The Resurrection File (2 page)

Several years had passed since the attack on the World Trade Towers. Renovation and construction at ground zero was nearly complete. Gritty New Yorkers, refusing to succumb to a bunker mentality, had returned to daily life.

But memory had been altered. Like a flag raised and lowered in daily salute, the images of destruction had continued to speak a warning and a resolve.

Then one day last year, a van had pulled up in front of the New York Stock Exchange. Two Middle Eastern men in the van bowed their heads in prayer. Then they shouted something. That was when the driver touched his sweaty thumb to a homemade plastic button connected to a wire that disappeared into the back of the truck.

And then he pushed down, causing the van to evaporate in a blast that rocked Wall Street. In the months that followed, it became clear that the prime suspect was Abdul el Alibahd, a rising leader in a Syria-based terrorist network. But the FBI was still lacking clear evidence linking him to the Wall Street bombing. For a while, magazines and television news programs carried Alibahd's face—bearded, deeply lined, expressionless, with black turban and tinted sunglasses.

So once again, New Yorkers had to shake off the dust, mourn their dead, clear the rubble, and carry on.

But this particular morning, thirteen months after the Wall Street attack, normalcy seemed to reign, at least for a while. Cars and trucks inched along toward the bridge into the city. In the middle of the traffic was the white rental truck.

A New Jersey state trooper sat in his parked squad car, watching the snaking line of vehicles. Officer Ezer Nabib took off his wide-brimmed trooper's hat and scratched his head, then smoothed his hair back.

Nabib, a Sufi Muslim, had only been on the state patrol a few months when the Wall Street bombing took place. He resented the fact that those claiming that they were serving Allah had, again, committed unspeakable acts of slaughter. None of the other troopers said anything. They didn't have to. Nabib felt it in their eyes, and their grim silence said it all.

The trooper eyed the tide of snarled traffic. Then he heard the code number of his squad over the dispatch. He picked up the receiver.

“Officer Nabib here.”

The female voice at the other end started talking. “We've got a suspect vehicle, a rental truck heading toward the river, plates are JM435X. Here's the VIN…”

Nabib jotted down the VIN in his daybook. Then he asked, “Suspect for what? I think I see our vehicle here in the traffic jam, heading for NYC.”

The radio dispatcher was silent.

“Copy, please,” Nabib continued. “Suspect for what? I've got no probable cause for a stop. Do you have some warrants outstanding? Is this a stolen vehicle? What's the deal? Advise.”

“Proceed with extreme caution.”

“Please identify yourself, dispatcher,” Nabib shot back. “Annie, is that you?”

The other voice said, “Follow the vehicle with extreme caution.”

Nabib slammed his squad car into gear and swooped into the safety lane, pulling up to a few car lengths behind the truck.

“Track the vehicle and then apprehend on the other side of the river,” the voice said.

“That's New York,” Nabib countered. “I suggest we call NYPD right away. I can't arrest over there.”

“Apprehend on the other side. Secure the vehicle. But use extreme caution. It may be carrying very dangerous contraband.”

“Request to speak to the barracks commander,” Nabib countered nervously.

But that was when the communication ceased. Nabib pushed the call button on his handset. Nothing.

As the trooper followed the truck across the bridge, he snatched his cell phone and quickly punched in the number for headquarters. A familiar voice announced, “State Patrol…”

But before the trooper could talk, the cell phone indicated low battery. Then it blinked off completely.

Nabib tossed it aside in disgust. The truck was exiting the bridge on the other end, heading into New York City. The trooper switched on his lights and siren and pulled up next to it. He glanced into the cab and motioned the driver over.

Nabib quickly exited the squad car, wishing he could have called for back-up. The driver, who looked Middle Eastern, produced a license that identified him as “Rahji Ajadi.”

After frisking the driver and finding no weapons, the trooper ordered him to the rear of the truck. “Open it slowly,” Nabib instructed him. The trooper had already un-holstered his side arm.

The driver rolled up the door, and the trooper peered in cautiously. A tarp covered something long and large.

“Lift up the canvas,” Nabib ordered.

He stared at the sleek metal that was unveiled, then gestured at the driver to pull back more of the tarp so he could get a better look. Then the trooper saw the familiar symbol on the side of the gleaming steel. His knees almost buckled.

Nabib snapped up his head and pointed his weapon at Ajadi.

“Out of the truck,” the trooper screamed, “on the ground now! Now, get down now, spread them on the ground or I blow your head off!”

Ajadi dropped to the pavement like a weight was tied to him.

Nabib scrambled back with his revolver trained on the driver.

A whirling sound of high-speed rotor blades sucking and slicing the air made the trooper look up. Three U.S. Army helicopters were sweeping down to his location, as a chorus of car horns was beginning to rise in angry confusion along New York harbor.

3

W
ILL
C
HAMBERS WHEELED UP TO THE FEDERAL
court building for the Central District of Virginia and roared down into the underground parking garage. He grabbed his briefcase, stuffed the file into it, and started walking at a fast clip toward the front doors of the courthouse. He could see the huge figure of his client, William “Tiny” Heftland, pacing out front, waiting for him.

Heftland was wearing bright-red suspenders, a white shirt, and a tie. He stood six-foot-four and weighed about two hundred and seventy pounds. Back when he had worked as a beat cop with the D.C. police, and later in the Middle East in the security force of the State Department he had been in mean, lean, fighting shape at two hundred and twenty pounds—most of it muscle. But after a permanent knee injury, problems with his supervisor and, ultimately, a discharge from government work, he was on his own now as a private investigator, cruising around in his black Cadillac, filling up on cheeseburgers and shakes, mostly doing surveillance in divorce cases and serving process. The years had caught up with him.

“Hey, good buddy,” Heftland called out to Chambers as he saw him coming. “Man, did you hear about that truck they stopped in New York?”

Will, in his mad dash to the courthouse, hadn't turned on the radio and didn't have a clue what Tiny was talking about. And frankly, he didn't care. He did not respond to the big private eye until he was two inches from his sweaty bulk.

“Don't give me the ‘good buddy' treatment,” Will said. “Why haven't you paid your bill? You still owe me five thousand dollars from the last case I handled for you. And you still haven't paid the retainer for this one yet.”

“Yeah, okay, I was going to be talking to you about that. First of all, I'm good for the money.”

“Is that it?” Will asked. “That's your best shot—you're
good
for the money?”

“Hey, we're not going to break up a wonderful friendship over something like money, are we?” Heftland quipped as they entered the court building.

“I'm waiting for the
‘second
of all.' You said
‘first
of all.' So where is the ‘second of all'…?” Will asked as they both climbed up the stairs at a fast clip.

“Okay, second of all, I just sent you a really great case the other day. This Reverend Angus MacCameron guy, who is being sued in federal court in D.C. I mean sued
big time.
Guess who the attorney is on the other side? Just guess? J-Fox Sherman himself—head legal terrorist with that real blitzkrieg-type law firm in D.C. The name escapes me. But a really big-time law firm.”

“Get to the point, Tiny,” Will said, panting a little as they topped the marble stairs to the second floor. Tiny was breathing heavily, trying to keep up.

“Okay, so anyway, Reverend MacCameron hires me to do some P.I. work on the lawsuit for him—some investigative stuff—to check out the plaintiff who is suing him in the lawsuit, this Herr-Doktor type with like a dozen different PhD degrees. The plaintiff who is going after MacCameron is this Dr. Albert Reichstad guy—nice name, huh? So I am right in the inside loop on this case. And get this—the Right Reverend asks me for a recommendation on legal counsel to defend him. So I sent him your way. I said you were like the genius of the American legal system as far as I was concerned. So, the way I figure it, that ought to count for something, right?”

Will Chambers stopped in his tracks. “No. It doesn't count for anything. Ethically, a lawyer can't split fees with non-lawyers for case referrals. And that's what it would be if I give up a fee from you because you send me a case. Give me a break, Tiny.”

“Okay, well, hey, I'm trying here. You know. Just give me some time. You'll get your money.”

“Look, Tiny, my partners are putting pressure on me about my receivables. I know you and I go back a long way. I wouldn't be hammering you unless it was important. We have to get your fee collected, okay?”

“Sure, Will, okay,” Tiny reassured him, wiping some of the sweat off his brow. As they turned the corner in the hallway they heard the echoes of voices ahead of them from the area outside the courtroom. There they saw several protestors with signs denouncing abortion. They were being lectured by two federal marshals. With news of the New York City truck incident spreading, security at federal buildings in the District was on full alert.

“Protest signs inside the courthouse. That would be a big no-no. Judge Ramington is going to have their heads on a platter,” Chambers said as they approached the group outside the courtroom doors.

Heftland grabbed Will's arm and stopped him short.

“Look, Will. I really need you to do some magic here. I know you can do it. If I get convicted, my license is going bye-bye. I'm done. You've really got to get me off on this one.”

“Tiny, I don't do magic. I do law. I'm not Houdini.” And then Will looked at Tiny's panicked expression and patted his big shoulder. “I'm going to do my best. I promise.”

They skirted the group of protestors, and as they entered the courtroom Tiny grabbed Will's arm one more time. Looking down at Will's feet, he began muttering something.

“Look, Tiny, it's going to be alright,” Will said, brushing him off and pointing for him to sit with the large group in the audience section. Will turned and made his way to the front row.

A thin, plain-looking young woman with long brown hair grabbed Will's coat sleeve as he walked by the rows of benches. He noticed a little brass pin on her blouse in the shape of tiny baby feet.

“I am praying for you,” she said quietly.

“My client is not part of your antiabortion group,” Will said, trying to pull away from her grasp.

“That's okay, I am praying for you anyway.”

“Sure,” Will said. “That's good.” He quickly sat down with his briefcase and tried to catch his breath.

A few seconds after Will had sat down, the side door swung open violently, with a bang. Judge Roger Ramington strode out, his black robe flowing. The bailiff barked out with a loud voice, “All rise, this court is now in session, the Honorable Roger K. Ramington is presiding, silence is commanded, God save the United States and this Honorable Court.”

“Be seated,” Judge Ramington called out, and he perched himself behind the bench. He was completely bald, with a head that had a shiny, even polished, appearance. His eyebrows were dark and bushy, and he carried a square-jawed look that let you know he was rarely amused, always in control, and relished presenting himself as the veteran Marine that he was.

“I have been informed by the clerk that all of the defendants on the docket today are here on Complaints alleging violations of federal law, namely 18 United States Code section 248, the Federal Access to Clinics Act, otherwise known as F.A.C.E.

“These Complaints all apparently have to do with alleged antiabortion protest activities three weeks ago at the Tri-County Women's Health Center,” the Judge continued.

“Now listen carefully, each and every one of you. I am about to explain why you're here. I want absolute silence. This is
not
your day of trial. This is only a preliminary hearing to determine whether there is probable cause to continue your case forward toward trial. That means that merely enough evidence need be presented by the prosecution to show that a crime was probably committed and that you probably committed it. That's all. Nothing more is needed.

“I am informed that all of you, except one, are defending yourselves and do not wish to have lawyers representing you. That is your right. On the other hand I've always believed that, as they say, anyone who is his or her own lawyer has a fool for a client.