The camera tracked scores of other people who looked no different from those getting off a subway in a major city. Six young Israel Defense Forces soldiers appeared: three men and three women, all with machine guns slung over their shoulders. Jakob looked at the Arab lawyer, whose face didn’t change expression at the sight of the troops. A few seconds later a group of fifteen to twenty teenagers stopped in front of the shop.
“Is that a Nefesh B’Nefesh group?” Hana asked.
“What?” Jakob replied.
“A birthright tour for young Jews to visit Israel.”
“Maybe, I’m not sure.”
Two young Arab men, one in his late teens, the other several years younger, watched the young people. One of the group’s chaperones turned sideways and revealed a handgun in a holster strapped to his waist. Four young people emerged from the shop with ice cream. The entire group moved away. The two young Arab men disappeared, too. Three other figures approached the ice cream shop.
“That’s the Neumann family,” Jakob said. “Ben, Gloria, and three-year-old Sadie. They’re going into the store.”
As the family moved out of sight, a second group of younger ultra-Orthodox men came by with their arms linked together.
“Was this on a Shabbat evening?” Hana asked. “The Haredim look like they’re on their way to the Kotel, the Western Wall.”
“Yes,” Jakob replied, impressed with the lawyer’s obvious familiarity with what they were watching. “The Western Wall is only about a quarter mile away.”
The Neumann family reappeared. Gloria sat down and held an ice cream cone in front of Sadie, who licked it. Her husband walked away.
“Ben is going into a nearby shop to buy a necklace Gloria saw earlier but wouldn’t let him purchase because she said it was too expensive,” Jakob said.
“Stop!” Hana suddenly exclaimed, standing up. “If this is what I think it is, I don’t want to watch it!”
Jakob pressed a button on the controller, and the scene froze with Sadie’s mouth open as she leaned toward the ice cream. He looked at Hana, who continued to stare at the still images on the screen.
“Is this a terrorist attack?” she asked.
“Yes, and you should see it for yourself,” Jakob said in a voice that sounded more callous than he intended. “It’s compelling.”
“I agree with Hana,” Mr. Lowenstein interjected, shaking his head. “It’s one thing to talk about events like this on the phone, but another to witness them so directly.”
“Do you remember this attack?” Jakob asked the Arab lawyer.
“Only that it involved an American tourist. I was living in the UK at the time. There were multiple terrorist incidents in Israel during the few months I was away.”
Hana’s willingness to use the terrorist label caught Jakob’s attention.
Mr. Lowenstein turned to Jakob. “If you’ll excuse us for a few minutes,” he said.
Suspecting that he’d wasted a trip, Jakob stepped forward to retrieve the flash drive.
“Would you leave the flash drive?” Mr. Lowenstein asked.
“I went through a lot to get this,” Jakob replied. “I have copies, of course, but I’m not going to risk—”
“After I talk with Hana, I’ll ask Gladys to bring you back in for a chat.”
Jakob hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay,” he said.
Jakob poured a cup of coffee to take with him. Mr. Lowenstein pressed a button on a conference station in the middle of the table.
“Gladys, please take Mr. Brodsky to conference room D for a few minutes.”
CHAPTER 2
The conference room door closed.
“Mr. Lowenstein, I’m sorry, but—” Hana began.
“No,” the senior partner interrupted, holding up his hand. “I apologize for not advising you about the purpose of the meeting. A close friend who knows the Neumann family called last week and asked me to meet with Brodsky. Bringing you in didn’t cross my mind until Gladys told me he was in our reception area.”
Mr. Lowenstein had always been courteous to Hana and made her feel welcome at the firm. The older lawyer and his wife had invited her to dinner at their beautiful home within a week of Hana’s arrival in Atlanta. Later, Mrs. Lowenstein insisted that Hana sit next to her at a lavish catered dinner for one of the firm’s biggest clients. Hana looked at the screen. The image of the child and the ice cream disappeared as the video went into sleep mode.
“Who died?” she asked.
“Gloria Neumann was killed by a terrorist.”
Hana pressed her lips together for a moment so she could regain her professional composure. “What does Mr. Brodsky want?”
“To associate Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella as cocounsel in the case. This firm doesn’t normally take on personal injury claims, and we have no experience in suits brought under the US antiterrorist laws. But we have a lot of expertise in piercing the corporate veil to uncover hidden assets. Do you remember the Harkins litigation? We unraveled three dummy companies, one that was offshore, and recovered over five million dollars for our client.”
Hana recalled the firm-wide celebration and bonus checks issued when the case was resolved. She’d been in Atlanta only three weeks, yet she received an extra $1,000.
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s where this case will end up—uncovering a murky money trail. Brodsky wants to bring in a law firm that can finance the litigation in return for a percentage of recovery. Whether he’s willing to admit it or not, he doesn’t have the skill set to pursue complex litigation. Today is a preliminary step. I’ve not mentioned it to the partnership committee, which would have the final word.”
Hana knew little about firm politics, but she suspected Mr. Lowenstein would have his way no matter what the other partners desired.
“And I’m not sure it would be approved even if I want to do it,” Mr. Lowenstein continued.
“Really?” Hana asked in surprise.
“My name at the top of the letterhead counts for something,” Mr. Lowenstein said, “but there are eight equity partners who would share the loss if we agreed to underwrite the litigation and didn’t recover any damages. Taking on risk is not in their nature.”
Hana suspected Mr. Collins would fall in the risk-averse category. Frank Capella, who worked in the securities law area, was more of a gambler.
Mr. Lowenstein checked his watch. “I don’t want to leave Brodsky in the conference room too long,” he said.
“Are you going to watch the video?” Hana asked.
“I have to review it in order to make up my own mind about presenting the case to the rest of the firm. But there’s no need for you to see it. The last thing I want to do is give you bad dreams.”
“Thanks,” Hana said.
“And again, please accept my apology for not notifying you in advance about the purpose of the meeting.”
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Lowenstein. Terrorist attacks can occur anyplace in the world, but Israel is such a small country that when it happens there it feels close to home for everyone.”
The senior partner pointed to the screen with the controller. “And this one reached all the way from Jerusalem to Atlanta.”
Hana stood to leave the conference room as the image of Sadie Neumann about to enjoy the ice cream cone reappeared. She glanced at Mr. Lowenstein and hesitated. She looked again at the mother and daughter.
“How old was Gloria Neumann?” she asked.
“Thirty-one when this took place.”
Hana’s thirty-first birthday was only four months away. To celebrate, she was flying to Israel so she could spend ten days with her family and friends.
“And Sadie is their only child?”
“Yes,” Mr. Lowenstein said. “Brodsky sent over a written summary if you’d like to read it.”
Hana’s jaw tightened. Either through watching the video or conducting a quick online search, she’d know the pertinent details in a few minutes.
; “I don’t want to watch it, but I can’t get away from the thought that I should,” she said, slowly sitting down.
Mr. Lowenstein raised his bushy eyebrows. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes,” Hana replied and nodded grimly.
She gripped the arms of the chair as Mr. Lowenstein pressed the play button. The video resumed. Hana held her breath as Sadie leaned in for a lick of ice cream. Several more bites followed. Hana forced herself to breathe. A man walked quickly past mother and daughter. Hana flinched. Nothing happened.
There was movement as several people ran past the place where Gloria and Sadie sat. Gloria suddenly stood up, and the ice cream fell from her hand to the ground. Two dark-clad figures, one taller than the other, flashed into the picture. The taller man raised his right hand in the air and brought it down toward Sadie. Gloria was able to turn her body enough to absorb the blow. From the angle of the camera, Hana couldn’t see what the man had in his hand. But when he raised it again, it was clear that he was holding a large knife. He slashed it down from right to left. Gloria bowed down as it raked across her neck. The man quickly stabbed her again and she fell to the ground with Sadie beneath her. Grabbing the knife with both hands, the man raised it high, but before he could plunge it into the mother or the daughter, he crumpled to the ground on top of Gloria.
The shorter male figure standing beside the taller man during the attack spun around so that his face came into clear focus. He was an Arab boy, a teenager. Hana suddenly realized he was wearing a coat even though the temperature in Jerusalem in May could be sticky-hot. “He’s wearing a suicide vest!” she cried out.
The boy reached inside the coat with his right hand and raised his left hand in the air. Nothing happened, and in a split second three soldiers wearing border patrol uniforms appeared with their weapons drawn. The boy dropped to the ground and lay flat with his arms extended above his head. One of the soldiers pulled Gloria Neumann from beneath the body of the man who’d stabbed her and another picked up Sadie, whose mouth was open in a silent scream. Mother and daughter were both covered in a dark substance that Hana knew was blood. She wanted to look away but couldn’t. The images abruptly ended.
“That’s all,” Mr. Lowenstein said in a somber voice. “Gloria died three hours later at Hadassah Medical Center. There’s no doubt she sacrificed herself to save her daughter.”
“Was the girl hurt?” Hana asked.
“Sadie suffered a cut to the right side of her face. Brodsky included a photo of Sadie in the packet he sent for my review. You can still see the scar. It was a deep wound.”
Mr. Lowenstein removed a photo from a thin folder and slid it across the table to Hana. Sadie, a gorgeous child with black hair, had a scar running down her right cheek that created a crevice to the edge of her lips. The damage caused the little girl’s face to be slightly asymmetrical, with her mouth sagging on the right side. Her soulful dark eyes grabbed Hana’s attention.
“When was this taken?” she asked.
“Within the past few months. She’s six now, almost seven.”
“She looks older than that. Can they fix the damage to her face with plastic surgery?”
“I’m not sure about her medical status, but I do know she’s being treated by a child psychologist.”
After a final look at the photo and a quick, silent prayer for the motherless child, Hana returned the picture to Mr. Lowenstein.
“And the attackers?” she asked.
“Two brothers from the Ramallah area in the West Bank. I don’t remember the name of the specific town, but you may recognize it. Brodsky indicated they were from a well-to-do family, which surprised me.”
“Not me. It’s often the better-educated people who buy into jihadist ideology.”
Mr. Lowenstein took a sheet of paper from the folder and slipped on reading glasses. “Abdul Zadan, the older brother, was shot by the soldiers you saw at the end of the video. Tawfik Zadan, the younger brother, was wearing a suicide vest that failed to detonate. Tawfik was taken into custody.”
“Did any group claim responsibility? Hamas, Hezbollah, al-Aqsa Brigade, ISIS?”
Mr. Lowenstein shook his head. “No. The well-known organizations all praised the bravery of the Zadan brothers but didn’t take direct credit. Tawfik gave a statement claiming he and his brother were on a mission for Allah. If no link to a specific group is established, it will be hard to justify a lawsuit since the core purpose of the statute is to hit terrorists in the wallet.”
Hana had a limited knowledge of the antiterrorism laws. “Like the cases filed against Middle Eastern banks that served as financial depositories for terrorist groups?” she asked.
“Exactly.” Mr. Lowenstein nodded.
Hana’s law license was from Israel, and her role at the firm was to interact as an Israeli lawyer with the firm’s international clients. She wasn’t familiar with the intricacies of US civil procedure, but she knew it would take a very long arm of the law to cross the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea and reach into the dark recesses of a terrorist cell. She shook her head.
“I understand why Brodsky hasn’t found a firm to help him,” she said.
“True, but I’ve untangled knotty situations in my career that looked like there was no string to pull. Some investigations begin with very little information to work with.” Mr. Lowenstein paused. “Now that you’ve seen the video, do you want to stay while I talk some more with Brodsky?”
“If you want me to.”
Mr. Lowenstein eyed her for a few seconds. “No, that won’t be necessary,” he said. “But I may have some follow-up questions for you later.”
When Hana left the conference room, the route to her office took her past conference room D. Through the glass wall she saw Jakob Brodsky sitting in a chair with a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He was checking something on his phone but looked up as she approached. Their eyes met. She looked away first.
Hana didn’t log on to the internet and read about the attack on the Neumann family. In spite of Mr. Lowenstein’s desire that she not have bad dreams, she couldn’t shake from her mind the image of Sadie Neumann covered in blood, her mouth wide open in terror. Hana couldn’t bear the thought of something horrible happening to one of her nieces or their mothers. She closed her eyes and prayed a one-word prayer for peace she’d first heard from older members of her family.
“Shlama, shlama,” she said in Aramaic, the language spoken on a day-to-day basis by Jesus himself and kept alive in scattered Arab and Assyrian Christian communities.
The soothing sound of the ancient petition brought a measure of peace to Hana’s soul.
While he waited in conference room D, Jakob received negative responses from two other law firms he’d contacted about joining his fight for justice on behalf of the Neumann family. Both firms turned him down without explanation. So far, he’d failed to effectively communicate the passion and righteous indignation he felt concerning the tragedy. The case was more of a raisin than a plum. None of the big national firms that pioneered claims against terrorist organizations were willing to meet with him after conducting a preliminary investigation. But that hadn’t deterred Jakob.
One of the first things Jakob and Ben had agreed upon when Jakob decided to take the case was the need to associate cocounsel. Jakob posted requests for help on twenty lawyer forums and provided additional information to almost fifty individuals and firms that contacted him. None of them panned out, mostly because of Jakob’s inability to provide the name of a defendant that could be sued for significant money damages. Some of Jakob’s queries escaped the attorney fishbowl and prompted a few emails from nonlawyers, including a literary agent who wanted to acquire the movie rights to Gloria Neumann’s story. Now, the possibility of help from Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella had given Jakob renewed impetus to uncover a link between the Zadan brothers and an identifiable terrorist organization with assets.
Jakob hadn’t limited his investigation to the
English-language web. Because he could speak and read Russian, he set up an account that enabled him to delve into the much darker internet world of the former Soviet Union. The Russian web was dangerous, a place filled with hackers, data thieves, and proponents of bizarre conspiracy theories.
Adopting a profile that identified him as a Russian sympathetic to fundamentalist Islamic causes, Jakob explored websites and read chilling blog entries. Searches that mentioned Islamic jihadists usually led to information originating from individuals and groups in south-central Asian countries with predominantly Muslim populations: Azerbaijan, Chechnya, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan. Many of the people living in the region were cultural Muslims, but others had crossed over into radical fundamentalist beliefs. The bulk of the information Jakob found focused on antagonism toward Russia, which had dominated the region for millennia, but there was also vitriol directed against corrupt Western societies and Israel, the interloper state wrongfully squatting on land that should be under Islamic control and Sharia law. Whenever the topic of Israel appeared, Jakob dug deeper.
He’d read many poorly written diatribes urging true believers to rise up and die in jihad. But there were also more sophisticated videos and posts that hinted at better organization and more money. So far, he’d found eight specific references to terrorist activity directed at Jews in Israel. Three of those sites, one in Tajikistan and two in Chechnya, celebrated Gloria Neumann’s death without claiming any direct responsibility. It had been sobering to read the name of the woman from Atlanta in a hate-filled diatribe written on the other side of the world. He’d also stumbled across a startling recruitment video from Chechnya. In the ten-minute piece, a tall, slender Caucasian man in his late thirties or early forties spoke passionately in American-accented English about the glories of jihad. The bearded man urged English-speaking Muslims to heed the call to leave the decadent societies of the West and give themselves fully to the advancement of the Islamic faith until it reigned supreme over the whole earth.
Chosen People Page 2