That would be the strategy not only during the pretrial stage but most likely during the trial. Justify the incarceration and torture as necessary to national security. Remind people of 9/11 whenever possible. And completely avoid the constitutional issues raised by the Patriot and Freedom Acts.
Christina tugged on my sleeve. “I think this is going to be a tough one.”
“Aren’t they all?”
“Thrillkill may think this will scare you off. But I know better.”
“They do seem to be playing the trump cards, right from the start.”
“But that’s good. They’re not holding anything back. So you know exactly what you need to do and how to do it.”
As always, I appreciated her confidence in me, however misplaced it might be. At this point, I had no idea what to do, much less how to do it.
“Excuse me. Aren’t you Benjamin Kincaid?” The words came from a short woman with long hair and heavy makeup. I recognized her from television, though I couldn’t place her name. Judging from the camera operator behind her, I assumed she was a newsreader. She must sit on an apple box when she’s on television. “Are you going to speak next?”
“Definitely not,” I said quietly. I didn’t want to attract any attention.
“We’d like to get your response to the prosecutor’s comments.”
“No thank you.”
“So we can quote you as agreeing with what he’s saying.”
Christina and I exchanged a glance. “Since I haven’t given you a statement, it would be a gross violation of journalistic ethics to claim that I did, wouldn’t it?”
“I’ll put you down as ‘refused to comment.’ But didn’t you file this lawsuit?”
“It’s inappropriate to comment on pending litigation.”
“Hasn’t stopped Thrillkill.”
I tilted my head to one side. “True.”
“Even if you can’t comment on the legalities, could you say something about the political situation?”
“My only interest is my client, not politics.”
“Didn’t you used to be in politics?”
“That was—” I felt another tug at my sleeve. Christina.
“Mr. Kincaid, you’re needed elsewhere.” She looked down at the newswoman. “Sorry. Previous engagement.”
She dragged me away, and I offered no resistance. Obviously, she thought I was handling the press here about as well as I did at the office. Meaning not at all. And she was undoubtedly correct.
By the time we repositioned, Thrillkill concluded his remarks. “But you don’t have to take my word for it. I wasn’t there. I’ve invited someone who was there during the questioning to give you some insight into what really lurks behind this lawsuit. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce a patriot, an intelligence fighter for this country—Abdul Nazir.”
Now that was a surprise. I expected face-saving sound bites. I did not expect Thrillkill to call witnesses. And not in a million years did I think he would put Nazir in front of the microphones. I suppose it made sense in a way. Nazir knew more about his situation than anyone, and he was clearly of Middle Eastern descent. Perhaps Thrillkill wanted to make the point that this was about security, not racism. I suspected there was more to it, but at the moment, I had no idea what that might be.
Nazir fidgeted with his microphone, cleared his throat several times, then coughed. His first words were too soft, then he moved so close to the mike that it caused a sonic squeal. If his goal was to show that he was unaccustomed to public speaking, he was doing an excellent job.
“Pardon me. As Mr. Thrillkill was kind enough to point out, I work in intelligence. Not public speaking.”
“Louder!” someone behind me shouted.
He pulled the microphone closer. “As you have no doubt noticed, I am not originally from this place. I was raised in Iraq, but I had the great fortune to be recruited by the American army, fulfilling a lifelong dream of working for the forces of freedom. Your government used me first in Iraq, and later here in the states, to obtain information about possible terrorist threats by appropriate means.”
Given what I’d heard from Oz and Mina, I couldn’t help but wonder if “appropriate means” included rape and torture.
“I did in fact know the plaintiff in this lawsuit, Omar al-Jabbar, and I did interrogate him regarding his ISIS connections, as well as his work for the terror—” He jumped forward abruptly, as if jabbed from behind. He and Thrillkill exchanged glances. “Regarding his connections to the alleged terrorist Abdullah Ali.”
Skillfully done. They maintained the legally necessary “alleged” but made it clear they had no doubt Abdullah was a terrorist.
“During the interrogation,” Nazir continued, “the plaintiff confessed that he worked for Abdullah.” That of course was never in doubt, but the way he phrased it suggested Oz confessed to working on terrorist schemes. “I continued questioning him for the purpose of learning the extent of that work.” I had to admire how flat Nazir kept the tone of his voice, never giving in to emotion or giving anyone any reason to suspect he had a personal interest. “This interrogation lasted several days, but that of course is not unusual. Few witnesses reveal everything they know in the first ten seconds.”
“Death to terrorists!” a high-pitched voice screamed from the rear, followed by some scuffling sounds. “Muslims go home!” Out the corner of my eye, I saw security forces converging. I wasn’t sure if that remark was in support of Nazir or in opposition. Either way, I knew the person who said it would miss the rest of the press conference.
“I do not doubt that this was an unpleasant experience for the plaintiff, though I endeavored to make it no worse than it needed to be. I did not determine the parameters of his incarceration. I only questioned him in a lawful and what I hoped would be a productive manner. And although the investigation against Abdullah was discontinued, we did in fact obtain several pieces of information that proved useful in various contexts.”
“Send the sand niggers back to the desert!”
This time, almost everyone on the steps, hundreds of people, whirled around, trying to spot the speaker. The commotion level rose as spectators spoke among themselves, craning their necks to see what was happening. The shuffling was such that I began to lose my balance. I felt Christina clutch the back of my suit jacket, hanging on for dear life.
Nazir glanced up from the podium. For the first time, I had the impression that he departed from his script. “Please, my friends. There is no need for this animosity.”
He held up his hands, trying to quiet the crowd, without success. The noise level grew rather than subside. I could see some sort of struggle behind me, but I couldn’t tell what it was.
Nazir raised his voice. “We do not need to erect more barriers. Yes, we must maintain security for our families. But blind unreasoning hatred—this is what fuels terrorism. We want to defeat them, not become them. We can be better than this. We can—”
Only a few times in my life have I been so unfortunate as to be near a weapon in action, but I have learned to recognize the sound. And that was why, at that moment, I knew I was not hearing a car backfire or a cell phone sound effect or a talented voice mimic.
Someone fired a gun.
The shot blasted somewhere behind me. I threw my arms around Christina’s.
“Terrorists!” someone screamed, and in less than a second the capitol steps descended into chaos.
More panicked voices followed. The shuffling became blind panic. Everyone wanted to get to safety, but no one knew where safety was. The crowd shifted every which way at once, pressing and shoving, getting nowhere. I felt my heart thumping in my chest. No one knew what was happening. Everyone was scared.
“Not again!” a high-pitched voice squealed. “Not here. Not again!”
Some oaf in a trench coat rammed into Christina. She fell against me and we both tumbled to the concrete. I bashed my face against the corner of a step. Pain seared through my head. I stifled th
e cry, glad I cushioned the fall for her.
“Are you okay?” I asked. She nodded faintly. I could tell she was shaken but strong as ever. I pulled in our hands and elbows, trying to avoid being trampled.
“Hold on to me,” I said, helping her to her feet. “We’re getting out of here.” I pressed a hand to my head, wondering how bad the damage was. Sticky blood trickled down the side of my face. I didn’t have time to worry about that. I needed to get my wife out of there.
The pandemonium continued. More people raced back and forth on all sides of us, screaming and sobbing and moving without thought to what lay before or behind. I kept an arm wrapped around Christina’s waist, determined no one would separate us.
I spotted an open patch of lawn not far from where we’d parked. I thought that was the safest direction to travel. Most everyone seemed to be moving in the opposite direction, either back toward the capitol building or the public parking lot.
Not until I had Christina in relative safety did I stop to take my bearings. I had not heard another shot since the first, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible.
I scanned in all directions. I saw a lot of people running, but no guns, no gunshots, and no shooters.
Only then did I think to look back at the podium.
Emergency medical personnel surrounded the fallen figure of Abdul Nazir. The pool of blood surrounding his head was so great I could see it from where I stood.
He did not move. I did not think he was ever likely to move again.
And I spotted one other item of interest, about fifty feet away, down the steps and off to the far right. Three security officers held someone in custody. They’d cuffed him and pinned his arms behind his back. They shoved him roughly into the back of a patrol car.
The suspect was silent, a resolute expression on his face.
The suspect was my client. Omar al-Jabbar.
Oz.
Part Two
Necessary Lies
17
I had to fight my way through a mob just to get inside the holding jail. I’d never seen so many reporters and rubberneckers and protesters and thugs of unspecified allegiance. I got the impression they were hanging around just hoping a fight would break out so they could hurt someone.
“Mr. Kincaid!”
Damn. Recognized again.
“Still stand behind your client? Still worried about his rights?”
I tucked in my chin. The smart thing, as Christina had told me a million times, would be to keep my mouth shut. But when had I ever done the smart thing? Not recently. “I stand behind the right of all American citizens to be protected against wrongful imprisonment and torture. One hundred percent.”
“And for a murderer?”
I felt my temper rising. “Don’t you mean an alleged murderer? Since my client hasn’t even been charged, much less convicted.”
“Let’s say it turns out he’s guilty.” The reporter kind of winked. “Still think the government was wrong to detain him?”
“Anytime the government does anything that violates the Constitution, I’m not going to like it.” That was general enough to be unobjectionable, I hoped, even on the evening news. I left it at that and pushed through the crowd.
Maybe I imagined this, but the crowd seemed to thicken rather than thin the closer I got to the front desk. I all but collided, chest to chest, with a woman in a blue blazer. Only after I recovered and apologized did I realize that I knew her.
“Mina.” I was more than surprised to see her here. Surprised and concerned. I hesitated to even speak aloud, but this crowd was so loud and frenzied there was little chance anyone could eavesdrop. “Should you be here?”
“I must see Omar,” she said, barely audibly.
“I’m sure you’re concerned. But they won’t let you see him unless you’ve got a law degree. Frankly, I don’t think you’re safe here.”
“What do you mean?”
I glanced over my shoulder. “I don’t think all the sheriffs on earth could protect you from this crowd if they learned of your . . . sympathetic relationship to the accused. Or his boss.”
“Or my hatred of the victim?”
“What happened anyway? I told you two to stay home.”
“And you thought he would? Then you do not know him well.”
That was becoming abundantly clear. “I wish you’d listened. I wish you were listening now. You shouldn’t be here.” I saw Kir just behind her. “Especially not with your brother.”
“People should be able to hold opposing beliefs without resorting to violence.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this crowd isn’t composed of the high school debate team. Go home. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
Kir leaned in. “Can we get a message to Omar?”
I didn’t want to make any promises until I knew what the message was. Anything cryptic and I would say no. I didn’t need anyone later suggesting I’d helped subversives conduct their business. “Depends on the message.”
Kir’s lips tightened. “Can you not see that my sister cares for him? She will not rest until they have spoken.” I started to reply, but he continued. “Can you not see that this is part of the government’s plan?”
“All I can see is that I need to speak to my client as soon as possible.”
“Tell him that I love him,” Mina said quietly. “And tell him that the scars I bear and the scars he bears will only make us stronger.”
“I can do that.” Though I might paraphrase it a bit.
“Will you be able to get him released?”
“I don’t even know the charge yet.” I paused. “But I think that unlikely. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything about his situation.”
Her head tilted slightly to one side. “This is a promise?”
“It is. And whatever failings I may have, I keep my promises.”
After a few moments’ contemplation, she acquiesced. “I will await your call.”
One potential disaster eliminated, a fistful more to tackle. I recognized the burly man standing just before the admissions desk. Not personally, but I’d seen him around. He led some conservative group, Occupy This or Tea Party That or whatever it was this week. The vocal minority posing as the silent majority. Normally I wouldn’t even notice, but the room was too crowded to get around him, and since he was roughly three times my size, I couldn’t push him out of the way. I considered crawling over him, but it seemed undignified.
“I pay your salary,” the man shouted at an elderly officer behind the desk. “You work for me.”
Well, he was half-right. The man behind the desk had the sense to keep his mouth closed.
“The government of the people should serve the people. We need to take back the government that belongs to us.” And a few other catchphrases. He was trying to get some kind of chant going, but praise heaven it wasn’t catching on.
“Ben!”
This voice I would recognize anywhere, and unlike the voice of the reporter, it was one that demanded my immediate attention.
“Christina. I thought you were going to stay in the car.”
“I thought you were going to come home. This isn’t safe.”
“I need to speak to my client.”
She frowned. Actually, “frown” wasn’t the word for it. More like “expression of long-suffering toleration.” “How you gonna do that from way over here?”
“Well, I’m trying—”
“Frank!”
Especially coming from such a tiny woman, her voice had impressive heft. The buzz in the room dropped several decibels, for at least a second or two.
We both knew the man on duty, Frank Gorman. He’d been working this desk for about 105 years, far longer than I’d been around.
“Any chance my dopey but endearing husband can see his client?”
Frank cracked a grin. “Ben reps the shooter? I should’ve known.” He checked his clipboard. “I don’t think we’re allowed to say no t
o counsel of record. Even when we suspect it might be for your own good.”
I stepped forward. “Get me in as soon as you can, Frank, okay?”
“I’ll see what I can do. They’re still running through the preliminaries.”
That would mean the printing and the mug shot and the phone call and the stripping and changing into bright orange coveralls. Which they would draw out as long and painfully as possible. Jail wasn’t supposed to be fun. And the people in charge generally made sure it wasn’t. I worried about what could happen here to someone with a Persian last name. Especially someone suspected of murdering a CIA agent.
“As soon as you can, Frank.”
“I’m on it.”
***
Three and a half hours later, Frank escorted me into a small room separated by a Plexiglas screen from another equally small room. Once he left, I launched right in.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?”
Oz looked like he’d been through the wringer, which I suppose he had. “Ben, you have to believe me—”
“Let me caution you before you say a word. You do not have to tell me anything. Anything you tell me is privileged, but if you confess to anything, the Rules of Professional Conduct do not permit me to aid you in perpetrating a lie, which might impair my ability to represent you to the best of my ability.” I’d rattled this off so many times I could do it by heart. The lawyer’s equivalent of a Miranda warning.
“I did not shoot that man.”
That was good to hear. Even if it was a total lie, it would make my job much easier. “The feds think you did.”
“They’ve been after me forever. They finally got their chance.”
“Because you gave it to them.”
“They were watching me from the moment I showed up at the press conference. Just looking for an excuse to tie me up and torture me some more.”
“I told you not to go.”
“I had to go.”
“You chose to go. And it was a bad choice.” I pulled out my phone and punched up a report. I’d had a lot of time to Google while I waited to see my client. “According to an unverified report in the Huffington Post, you were arrested with a gun in your possession. Which might provide an even more convincing explanation of why you were arrested.”
Justice Returns Page 9