by Randy Singer
Rasheed looked through the peephole.
To his great surprise, the eyes that greeted him belonged to his brother, Hanif. Rasheed had shared his faith with his family and mentioned these meetings, but so far they had responded with only scorn and ridicule. Still, he prayed for his family morning and night. And now this! With tears welling in his eyes, he flung open the door, threw his arms around Hanif’s neck, kissing each cheek, and invited him in.
As Rasheed introduced his brother, he thought about the phone call many months ago that had already meant so much to the struggling Christian churches of Riyadh. Hanif, a police officer for the city, had learned about the planned raid by the religious police. Though Hanif detested the church his brother attended, he was still family. Hanif reluctantly tipped off Rasheed, who in turn called Sarah. It was the only thing that kept the Muttawa from discovering records in the Reeds’ apartment exposing a whole network of churches. It was no stretch to say that Hanif had saved them.
And so, tonight, Rasheed wanted to return the favor. He wanted nothing more in life than to show his little brother a very different type of salvation.
* * *
The Berjeins’ living room boasted only sparse furniture—one old couch, a recliner, a rickety coffee table, and a wooden chair. Most guests sat on the floor. None noticed, or could even see, the small electronic listening device that Ahmed’s men had placed on the underside of the couch. Nor did they notice a similar device stuck to the bottom of the kitchen table. Nor the device embedded in the receiver of the phone. As soon as Ahmed received word of the lawsuit, he’d instructed his men to plant similar devices in all the homes of the former members of the Reeds’ small church.
Tonight’s service would be special not only because Rasheed’s brother was present, but also because the listening devices would transmit every word by shortwave radio to a nearby van where two of Ahmed’s men would join the worship. The church in Riyadh now had an unplanned media ministry, but there was no chance that the sinners in the van would think of repenting. Instead, they recorded the service on state-of-the-art digital equipment and smiled. Ahmed would be pleased.
* * *
On this night, with a family member present, Rasheed was more nervous than ever as he started preaching. His voice was hoarse and high, hardly recognizable in its nerve-induced tone. It’s so hard to share these things with my own brother. He knows me too well—knows every character flaw and shortcoming I have. How can I have any credibility with him?
But as Rasheed talked, with the faithful church members spurring him on and muttering their amens, he gained confidence and began focusing less on himself as the messenger and more on the message. He kept it simple and delivered it with a genuine sense of humility—one sinner to another, one blind beggar telling another blind beggar where to find bread.
Hanif responded immediately, with tears flooding his cheeks. Rasheed embraced him again with a huge bear hug of acceptance, making no effort to stem the tide of his own tears. Others formed a close circle around Hanif, reaching out to touch him as Hanif prayed a prayer of repentance and committed his life to Jesus Christ. By the time the last amen was uttered, there was not a dry eye in the place.
Rasheed felt like he was floating, and he couldn’t stop himself from slapping Hanif on the back and exclaiming, “Unbelievable,” over and over. My brother! My own brother! Rasheed thought, shaking his head. The entire group seemed caught up in the enthusiasm and soon broke into spontaneous praise songs. Nobody sang louder than Hanif, though he obviously didn’t know the tunes. The service lasted thirty minutes longer than normal, and even then, Rasheed had to practically force the people out the door.
Hanif was the last to go. As he stood in the doorway, Rasheed grabbed him by both shoulders, squeezed tight as if making sure that this whole scene was real, then looked him square in the eye. “I love you, Brother,” Rasheed said for the first time in his life.
The new convert glanced down at the floor. “Thanks,” he said softly, fighting back more tears. Then he kissed Rasheed on both cheeks, smiled broadly, and disappeared into the night.
The door had hardly closed before Rasheed dropped to his knees in grateful prayer.
* * *
The phone’s harsh ring woke Sarah. She sat straight up in bed and tried to focus on the clock. It was nearly 11 p.m. She picked up the receiver before the phone could ring again and wake the kids.
“Hello.”
“Sarah, this is Nikki Moreno, Brad’s new paralegal. We spoke on the phone last week. Brad’s out of town doing some depositions, and I’ve got something real important I need to discuss with you about your case. I can’t talk about it over the phone. Can you wait up for another half hour or so?”
Sarah was bewildered. She could tell Nikki was calling from a cell phone. She didn’t like the idea of this lady she had never met coming to her house in the middle of the night.
“Can’t this wait till tomorrow morning?”
“It really can’t, Sarah. When I explain it, you’ll understand. It’s like, you’ve got to trust me on this one. I promise I’ll be there before midnight, okay?”
After a long pause, Sarah agreed. She hung up the phone and headed to the kitchen to fix a pot of coffee. She wondered what she had gotten herself into.
* * *
Just before midnight, Nikki arrived at Sarah’s home in a quintessential Chesapeake suburb, located on a small postage-stamp lot on one of the hundred cul-de-sacs in this residential neighborhood. Standard-issue beige vinyl siding and blue and red trim lined the “Great Bridge Special,” so named because it had the same floor plan as a thousand other single-story ranch houses in the Great Bridge community. As she pulled into the driveway, Nikki reminded herself that she never wanted to live like this.
Sure, the houses here were a step up from the shacks in South Norfolk, where Nikki had spent her childhood. But inside the four walls, inside the home, the struggles would be the same—single parents, dysfunctional families, constant friction. As she walked from the driveway to the front stoop, Nikki found herself wondering how Sarah was really doing. Nikki knew how deceptive appearances could be.
Forbidden thoughts of her own childhood flooded forward, unleashed by subconscious forces beyond Nikki’s control. But as she knocked quietly, she banished those thoughts completely. That was behind her. Ancient history. She had overcome.
“Hi,” Sarah said, sticking out her hand and forcing a smile. She answered the door in some worn-looking pajamas, with a housecoat thrown over top. “Come on in.”
The two women settled in at the kitchen table and got right down to business. Nikki declined coffee. What she really needed was hard liquor, but Sarah said she didn’t even have beer.
“As you know, when we filed this case, we sued Saudi Arabia and nine John Does,” Nikki explained. “The John Does were named to represent those men who actually abused you and killed your husband. We didn’t name specific individuals because the U.S. courts would not have what lawyers call ‘personal jurisdiction’ over someone who had never actually been inside the United States. Under our Constitution, individuals can generally be served with a lawsuit only if they actually appear on U.S. soil. Does that make sense?”
“Not really,” Sarah admitted. She looked bewildered and only half-awake.
“Anyway, here’s the bottom line. I took some pictures tonight at the Marriott hotel in downtown Norfolk of a guy from Saudi Arabia who is here to meet with some lawyers. If you can identify him as one of your torturers, we can legally serve him with an amended complaint tomorrow while he’s still in this country. That way, even if the judge throws out the case against the nation of Saudi Arabia, we can still proceed against this guy and the other John Does.”
Nikki slapped the photos down on the table, proud of her handiwork. The zoom had worked nicely; you could see every wrinkle on the man’s leathery face. You could see the hatred in the bloodshot eyes, the wiry black beard, the broad nose, and the dark eyebrows.
“The clerk said his name is Ahmed Aberijan,” Nikki said. “Isn’t he the head of the Muttawa?”
Sarah picked up the photos, and her hands began to tremble. Tears started rolling down her cheeks. She made no effort to stop them.
“Are you all right?” Nikki asked.
The question seemed to jar Sarah back to reality. She nodded a yes and took a few deep, jagged breaths.
“He was the leader,” Sarah offered. “He’s the one who told his men to strip me and search me.” Her voice was hoarse with emotion, her gaze far away. “I’m sure he’s the one who ordered Charles killed. I can’t believe he has the audacity to come to this country as if it never happened.”
“Then he would be John Doe number one in the lawsuit,” Nikki said softly. She shifted in her seat, never taking her eyes off Sarah. “Here’s what I’m going to do,” Nikki said, as reassuringly as possible. “I’m going back to the office right now to rework this lawsuit. We will substitute Ahmed Aberijan for John Doe number one and file the amended complaint first thing in the morning. By noon, we will personally serve the amended complaint on Mr. Aberijan, and there will be no question as to whether he is subject to the jurisdiction of this court.”
Sarah looked at Nikki with hollow eyes. Nikki dropped the professional demeanor and lowered her voice again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Sarah pursed her lips, nodded her head slowly, and promised she would be fine.
* * *
After Nikki left, Sarah slouched over the kitchen table and stared at her coffee. She was suddenly so very tired, so very lonely. The man in the photos had reached out and delivered a gut punch that knocked the wind out of her, destroying all of her heroic efforts to put this behind her.
She needed, at this moment perhaps more than any other, to be held by Charles. She missed him so very much. She could not go to bed, because closing her eyes would simply bring back the face of Ahmed Aberijan. The flashbacks would overcome her: the shattering front door . . . the men hitting Charles . . . the blood pooling on the kitchen floor . . . the stench of the man’s sweat and breath as he manhandled her . . . the heinous laughs as they ripped off her clothes . . . the struggle . . . the blackness. The nightmares were always the same. The faces of the Muttawa, the bloodied face of Charles, his hand reaching for her but never quite connecting, then visions of the casket.
She gently whispered Charles’s name, while the tears dripped off her chin and onto the table.
* * *
Nikki called Bella on her cell phone as soon as she pulled out of the driveway. It was now after midnight.
“What?” Bella answered, always the charmer.
“I need you to come into the office right away. I’ll meet you there in about fifteen minutes.”
“Fat chance.” Bella slammed down the phone.
Nikki hit Redial.
“What?”
“Bella, don’t hang up; this is serious. It’s about the Reed case. A guy named Ahmed Aberijan is in town—” Suddenly Nikki was listening to a dial tone. She hit Redial again. She would have slapped Bella if they were in the same room.
Bella didn’t answer, but after five rings her answering machine kicked in. Nikki punched 1 to leave a message.
“Listen, you lazy slug. We have less than nine hours to prepare an amended complaint in the Reed case, file it, and have it served tomorrow on one of the jerks that tortured Sarah and killed her husband. I can’t get access to the documents I need because they’re on your hard drive. If I have to, I’ll go in alone and retype everything, even if it takes me all night. But, Bella, I could really use your help. I wouldn’t call you this late at night if I wasn’t desperate.”
When Nikki arrived at the office fifteen minutes later, Bella was already at her desk. One cigarette smoldered in the ashtray; a second hung from Bella’s lips. She looked worse than usual, and for a fraction of a second, Nikki felt sorry for her.
“What took you so long?” Bella asked.
12
AT SEVEN THE NEXT MORNING, Nikki and Bella camped out in the Marriott lobby’s overstuffed chairs with strong coffee and the local paper. Every twenty minutes or so, Bella slipped outside for another cigarette. Nikki was grateful to see another desk clerk in Johnny’s place. She didn’t want to start the day by breaking his heart.
At ten minutes before nine, Ahmed came out of the elevators carrying his briefcase. Nikki and Bella watched Ahmed go straight out the front door of the hotel, then followed him across the street, where he disappeared into the rotating door of the twenty-story office building immodestly labeled One Commercial Place. They entered the lobby just as Ahmed elbowed his way onto an elevator that serviced floors eleven through twenty. As the elevator doors closed, Ahmed and the other grim-faced office workers stared straight ahead.
Once the Saudi disappeared, Bella headed straight to federal court to file the amended complaint and obtain a service-ready copy to be handed to Ahmed. In the meantime, Nikki hunkered down for a stakeout in the lobby. She determined from the directory that Mack Strobel’s office was on the twentieth floor. Though she couldn’t be positive, the bigger-than-life Strobel was an obvious choice from the many lawyers at Kilgore & Strobel to handle such a high-profile case. She called the commercial airlines, posing as Ahmed’s secretary, and determined that he was not flying commercial. With nothing left to do but wait, she bought a magazine from a small deli and studied the latest fashions, leaning against the wall but always keeping at least one eye on the elevator doors.
Less than an hour later, Bella returned with the necessary papers.
The two women would wait patiently for the chance to slap a $150 million lawsuit into the bloodstained hands of Ahmed Aberijan.
* * *
Twenty stories up, Mack Strobel suddenly felt cramped in his large corner office. Despite its spacious decor and expensive Persian rugs, it did not come close to being big enough or plush enough to comfortably handle the egos that now filled the room. Mack had suggested just talking over the phone, but Frederick Barnes wouldn’t hear of it. “The client wants to meet his lawyer face-to-face,” Barnes had insisted.
Mack strategically suggested they work at the small round conference table in one corner of his office, immediately under the expansive picture of Strobel’s alma mater, the Virginia Military Institute. He made the suggestion to Barnes, who translated the request to Ahmed, who nodded his assent.
As Mack warily took his seat, Barnes reached into his suit-coat pocket and pulled out a small plastic cylinder containing an expensive Cuban cigar. Barnes removed the cigar from its case, gently licked one end, and placed it in his mouth as he patted down his other pockets in an apparent search for a lighter.
Mack looked on in disgust. He would have let it slide if Barnes intended only to chew on the nasty thing. But Mack was a reformed smoker himself and considered it his mission in life to keep others from lighting up.
“The air breathers would appreciate it if you would refrain from smoking in here. That stuff’ll kill ya, you know.”
“I don’t inhale,” Barnes replied as he finally found his lighter and flicked it to life. “Besides, I didn’t think I’d get any flack from the firm that represents Phillip Morris.”
“If you don’t inhale it, we’ll have to,” Strobel growled.
Barnes ignored him and watched with detached satisfaction as the cigar’s sweet, putrid smell quickly engulfed the room.
Client or not, Barnes knew how to push all the wrong buttons. Mack pushed politeness aside. “Either put that thing out, or go find yourself another lawyer. If you represented Phillip Morris, you’d stop smoking too.”
Slowly and deliberately, cigar hanging out of one corner of his mouth, Barnes stood and walked nonchalantly to the office door, opened the door, still puffing on his stogie, and smiled at Strobel’s young assistant sitting at her desk.
“Got an ashtray?” Barnes asked.
“No, sir, but I can get one for you,” Mack heard his assi
stant say.
Barnes just nodded and leaned against the doorframe, his eyes following the woman as she raced off down the hallway. She returned with a clear glass ashtray and offered it gingerly. He took it, turned to face Mack again, and begrudgingly ground his stogie into the glass. Barnes closed the office door, then slowly returned to his seat at the table, chewing on the cigar, and smiling broadly at Strobel.
In that moment, Mack resolved to cut Barnes out of the loop at the first opportunity. He would earn Aberijan’s exclusive loyalty as the case progressed. Mack had seen it happen a thousand times; he could always earn the grudging respect of even the most hard-to-please clients. When he did, Barnes would become expendable, and Mack would set him up.
“You ought to try one,” Barnes said, eyeing the unlit stogie as he twirled it around in his fingers.
“Let’s get started,” Mack replied gruffly. “Mr. Aberijan didn’t call this meeting so we could discuss cigars.”
For the next two hours, the men talked legal fees and strategy. Despite the rocky start, Mack soon negotiated a premium hourly fee for himself and the host of other lawyers who would work the case. Four hundred dollars an hour for Mack. A new record. A new cash cow. There would be excited whispering over the phone lines and in the hallways as Mack’s legend grew. There would be joy at Kilgore & Strobel.
* * *
In the lobby, Nikki fretted. Ahmed had disappeared into the elevator more than two hours ago. She knew his luggage was still at the hotel, and she was pretty sure he would have to come back through this lobby on his way out, but still the possibilities kept bubbling up in her brain.
What if someone from Kilgore & Strobel had seen her and Bella hanging out in the lobby? What if Ahmed took the stairs and slipped out one of the stairwell doors? What if he took the elevator down to the loading dock in the basement, where a car was waiting for him? What if, somehow, he just avoided Nikki altogether and made it back to Saudi Arabia without getting served?