The Trials of Zion

by Alan M. Dershowitz

  In the audience sat Faisal’s mother, and sitting at the back, as he had during the preliminary hearing, was a disguised Rashid.

  Considering the enormous magnitude of the crime, the trial proceedings would be a relatively low-key event—at least in the courtroom itself. Outside, the entire world would be watching and waiting to decide whether the Israelis had caught the right person from the right group.

  Because there was no jury and the judge was entirely familiar with the prosecution’s evidence, there would be no lengthy opening statements from the lawyers, as there normally was in the United States. The trial would begin with the evidence.

  “Please introduce your evidence, Mr. Arad,” the judge said to the prosecutor.

  Habash took a deep breath, and Abe attempted to give him a reassuring smile. The young lawyer didn’t return the gesture, and Abe noticed that his clothes weren’t pressed. This was unlike Habash, who was typically fastidious.

  Abe’s attention shifted to the prosecutor. Yehuda Arad stood up and spoke directly to the judge. “Our first item of evidence is a videotape. Please lower the lights.”

  There was a murmuring among the spectators as two court officers dimmed the lights and a large white screen was wheeled in from a side entrance. After a few minutes of preparations, the prosecutor clicked a remote control, and suddenly a familiar, indeed iconic, image flashed on the screen. There was the smiling late president of the United States, surrounded by the late prime minister of Israel and the late prime minister and president of the Palestinian Authority. Everyone in the courtroom knew that within seconds they would all be blown to smithereens by the bomb that Faisal Husseini was accused of planting. Everyone in the courtroom had seen these disturbing images dozens of times on television, but there was something different about seeing them on a giant screen in a courtroom in the presence of the man accused of planting the deadly bomb.

  Abe had been prepared for the emotion of this moment, but even he was moved by the horror of what was about to happen. Next to him Habash shook his head sadly. Whether it was because of the explosion or because of the impact on the outcome of the case, Abe wasn’t sure.

  The two-minute segment was played first at ordinary speed. After it was done, Abe waited for Mr. Arad’s next move. It was to play the tape again, this time in slow motion.

  Abe glanced at his client to glean any reaction—nothing. Faisal sat on the other side of Habash impassively, his face pale and his body slight. There was no emotion in his face at all, especially not, Abe noted, pride.

  When the playing of the footage was finished, the prosecutor announced, “That, Your Honor, is the corpus delicti, the body of the crime.”

  Abe rose. “The defense concedes the corpus delicti and stipulates that this grievous crime in fact occurred. Now all they need to do is prove that my client, Faisal Husseini, had anything to do with it, other than observe it on video, as we all did, and perhaps try to videotape the crime scene, which is not a crime. The videotape we just saw does not connect my client to the crime in any way.”

  Mr. Arad nodded his head in a mock show of deference to Abe. Arad was nothing if not theatrical. “That is the next phase of our case, and we call as our first witness the defendant himself, Faisal Husseini, who knows better than anyone that it was he who planted the bomb.”

  In an American court, it would be improper for the prosecutor to call a defendant as a witness, because the defendant has a privilege against self-incrimination and the jury may not hold it against a defendant that he refused to testify. In contrast, under Israeli law a judge is allowed to consider the defendant’s refusal to testify. Therefore, prosecutors routinely call the defendant as a witness so that the judge will see him refuse to testify and count it against him.

  There was a silence in the courtroom—a rarity in Israel. Nobody but Abe expected Faisal to testify as a witness, and all eyes turned first to the defendant, who sat stone-faced, and then to Abe himself, who slowly rose to speak. Habash stared straight ahead, not moving, careful not to give away what was about to happen. For everyone in the courtroom expected Abe to assert his client’s refusal to testify, as he was entitled to do under Israeli law, even though it could hurt Faisal in the eyes of the judge.

  Instead Abe turned to Faisal and directed a simple question to him. “Do you wish to testify?”

  Without saying a word, Faisal stood up, slowly walked to the witness box with the aid of his cane, raised his right hand, and, in accented English, said, “I shall tell the deep truth.”

  It was the first time Faisal had spoken in public since his arrest, and the crowd burst into a collective commotion. Habash, for the first time that morning, looked interested in what was about to happen. Abe could hear the sounds of Faisal’s mother wailing and the fervent murmuring of the reporters. Faisal seemed unaffected by the reaction his unexpected decision had elicited, and Abe thought what a composed client he was. He couldn’t recall having a client he felt surer of being able to withstand a prosecutor’s tricks.

  Abe allowed himself a moment of enjoyment at the look of shock on Arad’s face. It was clear that Arad hadn’t prepared for Faisal to testify. When he asked, “Will you please tell the court your name and address,” it was clearly to buy himself time. Habash actually smiled, so impressed was he by Abe’s simple victory here.

  Faisal’s back was straight and his voice was calm when he answered. “You know my name and address. That is not what you need me to tell you.”

  Arad was thrown off his game. When a second question didn’t come right away, Faisal spoke in a clear, steady tone, the tone of a cleric or an esteemed teacher. “What you need me to tell you is that I placed the bomb that killed the presidents and prime ministers at the American Colony Hotel, and I am so proud of having done so. I am sad that other people, some of them innocent, had to die, but that is the way of war, and we are at war with anyone who would recognize a Jewish state on Muslim land, or a Western colonial state on Arab land.”

  The length of Faisal’s speech allowed Arad a moment to compose himself. When it was his turn to speak, he did so loudly. Gesticulating wildly, he intoned, “Did you work together with others to plant the bomb?”

  “Of course. One person alone could not have accomplished this monumental achievement.”

  “Who else did you work with?” It was clear to both Habash and Abe that Arad expected Faisal to answer everything as openly as he’d answered the first question.

  “That I will not tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they are my brothers and sisters, and they must remain free to complete their work, while I am privileged to die as a martyr.” Faisal raised his eyes to the crowd and spoke not to the prosecutor but to the room. Abe sensed that he was speaking directly to his brother.

  His words stopped Arad in his tracks. Eventually Arad said, “But, Mr. Husseini, how do you know you will die? Did your jailers not save you after an attempt on your life?”

  “They did what they did for their own reasons. But it is no matter, for I am already dead. Rotting in an Israeli prison, isolated from my brothers and sisters, is death. All that is missing is paradise, but I shall be there before too long.”

  Arad took a moment to collect his thoughts, looked ever so briefly at Abe, and then consulted a notepad that rested on his desk. His demeanor seemed to change, and Abe expected that his next line of questioning would be designed so that Faisal’s answers laid bare the conspiracy. Habash squirmed in his chair. Abe placed a hand on his shoulder, to remind him to retain his composure.

  The prosecutor then began to lob a barrage of questions at Faisal. “How did you get around the security measures that were in place to protect the dignitaries that day?”

  “That is our secret. If we reveal it, we will not be able to use it again.”

  Abe was impressed with Faisal’s clever response but worried that it would work against his acquittal. And with each question Arad’s voice grew louder, and large beads of persp
iration gathered on his forehead.

  “Where did you obtain the bomb?”

  “I will not tell you that.”

  “Who taught you to detonate it?”

  “I will not tell you that.”

  “Do you plan additional bombings and assassinations?”

  “We will kill anyone who collaborates with the Zionist entity or recognizes it.”

  “Including Arabs and Muslims?”

  “Especially Arabs and Muslims.”

  “Do you plan to refuse to answer all further questions from me, inquiring about the details of the crime?”

  “That depends on the question. I will tell you nothing that hurts our cause or helps yours. But I will tell the truth about everything else. I want the world to know what I did, what my holy group did, and why we did it.”

  The prosecutor turned to the judge and said, “I have no other questions, but I need no more questions or answers. The defendant has admitted in open court, voluntarily and without coercion, that he planted the fatal bomb and that he worked with others to do so. That testimony, coupled with the video, satisfies our burden of proving the murders, the conspiracy to murder, and the defendant’s involvement in this conspiracy. The prosecution rests.”

  Abe jumped to his feet. “Not so fast, Mr. Prosecutor.” There was an audible reaction from the crowd; nobody knew what Abe was going to do. Even experienced courtroom observers, and the press, did not know what to expect. Abe walked to the middle of the courtroom, speaking as he went. “Direct examination cannot be considered, under Israeli law, until the opposing side has had a full and fair opportunity to cross-examine the witness. Faisal, though my client, was called as a prosecution witness. Now I must be given the opportunity to cross-examine him.”

  Mr. Arad sprang into action. “But he’s your client. You can’t cross-examine your own client!”

  “Where is that written?” Abe replied, retrieving an Israeli law book from Habash. “It says here that ‘the direct testimony of a witness shall be struck if the witness refuses to answer relevant questions on cross-examination.’ The prosecution called my client on direct, and now I insist on my right to cross-examine him.”

  The judge interceded before the prosecutor could object. “Why don’t we dispense with labels here and just say that Mr. Ringel should be allowed to conduct further examination of his client. He can ask him relevant questions. Let’s see if we need to decide whether to consider it cross-examination or a variation on direct or redirect examination.”

  Arad was clearly annoyed as he returned to his seat. Abe took a deep breath, rearranged his legal robes, and stepped forward. Habash sat straight in his chair.

  “Mr. Husseini,” Abe began respectfully, approaching the man, “you understand, do you not, that you must answer all relevant questions I ask you that pertain to the testimony you gave on direct examination by the prosecutor, and that if you do not answer my questions, your direct testimony will be struck from the record and disregarded? You do understand that, right?”

  Faisal, as he had done throughout the proceedings, remained still. “I am a simple man, unlearned in the law. If you tell me that is the law, I understand. I have told the deep truth. I will continue to tell the truth about everything that neither hurts my holy group nor helps my unholy enemies. I am speaking the truth.”

  Abe nodded. “That is for the judge to decide. You understand that?”

  “If you say so.”

  “You have told the court that you planted the bomb, correct?”

  “Yes, I did place it where it exploded.”

  Abe was hoping that this would be his answer. “Now,” he said, pitching his voice so that the entire room could hear him, “you have sworn to tell the truth about everything that does not hurt your case or help your enemy, right?”

  “That is right. I have nothing to hide, except secrets that help the Jews.”

  “Okay,” Abe continued, “the Israeli forensic investigators know precisely where the bomb was planted. They have kept that information secret in order to help their cause. So you would not be revealing any secret information to your enemies if you provide that information to the court. In fact, you would be hurting your enemies’ cause.” He spun around and walked purposefully to Faisal. “So please tell the court precisely where you placed the bomb.” Abe paused for a second, and then, in a firm stage whisper directed at Husseini, he added, “If you know.”

  The last three words conveyed, in a not-so-subtle way, the essence of Abe’s direct challenge to his own client. The Israeli authorities had withheld two crucial pieces of forensic information about the bombing: The first was the nature of the bomb—its components, the type of explosives used, the triggering mechanism. Second was the bomb’s precise location when it exploded—whether it was under the stage, in a vehicle, in a briefcase, et cetera. They withheld this information in order to be able to test the truthfulness of any confession or claim of responsibility. This was particularly important in this kind of case because there would likely be numerous confessions and claims of responsibility. The person who actually planted the bomb might not know its precise nature, but he would surely know where he planted it. If Faisal Husseini did not know precisely where the bomb was when it exploded, then he was not the person who planted it and he was lying when he claimed responsibility for that criminal act.

  Faisal Husseini’s calm demeanor finally slipped. He shifted in his seat, moving forward. He looked angrily at Abe. Then he turned his face away from his lawyer and said to no one in particular, “What else can one expect of a Jewish lawyer? Trickery, deception, disloyalty, perversion of trust, sneakiness, dishonesty—you are trying to lay a trap for your own client. You are a Judas, without even the excuse of the coins.” By the end of his speech, his voice was loud and his face red.

  Despite the charged atmosphere in the air—everyone in the room waited to hear what Abe’s response to this sort of slander would be—he responded calmly. “Please answer the question.” He leaned on the defense table and crossed his arms casually. “It is a simple one. The person who actually planted the bomb would know where he placed it. A person who falsely claimed to plant the bomb, and had nothing to do with it, would not know where another person, with whom he did not conspire, had placed it. Which person are you?”

  There was a palpable tension in the room by now. Everyone was straining forward, desperate to hear what Faisal would say, including the prosecution and Habash.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Abe saw Rashid smiling at Abe’s clever tactic. Abe suppressed his own smile.

  Husseini turned to the judge and asked, “Do I have to answer that question?”

  Judge Shamgar replied in a steady voice, “No, you do not. But if you do not, I will be required under law to strike and disregard your direct testimony.”

  Mr. Arad could no longer stand it. The prosecutor rose to his feet, nearly shouting, “This is a setup. Mr. Ringel arranged this entire charade. Mr. Husseini knows where the bomb was planted, because he planted it. But Mr. Ringel told him not to answer the question so that his direct testimony would be struck and we would be left with only a circumstantial case. It’s utterly transparent.”

  At this there was a rumbling among the viewers. Abe turned to Arad, raising his arms in a gesture of innocence. But before he could defend his tactics, the judge demanded, “Mr. Arad, you are making a serious charge against a well-known lawyer. You’ll be required to prove it.”

  “I can prove it, Your Honor. Mr. Ringel’s reputation precedes him. He’s known in the United States as a tricky lawyer who has pulled similar deceptive tricks, such as putting a defendant’s identical twin on the stand and having the victim identify the wrong person. In Israel lawyers don’t do such things.”

  Abe stood quietly as the prosecutor attacked him, but Habash looked ready to leap to his feet to defend him. Abe gently shook his head, and Habash settled down. Abe had been through this before, and he knew that the best response to such personal attacks
was no response at all. Let the judge deal with it.

  Judge Shamgar looked sternly at the prosecutor. “I hate to make comparisons, but you’re sounding a bit like the defendant in your accusations against Mr. Ringel—‘tricky,’ ‘deceptive.’ In my courtroom not only are the defendants presumed innocent, so are the lawyers. Therefore, unless you can back up your charge, I will ignore it and ask you to apologize to Mr. Ringel, who is a guest in our country.”

  The prosecutor sat down, sheepishly whispering, “Slicha”—Hebrew for “I’m sorry”—in Abe’s direction.

  “Then let’s get back to the business at hand,” the judge ordered. “Mr. Husseini, it is your choice. Will you answer Mr. Ringel’s question?”

  Now Abe himself was straining forward, anxious to hear his client’s answer. He knew very well that Husseini wasn’t stupid, and he knew that he’d do everything he could to one-up Abe. And Abe was right, for now it was Husseini’s turn to be tricky. “I will need to confer with my lawyer before I decide whether to answer that question,” he said, glaring at Abe.

  XXIV

  The Button

  NAWAL WASN’T HER USUAL cheery self on their walk. In fact, after ten minutes of wandering through the garden, she retrieved a cell phone from her pocket and placed a call. Then she took Emma by the arm and practically ran with her to the other side of the garden, a spot where there were paths cut through a grove of orange trees. The gunman followed at a leisurely pace.

  “Sit here!” Nawal thrust Emma onto a wrought-iron seat and paced frantically for five minutes until Mohammed showed up. He barked an order at the gunman, who shrugged lazily and left.

  Nawal drew Mohammed twenty or so feet away from her. The two of them conversed in Arabic, low and intensely, just as Salma and Yassir had in the hallway.

  Emma nervously toyed with a fraying edge in her new purple dress, trying desperately to pick out words she understood and to guess at the meaning of their conversation.