad looked down at his trembling hands, tried to steady himself, and decided to find the men’s room. He staggered down the hallway, refusing assistance, one hand steadying him along the wall. He made it into one of the stalls, bent over the toilet, and hurled his breakfast.

A few minutes later, he heard the door open and the sound of heavy steps on the tile floor.

“The ladies sent me in to check on ya. How’re ya doin’?” Clarence asked.

“Never better,” Brad gasped between heaves.

* * *

Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline stared impassively at Brad Carson in her chambers as he recounted his ordeal.

“I need a one-day continuance, Your Honor. After what happened this morning, I just need a little time. Look,” he said as he showed the judge his ripped pants. “Plus they took my briefcase, which has my notes for my examination of the next witness.”

Baker-Kline removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She was suddenly weary.
This can’t be happening. What is it with this guy? Always the martyr.
She would have to tread carefully here.

“I’m sorry you were assaulted,” she began. Her face betrayed no emotion. “If you need medical help, let’s get you to the hospital.” She paused for a beat and sucked in a huge breath. “But if not, I’m not inclined to delay the trial. They’ll just be back in greater force tomorrow if they know they can disrupt these proceedings, and we’ve already got the jury here. We can’t let the protesters run our trial schedule.”

Brad Carson stared at his feet and shook his head.

She could feel the sympathy in the room. Even Strobel didn’t look happy. Silence descended on her chambers.

Leslie finally broke the quiet. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said incredulously. “This man almost got killed outside, the police had to use tear gas to control the mob, and you’re not going to give us one lousy day to get his notes back together?”

Just what I need. Brad Carson in a skirt.

“Don’t take this out on me, young lady,” Baker-Kline scolded, now standing behind her desk. “I’m sorry you went through a gauntlet out there, but maybe if the lawyers in this room would keep their mouths shut—” she realized her voice had crescendoed, and she stopped to catch her breath and soften her tone—“if they would not be so vitriolic when the media start asking questions, we wouldn’t have such a circus out there.”

“This is ridiculous,” Leslie muttered under her breath.

“Do you have something to say?” Baker-Kline shot back.

“Not to you.”

“Then you’d better keep your mouth shut, or you’ll be reading about this case from jail.” Judge Baker-Kline stared Leslie down for a moment as the words echoed in her chambers. Leslie stared back, refusing to divert her eyes and give Baker-Kline a psychological victory. Finally, the judge looked at Brad, released a huge sigh, and sat back down in her chair. She took a few deep breaths, and some of the tension seeped from the room.

“Look, I know this is not easy for anyone,” she said at last. “So here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll give you the morning off to get checked out and to get a change of clothes. We’ll reconvene at 1 p.m. I’ll keep the jury waiting in the jury room until then. I don’t want to send them out past that mob.” She paused and took a reading of the lawyers in the room. “Is that acceptable, Mr. Carson?”

“If we can’t get a full day’s continuance, then I’d rather start this morning,” Brad said stubbornly.

Baker-Kline snorted.
Whatever!
“All right then. Have it your way. Court will reconvene in fifteen minutes. Let the record reflect that I offered Mr. Carson a continuance until this afternoon and he refused.”

“And let the record reflect that I object,” Brad added.

The judge bolted up out of her chair and surveyed the room. “You are dismissed,” she said. She leaned forward, unsmiling and impassive, on her desk as Brad, Leslie, the court reporter, and Strobel filed out of her chambers.

It was not easy being a federal court judge. But even in chaotic times like this morning, some principles were intransigent, unchanging, and sure.

Justice delayed is justice denied,
she reminded herself as she slipped on her black robe and prepared to enter her fiefdom. Things in the street might border on anarchy, but in Courtroom No. 1, Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline maintained order with an iron fist.

* * *

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. When he heard his name called as the next witness, Ahmed Aberijan stood up tall and straight and absolutely sauntered to the witness stand. He proudly took his seat and glared at Brad with cold, dark eyes. A translator stood next to him.

“Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” the court clerk said. The translator spoke. Ahmed did not move his hand. He spoke back to the translator in Arabic.

“He cannot take the oath,” the translator said, “for religious reasons.”

Ichabod seemed irritated, but she had undoubtedly confronted this before. “Just ask him if he promises to tell the truth,” she instructed the translator. “Tell him it’s not an oath. But also tell him that if he does not tell the truth, he will be guilty of perjury and face a possible fine or jail time.”

After speaking to Ahmed, the translator turned back to Ichabod. “He understands,” he assured the judge. “And he wishes me to thank this court for not forcing an oath.”

Brad rolled his eyes and took his place behind the podium, shielding the small tear in his slacks. Nikki had told him there was a dark shadow forming around his right eye and suggested he turn a little more to the left so the jury would notice it. Brad ignored her advice and stood squarely facing Ahmed. He had no notes or papers at the podium with him. He felt vulnerable and exposed, nearly naked, the weapons of his cross-examination lost somewhere on Granby Street.

He began his questions more confidently than he felt. “We can dispense with the pretense that you don’t understand English, can’t we, Mr. Aberijan? Isn’t it true that you speak English very well?” Brad asked sharply.

The translator did his work and issued his reply. “This is not true. I do not understand more than a few words of your language.”

“Do you remember when you were personally served with this lawsuit by my paralegal, Ms. Moreno, at the law firm of Kilgore & Strobel?”

“Yes, I remember very well,” came back the translated reply.

“And isn’t it a fact, Mr. Aberijan, that you threatened her in English? that you said to her, after she served you with the suit papers: ‘You will pay’?”

After the translator finished, Ahmed looked perplexed. He gave a lengthy reply that the translator interpreted in segments.