Hana fixed a pot of tea that she drank in English fashion with milk and sugar. While she waited for the tea to brew, she turned on her laptop with an Arabic keyboard, responded to personal emails, and reviewed her social media accounts in Israel. Tonight, she received an immediate greeting on social media from Farah, one of her first cousins and the mother of two small boys. Another cousin, Fabia, was the mother of a five-year-old girl named Khadijah. The sisters had similar names but starkly different personalities. Fabia was fiery, while Farah was calm. Hana typed a quick question to Farah in Arabic, which, like Hebrew, is written right to left:
What are you doing up so late?
Barak has a fever. I gave him medicine and I am waiting for him to go to sleep.
Barak was the younger of her boys. Farah continued:
I was going to write you tomorrow. We visited Uncle Anwar this morning. He’s feeble but spoke your name several times.
Anwar and Hana’s great-grandfather Mathiu were brothers. Her great-grandfather was dead, and ninety-eight-year-old Anwar was the last of his generation still living. Together, the two men were the spiritual pillars of the entire clan. In the 1950s, they had led the family out of the orthodox Christian faith that had been their spiritual home for centuries to join a new Protestant group founded by Scottish missionaries who came to Nazareth from the Hebrides islands. Anwar had always held a special place in Hana’s heart. It touched her that he was thinking of her out of all his many relatives as he prepared to leave earth for heaven. She typed a simple response:
Why?
I do not know, but when he said your name I felt the presence of God.
Hana typed a quick response:
What does it mean?
She waited, but no response came. Hana stepped into the kitchen and fixed her tea. Returning to the computer, she saw that Farah had answered:
I believe he was praying for you.
In her heart, she sensed Farah was right, but then a different possibility flashed across her mind. Hana’s fingers flew across the keyboard:
Maybe he was thinking about Anna who recognized Jesus as the Messiah when his parents brought him to the temple.
A man who knew the Bible well might live in its pages as his connection with this life weakened.
No. You always try to direct attention away from yourself.
Hana smiled. Her cousin knew her well. Hana had achieved extraordinary academic and professional success as a modern Arab woman, yet she kept herself veiled—not on the outside, but on the inside.
If that is true, what was the reason for his prayers?
I am going back to see him in a few days so he can lay his hands on the boys and bless them. I will ask him about you.
Farah typed another question:
When Anwar passes will you return for the time of mourning?
Burial of the dead in Hana’s family took place as soon as possible, much like the practice of their Jewish neighbors. Relatives weren’t expected at the grave if the circumstances made it difficult. There followed a period of concentrated mourning lasting seven to ten days. Custom and respect for the departed made an appearance at the family house during this period mandatory.
Yes.
Her cousin replied:
Barak is asleep. Sometimes I think about our talks in the night. Be blessed.
Farah signed off.
As preteen girls, Hana, Farah, Fabia, and another cousin, Palma, shared the same bedroom on the third floor of the family house. On hot summer nights they would lie in the dark and share the whispered fantasies of girls dreaming about the future. Farah always wanted to be a mother and a homemaker. Fabia proclaimed she would travel the globe, but she’d never gone farther than Beirut or Beersheba. Hana had aspired to be a schoolteacher in Nazareth and voiced no great ambition to see the wider world. Now she was the one living alone in a faraway city that none of the girls had known existed when they stared out their bedroom windows at the distant stars.
CHAPTER 6
Jakob sat alone at the raucous sports bar drinking an icy mug of draft beer. The NBA play-offs were underway, but Jakob wasn’t interested. His European roots were deep enough that he was a die-hard soccer fan. Ben Neumann had left their meeting without committing to help fund the lawsuit. Trying to convince an unwilling client to pursue litigation was harder than pushing a rope up a ramp. Jakob’s phone lit up with an incoming call. It was Ben.
Forgetting about his beer, Jakob went outside and raised the phone to his ear. “Ben?”
“Hey, I’m sorry to call after business hours, but I know you need an answer for Mr. Lowenstein. I called Gloria’s father and mother and talked over the situation with them. Her dad has been in favor of suing from the beginning, but her mother is more practical like Gloria was. Also, she’s worried that if we stir up a bunch of trouble with a terrorist organization, it might put Sadie in danger.”
Sadie’s safety was an issue Jakob had considered but dismissed as remote. He was a warrior who wanted to take the fight to the enemy. Let them experience fear, even if it was limited to their bank accounts.
“Her father had a question,” Ben continued. “Would the federal government get involved if we uncover a terrorist cell that isn’t already on their list of dangerous groups?”
“Maybe, but I doubt they’d directly help with our case. Their interest would be in national security.”
A clearly intoxicated couple walked past Jakob toward a yellow sports car. Whichever one drove out of the parking lot was a DWI waiting to happen.
“Gloria’s father is willing to contribute ten thousand dollars toward the costs of the case,” Ben said. “If he does that, I’ll use part of the remaining life insurance money to come up with the rest. Sadie’s college fund will have to wait.”
“That’s great.”
“There’s one stipulation,” Ben added. “Gloria’s parents don’t want Sadie’s name to appear on any of the paperwork filed in court.”
“We can’t agree to that,” Jakob answered quickly. “A huge part of any damage model would be Sadie’s loss. If we take that out, we’re left with only you.”
“I lost a lot.”
“And I don’t want to minimize that in any way. But there’s no substitute for the sympathy a jury will have for a small child whose mother has been cruelly taken from her. And Sadie is the one who has the physical scars that speak louder than—”
“This is nonnegotiable,” Ben cut in. “After listening to my mother-in-law, I agree with her. I want Sadie as far away from the case as possible. Her name can’t be mentioned when you play the surveillance video.”
“The jury will want to know what happened to her in the attack,” Jakob protested.
“You can ask me about it when I’m on the witness stand.”
Jakob paused and tried to quickly formulate a counterargument. Nothing came to mind.
“I’ll have to let Leon Lowenstein know about this,” he warned. “Remember, the partners of his firm have to approve moving forward, and there’s a good chance leaving Sadie out will influence their decision on whether or not to help.”
“Then it’s better for this to come out now instead of later.”
Jakob beat a tactical retreat. “Okay, you’re the boss. As soon as I have the twenty thousand dollars from you and Gloria’s parents in my trust account, I’ll call Mr. Lowenstein.”
“Send me a text with wiring instructions, and you’ll have the money tomorrow,” Ben said. “Thanks again for being patient with me and understanding my need to process everything.”
The call ended. Jakob sent the bank routing and account numbers. Returning to the bar, he discovered his beer gone, the table wiped clean.
True to the word Anwar had given her when she was a little girl, Hana often woke up in the night to pray and seek the Lord. She didn’t worry that she might be tired in the morning. Instead, she slipped out of bed in anticipation of what the night watch might hold in store for her.
There was also h
istorical precedent for Hana’s middle-of-the-night wakefulness. Throughout much of human history, divided sleep was the norm for most people. The invention of electric lights pushed bedtimes later and later, and humanity shifted toward a single installment of sleep in a twenty-four-hour period. Hana preferred the ancient rhythm.
It was 2:22 a.m. when Hana awoke. The street outside her house was deserted. The voices of the insects had fallen silent. Refreshed by several hours of sleep, her mind was uncluttered, her spirit clear. Sometimes she prayed while walking through the house. Other nights, she sat on the sofa in the living room and read the Bible or listened to music. Often, she simply sat in expectant silence.
Tonight she thought about Mathiu and Anwar. Both men had a deep relationship with God and brought an atmosphere of respect with them wherever they went. Hana had witnessed the power of their spoken and unspoken influence. Proud men became more humble; humble men received confidence.
Hana slipped a robe over her nightgown and sat on a short sofa covered with a velvety dark blue fabric. She curled her legs beneath her and turned on a lamp. The lamp provided a soft, diffuse light. She picked up the journal she kept on an end table and opened to a blank page. She wrote Anwar’s name at the top and began to write and to pray that he would live out the fullness of his days and peacefully transition to the timeless realm. She also prayed that the reason he’d spoken her name to Farah would come to light. Hana then moved to Farah and Fabia and their children. There was a long list of family members waiting in line for prayer, but Hana stopped after lifting up Khadijah and thought about another little girl—Sadie Neumann.
Tears welled up in Hana’s eyes as the image of Sadie on the surveillance tape replayed in her mind. Anyone with a sensitive heart would feel sympathy for Sadie, but Hana’s grief felt personal. She tightly gripped the pen in her hand but didn’t write a prayer. Instead, she reached out with imaginary arms to embrace a little girl she’d never met in person. She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes for a moment. With a sigh of compassion, she released a final prayer and made a simple notation in her journal: “Prayed for Sadie Neumann—may she find healing, comfort, and a peace that passes understanding.”
Awaking the second time shortly after dawn, Hana ground coffee beans for a cup of strong espresso. Occasionally, she brewed traditional Arab coffee flavored with cardamom, but usually she preferred just a simple jolt of caffeine. She might drink another cup later at the office, but the coffee at the office was a different beverage from what she fixed at home. Hana watched Israeli news reports on her computer while eating a breakfast of yogurt, fresh fruit, and sweet pastry. By 7:10 she was out the door and on her way to the office. If she waited another fifteen minutes to leave, the twenty-minute commute would take thirty minutes longer.
A normal workweek for an associate attorney like Hana ran fifty to sixty hours. With the Jezreel Software acquisition moving off the front burner, Hana focused on a project for an Israeli oil and gas company that was seeking to cut a deal with an American partner. Shortly before noon, she stood up and rubbed her eyes. Her phone buzzed. It was Janet.
“Do you want me to pick up something for your lunch?” the secretary asked. “You’ve been holed up in there all morning. I can lower your food to you in a basket.”
“No, thanks,” Hana answered. “I’m going out for a salad.”
“You should try that new place beside the Hughes Building. They have a big spread with lots of options.”
“Are you going there?”
“I’m in the mood for wood-fired pizza, and I’m meeting a high school friend I haven’t seen in fifteen years.”
Hana lowered the phone receiver. There was a knock on her door. It was Gladys Applewhite.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” said the plump, gray-haired woman with the aristocratic southern accent. “I hope you don’t have lunch plans.”
“Not yet. I was just talking to Janet about where I should go.”
“Mr. Lowenstein and Mr. Collins want you to join them. They’re finishing brunch in conference room D.”
“Do I need my laptop?”
“My only instructions were to bring you.” Gladys led the way to a smaller conference room in the interior of the office. It was a windowless space decorated in a spare style. Abstract art adorned the walls. There were ten chairs around a glass-topped conference table. Against one wall was a sleek sideboard with breakfast foods arranged on silver platters beside china plates, cloth napkins, and silver utensils. A young man was loading dirty dishes onto a cart. The only lawyers in the room were Mr. Lowenstein and Mr. Collins.
“Hana, I’m glad Gladys caught you,” Mr. Lowenstein said when she appeared. “Join us. Fix a plate. It’s self-serve.”
“You want me to eat?”
“It would be rude to take you away from lunch and not offer you something. There’s plenty.”
Hana picked up a plate and placed a few pieces of freshly cut fruit on it.
“Make sure you get a piece of the cinnamon French toast,” Mr. Collins added. “It’s made from a sliced baguette that tastes like Paris.”
Hana found half a piece of the toast and added it to her plate.
“Sit at the head of the table,” Mr. Lowenstein said. “Jim and I will sit on either side.”
Feeling awkward, Hana sat down in a large chair that threatened to swallow her. She eyed Mr. Collins, whose expression revealed nothing about his thoughts.
“You eat while we talk,” Mr. Lowenstein said.
Hana put a piece of pineapple in her mouth.
“The equity partners met this morning,” Mr. Collins said. “One of the items on the agenda was the Neumann case.”
The news wasn’t a shock to Hana, but she was surprised at how quickly things were developing. She swallowed the pineapple and nodded in acknowledgment as she cut off a small piece of French toast.
“Jakob Brodsky and his client met the financial terms I laid out for him the other day after you left the conference room,” Mr. Lowenstein said, explaining the cost advance deposit requirements.
“But that wasn’t the end of the conversation,” Mr. Collins said, glancing at his law partner. “Following a lengthy discussion, the consensus around the table was that the firm shouldn’t become involved unless you are willing to take a major role in the case.”
Hana swallowed even though her bite of French toast wasn’t thoroughly chewed. She drank a few sips of water. “Sorry,” she said hoarsely.
“Other lawyers here at the firm will also assist in the case,” Mr. Lowenstein said. “But you’re the key. I know it was hard for you to watch the surveillance video of the attack. It was tough on me, too. And the way both of us reacted proves why those who are responsible for Gloria Neumann’s death and the serious injury to her daughter should be held accountable.”
Hana’s throat cleared, but she took another quick sip of water to be sure.
“We don’t think we should order you to do it,” Mr. Collins said. “This type of case wasn’t included in your job description. We often tell associates what to do regardless of their personal feelings, but that would be wrong here.”
Hana was calm and professional on the outside. Inside, her heart was beating so hard that it echoed in her ears.
“So, I have a choice?” she asked with a glance at Mr. Lowenstein.
“Yes,” Mr. Collins replied. “Even though Leon, who only goes to synagogue on the high holy days, mentioned something about God bringing you to the law firm for just this situation.”
“And how much time do you spend in church?” Mr. Lowenstein shot back.
“Not enough to invoke God’s name in our partner meetings,” Mr. Collins replied gruffly.
The exchange between the two men gave Hana a moment to compose herself. “What do you mean by a major role?” she asked.
“Mostly in the investigative stage,” Mr. Lowenstein answered. “Once we haul a solvent defendant into a US courtroom, the case is on home turf, and o
ur litigators can take over. You speak Arabic, Hebrew, and English—”
“And French,” Mr. Collins added. “Americans are so pathetic in their linguistic limitations.”
“I barely know enough French to guess what’s on the menu at a fancy restaurant,” Mr. Lowenstein said with a smile. “Anyway, you would oversee the legal aspects of the investigation and file any actions or pleadings necessary in Israel to uncover information.”
“When I practiced law in Israel I was a solicitor, not a barrister,” Hana replied, using the English distinction between a business lawyer and a litigator.
“Then you can hire local Israeli counsel to help you,” Mr. Lowenstein said.
Hana felt like she was standing in a tank of water that was inching toward her chin. The emotional stress of working on the Neumann case would be amplified by an unfamiliar legal landscape.
“And I’m sure we’d hire one or more private investigators,” Mr. Lowenstein said. “They would report to you.”
“What would Jakob Brodsky do?” she asked.
Mr. Lowenstein coughed and cleared his throat. “Stay out of our way as much as possible, with just enough involvement to justify paying him a fee. After our meeting yesterday, I asked Gladys to find out everything she could about him. He handles a lot of cases no lawyer with a decent book of business would touch.”
“Nobody wanted to help Ben Neumann,” Hana pointed out.
“Brodsky is also in debt up to his eyeballs and barely scraping by financially. I’m surprised he was able to come up with the cost advance deposit we required before we’d consider joining the case.”
“I think the client put up all the money,” Mr. Collins said.
Hana was puzzled by the level of negativity directed toward Jakob Brodsky by the older lawyers. Mr. Collins checked his watch.
Hana glanced down at her plate. She’d not gone beyond the single bite of French toast and sampling the fruit. Her appetite was gone. “May I have some time to think about it?” she asked.
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