Pause. “But that does not mean he wanted the man killed.” Another pause. “And there’s no proof that he did kill him.”
I proceeded. “Mr. Thrillkill wants you to think your job is to establish guilt. He keeps saying, ‘Hey, use your common sense.’ ‘What’s more likely,’ he said at another point. But make no mistake about this—your job is not to establish what is more likely or what makes more sense. Your job is not even to determine whether you think he’s probably guilty. To return a guilty verdict, you must find him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. As the judge will explain when he reads your instructions, this is an extremely high standard. You might privately suspect he’s guilty, but still not think the prosecution has proved it beyond a reasonable doubt. We have this high standard because we don’t want anyone convicted wrongfully. It does happen, sadly, when jurors forget what a high standard this is and start using common sense or deciding what they think is most likely. If people truly applied this standard for what it is, wrongful convictions would never happen.”
I paused, shuffled around a little. I’d given them a lot to think about, and I wanted to give it a few moments to sink in before I moved on.
“What Mr. Thrillkill calls confusing and gumming up the wheels of justice is anything but. To the contrary, it’s making sure the wheels of justice run smoothly, without embarrassing mistakes that destroy people’s lives. If there is any doubt—and let’s face it, there’s a lot of doubt here—it is my ethical duty to bring it to your attention so that you can do your job right, too.”
I took a few steps back, which inevitably drew the jurors’ eyes to Oz. I thought this was a good time to remind them that this wasn’t just a bunch of abstract ideas we were tossing around in civics class. This was a debate about a human being’s future.
“So is there any doubt? True, my client was arrested at the scene of the crime. But several hundred people were there, and many of them disliked Nazir just as much. Like Yasmin al-Tikrit. Like Abdullah Ali. Yes, my client flunked the paraffin test, but he admitted that he’d been at a gun range the day before. Why should that surprise us? He owned a gun and he practiced regularly so he could bear it responsibly. Yes, he had an open-carry permit for it—but doesn’t that make it even less likely that he would use it to murder someone? If nothing else became clear when Omar took the witness stand, I hope you understood that he is not a stupid man. He would not do a stupid thing. And murdering someone in broad daylight with the gun you got a permit for shortly before is just plain stupid.”
I continued in the same vein. I could tell I had their attention. Which of course did not mean they were buying any of this, but it was better than thinking they were bored.
“There is the troubling ballistics evidence. I will be the first to admit that. But is it conclusive? Does it eliminate all reasonable doubt? Remember—even the prosecution’s expert admitted that it was possible the bullet was fired first from Omar’s gun, then recovered and put in a smooth-barreled shotgun and refired. I could’ve called an expert witness to say the same, but then you’d have to wonder if that was just someone saying what I wanted them to say and collecting a paycheck. So instead, you heard it from the man Mr. Thrillkill called the leading ballistics expert in the state.” I smiled a tad. “If the top expert in the state admits that it is possible, who are we to disagree? And more to the point, how can we say there is no reasonable doubt when the top expert in the state says that there is.”
I stopped for a moment to collect my thoughts. I was about to enter treacherous waters, and I knew how important it was that I get it right.
“We’ve had a lot of discussion of the politics surrounding this case, the ethical debates about the Patriot Act and the Freedom Act and enhanced interrogation techniques and intervention in the Middle East. I’m not going to talk about that. Except to say this. Omar is an American citizen. He was born and raised right here in Oklahoma. The fact that he has converted to Islam or changed his name does not make him any less American or any less entitled to constitutional rights. The fact that he was interrogated by the CIA might explain some of the animosity between the parties, but it does not prove innocence or guilt. Nor does the fact that Oz worked for an Arab-rights organization. Or that he was approached by ISIS. Or that he had consensual sex with an adult. If you ask me, the admission of that completely tasteless and irrelevant evidence tells me the prosecution is much more desperate than they want you to realize. If Mr. Thrillkill had as much confidence in the evidence as he suggests, that disgusting exercise in character assassination would never have seen the light of day.”
Okay, I’d said what I had to say. It would be nice to go out with a bang, but that had never been my style. I just laid it on the line and trusted the jurors to do their jobs. Which was basically what I told them.
“When you entered that jury box, you swore an oath. You said you would perform your duties to the best of your ability. Your duties, simply stated, are to follow the judge’s instructions and to reach a verdict. The judge will give you many instructions, but the one that matters is the one that says you cannot convict unless you find the prosecution has proven beyond a reasonable doubt that Omar al-Jabbar killed Agent Nazir. And the problem with that is there’s doubt all over the place. Lots and lots of doubt. And all it takes is one to preclude a guilty verdict. I respectfully submit that you have no choice but to find my client not guilty.”
62
Some people think cross-examination is the hardest part of trying a case. Some people think the closing summation is the hardest part. They’re both wrong.
The hardest part is the waiting.
“Have you talked to your sister much lately?” Oz asked as we sat together in the almost-empty courthouse coffee shop, waiting.
“I’ve been busy.”
“She’s watching the kids?”
“And surprisingly good at it.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” He looked down with a little grin. “She’s a wonderful woman. Confused, off to a slow start. But still wonderful in her own way.”
Since they’d been sweethearts, at least twice, I trod gently. “She can be somewhat . . . frustrating. Inconsistent.”
“Imagine what it’s been like for her. Bad enough growing up in that house, with that father of yours.”
I looked up. “How much did she tell you about him?”
“Not as much as I’d have liked. But I got the distinct impression he could be a tyrant.”
“True that.”
“And she had to deal with having a genius overachiever for a big brother.”
“Wha-a-a-at?”
“Don’t be modest. I was in high school with the both of you, remember?”
“I was the least popular guy in the school.”
“You had your friends. You were shy, sure. But everyone knew you were headed for great things. And everyone treated her like the ditzy little sister.”
“I don’t remember any such—”
“Julia’s a smart woman.”
“I know she is, but—”
“Sometimes it’s hard to find your own way in the world.”
“She married when she was only—”
“She’d have done anything to get out of that house. And away from that man.”
I fell silent. That part, at least, I knew was true.
“She needs you, Ben.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I needed you, too. And you’ve been here for me. You’re always here for your clients. And your wife. I can see how devoted you two are to each other and your daughters. But your sister needs you, too.”
“I—I—have tried to look after her, but . . .” My sentence trailed off.
“Well, think about it.” He polished off his Styrofoam cup of java. “I might not be around in the future to remind you.”
***
The jury returned its verdict just a little over four hours later, which as capital-crime juries go is practically lightning speed. Usually takes t
wenty minutes or so to choose a foreman, then at least an hour to read through all the instructions. Trial attorneys go back and forth on the meaning of a speedy verdict. Some say it means guilty; some say it means not guilty. I think the only thing it means is that the first vote comes in unanimous, or darn close. If the vote is split, one side will try to convince the other, and that can take forever. I’ve known judges who’ve kept the jury late and didn’t bring in food, obviously hoping hunger and fatigue would persuade a few to relent and give way to the majority. But that wasn’t necessary this time. Which told me that at least most of them were already on the same page before they even started to talk.
I just hoped they were on the right page.
Word got out to the media quickly, because by the time I returned to the courtroom, it was more packed than it had been since the first day of trial. The reporters asked for predictions, but I ignored them. Predicting was a fool’s game. And I might come out of this looking foolish enough as it was.
Julia came for the verdict reading. She’d managed to drop the girls off at the church. For whatever reason, she wanted to be there.
I pulled her aside. “You understand . . . I have no idea how this will go.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there’s a good chance—”
“Either way, I want to be here.”
I nodded. “If you’re sure.”
“Either way this turns out, I want Oz to know that some people in the world still love him.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
Christina and I resumed our seats at the defense table. Thrillkill went to his corner. The jury slowly filed back in. None of them made eye contact with Oz.
My stomach was an aching, gnawing centrifuge of anxiety and pain. I tried to remind myself that I was the lawyer and my life was not on the line here. It didn’t make anything better. To the contrary, I think it made it worse. I tried to write Christina a note, but my hands shook so badly I couldn’t even write.
I watched in silence as the foreman gripped the document that would determine the future for at least three people in this room: my client, the woman in the gallery, and me.
The foreman spoke. I knew nothing would ever be the same again. Not for any of us.
“Foreman?” the judge said.
The man Christina had predicted would become the foreman rose. “Yes?”
“Do you have a verdict?”
“We do.”
The bailiff walked to him, took a piece of paper, then carried it to the judge. I did my best to read it from the back, but there wasn’t enough light. The judge looked it over, made sure everything was correct. If they’d made any technical mistakes, he’d send it back and have them fix it rather than risk having it challenged on appeal. But today there was no problem. He passed it back to the bailiff, who returned it to the foreman.
“As to the first count.” Christina took my hand and held it. “On the count of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant Omar al-Jabbar .
I closed my eyes and prayed.
“Not guilty.”
Oz threw his head back in relief, a joyous smile on his face.
“As to the second count, murder in the first degree with special circumstances, we find the defendant not guilty. As to the third count, manslaughter, we find the defendant not guilty.”
And the courtroom erupted. Reporters dialed their cell phones as they raced toward the door. Judge Santino pounded his gavel. I knew he would poll the jury, just to make sure that was the agreed verdict of one and all. But I’d heard enough. Somehow, we’d come out of this alive.
More specifically, Oz had come out of this alive.
I felt a wave of relief rush over me so intense I thought for a moment I might pass out. I don’t think I realized how worried about this I was till that moment. I felt as if I’d physically shoved the executioner out of the way and stolen his ax.
As I scanned the courtroom, I saw one unexpected person making his way out of the courtroom—Fethullah Lkbar, the witness who had rehabilitated both PACT and Oz. I hadn’t even noticed him in the courtroom, but now he headed out just as quickly as the bottleneck in the aisle would allow.
“Mr. al-Jabbar,” Judge Santino said, “you have the court’s thanks for your cooperation. You are free to go.”
The judge continued talking, but no one was listening much. I don’t think that surprised him. He thanked the jurors for their service and announced an adjournment. We’d reassemble tomorrow morning at nine to handle all the postverdict rigmarole.
Christina threw herself in my arms. “I love you,” she whispered.
“Not as much as I love you.”
“Not as much as I love you both!” Oz added, and he threw his arms around the both of us.
Julia offered her congratulations, exchanged a long look with Oz, then headed out to pick up the girls.
“Let’s go straight home,” Christina said. “We’ll get ice cream and celebrate properly.”
It sounded like such a wonderful idea that for a moment I almost allowed myself to believe it might happen. My phone told me that news of the verdict was already breaking all over the media. It took maybe half an hour to finish the required paperwork, including Oz’s release papers. Then we made our way out of the courthouse and found my car. Just as I was about to start the engine, I felt my phone buzz.
I’d received a text message.
I HAVE JULIA.
I guess it showed in my face. “What’s happened?” Christina asked. “Is something wrong with the girls?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t even speak.
She knew something was wrong. “Then what?”
The next text message was a photograph. Julia, bound and gagged. She looked scared. I saw blood trickling down the side of her face.
“Ben, tell me what’s going on.”
I couldn’t force the words out of my mouth. Another text came in.
DO AS I SAY OR SHE DIES.
“Ben, what is it?”
I turned my phone around so she could see. “It’s Julia. She’s been kidnapped.”
63
I didn’t know what to do. Common sense told me to call the police, but I was warned that if I did, Julia would die. Could this person have eyes on or inside the police station? I couldn’t discount the possibility. The police were never good at keeping secrets. Especially to protect a loathed defense attorney.
“Ben, do you have any idea who this is?”
I looked at her grimly. “Yes. But that doesn’t tell me how to help Julia.”
Christina left to pick up the girls. Oz offered to come with me, but I sent him home. I knew he was concerned about Julia, but, frankly, his presence just made everything more complicated. I told him to go home and, if he couldn’t rest, get over to our house and help Christina.
I tried to figure out the smartest course of action, but I couldn’t, so I just followed the instructions that came in by text. I had failed Julia so many times. I couldn’t stand the thought of failing her again. I’d had enough experience with the criminal world to know that if she wasn’t found in the first twelve hours or so, she probably never would be. At least not alive. I had to convince this person that I was cooperating so he would allow me to make contact. If I knew where she was, there might be a slight chance I could save her.
And then I received a reminder that my wife was psychic, or, at the very least, brilliant beyond all measure.
She sent me a text: CALL MIKE.
Of course. That wasn’t exactly the same as calling the cops, right? And Mike knew who he could trust, who he couldn’t, how to keep something on the down low. I could call him without going anywhere near the police station.
Five seconds later, I was talking with my old college chum, the man who was now the head of the Tulsa homicide department. I hadn’t seen as much of him as I’d like since he married Kate and got promoted, but we were still close enough that I could call in a favor. Especially under the
se circumstances. Especially when it involved his ex-wife.
This wasn’t his jurisdiction, but he made some calls, called in a few favors, and generally assured everyone I wasn’t the total and complete asshole the cops thought I was.
After that, it went a little better.
Mike dispatched a private operative named Childs to our home. He wore plainclothes and did nothing suspicious. I had errands to run, so he got to my home before I did.
“Do you know where Julia was taken?” Childs asked.
“She never picked up our girls,” I explained. “So it must’ve been after she left the courthouse but before she got to the church.”
“Have you had any signs of trouble?”
“Only related to the case. None relating to my sister.” Should I tell him about the connection between Julia and Oz? I didn’t know.
“What kind of trouble?”
“Crowds outside my office, verbal brickbats, death threats.”
“You get death threats a lot?”
“It comes with the territory. This is a deeply conservative state. Defense attorneys aren’t always loved as they should be.”
“I was told your sister has a history of . . . erratic behavior.”
“What are you suggesting? Do you think she just went out for a walk? Posed for a fake photo?”
“No. But I do get the impression that this was not something cooked up at the last minute.”
“Why would you think it was? I can tell you this with certainly. My sister would never have abandoned those two girls.”
“I believe you,” Childs said. “But you got to admit it’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“What’s a coincidence?”
“This kidnapping. Just after the verdict was delivered.”
“Why would anyone think it’s a coincidence?” I replied. I didn’t. That was something I learned from Mike. What looks like a coincidence to others often turns out to be the key to solving a case. You just have to deduce the unknown or unspoken reason for the two corresponding events everyone else writes off as coincidence.
“So you think the kidnapping is some kinda revenge for you getting the killer off?” Childs asked, more than a touch of irony in his voice.
Justice Returns (Ben Kincaid series Book 19) Page 32