The Trials of Zion

by Alan M. Dershowitz

  Abe didn’t want to antagonize his wife any more than he already had. Emma was on his side on this one, though, and he set her to the task of finding out all she could about Elizabeth’s church. What she found was intriguing.

  It was called the Church of the Apocalypse. Emma couldn’t locate the actual church, because there wasn’t one. The closest thing the members had to an official meeting house was a small building in the town of Megiddo, in the north.

  When Emma read this to her father, Rendi, and Habash, Habash’s face went white.

  Rendi saw it. “What’s wrong now?” she asked.

  “Megiddo,” Habash said, as if it were plain to everyone.

  Abe made the connection. “Armageddon!”

  Pulling together some sketchy material from Internet sources, Emma concluded that there were about one hundred members of the church—fifty or so in Israel, a couple dozen in the United States, and a few scattered here and there. Their leader, Revelation Ruggles, was an ascetic man who wore rags, never cut his hair, and eschewed any pleasure of the body so that he could commune with God. Abe had a hard time marrying this image of the man with the pristine Elizabeth Mitchell or with the all-American Dennis Savage.

  But then he remembered how many prominent Jews—actors, athletes, businessmen, academics—had been attracted to the Lubavitcher rebbe, also an ascetic religious figure. When it came to religion, Abe concluded, there was no accounting for taste—or belief. It was true, he acknowledged to himself, that his wife could never become a Hasid, but then again she had never been a fervent, radical atheist either. Perhaps, he speculated, extremist disbelief and extremist belief were two sides of the same coin.

  Abe remembered that Shimshon had once mentioned the name Ruggles, when relating the history of his ancestor Avi. He invited his cousin to join them for tea.

  Shimshon was excited by the name of the leader: Revelation Ruggles. He was a descendant of Deuteronomy Ruggles, who had interacted with Avi Regel a century and a quarter earlier. When Shimshon mentioned the connection to the past, Emma asked him to fill in the details.

  Shimshon related how Deuteronomy Ruggles was a fixture at Rishon L’Zion. Standing six feet three inches tall, with a shock of straight blond hair, the twenty-one-year-old Christian missionary cut a striking figure in a region of mostly short, dark residents. His unusual name was always a source of humor. Each of his siblings was named after a book of the Bible: The eldest, a girl named Genesis, was called “Jen”; the youngest was Leviticus, called “Cussy”; and the second-oldest, a boy, who was Exodus, called “X.” Fortunately, there were no other siblings, since Numbers would be hard to nickname. The parents, Gustav and Catherine, purposely gave their children unusual names in order to encourage them to pursue the family calling of spreading the Gospel of Jesus.

  Gustav’s family had been German Templars, a messianic Christian group from Württemberg in southern Germany. The Templars had come to Palestine in the 1860s.

  Catherine’s father and grandfather had been British missionaries. Her father had written a widely read travel book in which he traced every step walked by Jesus during his brief ministry in the Galilee and Jerusalem. Their mission was to save the Jews, whom they loved because of the Old Testament, and the Arabs, whom they pitied because of what they regarded as their “silly” Koran, a pale imitation of the “real” Bible.

  Shimshon described how every Friday at the crack of dawn, Deuteronomy—known as “Deut”—would appear on the dusty streets of Rishon, handing out his evangelical Christian conversion tracts, in Hebrew, to anyone who would take them. Although his religious handouts threatened fire and brimstone—“the destruction of Sodom is nothing compared with how those who reject Jesus will be treated in Hell”—Deut himself was the epitome of gentility and reason. He always came bearing small gifts—chocolates, candles, and, of course, Christian trinkets (“goyisher tchotchkes,” as Akiba referred to them).

  Everyone in Rishon liked Deut, because no one worried that he would ever convert anybody. One of the religious residents of Rishon said that Deut’s visits even made some of the townsfolk feel “more appreciative of their Jewishness,” because Judaism wasn’t “so scary.”

  Deut also liked the Jews of Rishon, because they were always polite to him and some even seemed to listen. Occasionally a former Yeshiva student would engage him in a debate about some interpretation of a biblical story. Who knows, Deut thought, maybe some of it seeps in, and someday one of them will see the light and save himself from eternal damnation. It doesn’t hurt to try.

  After lunch, which he usually spent at the Rishon dining room where the local women made a daily feast, Deut walked down the road to Beit Dijan. He waited outside the town mosque until the service was over and then attempted to hand out the same religious pamphlets, but in Arabic, to the exiting Muslims. They, too, treated him kindly but no one would stop to listen or talk, beyond a polite salaam alaikum, because their imam forbade it. After two hours Deut would leave, with his backpack still filled with the Arabic pamphlets and the goyisher tchotchkes.

  Shimshon explained that Revelation Ruggles was from the same family of devout Christians that had been trying to convert people since their arrival in the Holy Land. For several years before he turned to his ascetic ways—the ways of Jesus, as he put it—he was the leader of the Christian Zionist movement in Israel. There was plenty of information about him from this period. He had been very involved in politics and the media but had since given that up as too worldly. Now his brother Ecclesiastes was the public face of the church.

  But, to Rendi’s relief, any further investigation into the Ruggles family and their modern-day connection to Dennis Savage had to be put on hold, because that same night Rashid Husseini was arrested for kidnapping Emma.

  Faisal Husseini—now a free man, but still a widely reviled figure—brazenly showed up at Pal-Watch. He came as a messenger for his brother. Rashid was now calling in his chip. He wanted Abe to be his lawyer.

  XLIV

  Rashid Redux

  PRIOR TO EMMA’S KIDNAPPING, Rashid rarely left the comfortable Jericho safe house. It was a relatively secure place. The Israelis occasionally conducted raids in that ancient biblical town, and there was virtually no Hamas presence there. Rashid was as fearful of Hamas as he was of the Israelis. As a Marxist Arab, he was anathema to the religious zealots of Hamas.

  Once he decided to release Emma—to keep his deal with Abe Ringel—Rashid knew there was no going back to Jericho, at least not for a while. He couldn’t count on Emma’s keeping her promise not to disclose the location of her kidnappers. Nor could he rely on her having been adequately blindfolded during her trips to and from Mohammed’s home. When his brother Faisal was freed by the Israeli court, their mother took him to a prearranged rendezvous point. Rashid worked on him for days in an effort to persuade him to change his ways and join Rashid’s group. He told Faisal he had been poisoned by his own group because they were afraid he would either deliberately or inadvertently admit the group’s innocence. It was a work in progress, but at least Faisal was losing interest in the Martyrs of Jihad, believing that they had used him and didn’t trust him. He was still a long way from becoming a Marxist, but he liked the members of Rashid’s group, especially Mohammed, and agreed to stay with them for a while.

  With his family situation stabilized, Rashid decided to travel to Belarus, where an international conference of Marxist organizations was being held. He couldn’t chance being identified and captured by Israeli security at Ben Gurion Airport, so he decided to fly out of Amman Airport in Jordan, where security was far more lax. Except first he had to make it into Jordan. Rather than risk being stopped at the Allenby Bridge border crossing, Rashid decided to cross into Jordan illegally, by simply traversing a narrow, isolated bank of the shallow Jordan River in the dead of night. Except the Israelis had been tipped off by a double agent who was a member of Hamas but also informed against Hamas enemies. Rashid was captured by Israeli soldiers and brough
t to Shin Bet headquarters, where he was identified by intelligence officials as the head of the Marxist organization that had kidnapped the American woman.

  Rashid remained silent when interrogated, asking only for a lawyer, by name—Abe Ringel. The investigators denied his request and continued to question him, not only about the kidnapping but also about the assassination bombing. He refused to answer, alternately remaining silent and repeating his demand for Abe Ringel.

  After twenty-four hours of continuous but futile questioning, the Shin Bet finally decided to notify Rashid’s family of his capture and his request to be represented by the American lawyer. When Faisal delivered the request, Emma insisted on accompanying her father, but Abe and Habash wouldn’t let her. Making sure she was safely shut in at Shimshon’s, Abe took a taxi to the Shin Bet’s interrogation center outside Tel Aviv. Habash remained in Jerusalem; they didn’t think Rashid would talk if Habash were present.

  When Abe got to the center, he had to pass through three layers of security. Frisked, questioned, and annoyed, he was led into a small room with no windows and no discernible ventilation system. It was stuffy and dim, with one table in the middle of the room, flanked by two plastic chairs. Abe waited for five minutes before Rashid was led in by a pair of armed men in three-piece suits. The men left Abe with Rashid, and then the two of them were alone.

  “I see you are a man of your word, Mr. Ringel,” Rashid began. Though he’d been through an ordeal, he was composed. Wearing a prisoner jumpsuit made most men scared and vulnerable, but this man was in complete command of his emotions. His accent was slight, and Abe could see what Emma meant about him. He was a terrorist, but he was gentlemanly.

  “You kept your word. I will keep mine.” Abe didn’t feel so gentlemanly. This was, after all, the man who had orchestrated and perpetrated a heinous crime against his family.

  “It must be strange to be sitting across the table from—”

  “Be quiet now!” Abe shouted. “Do not complete that sentence. We are being recorded.” He pointed above him, to the wall where a camera was mounted.

  “It is not necessary that I complete the sentence,” Rashid said evenly. “You know what I was about to say.” He nodded deferentially.

  “And so do they,” Abe said. “If you want me to defend you, you will have to listen to everything I tell you. No improvising. Speak only in specific response to my questions. Is that understood?”

  Rashid breathed in. “Clearly.”

  “Now, do you want me to represent you?” Abe retrieved a notepad from his briefcase and wrote down a quick summary of where Rashid was being held and what the charges were. While he wrote, he asked his questions.

  Rashid nodded again. “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to try to free you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you speak to anyone who questioned you?”

  “Only to ask for you.”

  Abe liked this answer. “Nothing else?” he asked hopefully.

  “Nothing else.”

  Abe exhaled and sat back in his chair. This man was far easier to work with than his brother had been. “Good. Now please tell me precisely what they asked you.”

  Rashid placed his hands, which were cuffed, upon the table and joined them into a fist. “They asked me why I kidnapped your daughter. Then they asked me why I released her. Were we paid money? Were we made any promises? They wanted details of the kidnapping: how? who? where? They asked about the group. Our ideology, our means, our connection to other groups and acts.”

  “Anything else?”

  He gestured at Abe’s pad, to let him know to write down what he was about to say. “Yes, they asked about the bombing and whether my group was involved. Did I know who might be involved? They offered me a reward if I could point them to the perpetrators. They threatened to arrest my mother if I didn’t.”

  Abe raised his eyes to Rashid’s and said very slowly, leadingly, “But you couldn’t.”

  Rashid’s eyes were shrewd. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Or you wouldn’t.” Abe felt as if he were playing chess with a very skilled opponent.

  “That is correct.”

  Abe sensed that perhaps Rashid was trying to tell him something, even with the tape recorder going. Abe decided to put it in his memory bank but to let it pass for now. He would certainly want to pursue it if and when he secured Rashid’s freedom and could talk to him without being overheard by Israeli intelligence. But first he had to figure out how to defend a man he knew had kidnapped and threatened to kill his daughter.

  Faisal Husseini watched as the American lawyer Abe Ringel emerged from the prison where the Israeli authorities were holding his brother Rashid. He had to make his move now.

  He bounded around the building that bordered the alley where he’d been waiting for Abe to appear. He walked slowly and steadily toward the man, who stood on the edge of traffic, trying in vain to hail a taxi.

  Abe’s back was turned. He didn’t see Faisal approaching. It was just as well. Had he seen him, he’d likely have run.

  Just as Faisal reached Abe, a cab came to a standstill beside him. Abe opened the rear door, and Faisal grabbed at him. Abe swung around defensively. “What are you doing?” he demanded, fear apparent in his voice.

  Faisal stepped away from him. “Don’t worry. I am not here to hurt you. I… I am a man of honor. And men of honor acknowledge those who have helped them. Thank you for helping me.”

  Abe stared at him, stupefied. “I don’t know what to say. I was surprised when you came to Pal-Watch to get help for your brother.”

  Faisal’s stern expression didn’t change. But he spoke more during this hot afternoon than he ever had before. “Blood is thick. This I have learned. Who I thought were my brothers were not. Rashid may not understand me, but he would never try to kill me.”

  Abe understood that Faisal was speaking of the Martyrs of Jihad and of what he believed were their unsuccessful attempts to poison him. “You must not approve of Rashid’s politics either.”

  Faisal shook his head. “His politics involve a lot of reading. So many books they say I should try. I don’t think I’ll ever understand his cause, but he is my brother. I don’t want to see him go to jail. I know you will do for him what you did for me.” And then Faisal extended his hand. Abe shook it, still in disbelief, as he climbed into the waiting taxi.

  XLV

  The Promise

  THE GOVERNMENT CALLS as its first witness: the victim, Emma Ringel,” prosecutor Dafna Rabinovitz announced.

  The trial began only two weeks after the authorities caught Rashid. This was because after the acquittal of Faisal the Israeli government wanted to show that it wasted no time dealing with suspected terrorists. Abe had also requested a quick turnaround. The media was being even more brutal: “Is there anyone this guy won’t defend? Even the terrorist who kidnapped his daughter!” He didn’t want to be in Israel longer than he had to be, and Rashid was eager to get the trial over with.

  Abe knew that the prosecution was going to call Emma as its chief witness. Though he’d warned the state that Emma wouldn’t identify Rashid as her kidnapper, Dafna Rabinovitz seemed to believe that she’d change her mind once she was under the scrutiny of a judge.

  “Objection, Your Honor. Ms. Rabinovitz knows that Emma Ringel has refused to testify,” Abe responded. He thought it ironic that he’d represented both brothers. That was about the only similarity to the two cases. Where Faisal had been obstinate and rude, Rashid was calm and polite. He answered any question Abe asked; some of his answers were deliberately obtuse, but Abe found it refreshing to deal with a client who wasn’t always going on about not trusting Jews.

  The judge in this case, a man named Levin, squinted through his glasses at Abe. “Yes, I know her preference, but this is an obligation. She has been subpoenaed. She must testify, or else…”

  “Or else what?” Abe asked. He was standing behind his desk; Rashid sat next to him in his prisoner’s
clothes. “Are you going to put the victim of a kidnapping in jail because she promised not to testify against her kidnappers if she was released?”

  Dafna Rabinovitz couldn’t believe her ears. She was on her feet immediately, ready to pounce on Abe’s words. “Your Honor, it sounds like Mr. Ringel is admitting that his client was in fact the kidnapper.”

  “It does sound like that, Mr. Ringel,” Judge Levin said, smiling.

  “Perhaps,” Abe acknowledged, sitting back down casually. “Except that I have no direct knowledge about who kidnapped my daughter. Any so-called admission I may be making is nothing more than hearsay, which is inadmissible under Israeli law.” He folded his hands serenely and laid them on the desk. Unbeknownst to the judge and prosecution, he had very carefully chosen his words and was watching to see that they fell into his trap.

  The prosecutor certainly seemed worked up. She paced back and forth in front of his table, the sun glinting off the gold buttons of her suit jacket and her heels clicking against the floor. “But your daughter’s refusal to testify is also an implicit admission that your client was the kidnapper. And her admission is based on direct eyewitness evidence. She actually saw him.”

  Abe spoke only loudly enough for the judge to hear. He continued to keep calm. “But she won’t testify. So you have no direct, admissible evidence from her either. You can’t convict my client based on an inference you seek to draw from my daughter’s refusal to testify, especially because she herself has not given any reason for her refusal.”

  “Pretty clever, Mr. Ringel,” Judge Levin said angrily. He glowered and pointed his gavel at Abe. “Let’s see how long she chooses to remain silent after I send her to jail for contempt of court. Bring Ms. Ringel into the courtroom,” he commanded the officers of the court.

  Abe, Rashid, and everyone else in the room turned to the double doors behind them. They were opened with a high-pitched squeal, and Emma appeared in the doorway. She seemed smaller and younger than she actually was, dressed in a prim outfit. She walked in defiantly, her head held high. She passed Habash and Rendi in the small spectator area, and that was the only time that she shifted her focus from the judge.