Judge Santino nodded. “All right then. Granted.”
I was stunned. My throat locked up. I was so surprised I couldn’t find words to reply. Thrillkill seemed equally caught off guard.
“But here are my restrictions, Kincaid, and I expect you to follow them to the letter.”
“Yes, Your Honor. I will.” Perhaps it would’ve been smarter to hear what they were first, but I was still shell-shocked from having a tiny bit of success.
“One.” The judge raised fingers as he ticked off his conditions. “Your client may discuss his war record and his treatment at the hands of the CIA. Two, you may introduce evidence that Yasmin has died, thus preventing her from being recalled. You will not mention that she was murdered or in any way suggest that her murderer was also the murderer of Nazir.” His lip curled slightly. “Take your SODDIT somewhere else.”
“I can live with that.” I didn’t love it. But this was not the time to argue. I didn’t need to bring up theories about her murderer in court. It had been all over the news and the front page of the newspaper. Jurors are always instructed to avoid all contact with the news media, but I didn’t believe for a minute that they did. It was fundamental human nature, from the Garden of Eden on, for people to seek out knowledge. Everyone wants to feel like they understand what’s going on around them. Why would jurors be any different?
“Three,” the judge continued, but instead of extending a third finger, he clenched them all into a fist. “You will stay on target, discussing these prescribed subjects and nothing else. This courtroom will not become a referendum on the relative wisdom of US intervention into Middle Eastern affairs, immigration, racism, religious prejudice, or anything else. We’re going to talk about the murder of Agent Nazir.”
“Understood, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor.”
“Any problems with this, Mr. Thrillkill?”
The man was obnoxious to the core, but he did know when it was time to be quiet. “If that’s the court’s ruling, we’ll live with it.”
“Thank you.” He gave me the evil eye. “Can I assume your next and probably final witness will be the defendant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will be watching every word he says like a hawk. Make sure he doesn’t cross the line.”
“I will, sir, but—”
“No buts. None.”
“He feels very strongly about the US invasion—”
“That’s another word I don’t want to hear.”
“I’m not sure it’s possible to tell his story without some reference to recent events. It’s like explaining Noah’s Ark without mentioning rain.”
“You’ll find a way.”
“And I know the court doesn’t want to rob the defense of its best ammunition.”
“You think politics is your best ammunition?” Santino removed his glasses, then leaned back into his chair. “I thought you were smarter than that, Kincaid. Maybe your rep isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Swell. Just when I was starting to feel minutely good about the case. “I’m not following.”
“Kincaid, your best shot isn’t talking about politics. Or the CIA. Or who had a motive against whom. I’ve been on this bench a long time. I’ve watched juries. I understand how they think. They know the lawyers will cross swords. They know there will be conflicting stories and everyone will suggest the other side is evil and blah blah blah. It’s like squabbling parties after a divorce. It’s always the other person’s fault. Bottom line, juries don’t pay much attention to all that. What they do pay attention to is evidence. Like the fact that your client’s gun, the one he held in his hand at the scene of the crime, fired the bullet that killed Agent Nazir. That’s what the jury will remember. And bloviating about Iraq will not cause them to forget it.”
53
Oz composed himself on the witness stand with more grace than most people in this stressful situation. He seemed to have made a real journey over the course of this case. When he first came back into my life, he was angry, bitter, filled with rage. After the murder, he was scared, panicked, certain the bastards had found another way to take him down.
But today he seemed strangely tranquil. And although I wanted to think that was because he had supreme faith in my lawyering abilities, I knew better. Had he come to terms with his situation? Accepted his fate? Found an inner resilience? Or simply stopped caring? I didn’t know. But I needed him to remain calm on the witness stand, so this was a good development.
Even when I told him about the judge’s ruling, which meant we spent the entire night redesigning his testimony, he seemed to take it in stride.
“This helps us, right?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“I know so,” Christina added.
“At least now the jury will understand what really happened.”
“Agreed.”
The jurors appeared pleased when I called him to the stand. They all knew the defendant didn’t have to testify, but in my experience, they’re disappointed if the defendant doesn’t. It’s like seeing a play that skips the final act. They don’t feel like they’ve been presented with the whole story.
I didn’t spend a lot of time on Oz’s war record. That spoke for itself. I’ve always thought attorneys erred when they had their clients make overt plays for sympathy, like when personal injury lawyers let people whine on about their pain and suffering. Here in Oklahoma, anyway, most folks are uncomfortable with public displays of emotion. We tend to respect people who bear their crosses with equanimity. I didn’t think Oz needed to rattle on and on about the horrors of war. Everyone already knew.
“Were you ever injured?”
“Yes. Shrapnel in the leg. A concussive bomb near my head deadened my hearing for a while.” He shrugged. “I saw friends get much worse.”
“Any other symptoms?”
“I was diagnosed with PTSD. Got some treatment. And as you heard, some medication, which I’m still taking, though in smaller doses.” He glanced at Thrillkill. “Which is one reason all those free samples from the VA hospital last so long.”
“When did you return home?”
“About two years ago. I considered a third tour. But I felt that if I didn’t get some kind of career started at home, I never would. And to be truthful, I was beginning to question our involvement in the Middle East. The longer I was there, the harder it was to figure out why. It seemed more about oil and less about weapons of mass destruction and—”
“So you returned to Oklahoma.” I could see the judge frowning. I cut Oz off before it got too political. “What did you do when you returned?”
“My plan was to get a degree at UCO and get into construction management. But I was introduced to an organization called PACT.”
Not mentioning the man who introduced him, Abdullah. Good. “Why?”
“I mentioned that I questioned our military intervention. I also questioned my faith. Perhaps I was influenced by all the people I saw willing to give their lives for their religion. Most of the Christians I knew didn’t seem nearly so committed. Go to church on Sunday, then do whatever you want the rest of the week, that sort of hypocritical thing. I won’t bore you with the details. But over the next six months, I began attending a mosque in Choctaw. Eventually committed to Islam. Changed my name to acknowledge the conversion experience.”
“How does that relate to PACT?”
“They were hoping for a more public, more aggressive education campaign. And I was exactly what they wanted. I can see that now even more clearly than I did at the time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for starters, I’m white, and I’m a war veteran, but I’m committed to the Islamic faith, and I think our repeated interference in the Middle East has been a titanic blunder. I’ve seen other members of my faith subjected to prejudice based on the color of their skin or the spelling of their last names. I’ve seen bigotry in many forms, and I know how destructive it can be. PACT wanted to do somethin
g about all that, and I was ready to help. We were preparing for a major campaign when I was . . . taken.”
“Would you please explain what you mean by taken?”
“I was arrested by federal agents.”
“What was the charge?”
“No charge. They said they wanted to talk to me.”
“And did they?”
“Yes. For twenty-one days.”
“Please tell the jury what happened.”
“I was arrested and held at a federal detention center. I was kept in a tiny cell, often cold, sometimes with blaring loud noise or music. I was frequently stripped and left naked. I was at times restrained or chained to the wall. I was subjected to sleep deprivation, extreme temperatures, what in the military they call ‘stress positions.’ Bright lights in the face. Manhandled to keep my eyelids open. They would put a towel over my head and dunk me in a tank of water. Never long enough that I would die. But long enough that it would feel as if I were dying. Over and over again.”
I let the room go silent for a while. I thought it was okay to let him understate everything. Better than playing the drama queen. But I wanted to make sure it sank in, just the same.
“And this went on for . .
“Twenty-one days.”
“Who was doing this?”
“At first, I didn’t know. Eventually, I learned it was the CIA. Acting domestically, though some say that violates their charter.”
“What was the purpose of the interrogation?”
“They sought information about a man named Abdullah Ali.”
“Do you know Abdullah?”
“Yes. He’s one of the founders of PACT.”
“Why would the CIA care about PACT?”
“The attitude of my interrogator seemed to be that PACT was more than a nonprofit political-advocacy group. They claimed PACT was a cover for a terrorist cell. They thought Abdullah was a terrorist ringleader. They said he was developing some kind of weapon that would be used against the United States.”
“Was PACT a terrorist cell?”
“No. The most dangerous thing I ever did was try to get a bulk-mail license.”
“Is Abdullah a terrorist?”
“I had no reason to think he was a terrorist. But at any rate, if he had secret activities, it had nothing to do with me.”
“And you told them this?”
“Not all at once. At first, I stood on my constitutional right to avoid self-incrimination. The Fifth Amendment, remember that? But extensive torture and abuse . . . well, there comes a point when everyone gives in.” His head lowered.
“Did you tell them what you knew?”
“Yes. Which was of no use to them. I knew nothing about terrorists or weapons.”
“And they didn’t release you?”
“Not for twenty-one days.” He shook his head. “I’m a war veteran. I’ve seen bad stuff. I’ve been injured. But I’ve never experienced anything as brutal and cruel as what I got at the hands of my own government.”
I checked the jury, but their expressions weren’t giving me much. All I could tell for certain was that they were paying attention.
“Were there any other possible reasons the CIA might be suspicious of you? Other than your involvement with PACT?”
Oz drew in his breath, then slowly released it. “They might have known about my . . . brief flirtation with ISIS.”
Several of the jurors leaned in closer. I knew we needed to bring this up before Thrillkill did. But I had to handle it just right if I didn’t want it to convince the jury of his guilt. “You’re talking about the jihadist terrorist organization, right?”
“Right. The Islamic State of Iraq and Syria.”
“Can you tell us what you mean by a brief flirtation?”
“ISIS tries to recruit lonely, disaffected Americans, often targeting the rich or the bored or the voiceless. Young people who haven’t found their place in the world yet. And that of course would be the perfect description of me just after I returned from service. Disillusioned and lost.”
“ISIS reached out to you?”
He nodded. “I didn’t know that’s who it was at first. I just started getting online messages from people who wanted to teach me what it meant to be a Muslim. They never said anything bad about Christianity. They said Islam was a correction of Christianity. Like a software update. Christianity 2.0. Each day I got a new lesson, starting with the fundamentals of praying, which included the wudu, the ritual washing of face and feet, hands and arms, before each of the five daily prayers. They told me Muslims placed their heads on the ground when praying, and gave me a Bible verse that showed Jesus doing the same thing.”
“They were trying to recruit you.”
“They were. They are masters of social media. They have many people trolling the Internet, luring in isolated, lonely people. Packages started to show up at my apartment. Hijabs, prayer rugs, books. ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger.’ Unquestioned acceptance of polygamy. Eventually, that became talk about the Islamic State and how it wanted to build a homeland in Syria and Iraq where the holy could live according to sharia law. We Skyped a few times. They spent thousands of hours on me. Sent me little gifts, chocolates. Gift certificates for Barnes & Noble. Offered me money.”
“Did you ever meet these people?”
“Yes. They encouraged that. Told me it was sinful to only associate with unbelievers. Eventually they suggested face-to-face get-togethers at a local mosque. I attended two meetings, then got out. They were way too radical for me. Kept pushing me to travel to a Muslim land. Even if I agreed with what they were saying, which I didn’t, I would never have agreed with any plan to use force or violence to achieve political change.”
“But the CIA found out about this.”
“Yes. They raided an ISIS computer server and tracked the email to me. Accused me of plotting with ISIS, which was absurd. If they’d read the email, they’d know it was absurd. Which is why I always thought that was an excuse, not an explanation. There was some other reason they were interrogating me. They wanted information about PACT and Abdullah. And I had nothing to give them.”
Oz told his story well. He was not holding back, but he wasn’t self-pitying or melodramatic or anything else that might turn the jury off. And he hadn’t given Thrillkill a reason to jump to his feet.
“What did you do when you were finally released?”
“Tried to put my life back together again. I’d disappeared for almost a month, and no one knew where I was. I lost my job. Made PACT suspicious of me. Lost my girlfriend.”
“Did the CIA offer you any assistance?”
His chuckle was more than a little bitter. “No.”
“Did you enter counseling?”
“I was already there. The GI Bill covered some PTSD therapy. I was angry. I’ll admit it. I think being held for weeks without being charged is unconstitutional. I don’t care what the law says, it’s wrong. I felt I’d given a lot to this country, and it owed me better. And don’t let anyone fool you with this crap about ‘enhanced interrogation techniques.’ We’re talking about torture. The US tortured people for information. And no one ever walks away from being tortured without permanent scars. That—” His voice jumped, quavered, but he cut it off. “That—” He tried again. “That messes you up for the rest of your life.”
“The prosecutor has introduced evidence indicating that you had a grudge against the deceased. Agent Nazir.”
“He was my chief interrogator,” Oz said quietly. “He orchestrated the torture.”
I nodded. “Any other cause for enmity?”
“PACT felt he was engaging in improper surveillance of a legitimate political lobbying organization. Which, sadly, the US has a long history of doing. The government tried to suppress labor unions way back when. The FBI bugged Dr. King and Eleanor Roosevelt. Agent Nazir had an ugly history, and he bore hostility toward anyone who might expose it publicly. PACT wanted to take Agent Nazir
out of the equation.”
“Did that mean you wanted to kill him?”
“Of course not. I’ve seen enough killing. I hope to never see it again. It offends my religion, and it offends me as a human being.”
“But you owned a gun.”
“Yes. And I wanted the right to carry it, too. If you’d been subjected to the kind of treatment I had, you’d feel the same way, I guarantee.”
“You took it to the press conference where Nazir was shot.”
“I took it everywhere.”
I nodded. We’d done about as much as we could do. If I’d forgotten anything, I didn’t know what it was. Time to wrap it up.
“Omar, did you want Agent Nazir dead?”
“No.”
“Did you shoot Agent Nazir?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
He looked straight at the jurors. “I do not.”
“Thank you. I’ll pass the witness.”
54
This was one witness Thrillkill couldn’t skip, even if he thought cross would accomplish little. To allow the defendant to testify without questioning anything he said would be tantamount to accepting his word as gospel truth. A prosecutor could never allow that.
As it turned out, Thrillkill had way more up his sleeve than I realized.
Thrillkill rose, but he did not immediately speak. He glanced at his notes, then set them aside. He settled into a position at the edge of the defendant’s table, paused, strode a little closer to the witness. Not close enough to seem overbearing, but hardly invisible. Imposing might be the correct word. Unavoidable.
Justice Returns (Ben Kincaid series Book 19) Page 27