The records room was a mess, but he quickly located a drawer marked “American Colony.” It was filled with papers, in Arabic, Hebrew, and English—as well as news clips and videos. He found one file with the name of the murdered prime minister of the Palestinian Authority. It contained six pages. Without pausing to read them, he took out his old Minox minicamera and photographed them.
As quickly as he had entered, he left, barely nodding to the television-watching guards. He had been in and out in less than five minutes. It was like the old days, but Shimshon suspected that the stakes were even higher.
XXXIII
The Photos
UNTIL THIS CASE Shimshon hadn’t used his small darkroom much, and he’d thought about giving it to Mars and Zara, who had begged him to turn it into a game room. As he ran up the steps to his building, his old Minox in hand, he was glad that he’d resisted their pleading.
When he opened the door, he saw Abe waiting for him at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee and reading through a stack of legal pages.
Without a word Abe followed Shimshon into the darkroom. “How long does it take to develop the film?”
“About ten minutes,” Shimshon replied, shutting the door, stripping off his coat, and rolling up his sleeves. “We have to be careful not to expose it. I’m not going back there.”
“Okay, okay.” Abe consciously took a step back so that Shimshon had room to breathe. Abe didn’t want to make him nervous. “Do it right,” he said nervously.
Abe hated waiting. Lines were the bane of his existence. He was sure that his blood pressure actually rose when he had to wait in line. These ten minutes were a living hell, because he could only stand around and watch.
After a few minutes, images began to appear on the negatives, though it was impossible to tell what they were, since they were still sitting in tubs full of liquid. “They came out!” Abe shouted.
“Of course they did.” Shimshon shot him a look. “What did you expect?”
“How soon before we can read them?” Abe reached his hand out, but Shimshon batted it away.
“Savlanut, Abe, savlanut,” Shimshon repeated. “Patience. A couple more minutes.”
After a few more dips and dabs, Shimshon pulled the shots from their bath, opened the door, and brought the positives to the dining room. He laid them on the table. “Clean as can be,” he said proudly.
Abe still couldn’t make them out. “What are they?”
“There, precisely what you wanted.” Shimshon pointed at one of the shots. “A report on the condition of the prime minister of the Palestinian Authority. No autopsy, but a description of the outside of his body. It’s not pretty.”
The text in the photo was in Arabic, a language that Abe didn’t speak and definitely couldn’t read. “What does it say?”
Shimshon read, “ ‘The body of Prime Minister Chalaba was brought into the hospital by two paramedics. His head was severed from the torso, as was his right arm. There were flash burns all over his body. His clothing had been blown away, except for the middle of his left pant leg.’ ”
Shimshon paused and searched for the photo that contained the following page. “Is there more?” Abe demanded. “Anything about materials embedded in the body?”
Shimshon found the photo he was looking for and summarized what he was reading. “The body was prepared for burial by Imam Mohammed Zayid. All of the body parts were placed together in a cloth. Particles that had been embedded in the body by the explosion were removed and provided to the security service as evidence.” Abe moved closer to Shimshon as soon as he said this. “These particles included what appear to be shards of metal, plastic, and pieces of paper with English writing.” Shimshon and Abe exchanged excited glances. “There was also a piece of a round, plain, circular object with part of a number.”
“Perfect!” Abe leaped from his chair and clapped his hands. “You got it.”
“Got what?” Shimshon asked.
But without even explaining to his confused cousin how great his work had been, Abe gathered his papers and ran out the door. He was at the Pal-Watch offices before he had time to take a breath.
XXXIV
The Verdict
HABASH HADN’T BEEN ABLE to get any information from his Palestinian contacts, but thanks to Shimshon’s dirty work Abe didn’t need it. Dennis Savage had told Rendi that the American football was made out of metal and that it had round plastic keys with code numbers. This was exactly what the Palestinian Authority Security Service said had been found impacted in the body of its prime minister. And thanks to Tom Ashe and a few of Danny’s contacts in the Shin Bet, Abe was able to gather enough evidence that the paper fragments were from a Bible to prove that Faisal—and Dr. Avigdor—were lying about the location of the bomb.
Abe presented everything his team had found to the court in the form of a secret affidavit, with the photographs and other documentary evidence attached. The prosecution did not offer any countervailing affidavit, except for a one-paragraph statement from the head of the Shin Bet stating that Dr. Shai Avigdor was on assignment out of the country and unavailable to submit to cross-examination. Abe’s evidence wasn’t conclusive, of course, because it was possible—as the prosecution had suggested—that Faisal had planted the bomb and then deliberately lied about where he had planted it, in order to improve his chances for an acquittal. Abe was confident, however, that Judge Shamgar would not believe this far-fetched theory and that he would reject Husseini’s testimony. After all, how could Husseini have gotten access to the American nuclear trigger? That would leave the prosecutor’s circumstantial case. Would Shamgar still convict Faisal based on the circumstantial evidence, even if he disregarded Husseini’s self-incriminatory testimony?
Abe and Habash would learn the answer in just a few minutes, because they were gathered in the court awaiting Judge Shamgar’s verdict, along with almost every major news organization from around the world, several prominent American and Israeli government officials, Rendi, Dennis Savage, and of course Faisal’s mother. Rashid was nowhere to be seen.
The courtroom was tense as Justice Shamgar walked slowly to the bench. He looked directly at the defendant and said nothing for a very long moment. Faisal Husseini sat erect, eyes straight ahead. He refused to acknowledge Abe’s presence. The judge took a few pages out of a file folder on his bench and began to read.
Abe peered over his shoulder and caught Rendi’s eye. Her face was full of emotion. Emma was about to be sentenced, too, though of course Judge Shamgar didn’t know that. By Rendi’s side was Dennis Savage. His presence was notable; he was the handsomest man in the courtroom. He hadn’t been to any of the trial, but he had shown up on this day for Abe and Rendi. Abe didn’t even mind that one hand held on to Rendi’s arm or the way she looked at Dennis with such affection; he knew his wife and knew that she needed the emotional support.
Judge Shamgar cleared his throat. “The State of Israel versus Faisal Husseini on charges of mass murder, conspiracy to murder, attempted murder (of those who survived their injuries), and mayhem. The state has presented two types of evidence, both of which I shall consider in turn. First is the corpus delicti. There is no dispute that many were killed and injured as the result of a powerful bomb, planted near the dignitaries on the stage outside the American Colony Hotel. I accept the state’s forensic and medical evidence on corpus delicti. It has proved this element of the crime beyond a reasonable doubt.
“The state has also proved beyond a reasonable doubt the existence of a conspiracy. I am convinced that this crime could not have been carried out by one person acting alone. It required careful planning and execution by more than one person working together to achieve a common end by a common means. That is the definition of a conspiracy.
“I also agree with the state that all members of a conspiracy are equally and fully responsible for the criminal acts of all other members of the conspiracy. I agree as well that the government need not prove, or even know the name
s of, other members of the conspiracy. If it can prove that the defendant on trial here today, Faisal Husseini, played any role in the conspiracy, he would be guilty of the crimes charged. Although the government has alleged that he was the one who planted the bomb, that need not be proved. Even if he lied about having planted the bomb, I can and must find him guilty if the government has proved beyond a reasonable doubt that he played another role in the conspiracy, including taking the blame for something he did not himself do.”
Abe was on his feet immediately. “That is not the law, Your Honor. A person who agrees to take the rap for another is not a co-conspirator in the actual crime. He may be an obstructor of justice or an accomplice after the fact, but not a co-conspirator.”
The judge removed his reading glasses and sternly responded to Abe’s challenge. “I am getting to that, Mr. Ringel. What you have said may be correct under American law, but under Israeli law a man who agrees to take responsibility for the crimes of others is a co-conspirator. This case is being tried under Israeli law, Mr. Ringel, not American law. Under Israeli law we do not charge defendants who lie with perjury or accessory-after-the-fact, but we can charge them with conspiracy under certain circumstances.” Abe sat down, dejected, and the judge spoke to the courtroom. “I will now complete my judgment.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Abe said, with trepidation in his voice. Had the judge figured out a way to get around Husseini’s false testimony—indeed even use it to convict him? At this point Abe wished he had confided in the judge the deal he had made to save Emma’s life. If he had, Judge Shamgar would probably not have come up with a creative way to convict Husseini.
The judge resumed reading his judgment. “In order for a defendant to be convicted as a co-conspirator, he must have agreed with at least one person in the original conspiracy to take the blame. He is not part of the conspiracy if he decided on his own, or with others who were not part of the original conspiracy, to claim responsibility.”
Abe let out a sigh of relief. But Husseini was still not off the hook. Maybe the judge would find that he had agreed with the conspirators to take the rap.
The judge continued. “Before Mr. Husseini testified, I found this a very close case. I thought it was likely either that he had planted the bomb or that he had agreed with those who had planted the bomb to take the blame. I was prepared to convict, because I believed, beyond a reasonable doubt, though not beyond all doubt, that he was part of the original conspiracy. Then he testified that he had planted the bomb in the leather briefcase of the Palestinian secretary of state. His lawyer has now proved, beyond all doubt, that this was a lie. The evidence proves that the bomb was not planted where the defendant swore he planted it. I am constrained by state secrecy not to disclose precisely where the bomb was planted, but I can say, having examined the new evidence provided in camera by the defense, that even the prosecution conceded it was not planted where the defendant swore he planted it. The fact that he had to lie in order to try to convince the court of his guilt raised a reasonable doubt in my mind about whether he had anything to do with the original conspiracy. If he did, he would probably know where the bomb was planted. It is more likely that after the bombing he conspired with people who had nothing to do with planting the bomb, in order falsely to claim responsibility for something that others did. He has not been charged with that crime. I must therefore, with great reluctance, find Faisal Husseini not guilty of the charges for which he has been charged.” Then, turning to Faisal, Judge Shamgar announced in a firm voice, “You are free to leave, Mr. Husseini.”
Pandemonium broke out in the courtroom, as spectators, including relatives of the victims, began shouting. Some tried to reach Husseini, who was quickly ushered out of the courthouse with his mother by security officers. Habash and Abe hugged, and Rendi ran to the front of the courtroom and threw herself into Abe’s arms, leaving Dennis standing alone. If anyone thought it suspicious that the defense attorney’s wife was so overcome with emotion, they didn’t say anything.
XXXV
Emma
HABASH RELUCTANTLY RETURNED to the Pal-Watch offices to celebrate with his staff, but only after Abe promised that he’d telephone as soon as he heard news about Emma. As he left them, Rendi gave him a long hug and a knowing look. Then she and Abe walked back to the King David Hotel, Abe holding his cell phone in his hand so that he’d hear and see as soon as a call came in.
But the phone never rang. Not once. Even after they made it the several blocks to the hotel, had ordered and eaten lunch, and watched an hour’s worth of trial coverage on television.
Abe began to worry. For some reason he’d never doubted that the kidnappers would release her. Perhaps because Emma had sounded so confident that they would. Perhaps because he needed to believe it in order to motivate himself to do what he had to do to win the case. Abe had kept his word, even if he had to bend a few rules and employ some questionable tactics to secure Husseini’s acquittal. Surely that wouldn’t matter to Husseini’s brother, who had observed most of Abe’s performance from the back of the courtroom. He should be more than satisfied with the result Abe had achieved. But as he sat in his plush hotel suite, Abe couldn’t help but remember that after all that had happened, Emma’s kidnappers were a band of terrorists. They killed innocent people. Why should they be expected to keep their promises? His mind was a jumble of thoughts and confusion. Would he ever see Emma alive again? Why wasn’t his phone ringing? The kidnappers knew that Husseini was acquitted. His brother had probably reached out to him by now, perhaps through their mother, who’d been taken out with Faisal after the acquittal. Maybe they were waiting to see whether he was safe. Maybe they wanted to see him in person, before they released her. Maybe…
Hours passed. Abe imagined the worst. He even began to have fantasies of revenge, in the event they reneged on the deal. Then, just before midnight, he heard a knock on the door. Was it the police coming to tell him the worst? Slowly he began to open the door, but even before he could see who was on the other side, he heard a soft voice.
“Daddy.”
It was Emma. She stood in the doorway of Abe’s suite, looking as if she were coming from a routine day at school or work. She wore a purple dress, tied at the back, and her hair hung beautifully around her face. The only sign that she’d been through any sort of ordeal was a bruise on her upper left forearm. It was in the shape of a human hand.
“Oh, my God, Emma.” Abe moved toward his daughter. Rendi was just behind him. All three of them hugged and sobbed. After two minutes of this, Abe stepped back so that he could get a good look at her. “You look great. How do you feel?”
“Fine, Daddy.” Emma smiled and held his hands. She looked as surprised as he felt. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I didn’t call as soon as they let me go. They took away my cell phone. They dropped me off a few blocks away. They told me which room you were in and left me.”
Abe and Emma hugged, a long hug, with more tears.
“Don’t be upset, Daddy,” she said when he finally stopped hugging her. “They treated me fine—mostly. Some of them were actually nice. And their place makes this room look like an unfurnished hut.”
She deliberately withheld the information about the attempt by Yassir and Salma to kill her, and how Mohammed had suddenly appeared and insisted that it was Rashid’s decision, not theirs, as to whether their prisoner should live or die. There was no reason Abe had to know how close she’d come to death.
Rendi and Abe shared a look. Emma smiled; she could read their minds. They were thinking about Stockholm syndrome—the phenomenon named after an incident in Sweden in which hostages began to identify with their kidnappers after a long time in captivity. Abe had been a consultant to the defense in the Patty Hearst case, in which many observers believed that the young heiress had been brainwashed into identifying with the Symbionese Liberation Army.
Emma sat on the chaise where Abe had spent many long hours hoping to hear news about his missing daughter. “I kn
ow what you’re thinking, Daddy,” she said glibly, looking for all the world as if she hadn’t just been through such an ordeal. Except for the purple bruise that matched her dress. “Stockholm syndrome, right?”
Abe didn’t answer. He and Rendi merely looked at her.
“No way,” she went on. “I’m not about to join them or anything, but I don’t hate them, at least not all of them. They kept their word, although some of them wanted to kill me even if you won the case. But the leaders made them keep their bargain. And by the way, Daddy, thank you for winning the case. You saved my life. They definitely would have killed me if you lost.”
“I did what I had to do. The only important thing is that you’re safe. Do you need a doctor or anything?”
Emma smiled broadly. “No. I’m fine. Let’s have a drink to celebrate. But first I need to call Habash. He must be so worried.”
XXXVI
Catch and Release
EMMA’S TIME IN CAPTIVITY had changed her. Not in physical ways, but emotionally. She felt stronger in her own convictions, more determined than ever to help change the political situation in the Mideast, and resolute about going after what she wanted.
When Habash picked up the Pal-Watch phone, Emma felt this new resolution gather and intensify. Life was too short to be circumspect. She was confident, too, because Rendi hinted that Habash’s concern over her had been more than that of a boss for his employee.
“I want to see you right away,” she said to him. “Take me to the café with the strongest coffee in all of Israel.”
The Trials of Zion Page 17