Justice Returns

by William Bernhardt

  I stared at Siddig for a good while before speaking. No reason. Just creeping him out. No one likes being cross-examined, even if they aren’t lying and want to be as honest as possible. Probably comes from watching too many TV shows where the wily country lawyer extracts some obscure fact he couldn’t possibly have known to prove that the witness is a big fat liar.

  “Were you aware of Agent Nazir prior to your first meeting with the defendant?”

  “Yes.”

  “How were you aware of him?”

  “We had received other complaints about him.”

  “From people other than Oz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Other people complaining of mistreatment at his hands?”

  “Yes.”

  “Other people who were interrogated?”

  “Yes. Or their relatives were. Or loved ones.”

  “How many such complaints had you heard?”

  Siddig shrugged. “I would guess somewhere around ten or fifteen.”

  “So, in truth, there were a lot of people with grudges against Agent Nazir.”

  “That’s possible.”

  “A lot of people who might have wanted to see him dead.”

  “That is possible.”

  “Thank you. Nothing further.”

  And then I thought we were done for the day. But I was wrong. Thrillkill rose to his feet.

  “Redirect, Mr. Thrillkill?” the judge asked.

  He nodded. “Sir, you mentioned that other people complained about Agent Nazir.”

  “True.”

  “Did you ever mention these other complaints to the defendant?”

  And that’s when I knew I had gone horribly wrong. Thrillkill might not have been able to get to this on direct. I would’ve objected to introducing hearsay testimony from third parties, and the judge would’ve sustained the objection. So, instead, he baited me into introducing the subject. That opened the door for him to pursue it on redirect.

  He set the trap, and I fell for it like a starving mouse after a chunk of cheese.

  “Yes, I did,” Siddig said. “Not on that first occasion. But at one of our subsequent meetings. I believe it was at his apartment.”

  “Were you the only one who told him more about Nazir?”

  “No. Several of my colleagues did the same. It went on for quite some while.”

  “What was the defendant’s reaction?” Thrillkill asked, as if he didn’t already know.

  “He was outraged. Infuriated. He does have a temper, as I expect you know. His face turned red and his fists clenched, and he said, ‘Someone needs to take that bastard out.’”

  “Someone needs to take him out?” He paused, letting that hang in the air for a while. “Meaning someone needs to kill that man?”

  “That was certainly how I took it.”

  “Thank you. Nothing more.”

  I would’ve liked to recross, just so the jury had a different takeaway, but I couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t reinforce that disastrous testimony. Thrillkill got an even more ominous threat into the courtroom. Which of course in no way proved that Oz killed Nazir. But it didn’t sound good. No probative value, but mounds of emotional force.

  He played me.

  I leaned across the table toward Oz, who looked decidedly disturbed. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix it tomorrow.”

  “How?”

  I wanted to tell Oz not to blame me because he made some incredibly rash and stupid statements. But I didn’t. “I don’t know how, but—”

  I heard a gasping sound behind my back. After all these years as a trial lawyer, it was a sound I was somewhat accustomed to hearing. Except not from my wife.

  She stared at her cell phone, and that was the first sign that something was terribly wrong. She knew juries hated to see litigants staring at their phones. Their reaction was no different from anyone else’s when you’re at a restaurant or on a date and the people you’re with fixate on their phones instead of paying attention to you. It’s rude and off-putting. Christina wouldn’t do it unless she had a good reason. And there were only a couple of things that would rank high enough on her list. “Is it the girls?”

  Christina dropped the phone. “They’re at the hospital. Mercy. I’m out of here.”

  “What happened?”

  “Not sure. Julia’s with them. Some kind of seizure.”

  I felt a cold, skeletal hand clutching my heart. “Which . .

  “Emily.”

  I was already on my feet. “Oz, I’ll try to talk to you tonight. No promises.”

  He nodded, but it didn’t matter, because I was already sprinting. Thrillkill held up his hand as if he wanted a confab, but I didn’t stop.

  Emily.

  37

  This was not my first trip to the ER. Not even my first trip to the ER since the girls were born. If Christina is to be believed (and she is, always), I’m a somewhat anxious father, which she found deliciously comical, especially since I came from a medical family. “Usually the health-services crowd is a little calmer,” she’d said. Every time the girls sniffled, I wanted to call the pediatrician. Every time they coughed, I wanted to call the CDC.

  I never had to deal with anything close to a seizure. Just as well I wasn’t there. Though I felt insanely guilty because I wasn’t.

  Christina and I were in separate cars, but we still hit the hospital about the same time. Someone escorted us into a waiting room. Emily was in a tiny gown and in a crib that had bars rising higher than she could ever climb over. The bars were lowered and a doctor had her stethoscope out. Julia stood to one side, looking like she’d been to hell and back. She held Elizabeth tightly, but she was a mess, sweat streaking the side of her face, deep furrows across her forehead.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong with her? Is it serious? How could you—?”

  Christina placed her hand on my shoulder, silencing me. “Let me handle this.” She addressed Julia. “What happened?”

  Julia shook her head. “I’m not sure. I was holding her in my arms. Elizabeth was playing on the floor. Emily’s whole body started shaking, trembling, completely out of control. I’ve never seen anything like it. Her little head jerked, and her eyes rolled back—” Tears flooded into her eyes. Her voice choked. She covered her mouth as if she might be sick. “I didn’t know what to do. She just kept shaking, and I was so scared. I felt her forehead, and she was burning up, so I ran some ice-cold water in the tub and put her in it. Didn’t even stop to get her clothes off. Once she cooled a little, I dried her and raced her to the hospital. Didn’t even stop for my purse. My car is still parked where the ambulances are supposed to go. To their credit, the second I ran in here with a toddler, everyone on deck gathered to help. They had ER docs looking at her inside of a minute.”

  I was so confused I could barely process what I heard. “Why would you put her in ice cold water? Did you want her to freeze to death?”

  “Actually,” a female voice said, “that was probably the smartest thing she could do.”

  It was the doctor. She’d finished her tests and appeared ready to talk to us.

  “What’s the story?” I asked. “Is this some neurological disorder? We’ve had some previous indications—”

  The doctor—Sanderson according to her badge—wrapped her stethoscope around her neck. “She has a fever. It probably spiked sharply, and that induced the seizure. Immersing her in cold water brought down the fever.” She turned toward Julia. “Do you have medical training?”

  “I’m a nurse,” Julia answered.

  “I thought as much. Good work.”

  “I wish I could’ve prevented this.”

  “I don’t know how that would be possible when you didn’t even know she was sick.”

  “What’s wrong with Emily?” I said, thrusting myself back in the conversation.

  “Hard to say. We took a blood sample so we can rule out extreme causes. But she probably has the flu or some other virus. Possibly an all
ergic reaction, though I doubt it. Sounds like your sister is careful about what this little girl is exposed to.”

  “Will this . . . cause brain damage?”

  “No, no. This kind of toddler seizure is not all that uncommon. Scary, but nothing to worry about long term.”

  “Can she go home?”

  “I’d like to keep her here overnight, just for observation. I’ll give her some baby meds. Watch that fever. Keep her cool. I’d stick with liquids for a few days.”

  “I—I—” For an alleged trial lawyer, I was having a hell of a hard time articulating words. “We’ve been concerned that she might be . . . autistic.”

  Dr. Sanderson’s eyebrows moved together. “Seriously? Do you have some reason?”

  “Her behavior has been odd.”

  “At this age?”

  Julia spoke. “It’s because of me. I have a son on the autistic spectrum.”

  “There’s no evidence that autism is inherited.”

  “I know. But . . .” She let the sentence trail off, rather than saying, “But I can’t get that through my brother’s thick head.”

  Dr. Sanderson ran her hand through her black hair. “If you’re truly concerned about this, there’s a new program at St. Anthony’s—”

  Julia nodded. “I’ve already enrolled her.”

  My head twitched. I hadn’t heard anything about St. Anthony’s. I just heard something about an appointment with a specialist. But I noticed Christina didn’t seem surprised.

  “Good. Then it seems all concerns are being addressed. I’ll call your regular pediatrician and give him the scoop. But I think Emily is stable. We’ll watch her overnight and send her home in the morning. If you need anything, I’ll be on the premises till two. You can have me paged.”

  “Can we stay with her?” I asked.

  Dr. Sanderson smiled. “I think she would be very disappointed if you didn’t.” She looked at Elizabeth. “Might take that little one home, though. She looks tired.”

  “I’ll do that,” Christina said, taking her daughter from Julia. “We could both do with some rest.”

  “I could take her. I guess,” I mumbled.

  “Yes, you could, but you’d rather stay here with Emily, and you’ll be miserable if you don’t. I’ll take Elizabeth. We can rendezvous later.”

  Julia nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on the patient.”

  “Emily is just under observation,” I said. “She’s not a patient.”

  Christina smiled. “She wasn’t talking about Emily.”

  38

  A few hours later, with Emily sound asleep in her high-wall crib, Julia and I went downstairs to the all-night cafeteria to find something to eat. I didn’t actually get food. Just coffee. Julia cautioned that if I drank coffee, I might not be able to sleep. I knew I didn’t have the slightest chance of sleeping, so I might as well drink something I would enjoy. I would’ve preferred chocolate milk, but bizarrely enough, the cafeteria didn’t carry any.

  “What’s this business about testing at St. Anthony’s?”

  “They have an early detection and intervention program for autism. They don’t normally take children as young as Emily, but I know some people. Starts Tuesday.”

  “You weren’t going to tell me?”

  Her eyes averted. “Christina said she’d tell you. Didn’t she?”

  “Sort of.”

  “She mentioned that you’d been a little . . . irrational on the subject.”

  “So I’m crazy now, is that it?”

  “Just a concerned daddy.” Pause. “A very concerned daddy.”

  “I’m not even sure I approve of this.”

  “That’s what she thought you’d say.”

  “Because I’m an unreasonable ogre?”

  “Because you’d be afraid of the result.”

  I felt the knot in my stomach tighten. Of course I was afraid. How could I not be afraid? Wasn’t I running as fast as I could to avoid thinking about it? Why wasn’t Christina worried? This was our little girl—

  Except I knew she did worry. She just didn’t let it show.

  “How’s the case going?” Julia asked. I think we both recognized the need for a change of subject.

  “Case? What case?” We smiled. Funny how something that has dominated your thoughts can be eradicated by one distraction—when the distraction is your daughter.

  “Do you think you can get Oz off?”

  “I won’t lie to you. So far it looks bleak. But to be fair, it always looks that way in the early days. The prosecution is determined to make him look as guilty as sin. All I can do is parry and thrust, trying to undercut their case in small ways. The outlook will improve when we put on our case.” In theory, anyway. I didn’t bother telling her how little I had.

  “Sounds like a David and Goliath story.”

  “The prosecution has an enormous institutional advantage. They have all the money and power of the government behind them. About half the potential jurors come into the courtroom assuming everyone accused is guilty. And Thrillkill is extremely smart and highly motivated.”

  “But you’ve won tough cases before. You must have something you can use.”

  “Traditionally, a defense attorney has three basic strategies: discredit, suppress, and accuse.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You discredit the prosecution witnesses. Hard to do when they’re mostly government employees. Jurors might believe they’re screwups, but it’s hard to believe they’re flat-out liars. You can try to suppress evidence on one constitutional ground or another, but this judge is particularly permissive. And that leaves the tried-and-true approach of accusing someone else.”

  “You think you can make the jury believe someone else did it?”

  “The wonderful thing is they don’t have to believe it. If you can get them to acknowledge the possibility that someone else did it, they can’t find the defendant guilty ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.’ Not in good conscience. Those who take the job seriously and pay attention to the judge’s instructions find it hard to convict.”

  Julia took another spoonful of her low-fat yogurt. “I hear all kinds of people wanted Nazir dead.”

  My left eyebrow rose. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. How many people did that man betray? Or question? Or torture? Pretty infantile, really, to act as if Oz is the only person who wanted him gone.”

  “Perhaps you could suggest another suspect.”

  “Oh, I don’t know any names.”

  “Any faces then?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “You were at his apartment sometimes, weren’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  I put down my coffee. “You must’ve seen some of his disgruntled friends.”

  “Actually . . . when I was there, he usually made sure we were alone.”

  This was an area I didn’t want to explore. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean you and Oz. Your sudden reappearance. Your involvement with PACT.”

  “I told you Oz and I got back together. Who said I was involved with PACT?”

  “You didn’t deny it.”

  “Well, aren’t you the clever one. Am I on the witness stand, Counselor?”

  “No. But you can see where I might be curious.” And getting curiouser by the minute. “Are you still involved with PACT?”

  “Not in an active way. But I’m sympathetic to the cause. If you heard Oz rattle on about it night and day, you might get interested, too. Let’s face it—hating people who hail from the Middle East has become the most fashionable hate crime.”

  “The CIA is watching PACT.”

  “If the CIA weren’t watching them, it would mean they’re not doing anything important.”

  “I know you’ve been through some tough stuff. I think you’ve got enough to worry about without inviting trouble.”

  “You’ve been through a lot, too. And yet here y
ou are, taking the most impossible, difficult cases. Almost as if you’re trying to prove something.”

  I gave her a long look. “Okay. So we’ve established that we’ve both been through a lot.” Before I even finished the thought, Julia’s hand shot out and grasped mine. She squeezed so hard I felt as if she were clinging to the edge of a cliff.

  “Are we going to talk about it?”

  I broke her gaze. Those eyes burned much too hot for me.

  “I’m a total train wreck,” she added. “I need to move on with my life. And you need to get out of that house, Ben. The sooner the better.”

  “Julia.” I held on to that hand. “I couldn’t help you before. Let me help you now.”

  “By helping Oz? You are.”

  “That’s one way. We need to heal. Both of us.”

  “I . . . don’t even know if that’s possible.” Her voice trailed off. We didn’t speak for the next ten minutes.

  That silence spoke volumes. It just didn’t say anything I wanted to hear.

  39

  Witness Affidavit

  Case No. CJ-49-1886

  Much later that night, I was at al-Jabbar’s apartment, even though he was not there.

  Mina Ali was. I knew my handler would be keenly interested to know why she was there. And what she was doing. The apartment was empty. Al-Jabbar was in jail, and his former roommates had moved to avoid police harassment.

  Mina spent at least half an hour going through his desk, his room, his closets. I would be surprised to find anything had been left behind by the government. Certainly, they would leave nothing of great interest.

  So why was she there? What was she searching for?

  She texted someone. That took me by surprise. I knew she had been trained by her older brother to avoid all cellular communications. Much too simple to intercept, as I had proven on numerous occasions. Did this indicate urgency? Desperation? Because I didn’t expect this, I had trouble intercepting at first. I did know her cell number, but by the time I had my network intercept running, I had already missed vital parts of the exchange.