Chosen People

by Robert Whitlow

  The previous year Jakob had won a lawsuit filed on behalf of a disabled Vietnamese woman wrongfully evicted from her apartment. Three law firms and the local legal aid office had turned down the woman’s case. Jakob’s attorney fee barely justified the hours required, but the jury verdict enabled the woman to afford the down payment on a small single-story house nearer to her son and daughter-in-law. The Neumann case, however, was in another legal universe.

  Leon Lowenstein had been Jakob’s most promising lead. The personal connection between Mr. Lowenstein and a friend of Ben Neumann sent Jakob’s hopes soaring. Everything he’d learned researching Lowenstein’s experience and background prior to the meeting increased his optimism. The older Jewish lawyer was a generous philanthropist who’d made enough money that he could risk a few dollars in a righteous crusade. And more importantly, Lowenstein had encountered terrorist activity in the practice of admiralty law. In Jakob’s optimistic mind, it was a small step from pursuing Somali pirates in high-speed skiffs to suing knife-wielding jihadists in Jerusalem.

  The unexpected appearance of the female Arab lawyer was a huge red flag, and when she demanded he stop the video, Jakob was afraid he’d wasted his time. It would be tough breaking the news to Ben that he’d struck out again. Jakob glanced up as Hana walked quickly past the conference room. Her face was inscrutable.

  Jakob’s knowledge of the conflict between Arabs and Jews in the Middle East was limited to sound bites, but it didn’t take a political scientist to realize the battle lines between the groups were hard and fixed. The Arab lawyer’s reference to her Israeli citizenship and government service as evidence of neutrality sounded positive, but he wasn’t sure how much weight to give it.

  The older woman who’d escorted Jakob to the conference room returned. “Mr. Lowenstein is ready to see you,” she said.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ms. Abboud and I watched the rest of the video,” the older lawyer said. “Ben and Sadie Neumann have suffered a great loss and deserve a chance for justice.”

  “You want to help?” Jakob asked in surprise.

  “I’m willing to present the case to the firm’s equity partners as a next step,” Mr. Lowenstein said, touching the slim folder on the table. “But I’m going to need more than what you included in here to convince our firm to join the fight. What are the terms of your contract with Mr. Neumann?”

  “One-third contingency if settled prior to trial; forty percent if we try the case.”

  “That’s fair given the challenges. How much will you and the Neumann family invest in the case toward the costs of litigation?”

  Jakob cleared his throat. “Mr. Lowenstein, that’s the main reason I’m here. My client and I can’t finance this type of lawsuit.”

  “And Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella is a law firm, not a bank. Your side will have to bring funds to the table, too.”

  Jakob’s mind went into overdrive. A door cracked open was better than one closed and locked. He spoke rapidly and honestly: “Ben Neumann is the branch manager of a men’s clothing store and doesn’t have significant resources. Sadie is in private school. With education costs, childcare, and medical bills, I’m not sure Ben could contribute more than a few thousand dollars.”

  “Did he receive any life insurance proceeds from Gloria’s death?”

  Jakob was glad he’d asked Ben that question at their last meeting. “Yes, he was able to cover burial costs, pay off Gloria’s student loans, and buy a new minivan.”

  “I would still want him to put in at least forty thousand dollars toward out-of-pocket costs. Of course, your firm could contribute as well. We’d use those funds first before this firm starts bankrolling the case.”

  Jakob swallowed. He had student loan debt, four credit cards with balances he juggled like a clown tossing flaming torches into the air at the circus, and a new apartment. He had virtually no reserves at the law firm, but one good case on his docket was on the verge of settling and would net a fee in the $20,000 range. Maybe he and Ben could contribute an equal amount.

  “If we do that, how much would your firm fund over the initial forty thousand?”

  “The figure I’d present to my partners would be $250,000,” Lowenstein replied. “With the attorney fee split seventy-thirty.”

  Jakob nodded. “I think that’s fair. I’d be satisfied with seventy percent.”

  “No,” Lowenstein corrected him. “That’s seventy percent to us and thirty percent to you.”

  “But I’d be doing all the legal work!” Jakob protested.

  “Mr. Brodsky,” Lowenstein replied evenly, “if we agree to provide the majority of the funding for the case, we’ll also be involved in every aspect of the litigation, from investigation to trial to any appeals.”

  “I want to be involved in the case,” Jakob said. “This isn’t a handoff.”

  “You’ll earn your portion of the attorney fee. It’s unethical to agree to a split based solely on your role as a rainmaker.”

  Jakob was familiar with the ethical rule, but he and the other lawyers in his building routinely ignored it. Each one of them had a different legal niche, and funneling matters to the right lawyer was worth a kickback of ten to fifteen percent as long as it didn’t result in overcharging a client.

  “You’d work with lawyers on my team,” Lowenstein continued. “And I’d oversee everyone.”

  Graduating in the middle of his law school class, Jakob had no chance for employment at a firm like Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella, which interviewed only students in the top ten percent of their class. To work with an attorney like Leon Lowenstein and see how his firm litigated a big case would not only be good for Ben Neumann, it would be an invaluable experience for Jakob, regardless of the attorney fee earned.

  “That’s worth a lot,” he admitted, pressing his lips together for a moment and quickly considering his options. There were none. “Agreed,” he said.

  “Contingent on approval by our partnership committee.”

  “Understood, and by Mr. Neumann as well.”

  “You do your job; we’ll do ours,” Mr. Lowenstein said. “Ben and Sadie Neumann deserve the best representation available.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  Lowenstein gave Jakob a steely look. “And I mean that with every fiber of my being. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Gloria’s life mattered, and those who took it from her must be held responsible.”

  Leon Lowenstein’s words and tone of voice elevated Jakob’s confidence to its highest level yet.

  “I feel exactly the same way,” he said.

  Hana closed the screen displaying the acquisition agreement initiated by a Silicon Valley investment firm for an Israeli software company based in Ra’anana, a city about twenty kilometers north of Tel Aviv. Bouncing back and forth between English and Hebrew in such a complex way was exhausting. Hana needed a break and stepped out to Janet’s desk. Her assistant hadn’t been at her workstation when Hana returned from the meeting with Mr. Lowenstein and Jakob Brodsky.

  “Was it pirates?” Janet asked.

  “No, much worse.”

  “Can you tell me or should I not ask?”

  Hana hesitated. Janet was a good soul who didn’t deserve to be needlessly burdened by what had happened in Hurva Square.

  “Let me spare you the details for now,” Hana replied. “Mr. Lowenstein has to talk to the equity partners about the case.”

  “Wow!” Janet’s eyes grew big.

  Hana regretted revealing that detail. “Keep that between us,” she quickly added.

  “Of course. Are you off to lunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “By yourself again?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a group of female associates in Mr. Capella’s group that go to lunch together on a regular basis. Let me check with Thalia Botts who works over there. I bet they’d love to have you—”

  “Thank you, but no,” Hana said with a smile. “I need to relax more th
an anything else. Sorting out a tableful of female conversations would not be a break for me.”

  “Whatever you say,” Janet said with a shrug. “But you need a social life coordinator in the worst way. I was less than half a person until I met Donnie. And he was less than a quarter of the person he’s become since meeting me. Together, we’re close to a whole person.”

  Hana chuckled. “I’m going to dinner with someone later this week,” she said.

  “A man?” Janet’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Yes, I met him at a big church I visited a few weeks ago. He’s interested in learning more about Arab culture.”

  “I bet.” Janet nodded knowingly and added, “Especially from someone like you.”

  Shaking her head, Hana walked away and took the elevator to the parking deck. She’d never owned a car in Israel, where public transportation via buses crisscrossed virtually every inch of the small country. However, shortly after moving to Atlanta, she’d signed a three-year lease for a small German import.

  Five or six nearby restaurants were on Hana’s regular rotation for a midday meal. Today, she opted for a tiny deli run by an Arab man whose family had come to the United States from Lebanon. The deli was crowded with people lining up at the counter. Entering, Hana greeted Mahmoud Akbar in rapid-fire Arabic.

  “Hana, don’t do that to me,” the balding middle-aged man replied in English. “I moved to Baltimore from Beirut when I was thirteen. All I understood about what you just said was something about the sun shining on me, and it’s been cloudy all morning.”

  Arabic is a rich language with a myriad of options for even simple greetings.

  “That’s close,” Hana answered in English. “It was a greeting and a blessing for the sun to rise on you with a warmth that comforts your aching bones.”

  Mr. Akbar smiled. He was cutting slices for shawarma sandwiches from a large roll of meat turning on a spit in front of an exposed vertical cooking element. Another worker quickly scooped up the meat for the deli’s most popular lunchtime offering. Mr. Akbar wiped his forehead with a small towel he kept tucked in his apron strings.

  “What would you like?” he asked.

  “Breakfast and lunch, please,” she answered. “But not too much. I have to work this afternoon, not take a nap.”

  “Labneh and makanek?”

  Hana nodded. “Yes.”

  The owner handed the long knife to his son, Gadi, a sour young man who never seemed interested in talking with Hana in any language. Mr. Akbar scooped labneh dip, a yogurt seasoned with cucumbers, dill, garlic, and salt, into a small bowl along with a few thinly sliced strips of fresh cucumber. Hana dipped a cucumber strip into the yogurt and waited as the owner dropped several two-inch makanek sausages, a combination of lamb and beef, onto a grill top.

  Mr. Akbar yelled at one of his workers, “Rusty! Drop more fries!”

  “You’d think they’d realize when the fries are running low,” Mr. Akbar grumbled when he faced Hana.

  He turned the miniature sausages on the grill. A few moments later, he placed them in a small bowl and drizzled pomegranate molasses over them. Hana placed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. While she waited for her change, she ate a bite of savory sausage enhanced by the sweetness of the molasses.

  “Your makanek are delicious,” Hana said, wiping her lips with a thin paper napkin. “As good as the ones I ate in Lebanon when I went to the American School for a high school debate competition.”

  Mr. Akbar leaned over and spoke in a low voice to Hana. “I’m sure your father was very proud of you then and now,” he said. “But I’m worried about Gadi. He’s going out at night to meetings and won’t tell me what they’re about. And I’ve caught him looking at religious stuff on his phone that I don’t like or agree with.”

  “What sort of things?” Hana asked, her heart sinking.

  “Not good.” Mr. Akbar glanced over his shoulder at his son. “I know it’s Wahhabi-influenced, and when I mentioned it he insisted I call it Salafism. We had a big blowup over it this morning when we were getting ready to open the restaurant.”

  Hana looked at Gadi, who was now expertly slicing shawarma meat. Seeing a long, sharp knife in his hands so soon after watching the Neumann video made her shiver.

  Mr. Akbar continued, “He says the Saudis believe it, and Allah has blessed them so much that they’re the richest people in the world.”

  “They have the most oil in the world.”

  Mr. Akbar pointed up. “Who put the oil under the sands where the Prophet lived?”

  Hana had never revealed her Christian faith to the owner of the restaurant, and she knew he assumed she was a secular Muslim like himself. She hesitated. Rusty, the boy cooking the French fries, called out to Mr. Akbar.

  “I’ll pray for Gadi and for you,” Hana said quickly.

  Mr. Akbar gave her a puzzled look as he scurried off. Hana never wore a head covering, and in Islam, no woman could pray without one. Thus, for her to offer to pray made no sense to him.

  Hana finished her meal, all the time watching Gadi. Her head might be uncovered, but her heart was wide open, and she prayed to the God of heaven and earth for this father and his son.

  CHAPTER 4

  Jakob stopped for a fast-food cheeseburger on the way back to his office. A first-generation immigrant from the former Soviet Union, he reveled in every aspect of freedom and had no interest in restricting himself by following Jewish dietary rules. However, when eating out with other Jews, he didn’t intentionally offend them. Instead, he waited to see what they ordered before making a selection. He loved all different kinds of food, and finding something he liked wasn’t a challenge.

  Jakob inherited his fierce love of freedom from his father, a Jewish refusenik who sought for years to flee communism but was denied exit visas for himself and his family. Because of his open desire to emigrate, Anatoly Brodsky suffered persecution, including being sentenced to a six-month stint in jail. The elder Brodsky had passed along his broad stubborn streak to his youngest son. Only after the Berlin Wall fell was the family able to leave the Soviet Union and settle in New York City. A large, framed photo of the Statue of Liberty hung in the living room of the house on Long Island where Jakob lived from age ten forward. Jakob’s father was a skilled aeronautics worker, and his mother, a classically trained musician, found part-time employment with a second-tier orchestra. Once immersed in America, Jakob quickly lost his Russian accent, and the intonations of New York took over.

  Jakob’s representation of Ben Neumann came through the recommendation of a former client named Ken Smith. Jakob agreed to meet with Ben and listened sympathetically to what took place in Hurva Square, but it wasn’t until he watched the surveillance video on Ben’s laptop that a familiar fire had begun to burn in Jakob’s belly. To him, it was a sign that he should consider taking the case. But there was one question he had to ask before allowing himself to take the next step.

  “Why do you want to file a lawsuit?” he asked Ben. “It’s just going to make you think more about your loss.”

  “Do you think that isn’t already the case?” Ben asked. “Every time I look at my daughter I see her mother’s face. And when I kiss Sadie’s cheek, my lips touch the scar left by my wife’s murderer. The love of my life is gone, but she would want me to do something, anything, that might make it less likely for another family to suffer like we have. When I read about the antiterrorism laws and this type of lawsuit, I knew I had to pursue it as far as I could.”

  As Jakob listened, he reached one conclusion: if given the chance, Ben Neumann could share his story in a way that would soften the heart of the most callous juror.

  “Ken said you weren’t intimidated by a challenge,” Ben continued. “He told me how you dug and dug until you found out who was responsible for the injuries to his son. The other lawyers I’ve talked to tell me that’s what I need—someone who can dig and find out if the murderers acted alone or not.”

  “I have no experience
in this area of the law,” Jakob said. “And it would be very expensive to investigate and litigate this type of claim.”

  “I understand,” Ben said with obvious disappointment. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.” He closed his laptop and stood up.

  “Don’t leave,” Jakob said, holding up his hand. “Not until you look over a proposed attorney-client contract.”

  Traffic was snarled due to an accident, so it took Jakob twice as long as it should have to reach his office located in a two-story building that contained eight suites. One of the downstairs offices served as a common conference room. Five of the eight tenants were lawyers. The nonlawyers included an insurance agent, a financial planner, and a naturopath.

  A receptionist on the main floor answered the phone for all the tenants. Maddie had the impressive ability to instantly give the right greeting depending on which light blinked on the phone.

  “Jakob Brodsky, attorney at law,” she said to a caller as Jakob entered the building. Then, after a short pause, “I’ll put you right through to him.”

  “That was mean!” Jakob called out as he dashed up the stairs, taking two at a time.

  His voice mail would turn on by the fifth ring. Often, people looking for a personal injury lawyer were working their way down a list of attorneys and wouldn’t leave a message. He fumbled his key for a second, but managing to open the door, he lunged for the phone on the corner of his desk and pressed the receive button.