Quake (2 page)

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Nick said as he paced the length of the jury box, “you will be burdened with an extraordinary responsibility in the days and weeks to come. As you well know, the man sitting with his attorneys at the far table is no ordinary defendant. He stands before this court charged in connection with one of the most heinous and cowardly acts in human history. The defendant in this case is charged with mass murder; mass murder and
conspiracy
to murder thousands of American citizens, right here, on our front doorstep. In
our
city. The defendant stands before this court to face responsibility for his role in the September 11, 2001, attacks on our nation. And it will be your awesome responsibility at the conclusion of this trial to bring justice to this man for the nearly three thousand souls lost at the World Trade Center here in New York City, at the Pentagon in our nation's capital, and in a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, where a group of courageous American passengers, not so unlike yourselves, perished in a horrific plane crash while attempting to overcome their armed hijackers in order to save not only their own lives but the lives of countless others below.”

Within minutes of beginning his opening statement, Nick had settled into a rhythm. He had practiced this opening in front of a mirror in his home on the Upper West Side more times than he could possibly remember. Because he knew he'd need to keep his emotions under control. He wanted to speak to this jury with passion and zeal, but not with the all-consuming grief of a widower who had lost his wife and the mother of his only child. He needed to speak to this jury first as a representative for his country, and second as a New Yorker. The jury needed to know that what was at stake for him was at stake for each of them, and all American citizens and their allies around the world.

As the first hour passed, Nick went on to describe in vivid detail the physical and circumstantial evidence against Feroz Saeed Alivi—recorded messages, intercepted letters and e-mails, photographs, and lengthy confessions. He reminded these twelve men and women what they needed no reminder of—the horror and devastation caused by the attacks twelve years ago on a beautiful September morning, much like this one. He spoke of the aftermath, of the toll on survivors, and this he could describe all too well, because it seemed as though he could recall every moment of his own pain and suffering, every word uttered by his then five-year-old daughter, Lauren, who was trying so hard to understand why she would never again see her mother, and why anyone in the world would have wanted to take her mother away from them.

Nick talked about the years of training and planning that went into the September 11 attacks. The acts the defendant engaged in were cold-blooded and premeditated, the plans worked and
re
worked to cause maximum pain and suffering to the United States of America and her citizens. Nick touched briefly on the subsequent wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and assured the seven men and five women of the jury that while their Al-Qaeda enemies were decimated and on the run, the threat they posed to New York and all American cities remained very real.

In the second hour, Nick spoke of the witnesses who would present testimony against the defendant in the days and weeks to follow. Investigators from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Central Intelligence Agency, and yes, even a few of New York's Finest would take the stand.

Throughout his opening, despite what the legal pundits had repeatedly said, Nick never once allowed himself to feel as though all of this was unnecessary, and that any third-year law student could try and convict a defendant like Feroz Saeed Alivi. Nick understood the importance of this trial to human history, and its psychological impact not only on himself and Lauren, but on everyone who had been touched by the events of September 11, 2001. And yes, Nick had an agenda that went well past a conviction on all counts contained in the book-length indictment. Nick wanted—no, he
needed
—for Feroz Saeed Alivi to die at the hands of the United States government. Nick was under no illusion; for the first time in his career, he wanted blood. He wanted to witness firsthand Feroz Saeed Alivi's ultimate demise by lethal injection.

Throughout his adult life, Nick had struggled with his feelings about the death penalty. Given the opportunity, he could passionately argue either side. But in the past twelve months, since Alivi's capture in Yemen and Nick's appointment as lead counsel, Nick had read and heard and observed evidence that left no doubt in his mind that capital punishment was right and just under certain circumstances. And this case certainly qualified. Not only because of the carnage Alivi and his cohorts inflicted on this country more than a decade ago, but because he was unrepentant, and because he continued, even after his capture, to make threats against American citizens and their allies and interests around the globe. And yes, because some of those threats had been directed specifically at Nick himself, in his capacity as a federal prosecutor. And because those threats hadn't been limited to him, but included the only person he had left on this earth. Threats that had included his seventeen-year-old daughter, Lauren.

For the past year, Nick had lived in a constant state of terror. It had started with anonymous letters in his home mailbox and was followed by e-mails from self-proclaimed jihadists. After a few weeks, Nick's office phone began ringing. Weeks later, his home phone. After Nick had his number changed, his cell phone was compromised. And then his daughter's. That's when Nick got angry. Livid. That's when Nick first demanded a face-to-face meeting with Feroz Saeed Alivi.

“Not going to happen,” Kermit Jansing told him one day over the phone.

In a barely controlled rage, Nick shouted, “You tell your client to lay the hell off my family, or I'll . . .”

“Or you'll what?”

Nick finally realized how helpless he was. Alivi, though behind bars, was provided more protection than any other inmate in the history of the United States. Alivi couldn't communicate with the outside world except through his lawyers. So he couldn't be pulling the strings; he couldn't be threatening Nick and his daughter through his associates in the United States and abroad. Or could he? Was Kermit Jansing—wittingly or unwittingly—carrying coded messages on behalf of his client? There was no way to know. The attorney-client privilege rigidly protected all communications exchanged between the two men. For a while Nick began to wonder whether bringing Feroz Saeed Alivi to trial in New York City had been the right call by the U.S. attorney general after all.

But no, as time went on, Nick refused to be intimidated. When his boss, U.S. Attorney Preet Bharara offered to replace Nick on the case, Nick flew into a frenzy. This was
his
case,
his
conviction. And he wouldn't be frightened off.

During the summer months, as the threats became greater and more specific, Nick finally accepted protection from the FBI and New York Police Department. “Don't watch me,” he told the special agent in charge of his family's safety, “watch Lauren. Make sure she's protected at all times, day and night.”

If anything happens to Lauren,
he'd thought grimly,
I won't be able to go on.

But nothing happened. Alivi's people, it turned out, were all bark and bluster. And now the long run-up to the trial was finally over. Here he was, standing in a lavish courtroom at 500 Pearl, delivering his opening remarks to the jury that would ultimately convict this world-infamous terrorist who had played a major role in the attacks that had torn apart Nick's family.

As the morning wore on, AUSA Nick Dykstra grew more confident and more relaxed. He hadn't just settled into his rhythm; he was in a zone. The twelve men and women sitting before him were captivated. At various points in his opening, one or more jurors even had tears in her eyes.

“And so,” Nick said, “at the conclusion of this case, I'll return to this rail, and having fulfilled each and every promise I made to you this morning during my opening, I will ask you to once and for all consign this madman to the dustbin of history. After you have seen all the evidence and heard all the testimony, I will return to you in my summation and ask—”

The softest rumble seemed to emanate from the walls. The sound echoed throughout the gallery, rose until it ricocheted off the sides of the vaulted ceiling. The chandeliers overhead shook briefly, their jingle like a wind chime before a storm.

During the vibration, Nick turned to look at Wendy, whose eyes had gone wide with fright. When nothing more happened, her face slowly returned to normal and he looked back at the juy, expressionless.

Nick was at a pivotal point in his opening and he was afraid to lose his rhythm so he began his last sentence from the top.

“After you have seen all the evidence and heard all the testimony, I will return to you in my summation and ask you to go into your deliberations with—”

The floor beneath Nick's feet shifted ever so slightly. It felt as though a pair of mice had skittered under the soles of his shoes.

After a momentary hesitation, he continued. “After you have seen all the evidence and heard all the testimony, I will return to you in my summation and ask you to go into your deliberations with
one
image at the forefront of your minds—”

Then it happened.

This time there was no mistaking it.

Abruptly, the entire courtroom began to shake.

While Assistant U.S. Attorney Nick Dykstra delivered his opening statement in the trial against Feroz Saeed Alivi, Nick's teenage daughter, Lauren, walked the grounds of Columbia University's campus at 116th and Broadway. A freshly minted senior at York Prep, a private preparatory school near Lincoln Center, Lauren—like most high school seniors, she'd been assured by her guidance counselor—was torn between going away to college and staying near home. Of course, she wanted the “full college experience” that most teens dreamed of, and with her grades and SAT scores, she had her choice of Ivy League schools. In addition to Columbia, she'd already applied and been accepted to Yale, Harvard, Brown, Smith, Princeton, and Stanford, as well as a half-dozen safety schools. All other things being equal (yeah, when does
that
ever happen?) Lauren would have accepted Stanford's offer of a nearly full ride in a hummingbird's heartbeat. Attending a top tier college less than an hour's drive from San Francisco would have made her life complete.
Almost
.

But Lauren had someone else to consider. Sure, she wasn't the only high school senior with a single parent. Her friend Madison just had her mom. So did Eileen and Kerry and Justin and Connor. None of their mothers had remarried. Well, Justin's mom had, but that lasted all of a month. But all their moms
did
have active social lives. And Madison's mom had younger kids who would remain in the nest for at least the next three years. Eileen's mom had her boyfriend, James, not the greatest conversationalist, but still he was something. Kerry and Connor both came from large families, so their mothers were never alone. And Justin's mom, well, let's just say that Justin's mom was never alone either.

Lauren's dad, on the other hand, had no one but Lauren. He didn't
have
to be alone, of course. He was a great-looking guy (a real
stud
, according to Justin's mom), and he was
always
the smartest guy in the room. He could be funny when he wanted to be, but he also went through several bouts of melancholy each year. Well, ever since Lauren's mom died, and since Lauren had only been five at the time, that was the only Nick Dykstra she'd ever known.

He'd certainly never blamed Lauren for his being alone, but Lauren couldn't help but feel as though she'd been a major cause. Yes, her dad threw himself into his work like few fathers ever do, but all of his spare time was spent with or
on
Lauren. That was why she often justified—at least in her mind—going away to Stanford. Maybe while she was on the West Coast, her dad would go out more (or at least
some
) and eventually meet somebody. In that case, her going away to Stanford would be a
good
thing for him, right?

But no. Deep down she knew that her dad would just spend more days at the office, more nights reading case law and drafting motions and briefs for other attorneys at home in his study. He'd just take on more trial work; trials kept him busy 24/7.

Hardest of all was that Lauren knew her dad
wanted
her to stay near home. His enthusiasm for the schools she applied to was directly correlated with their geographic proximity to their home on the Upper West Side. Mentioning Columbia, for instance, got him all misty eyed. Cornell, too. At least until he MapQuested Cornell and realized Ithaca was four and a half hours away. Then he was all like, “Well, Columbia's certainly the better school.” Princeton would get him smiling again (“What's that, about an hour from here?”), but talk of Brown and Smith would cause him to fall silent.

It was difficult for any parent to argue against Harvard or Yale. So that was when Lauren's dad became a bit passive-aggressive. “Harvard's fantastic; I don't think
everyone
there is stuck up, do you?” And “Yale's great, honey, and New Haven isn't
too
dangerous these days, is it?”

Then there was Stanford. “I grew up on the Left Coast, sweetheart; it's not all it's cracked up to be. Speaking of ‘cracked up,' did I ever tell you about the time I got caught in that earthquake in San Francisco? Luckily, we went through drills all the time. You always have to be prepared for the Big One when you live in the Bay area. Always.”

All right, so maybe he was slightly more subtle. But that was what Lauren heard when he spoke. And she knew he wasn't worried about his daughter being swallowed up by the earth at Stanford; or being robbed and shot at and stabbed in New Haven, Connecticut, all in the same night. Lauren knew that was all pretense.

But she never called him on it. Because she loved him. And she knew he loved her, and that was why he didn't want her to leave. She was his best friend, his
only
friend. She was his star at full dark; she was the air he breathed. She was his world. She was his everything.

He could have thrown his hands in the air and given up after Lauren's mother died. But he didn't. Instead, he did as a father what he always did as a lawyer when the chips were down. He stepped up his game.

He comforted Lauren. In the dead of night when she woke up and cried for her mother, he was there. He'd sit up with her until dawn, if that was what it took. Even if he had to be in court early the next morning.

He tried to make her less afraid. In the months following 9/11, when nearly everyone was too fearful to fly, he took her on trips to the Caribbean and the Hawaiian Islands. In the city, he made sure they took the subway whenever they could, because Lauren had heard on the news that New York's subway system could be the terrorists' next target. And he wanted to assure her that their city was safe.

He took her to 26 Federal Plaza to meet the assistant director in charge of the FBI's New York field office. He introduced her to special agents assigned to the newly formed joint terrorist task force. He brought her to One Police Plaza, where she met the New York City police commissioner. “These are the people who are going to protect us,” her father told her. “I want you to know their faces. I want you to see them, not the bad guys, when you fall asleep at night.”

She'd always known her dad was one of the good guys. But it wasn't until after her mother died that she fully comprehended what her dad did for a living. He brought her to his office, introduced her to the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York. He escorted her around the federal courthouse and introduced her to the federal judges.

A few days before the first anniversary of her mother's death, he took her to Gracie Mansion to meet the mayor of New York City, whom
TIME
magazine had named the Person of the Year for 2001.

This is
our
city, her father told her. Not theirs. Not the terrorists.

 

 

Now she'd just spent an hour with a lovely woman named Caroline Reignier, the director of admissions for Columbia University. And she knew that she was that much closer to making her decision. Going away to Stanford didn't just mean leaving her father; it meant leaving her city.
Their
city. She wasn't sure she was ready to do that just yet. She wasn't sure that she'd ever be ready. Despite the inarguable allure of San Francisco, it still wasn't New York City.

As they walked along the paved paths toward Butler Library, Caroline Reignier pointed out some of the more jaw-dropping architecture. Lauren was impressed. All right,
beyond
impressed. Although the university was located in the heart of a major city, its spacious lawns and plazas gave it a warm, almost rural feel.

“As I'm sure you know,” Caroline said, “we're one of the nation's oldest universities. This campus is actually our third location.”

“Oh?” Lauren said, then immediately regretted it. That was something she should have known. That tidbit was probably in every piece of literature the university had sent her over the past three years. Lauren could certainly rattle off trivial facts about Stanford, if she were asked. But this was the first time she felt deep down as though Columbia University could become home for the next four years.

“Yes,” Caroline said. If she was surprised by Lauren's ignorance of the university's history, she didn't let on. “Our first campus was founded in 1754, as King's College. It was actually situated close to where the World Trade Center had stood.”

Lauren involuntarily glanced at Caroline, who appeared to be biting down hard on her lip. Caroline had made a mistake, too, a
faux pas
that could well have proved costly to her. Surely, Caroline Reignier had read and reread Lauren's admissions essay, which had centered on the challenge of growing up without her mother, whom she had lost in the September 11 attacks.

“I'm sorry,” Caroline said, halting in the middle of the path. “I didn't mean to . . .”

“No,” Lauren assured her. “It's all right.”

Now Lauren felt bad for the woman. Caroline's cheeks were glowing red, a blush made all the more noticeable by the woman's jet black hair and fair skin.

“The current campus,” Caroline said in an attempt to recover, “was actually built on the site of the Bloomingdale Insane Asylum.”

“Interesting,” Lauren said as they continued to walk.

“We've had some very accomplished students pass through our halls since then. Isaac Asimov, the prolific science fiction writer. The author of
The Catcher in the Rye
, J. D. Salinger. The actor James Cagney. And, well . . .”

“Well, what?”

“Well, Joan Rivers.”

“Oh.”

“I don't know why I mentioned her,” Caroline said.

“That's all right.”

“We've had three U.S. presidents,” Caroline continued, “nine justices of the U.S. Supreme Court, three of whom served as chief justice.” She paused. “Your father is an assistant district attorney here in New York, isn't he?”

“In the Southern District, yes.”

“That's wonderful. And are you interested in going into law?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“We have an excellent law school, of course. Franklin Delano Roosevelt attended Columbia Law. Theodore Roosevelt, too.”

Approaching Butler Library, Lauren's eyes widened. While flipping through the brochures Columbia had sent her, she'd dismissed the building as pretentious, but now its grandeur moved her much in the way other New York City landmarks often did. The neoclassical columns brought to mind the state courthouse downtown at 60 Centre Street, a façade often used in crime movies and on television despite the fact that it was a civil, not a criminal, court. The criminal courthouse stood just a block away at 100 Centre. But 100 Centre was a flat, shapeless building with an exterior that wasn't nearly as dramatic.

Lauren looked up and read some of the names chiseled into the stone above the columns: Homer, Plato and Aristotle, Cicero and Horace, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Voltaire, and Goethe.

Okay, so maybe the building's a bit pretentious.

As they walked up the concrete steps to the library, a young man (obviously a student here) emerged through the heavy front door. He had thick, dark brown hair with matching eyes that looked crystal clear through black wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a striped button-down shirt, untucked, with navy straight-legged jeans, and black shoes that Lauren immediately guessed were Kenneth Coles.

“Lauren,” Caroline said, “I'd like you to meet Raymond Knowles. He's a sophomore here at Columbia. Ray, this is Lauren Dykstra.”

They shook hands; his touch was warm and inviting.

Caroline said, “I'm going to leave you two for now. Ray's going to show you the library and any other building you'd like to see while you're on campus. I'll be back at my office if you need anything or have any questions. Please don't hesitate to drop by. Or if something comes to you after you've left, feel free to drop me an e-mail or give me a call. It was truly a pleasure meeting you, Lauren.”

“Likewise.”

Once Caroline started down the stairs, Lauren and Ray entered the library and started up the marble staircase. A portrait of Dwight D. Eisenhower hung to her right.

“Butler is the largest of Columbia's libraries,” Ray said. His voice was soft but contained a definite edge. He motioned to the painting. “Ike, of course, once served as the university's president.”

Should have known that
, Lauren thought. But she quickly pushed her guilt aside when the library proper came into view.

Lauren absolutely
loved
libraries—and here there was a lot to love. Her gaze instantly shot toward the upper floors, to the catwalks and iron rails and labyrinthine stacks of books housed over their heads. Each floor above appeared exactly the same as its neighbor below so that it was like looking into a vertical hall of mirrors. After a few moments, she felt dizzy.

Lauren finally lowered her head, stole a glance at Ray, then stared ahead. Below was one great open space where students worked at tables, some individually in cube-type spaces, others in groups of chairs.

“Let's start upstairs,” Ray said.

The smell of the library was as classical as its architecture. Lauren felt as though she'd been transported back in time. Everything—the paneled walls, the parquet floor, the thick bookcases, the countless tables and chairs—were made of the same exquisite old wood. It gave off the charming effect of being surrounded by all things academia. Lauren felt a flutter in her stomach.

On the second floor, they walked along the rail, Lauren now looking down at the students below. Everyone seemed so committed, so consumed, so
mature
. She loved it.

“Favorite author?” Ray said as they stepped down a narrow aisle between shelves.

Oh, my God, I should have an answer to this question ready to roll off my tongue
.