“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” the Arab said. There was fierce rebuke in his eyes and in the tone of his voice. The American sheepishly buttoned his shirt and shrugged.
“Fine. I’ll stop wearing it.”
“Not good enough. I want you to get rid of them. Burn them. Every one of them. Do you understand?”
The American shrugged again and nodded.
“And so, we’ve prepared for the appearing of the last great Caliph.” The Frenchman was barely able to believe what he had just said. He thought for a moment and added, “How can we know for sure? How can we know that he is truly the One?”
“We wait. And we observe. We all know the signs. The three of us will verify the fulfillment of the prophecy. Just like the turning of the constellations in the sky. If all the lights line up, then we will know. And then we will strike. We will make our move.”
“Yeah. But just the same, it’s got to be a bummer for you,” the American said, “that you weren’t picked to be the One.”
“It’s not a matter of being picked or not picked.” The Arab’s lips tightened ever so slightly, and then he continued. “The choice is not mine. My father, Caliph Omar Ali Khalid, made that clear. We were all with him at his death. He did not specifically name me—so, we must believe it will be another.”
“Yeah, but still—”
But the Frenchman cut him off.
“So, we should stay here in Jerusalem? Rather than travel to the site of the First Appearing?”
“We stay here,” the Arab said to the Frenchman, “but you will go to the appointed place. If he shows up—then we will know.”
The Arab stretched back in his chair and eyed his two guests. Then he looked out through the dirty glass of the apartment window. He could see the spires and crowded limestone buildings of the Old City. Outside were the noises of passersby, children playing, and a few automobile horns far off in the distance where the traffic route circled Herod’s Wall.
“And when that happens,” the Arab man concluded, his face like stone, “we shall all know the end is near. Very near.”
6
IN THE JAIL CONFERENCE ROOM, Will had just finished going over the facts with his new client, Gilead Amahn. Attorney and client were discussing what had occurred the night of the riot at the Islamic Center. Down the hall there were the usual jail noises—inmates yelling curses at one another and the echoing of heavy metal doors banging as guards moved from one cell block to another.
“What you need to understand, Gilead,” Will said, “is that the misdemeanor charge of disorderly conduct is sort of a catchall—it’s a broadly worded offense that means that you’ve caused an undue public disturbance through other than privileged conduct.”
“And what do you mean by ‘privileged’?” Gilead asked.
Will studied his client for a moment before he continued. Whatever he had expected before meeting Gilead, he had been utterly surprised. Gilead did not seem to fit the typical picture of the thundering prophet. Rather, he was a soft-spoken, courteous young man with a quick smile and a keen mind. He was deferential to Will’s advice, and was an accurate, detailed historian of information in response to Will’s questions. He seemed to fit more the part of a quiet young scholar than a riot-provoking extremist. And he seemed exceptionally out of place in a jail more typically populated by drug dealers and car thieves.
“In your case,” Will replied, “ ‘privileged’ has one application—that you were legally privileged—had a First Amendment right—to say what you said. Even though it ended up provoking a violent response.”
“So, you think that my conduct was constitutionally protected?”
“I do,” Will said. “I’m sure the Commonwealth attorney will argue that you were trespassing. But I don’t think that’s going to wash. You had a personal letter of recommendation from a Muslim teacher in Cairo, who knew your father before he converted. You came from a traditionally Islamic family, so your presence there was not a ‘trespass.’ Of course, there’s still the question of whether your words were so inflammatory that they constituted ‘fighting words.’ In other words, that you should have anticipated your comments would cause a public disturbance.”
Gilead nodded in acknowledgement.
“There is something else you need to know, however,” Will added. “You know that your parents were willing to sign the recognizance bond for your bail. But the hold on you—the reason you’re still in jail—really has little to do with the charges against you in the Commonwealth of Virginia state court. It’s a hold placed on you by the federal authorities—the Department of Justice. They are apparently investigating your possible ties to a terrorist organization. Do you have any idea why the federal authorities are investigating you?”
Gilead shook his head vigorously.
“I have no idea. I mean…I’m an Arab—an Egyptian by descent—a former Muslim because my father was a Shiite Muslim. But I’ve been a Christian for a number of years, since I was eighteen years old. I reject terrorism in any form. And as a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, I believe that the peacemakers should be blessed—not the war makers—not the murderers who kill innocent civilians in the name of religion. So to answer your question, I really have no idea why they’re focusing on me.”
Will studied his client. At that point, so very early in his representation, Will hesitated to draw any ultimate conclusion. But he was relatively certain about two things.
First, Gilead’s recounting of the facts of the night of the incident at the Islamic Center was dead-on accurate. Will had reviewed the report from the sheriff’s department, and Gilead’s account of that night corresponded, point for point, with the version contained in the supplemental reports of the law-enforcement agencies.
Secondly, and perhaps even more importantly, although this was Gilead’s first arrest and his maiden experience as a prisoner in jail, he showed extraordinary poise. Even a sense of calm. He seemed to exude a kind of inner peace.
The jailer who had walked Will to the interview room had confided in him that Gilead had been taking quite a bit of verbal abuse from some of the other prisoners. Gilead responded, the jailer explained, by merely smiling and telling them that Jesus loved them, and no matter what they had done in the past, His sacrifice on the cross could take care of it.
But there was one last, lingering question that Will had.
“Another question…your parents, when they met with me, said that on a number of occasions before the night of the incident at the Islamic Center, you said, ‘The time is short.’ Over and over—‘The time is short.’ What did you mean by that?”
As Gilead paused for an instant, an inmate from a neighboring cell yelled out a string of profanities. Gilead seemed unaffected—he shrugged, smiled, and then answered.
“The apostle Paul said that the time was short, didn’t he? And the Lord Jesus said that He would be coming soon. That seems to say the same thing. That’s all I was saying. If God tells me in His Word the time is short, then I believe it. That’s all I was saying…”
“So you aren’t implying that some kind of cataclysmic event—that something specific on the timeline was imminent?”
“Well, I do believe there are events that are impending. If I understand what you’re talking about. The Christ is coming again. Before He does, certain world events are going to happen. They’re happening right now.”
“And is that what compels you to speak out the way you did at the Islamic Center?”
“I spoke the way I did because the Holy Spirit of God inside me told me to do so. I try to do what God wants me to do.”
“I admire your zeal, Gilead,” Will replied. “But I think it’s important to temper your zeal to preach the gospel with advice and counsel from those whom God places in your path. Like your parents, for instance. They’re seasoned missionaries. I think they’ve got a lot to offer you in terms of wisdom. Counsel. Advice. Just because Jesus said that His message—the gospel—may be an o
ffense to a nonbelieving world, I don’t think that gives us an excuse to be offensive—”
“Do you believe I was being offensive, Mr. Chambers?” Gilead asked.
Will studied his face. The question was an honest one. Gilead had the look of earnestly wanting to get an answer to his question, rather than simply making a point.
“All I know is that, personally, I would have used a little different approach,” Will replied. “But to answer your question specifically—I’m not going to say that you blew it. And I’m certainly not going to say that you violated the law.”
Gilead chuckled a bit. “Mr. Chambers, I don’t mean to be disrespectful. But do you lawyers always talk like that? Fail to say exactly what you mean?”
Will replied with a smile, “We avoid sweeping generalizations. We try to define our terms. And we try to talk cautiously because words have power.”
Will was preparing to conclude the interview. But one final thought had occurred to him.
“Something else,” he asked in conclusion. “About the detainer being placed on you by the federal authorities because of this terrorism thing—I heard that you traveled to the Middle East last year. What was that all about?”
“My father was from Egypt. He had relatives in Jordan. I visited them summer before last.”
“Where in the Middle East did you go?”
“Jerusalem for a while, mostly sightseeing. Then I crossed the border into Jordan. It was a very short trip—about a week or so.”
“Where’d you get the money for the trip?”
Gilead studied Will carefully before he answered.
“It was donated to me.”
When Will was finished, he shook hands with his client, assuring him he would do his very best to get him out of jail as soon as possible and would then start preparing for his trial in district court on the charge of disorderly conduct.
On the way back to his office, Will called the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Washington, DC. He wanted to contact the assistant U.S. attorney assigned to the terrorism unit—the person responsible for placing the hold on Hassan Gilead Amahn.
After making a few phone calls, he left a message for a Susan Kastone. A few minutes later she called him back, while he was still en route.
After introducing himself as Gilead’s attorney, Will quickly addressed the hold issue.
“When are you going to lift the federal detention order on my client? There’s no question that he’s not only not a terrorist, but has never had anything to do with any terrorist organizations,” Will said firmly.
But Assistant U.S. Attorney Kastone was unimpressed.
“I’m not sure when—or if—we’re going to be lifting the hold,” she replied. “When it happens, we’ll let you know.”
“Well, with all due respect, Ms. Kastone, that’s not acceptable. My client has to prepare for his misdemeanor trial. He’s entitled to bail. But for the federal interference by your office, he would have had his parents sign the recognizance bond and he’d be out already. You can’t hold somebody indefinitely on vague, unfounded suspicions—”
“What makes you think they’re unfounded?”
“All right—convince me,” Will replied. “What reasonable suspicion do you have that Hassan Gilead Amahn has any ties to any terrorist organization or activity? I’d like to hear the evidence. Actually—I would like to hear one single scintilla of evidence. One scrap of information.”
“We’re not required to tell you that,” Kastone said. “And as a result, it would be inappropriate for me to comment. An investigation is underway. As we get closer to a decision on whether or not we’re going to file charges against Mr. Amahn, we will advise you accordingly. We have your contact numbers. We’ll be in touch.”
After this conversation, Will could see only two alternatives as a possible explanation for the mysterious hold placed on Gilead.
First, Gilead’s Middle Eastern background, coupled with his presence at the controversial lecture given by Sheikh Mudahmid at the Islamic Center and his recent travel to the Middle East, had caused the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s Office to be overcautious in making sure that he had no terrorist ties.
But the second alternative troubled Will even more. He knew there was a possibility that Gilead—as honest and unassuming as he appeared to be—had not told Will everything about his background, his travels to the Middle East, or his plans for the future.
After talking to Attorney Kastone, he had the lingering impression that in representing Gilead Amahn he might have stumbled over something much more malevolent than an isolated fracas at a Muslim center.
7
WILL AND FIONA WERE AT THE KITCHEN TABLE finishing breakfast. Andrew, their eleven-year-old son, was thundering down the stairs of their large log house. He dashed into the kitchen lugging his backpack and sports bag.
“Got to go!” Andrew shouted to his parents.
Andrew was a good-looking boy of medium height, with a sinewy body and bright eyes.
“You haven’t eaten breakfast—” Fiona said.
“Mom, I did.”
“Really?” she said probing.
“Yes.”
“And is Mrs. Jankowski okay with our switching the car-pool dates—her driving today and me taking you guys tomorrow?” Fiona asked.
“Yes. Now I’ve got to go—really, Mom. ’Bye…”
And with the last word Andrew was already dashing through the front door.
“Gee, it’s just the two of us,” Fiona said with a smile. “Can you stick around for another cup of coffee?”
“I’d love to,” Will said reluctantly, “but I’ve got to get to the office. The district court trial of Gilead Amahn is coming up in just a matter of days. I’ve got to start putting stuff together.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s finally out of jail. The feds released him from that hold. Very strange. They never gave me any explanation. Say,” Will changed subjects, “you’re here at the recording studio today, right?”
Fiona nodded as she stood up and began to clear the dishes off the kitchen table.
“Right,” she said, on her way to the sink. “We’re going to do a little bit of work today to help finish at least one of the numbers for the next album. What a blessing it is to have a studio right here on our property! I remember the old days—having to go down to Nashville for days on end…or up to New York.”
“Well, you know I wanted to get your studio built as soon as we could manage it—for selfish reasons, of course. I love having you around and not having to travel as much.”
Fiona smiled and turned from the sink, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
“Now, if I could just get you to stay put and stop traveling around the world on those high-stress international cases…”
“Well, to be accurate, it’s been a while since I’ve done any globe-trotting,” Will pointed out. “Maybe I’m just getting old. But I’m enjoying settling down…doing that part-time teaching at the seminary. And my work at the Institute for Freedom has been very important to me. You know, for the first time in a long time I’m enjoying the feeling of some stability in our lives. Predictability.”
“I think that’s a good thing,” Fiona said. “You know, maybe it’s starting to dawn on you, my dear, that you don’t personally have to take on all the David-and-Goliath legal battles on the planet.”
“Oh, I never thought that,” Will said, his voice trailing off.
“Oh?” Fiona said with a chuckle. “Let’s see—there’s the Sudan case. Then there was the case before the International Criminal Court in The Hague. With side trips to investigate that one…let’s see…you were—oh, that’s right—spending time in the jungles of the Yucatán getting shot at. Gee, I almost forgot.”
Will got up from the kitchen table with his plate and coffee cup in his hand. He put them on the counter next to the sink and wrapped his arms around his wife.
“I think those days are over,” Will said. “I’m
very content with the quiet life of a country lawyer in Monroeville, Virginia…here in the scenic shadows of the Blue Ridge Mountains…with my lovely gospel-singing wife at my side…”
Will had a bit of a smirk on his face as he started sounding like a cheesy TV ad.
“I can always tell when you’re being sarcastic,” Fiona said. “You get that nasty little twinkle in your eye. You get the same look that Andrew does when he’s trying to weasel out of some of his chores on the weekend.”
“Oh—I meant to ask you, when are you going to talk to Angus next?” Will asked.
“Actually, I was going to stop about five today and head over to the care center to see Da, which means that I won’t be around for dinner. Want me to pick something up?”
“No, don’t worry about it. I’ll get something on the way home tonight.”
Mentioning Fiona’s dad brought something to Will’s mind.
“You know, with the news about this Deuteronomy Fragment and all the discussion in the media about whether it’s authentic—what it means for the geopolitics of the Middle East, all the interviews with the archaeologists on TV—I just wish your dad could be more aware of what’s going on. If things were different, I would love to see him take this one on.”
“You know, before his stroke and heart attack, Da chased the rumors about the Deuteronomy Fragment for years. In Israel. Into Jordan and Egypt. He was looking at the possibility of traveling up into Syria. He really wanted to be the person to expose it…because he had this feeling it was going to be another example of fraudulent archaeology. I appreciate your not talking to Da about it, though. I really don’t want to get him overexcited.”
“Yeah—and he’d sure get excited about what Len said at the Institute for Freedom banquet the other night. One of his cryptic remarks from the podium.”
“Which one? There were several.”
“The one about the Temple. The business about the ‘son of perdition.’ You remember it?”
“Yes. How could I forget? Dear Len, bless his heart…have you talked with him since then?”
The Last Judgment Page 4