The Last Judgment (33 page)

Next to the Temple Mount itself, the Orient House had been one of the most volatile locations in the Palestinian–Israeli conflict, having been used over the years as an unofficial headquarters for the Palestinian Authority within Jerusalem. But even
more importantly, it was a symbolic reminder that the Palestinians were demanding an official governmental capital in Jerusalem.

Even more ironically, numerous searches of it over the years had sometimes yielded munitions, weapons, and terrorist-related documents, particularly following Palestinian terrorist bombings.

As Will mounted the stone stairs to the palace-turned-courthouse, the site of the Temple Mount terrorism tribunal, he realized the significance of this great house of white stone. This would be the place where international polity and Palestinian vengeance would join together like the two blades of a razor-sharp pair of shears, soon to begin slicing down on Gilead Amahn.

49

“A
TTORNEY
C
HAMBERS, YOUR DISCLOSURES
of trial defenses and your listing of witnesses and evidence in support thereof are due today. That means now. And you are filing this motion for an extension of time—why?”

Motion chambers Judge Carrie Tabir, a middle-aged woman with a short haircut and a wide, expressionless face, was in no mood to grant more time.

“Your Honor,” Will began respectfully, “I've only been recently retained on this case. As you know, Barrister Nigel Newhouse originally represented Mr. Amahn, but had to withdraw. I've only recently come over to interview my client—”

“And why is that our problem?” Palestinian public prosecutor Samir Zayed asked, rising to his feet at the opposing counsel table. “We cannot be burdened with this request simply because the American lawyer did not want to come over here to interview his client until yesterday.”

“I'm asking for only a week, Your Honor,” Will responded. “Considering the gravity of the charges and the implications of this case—”

“And I'm concerned about the implications of your not being prepared to make your disclosures today,” Judge Tabir snapped. “I've heard enough,” she said after a few moments of reflection.

Both Will and the Palestinian prosecutor sat down and awaited the judge's decision.

“Here's what I am going to do,” Tabir said. “I'm going to give you twenty-four hours. Until the close of business tomorrow. So you have the rest of today and all of tomorrow until five o'clock. Mr. Chambers, I want those written disclosures filed at that time. This court is adjourned.”

Samir Zayed wheeled around in his chair and leaned over to his two legal assistants, who were seated behind him. Zayed was smiling broadly, and his two assistants were chuckling.

Will gathered his files, closed his two oversized briefcases, and began trudging out of the small courtroom used as a makeshift motions chamber—past the scattering of armed guards and toward the back of the courtroom, where there was a lone woman seated.

A Middle Eastern woman, strikingly attractive, with dark piercing eyes, black hair, and a shapely figure, rose and walked quickly toward Will with a small hand-tooled leather briefcase in her other hand.

“Mira Ashwan,” she said brightly, extending her hand and shaking Will's warmly. “A very hard beginning of the case, Mr. Chambers. But don't worry—things will get better. I'm sure of it.”

“I hope so,” Will said. “Thank you for the information you sent me on the background of the judges. I got some additional data from Newhouse in London. So I think we have our three-judge panel pegged—Mustafa, a Palestinian, Judge Lee from South Korea, and Verdexler from Belgium. That's a tough tribunal…”

“Yes,” Ashwan agreed, walking close to Will as the two left the courtroom. “Did you see the Israeli Defense Force's reports I e-mailed to you about the shooting of Louis Lorraine and Yossin Ali Khalid?”

As the two entered the hallway, Will looked up and saw a large oil portrait of Yasser Arafat, the first president of the Palestinian Authority, on the wall.

“Yes, I did get them—I appreciate that,” Will replied.

“So, what do you think? Most interesting, were they not? A possible defense?”

“In what way? Both Lorraine and Khalid were fleeing from the scene. They were given warnings to halt. Shots were fired at the tires on their vehicles. They failed to halt, and the IDF then fired at their vehicles, killing both of them. Where would you go with that?”

“Don't you see?” Mira Ashwan said, smiling. “Why would they have shot them both so quickly?”

The two attorneys were now in the front lobby, just inside the front doors of the Orient House.

Will stopped and turned to face Mira.

“Are you suggesting some kind of Israeli conspiracy? I'm not sure that makes any sense…”

“Of course it does,” she replied energetically. “It seems to me that the IDF did not want Lorraine and Khalid in custody. Because then they might have given statements—could have told the world—that the bombing was actually a conspiracy between the Knights of the Temple Mount and the government of Israel.”

“You really believe that?” Will asked with disbelief in his voice. “Just think about this—the third member of the inner circle of the Knights was an American kid, Scott Magnit. The Palestinian Authority has even put out a press release trumpeting his confession, in which he directly implicates Gilead as the newly appointed spiritual head of the Knights. But even the Palestinians were unable to get Magnit to point any fingers at Israel.”

“Oh, I've thought about that,” Mira replied quickly. “I believe Scott Magnit was not one of the masterminds. The real decision-makers were Lorraine and Khalid. They were the ones who perhaps had worked with Israel, planting the bombs. Magnit was on the outside of the circle. He didn't know about the Israeli connection.”

“Do you have any other evidence? Other than your theory?”

“What evidence do you need?”

“Something,” Will explained, “that would really indicate that the Israeli government was involved. Either overtly…or by implication. At least some knowledge on their part that it was going
to happen. Some deliberate choice on their part that either encouraged the bombing or permitted it to occur.”

“There may be something,” Mira said optimistically, “the possibility that we could dig some evidence up—I will work on that. Who knows? Perhaps we'll get lucky.”

“But then there's another question. Even if the Israeli government was in some way connected—and I have no reason to believe it was—how would that exonerate Gilead? It would just prove that the conspiracy to bomb the Mount was more expansive than we thought.”

“Oh, I am sure it would help Gilead,” she said. “Mitigation of guilty intent is very much a part of the Palestinian tradition. Remember, in the mind of the Muslim, Allah is merciful and compassionate. If we can show that Gilead was simply an unwitting pawn in the hands of the Israelis and the true insiders in the Knights, we can, perhaps, avoid the death penalty at least…”

“Speaking of the death penalty,” Will commented, “I note that when the procedural rules were set up for this tribunal, there was no requirement of a separate death-penalty phase. The evidence regarding mitigation of death penalty is part and parcel of trying the issue of guilt for the crime. That's very unfortunate. That's certainly different from the American approach…”

“Don't worry, Will,” Mira said warmly. “You will do your best. I know you will. That's all that can be asked of you.”

The two shook hands, and Will exited the Orient House Palace. As he descended the steps, he was greeted by screams and cries from the group of protestors still assembled outside the front gates. But his mind was now fixed on Mira's theory. What if she was right? What if Israel had had some part, no matter how covert and obscure, in the massacre of several hundred Muslims—not to mention a dozen Orthodox Jews at the Western Wall?

He didn't want to believe it. And he saw little evidence for Mira's speculations.

On the other hand, he knew his duty as his client's trial advocate. It was that precise duty that weighed on his mind. When
he took on Gilead's case he had pledged to himself to zealously defend him against all odds—and against all outside influences.

More than thirty years before, Will had raised his right hand in a courtroom and had been sworn into the practice of law. He remembered his oath. It had hung for years on his law office wall in Monroeville, Virginia. He knew the words by heart:

I will never reject, from any consideration personal to myself, the cause of the defenseless or oppressed…so help me, God.

And now he wondered what price would ultimately be exacted from him before the final judgment in this case was entered.

50

B
ACK IN HIS HOTEL ROOM
in downtown Jerusalem, Will was sitting alone at the desk. It was nine in the evening, and he had finally gotten around to eating his room-service dinner, which by then was only slightly warm.

He looked at his watch. It was mid-afternoon back in Virginia. Andy was still in school, and when Will glanced at his pocket home planner he was reminded that Fiona was supposed to be in a meeting in Washington with her concert manager, her agent, and a recording executive.

Trying to break away from his work on the case for a few minutes, Will glanced through a few English-language Jerusalem papers he had picked up. One of them had a front-page article on Gilead's case, announcing the pretrial hearing that had been scheduled for earlier that day.

But all of the headlines were zeroing in on another issue, an immensely volatile one. Debate had been raging in the Knesset over control of the Temple Mount plateau. Since the destruction of the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque, some of the conservatives in the Israeli parliament, like the Temple Mount Faithful Movement Party, were calling for Israel to wrest control from the Muslim Waqf.

In response, the Arabic factions in the Knesset, like the Arab Democratic Party and the Israel Islamic Movement, were decrying that as proof of an “Israeli conspiracy behind the bombings.”

Meanwhile, the moderates were fearful of any Israeli move for control, debating whether to yield to the United Nation's call for an international committee to administer the one-million-square-foot area.

And the area itself, still in ruins, was caught in nervous stalemate. IDF, UN peacekeeping troops, and the Palestinian police were jointly patrolling it in a tense standoff and were barring any entry.

Then a noise interrupted Will's reading. He glanced at the other end of the room and noticed that a plain manila envelope had been shoved under his door. He ran over, swung the door open, and looked down the hall both ways. It was empty.

After closing and relocking the door, he took a closer look at the envelope. It contained a single magazine page—from something called
International Security and Intelligence Quarterly.
On one side was a short article about a patent recently approved by the U.S. Patent Office. Will glanced again at the envelope, which did not bear a room number or any other writing. His initial impression was that it had been delivered by accident.

Then he looked more closely at the article.

The gist was that a patent had been granted for a computer-security program designed to detect attempted unauthorized entries into computers employing quantum encryption systems. That encryption process had been heralded as a virtually unbreakable type of privacy protection for computers—but after reading the article a second time, it was clear to Will that someone might have learned how to compromise the quantum-encryption process. Hence the need for a refinement—namely, the newly patented detection system.

It was an interesting diversion. But to Will, it seemed meaningless for now. He put the article back inside the envelope and tossed it aside.

He rubbed his eyes. Jet lag and fatigue were starting to set in. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe, knowing he would probably have to pull an all-nighter in order to construct
the discovery disclosures that were to be filed with the tribunal by the end of business the next day. He had to give a general outline of his defense, just as the prosecution already had done. If any critical elements were left out, he might well be prevented from bringing that evidence in at the trial.

But he needed to make any calls to the States now, while it was still during working hours back there.

He placed a call to the NYU anthropology department, asking to be connected to Dr. Daoud al-Qasr, the expert referred to him by Len Redgrove.

After a few transfers, Will was speaking to the Egyptian professor, who apologized that he only had a few minutes to talk before his next class.

“I did review the materials you sent to me,” he remarked, “and I must say this case appears to have some issues I could address. They are—how should I say—within the general province of my expertise.”

“And as I understand it,” Will glanced at his notes and the biography info he had found on al-Qasr, “your field is in socio-cultural anthropology of the Near East, with an emphasis on ancient religions and their current-day influence on Arab people groups—do I have that down accurately?”