by Randy Singer
“So it all comes down to one judge and whether that judge will allow us to file objections late?” Leslie exhaled sharply. “No matter what the law says, it all just comes down to the discretion of one judge, thumbs-up or thumbs-down, and the case is over just like that?” Her voice was full of disdain, her pristine view of the law crumbling by the second.
“That pretty much nails it,” Brad said.
Silence took over, the weight of this precarious position sinking in. Tears of frustration and guilt welled up in Leslie’s eyes.
“This is all my fault,” she said, her voice wavering. “I was the one responsible for filing the objections. I sweat out every detail of this case. I dot every i and cross every t, and somehow I missed this. I spent the last four months of my life working like a dog on this case and the last two weeks working around the clock on a detailed game plan for the case, and now it’s all just wasted work because of some idiotic local rule that nobody knows about.
“The law isn’t about this stuff,” she said, and with her left hand she made a clean sweep of the table in front of her, knocking law books and documents, including her beloved game plan, onto the floor. “It’s about clever lawyers like Strobel taking advantage of fools like me.”
Then, in front of her speechless colleagues, Leslie stood and bolted from the room, leaving the others staring in disbelief.
* * *
Brad had a strong urge to run after Leslie, talk to her, somehow calm her down, and make everything right. But something else told him to stay put. Leslie would have to learn to respond like a professional. Running to her would not help.
Sarah stood and looked at Brad. “Let me talk to her.”
“Good luck.”
As soon as the door shut behind Sarah, Nikki started in.
“Leslie’s got to get a grip. But I don’t see why we’ve got to drop this case if we get a bad ruling. I mean, let’s just ask the judge to allow us to produce the names to Strobel under a court order that says he can’t share them with his client. That way, we can buy some time and settle this baby.”
“Right,” Bella scoffed. “Let’s put our trust in Mack Strobel, Boy Scout that he is. Even if he doesn’t tell the Muttawa, he’ll want to take depositions, and how do you hide the names then?”
Brad sat back in his chair and turned toward Nikki, interested in this budding debate. Maybe it would help him sort things out. Right now, Bella had a point. Advantage, Bella.
“All right then, we just run a bluff,” Nikki responded. “You give them phony names, which still buys you enough time to settle, then you get something out of this deal. You don’t just cave.”
Shaky, Brad thought. Bella will smash this one.
“Brilliant. The only difference between that and highway robbery is that we wouldn’t be using a gun.” Bella snorted. “Let me get this straight. We run a scam on the court, lie under oath, and try to obtain money under false pretenses in the meantime.”
Match point.
“Well, what’s your bright idea?” Nikki shot back, her voice rising in frustration. “Just let the creep go? Let him laugh at us all over Saudi Arabia?”
“Drop the case!” Bella scowled. “Cut your losses! Don’t be stupid!”
Nikki didn’t respond this time; she just glared straight ahead at Bella. She looked ready to pounce.
In an act of studied defiance, Bella whipped out a pack of cigarettes, shaking one loose, and lit it up in the middle of the no-smoking conference room.
“Nice,” Nikki said, chasing the smoke away with a wave of the hand. “Black-lung cases, Brad, what do they go for these days—for an overweight single secretary with limited earning capacity?”
Bella stood.
“Sit down,” Brad said sharply. He turned to Nikki. “That’s not necessary.” Then back to Bella. “C’mon, put it out.” She sighed, dropped her cigarette into a half-full coffee cup, and plopped into her seat. Brad felt like he was lecturing a couple of kids. “Nikki, we don’t handle cases that way here. If the client says drop it, we drop it.”
Nikki snorted out a derisive little laugh. “Oh yeah. I forgot. Let’s see . . . Lewis case, two weeks ago. Client wanted 150K; insurance company offers 100; you said, ‘Take it.’ Pardee case, last week. Defense attorney says 75K; client says 90; you take 85. Migliori case—”
“They’re different,” Brad argued. “Every one of those cases is about a greedy client, unrealistic demands. You agreed with every one of the settlements. It’s our job to make the client see reality. Sarah . . . well, she’s different.”
“So it’s our job to just sell her out, drop the case—”
“You don’t get it, do you?” Bella interrupted. “Nobody’s selling out. If we take this case all the way, it could bankrupt us. It’s a dog, Nikki. And if we go bankrupt chasing this dog, then all of your well-intentioned crusading won’t do anybody any good.”
“Nobody’s selling out,” Nikki repeated, mocking Bella’s tone. “Then what do you call it?”
“I guess if anybody would recognize selling out, you would,” Bella responded. “It’s how you got here in the first place—”
“Enough!” Brad barked. He wondered if the two women would ever get along. “If we have to give up the names,” he said softly, “we drop the case. I’m sorry, Nikki. But that’s the way it’s got to be.”
Nikki began to calm down. “Shouldn’t we at least get Leslie back in here and let her vote?”
“No votes,” Brad replied.
“Oh, I see. And no respect either, huh?”
“C’mon, Nikki. You know that’s not the way it is here.”
Nikki pursed her lips and stared straight ahead, apparently not convinced. Bella, her victory secure, got up and headed for the door, a thin trail of smoke still slithering in her wake.
“Satisfied?” Nikki asked.
“Get over it,” Bella said and slammed the door behind her.
* * *
Leslie felt a gentle hand on her shoulder as she stood on the sidewalk in front of the office building and looked out over the parking lot.
“This isn’t really about the case, is it?” Sarah asked.
“It is about the case,” Leslie said, desperation in her voice. “It’s about not letting Aberijan and the others get away with murder. It’s about making your husband’s death mean something.”
The two women stood quietly for a moment.
“Listen, Leslie, I don’t harbor any hatred toward these men. I miss Charles so much, but I know that if I don’t forgive, it only eats me up and causes more pain. I trust God to take care of justice. That’s His job, not mine.”
Leslie could not fathom this forgiveness that Sarah so easily embraced. She loathed Ahmed for what he did to Sarah. She loathed Mack Strobel for being his hired gun. And right now was not a good time for the platitudes of a missionary.
You’re sweet, Sarah, but you’re not me. I’m not put together that way. I never will be.
Leslie turned and faced Sarah but did not look her in the eye. “I don’t know how you can forgive these men—God either for that matter. I’ve been in a feud with God ever since He took away Bill.”
“Maybe that’s the difference,” Sarah said softly. “I don’t blame God for taking Charles away. I just thank Him for giving me Charles all those years.”
The words struck Leslie like another blow. Though they could not have been more kindly delivered, they brought to the surface a lingering bitterness Leslie had worked hard to deny.
The words stayed with her throughout the day and continued to echo long into the evening. She turned them over and over in her mind and vainly searched her own heart for the type of peace that Sarah expressed. Instead, she found humiliation. Embarrassment. Defeat. And when she finally arrived back at her tiny garage apartment and crawled into bed, it was the missed deadline, and not the insightful words of a missionary, that caused Leslie to lie awake the entire night, staring at the same spot on the ceiling.
* *
*
It came two days before the motion to dismiss hearing. It arrived in a plain 81⁄2-by-11 manila envelope bearing a Norfolk, Virginia, postmark. Ahmed read the contents of the package for the third time, still incredulous at his good fortune.
The envelope contained two documents. The first document was one page long, and the second was nearly twenty pages. The long document was titled “Preliminary Game Plan for Reed v. Saudi Arabia.” It contained lists of potential witnesses, experts, exhibits, and relevant documents. It appeared to be some sort of analysis of the case by the plaintiff’s lawyers.
The other document was a note composed of letters and numbers cut from magazines and pasted on a plain white sheet of computer paper. Ahmed would ask Barnes to analyze both documents for fingerprints and other trace evidence, although he really didn’t expect to find anything. The note was simple and direct: This first installment will cost you $50,000 U.S.D. More will follow if you obey my instructions and do not investigate. Make payment before the conclusion of the motion to dismiss hearing.
The second paragraph contained wiring instructions for a Cayman Islands bank account that undoubtedly belonged to a shell corporation whose officers and shareholders would be untraceable. The note was, of course, unsigned.
Ahmed called Barnes and speculated about the note for the better part of an hour. It could come from any number of sources, they agreed. The most likely scenario, Ahmed offered, would be an employee of Carson & Associates. A truly disgruntled insider who was fed up and saw this case as a surefire way to make big money fast.
But Ahmed also recognized that there were many other less desirable possibilities. In fact, the meager amount of money demanded concerned Ahmed. Perhaps the source was not a member of the plaintiff’s team. Such a person would have placed a higher value on the case. It could be a roommate or friend. It could be their clumsy Saudi lawyer, el Khamin. It could even be a friend of Sarah Reed. For that matter, it could be the janitor in Carson’s building or just a good old-fashioned thief. The possibilities were endless, but the promise in the note of future installments certainly had Ahmed’s attention. He had to know the source so he could verify the credibility of this information.
“Frederick, why do you think I pay you all this money? I must know who sent this, and I must know soon. Is that understood?”
“You will know, Ahmed. Just give me some time.”
17
THE ALARM SEEMED LOUDER THAN NORMAL, partly because it was set an hour earlier and partly because Brad had never achieved deep sleep during the night. 5:30 a.m. He forced himself out of bed and stumbled downstairs to start the coffee. He would add two miles to his morning run today, an extra fifteen minutes, because he needed the additional time to clear his mind and prepare for the day’s events.
His first mile was always a grind, and starting an hour early didn’t help. The endorphins kicked in at mile two, freeing his mind for deep thinking. He hit his stride by 5:45 and started to sweat in the early morning heat and humidity of Tidewater.
By the end of mile three he was in the zone. He determined that the best way to combat a Rule 11 motion was to act the part of a reasonable and careful lawyer. He would save the dramatics for trial. Today he would argue the law in scholarly tones and be the very picture of an attorney who would never consider filing a lawsuit unsupported by the current state of the law. He would leave the name-calling and insult-hurling to Strobel. Brad promised himself he would behave.
He would have Leslie handle the motion to compel. She would fall on her sword, admit her mistake, and plead for mercy. She would undoubtedly generate sympathy. A judge would be more likely to feel sorry for a law student than a seasoned litigator.
On his fourth mile, he thought about how he would handle the motion to dismiss and adjust his style based on the judge assigned to the hearing. That was the one great wild card remaining to be dealt. Norfolk Federal Court was famous for concealing the judge’s identity until the morning of the hearing. To keep the litigants guessing, the court would even change judges on a case from one hearing to the next, up until the morning of trial. The trial judge would remain a mystery until the morning of jury selection.
Brad dreaded the possibility that he might draw Ichabod. If she showed up today wearing the black robe, he might as well get out his checkbook to pay the sanctions and kiss the case good-bye. No adjustment to his style could overcome the ire of Ichabod.
If he could pick his judge, he would ask for Judge Samuel Johnson, the only African American on the Norfolk bench and the only judge whose career did not include a stint with a big firm defending cases for corporate clients. More than any other member of the bench, Brad suspected Judge Johnson would be open to his argument that outrageous violations of human rights, like those at issue here, must have a remedy in international law. Johnson would understand the basic parallels to civil rights laws in this country and would not be intimidated by being the first judge to do what was right.
Brad used the last three miles of his run to rehearse his arguments. By the time he finished at 6:15, he was relaxed and ready for the day’s maelstrom.
* * *
By 9 a.m., Norfolk Federal Court was a media madhouse. Though court rules prohibited cameras in the courtroom, the First Amendment kept the judges from extending their ban to the steps and sidewalks in front of the large brick building. Accordingly, the local media hordes transformed that area into a gauntlet of cameras and microphones poised to engulf the lawyers and their clients as they entered the sanctuary of the court.
Strobel and his entourage showed up first. They arrived simultaneously in several luxury cars, transporting no fewer than eight lawyers and paralegals. All were dressed in expensive dark blue or gray suits. While the rest of the team busied itself by unloading boxes of documents and notebooks, Strobel held forth for the reporters.
“What are your chances of having this case thrown out today?”
“We think they are excellent, or we would not have filed the motion.”
“Do you expect to get sanctions against Mr. Carson?”
“Will you be calling any witnesses today?”
“Will you appeal if you lose?”
“One question at a time please. No testimony is heard when the court rules on a motion to dismiss. We do not believe we will lose this hearing, but if we do, we cannot appeal a motion to dismiss ruling until the entire case is over. As for the sanctions against Mr. Carson, that will be for the court to decide.”
“Are you pleased with the selection of Judge Johnson to hear this motion?”
Strobel hesitated. His eyes flashed; then his game face returned.
“I’m sure Judge Johnson will do a fine job. The judge assigned makes no difference to us. All of the jurists in this court are fair and impartial. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we need to get ready.”
* * *
Brad caught himself smiling as Judge Johnson took the bench, fashionably late to his own hearing. Brad wiped the grin from his face as the spectators stood and fell into hushed silence.
“You may be seated,” the judge said in a rich, slow Southern baritone. “Counselors, I’ve reserved two hours for your arguments, no more. The court has read every word of your briefs, so do not waste the court’s time by simply repeating arguments you’ve already made. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Brad said simultaneously with Mack Strobel.
“Mr. Strobel, we are here on your motions, you may proceed.”
Strobel strode confidently to the podium to address the court. He took a massive notebook with him and left another just out of reach at his counsel table.
“If it pleases the court, we are here today on a number of defense motions.” His confident voice bellowed throughout the courtroom.
“I will address three motions: the motion to dismiss plaintiff’s case because this court lacks jurisdiction, the corresponding Rule 11 motion we have made requesting sanctions against plaintiff’s counsel for the filing of a
frivolous lawsuit, and our motion to compel answers to the interrogatories that we filed based on the fact that counsel for plaintiff did not file any timely objections.”
“Let’s deal with the motion to compel first,” Johnson suggested. “It seems like that issue is pretty straightforward, and we ought to be able to resolve it quickly before we get into the more complicated motion to dismiss.”
A thin smile creased Strobel’s face, and for the next several minutes he set forth his reasons for wanting every interrogatory answered, but particularly the one requesting names of every church member who ever worshiped with the Reeds. The names were relevant, he argued, so that he could take the depositions of these former church members and find out if the Reeds were really missionaries or just clever drug lords. Besides, he asserted, the plaintiff waived any objection when her attorneys missed the deadline for filing objections.
“Is that true, you missed the deadline?” Judge Johnson asked Brad.
So much for reading the briefs, Brad thought. We only spent about ten pages on this issue.
Though Johnson was looking at Brad, Leslie stood. “I’m afraid it is, Your Honor.” She looked appropriately nervous, eyes darting around, voice slightly quivering. Brad was proud of her.
“And it’s entirely my fault. I’m a rising third-year law student helping Mr. Carson on this case, and I missed the deadline for filing objections. I didn’t know about the local fifteen-day rule, although I also recognize it is entirely my responsibility to be familiar with that rule. I bring the court no excuses, just a simple request that the court not hold my client responsible for my failure by making us produce the names. We are prepared to answer every other interrogatory, but if we have to produce these names, we sincerely believe that it is just a matter of time before they are tortured too.”
Johnson thought about this for a second, indecision etched in the wrinkles on his forehead. Leslie gingerly sat down, never taking her eyes off the judge. He stared at the back wall, saying nothing.