by Randy Singer
“I do not understand,” Khartoum replied.
“Let me ask it this way: What did you do with the marijuana and the cocaine?”
Khartoum looked puzzled, but he had apparently seen a few movies. “We would smoke the marijuana and sniff the cocaine up our noses.”
“Show me how you would ‘sniff’ the cocaine,” Brad said as he handed the witness plaintiff’s Exhibit 2.
Khartoum looked at the substance like it might bite.
“I object,” Strobel said. “This is totally improper.”
“You’ve made your objection,” Brad answered. “Now let the witness answer the question.”
Khartoum dumped the powdered sugar onto the table in a long thin line and put one nostril down next to the pile, closing the other nostril with his finger. “We would do like that and breathe in,” he said.
“All of it?” Brad asked. This was too good to be true.
The witness shrugged when he heard the translation.
“No, just a small part of the pile,” Khartoum said.
“Show me how much,” Brad demanded.
Using a piece of paper, Khartoum gingerly separated out a portion of the substance. To Brad’s delight, it was a large amount.
“Now weigh it,” Brad said.
“I object.” Strobel’s tone was no longer controlled for the camera. “This is nonsense.”
“Just weigh it,” Brad said.
“About twelve grams,” came back the translated reply.
Brad smiled. Dr. Shelhorse would testify that a fatal dose of cocaine is generally considered to be only one gram, although there were stories of experienced users surviving more than twenty grams. Certainly, the amount separated by Khartoum was not an ordinary dose.
“Did you ever smoke crack cocaine, or did you ever see the Reeds smoke crack cocaine?”
By now, Khartoum had apparently determined that vagueness was his friend, so he resorted to an appropriately vague answer.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Sometimes what?” Brad pressed. “Sometimes you smoked crack, or sometimes the Reeds did, or both?”
“Sometimes the Reeds did. They tried to get me to do it, but I wouldn’t.”
“Explain the process of how they would prepare the crack and then smoke it.”
After hearing the translated question, Khartoum sat thinking for quite a time. His eyes were blank, wandering over to Strobel for help that was not forthcoming. Then he gave a slow, calculated answer.
“Because I wouldn’t join them in smoking crack, I never actually saw them do it. I know they did smoke crack because I saw them heating the cocaine and preparing the crack.”
“How did they heat it? How hot?”
Another pause. More vagueness. “It is a complicated process that I cannot describe. I believe temperatures would be very hot—more than 250 degrees.”
Brad knew, again from information provided by Dr. Shelhorse, that the cocaine powder would vaporize at temperatures over 200 degrees Celsius, destroying most of the active ingredients. Crack was made by vaporization and extraction of the hydrochloric salt in the cocaine at a much lower temperature. Brad would not make these points now and give Khartoum a chance to correct his testimony. He would wait until Strobel showed the jury the videotaped deposition at trial; then Brad would call Dr. Shelhorse to the stand on rebuttal and prove Khartoum a liar.
* * *
As Khartoum fidgeted in his chair, dodging questions and glancing at Strobel for help, Nikki diverted her gaze to the stoic face of Ahmed Aberijan. She stared at him, though he refused to look back. She just wanted him to look over at her one time so she could despise him with her eyes.
But the man just sat there, across the table and two seats down from Nikki, glaring at the witness with a look that promised future pain. Nikki saw the fire smoldering in Ahmed’s eyes, the all-too-familiar look of an abusive temper ready to explode. It was the same steeled look, the same glare, that Nikki had so feared in her own father’s eyes. It was that point in time when the eyes go from fire to ice, from anger to a cold resolve to hurt somebody. It would be a signal to Nikki, even in grade school and then in junior high, to grab her sister and get out of the room. She would turn on her boom box and drown out the noise of another terrible argument, of her mother taking the abuse for all the girls in the family.
Nikki had always melted in terror at the same look that she saw now. And she had never forgiven herself for failing to stand up to the man.
But she was older now. And wiser. And stronger.
Look at me! she wanted to shout. I will not turn away!
But even as the thought flitted across her mind, she was not absolutely certain she could do it even now.
* * *
“One final question,” Brad announced. “When you snorted cocaine, how long did it take before you felt the rush, and how long did the rush last?”
This question, like the others, had been suggested by Shelhorse. She had explained to Brad that smoking crack gives an immediate euphoria that lasts only ten minutes or so and is followed by an intense downswing of mood, leaving the smoker irritable and wired. On the other hand, Shelhorse explained, those who snort the drug will not obtain the rush for several minutes, as the absorption process takes place, but the euphoria would last longer, sometimes as much as an hour.
But apparently nobody had explained these facts to Khartoum. “I would get a huge rush right away,” he explained, “and I wouldn’t come down for hours.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” Brad said. “No further questions.”
23
RASHEED BERJEIN DID NOT MATCH the mental picture Brad had constructed months earlier after talking to Nikki. Subconsciously, Brad had stereotyped Rasheed as a Middle Eastern version of Charles Reed—a soft-bellied and soft-spoken Christian about Sarah’s age. But Rasheed looked ten years younger and far more rugged than Brad imagined.
Rasheed’s thobe could not entirely cloak his athletic build. Thick, short-cropped hair framed his clean-shaven face, which featured a prominent, broad nose. Large, dark semicircles underneath his deep-set eyes mirrored the enormous eyebrows above them. His skin was leathery and tanned. He looked more like a young man you would want on your side in a street brawl than he did Brad’s preconception of a shy and retiring Christian.
Brad was trained to recognize signs of distress, and in Rasheed he saw them all. The man entered the room with his eyes downcast, darting around as he took his seat. He made no effort to shake hands with or even look at the lawyers. Brad noticed his hands trembled, and he blinked his eyes frequently. Brad stared at Rasheed, hoping for some eye contact, but Rasheed pinned his gaze on his hands.
Brad had no doubt that Rasheed was about to fabricate testimony against Sarah Reed.
“Please state your name for the record,” Strobel instructed.
Rasheed looked up from his hands and locked his mournful eyes on Nikki.
“Rasheed Berjein,” he said.
He continued to stare at Nikki for a long second. Brad thought he noticed a slight twinkle of the eyes and an almost imperceptible lifting of the cheeks, but the signs of recognition disappeared as quickly as they came.
* * *
On the other side of town, Mobara Berjein sat quietly on a folding metal chair, her hands clasped in her lap, head bowed in prayer. The Muttawa stood by the door, staring impassively at Mobara, listening intently to the deposition being piped into the small room and silently daring her husband to deviate from the plan. Everyone in the room knew that Mobara’s life depended on how well her husband followed the script.
* * *
Sarah Reed’s closest friends started arriving at her small house at 12:30 a.m. Sarah had started the coffee at midnight and had not even attempted to sleep. But Sarah’s preteen children could sleep through anything, and so she began the impossible task of waking them up only a few hours after they had dozed off.
She went to Steven’s room first and was struck a
gain by how much the boy resembled his father. Even when he slept, the similarities were unmistakable. They both slept on their backs with their mouths open, hands flung up somewhere over their heads, sheets and blankets strewn everywhere, the result of a hundred thrashing movements that were prerequisites to falling asleep. Steven had his dad’s eyes, his dad’s mouth, and his dad’s mannerisms.
Steven also inherited his dad’s undying optimism and unfailing loyalty. He had taken seriously his new responsibilities as “man of the house” and had proclaimed on more than one occasion that he would live at home even as he attended college and afterward when he began his hoped-for career as a major league baseball player. He shouldered heavy responsibilities for an eleven-year-old, and the thought of it made tears well up in Sarah’s eyes. It was not the first time she had stood in the dark by Steven’s bed and cried.
By 1 a.m., the cul-de-sac where Sarah lived had been transformed into a parking lot. Chesapeake Community Church members filled the family room, spilling into the kitchen and down the hallway. An excited buzz of conversation filled the tiny house as the church members anticipated this most unusual meeting.
Chesapeake Community Church did not have the most inspired preaching or the most moving music, but it was a praying church, and the people in Sarah’s home had been called to prayer. And so, at the precise moment that Rasheed started answering questions in Riyadh, the Reverend Jacob Bailey quieted the conversation and pointed the group’s prayers heavenward. They prayed for wisdom and courage for Rasheed; they prayed for safety for Rasheed and Mobara; they prayed for blinders on the eyes of Strobel and Ahmed and for slowness of understanding. They prayed for Brad and Nikki and even Leslie, who had declined Sarah’s invitation to attend. They prayed for God’s work to go forward and God’s will to be done through His church in Riyadh. For two hours, they prayed and they prayed and they prayed.
Reverend Bailey and his church in Chesapeake were not the only ones petitioning the God of the universe for safety, courage, and wisdom. Rasheed’s flamboyant brother, Hanif, led a similar prayer effort in Riyadh. The language was different, the style was different, and the intensity was very different. The raw emotion of the Riyadh meeting far exceeded that of the Chesapeake church. Many in Riyadh had been introduced to Christ by Rasheed, and all knew him personally. The meeting was characterized by a passion borne of persecution, the intensity heightened by the knowledge that this meeting could be their last. They shed tears unashamedly, and with loud voices they begged God to intervene.
* * *
Brad took copious notes as the object of everyone’s prayers relentlessly blasted Sarah Reed’s case. Rasheed confirmed that Charles and Sarah Reed had in fact sold drugs and admitted using the drugs himself. He was more articulate than Khartoum and came across as infinitely more believable. He preemptively handled all the issues Brad had used so effectively on cross-examination the previous day by describing in great detail the way the drugs were used.
After ninety minutes of damaging testimony, Strobel passed the witness for a cross-examination that Brad knew would not be easy.
No sense beating around the bush.
“Are you or your wife being threatened by the nation of Saudi Arabia and forced to give untrue testimony in this case?”
“Objection,” Strobel interjected. “That’s outrageous! You have no foundation for that accusation.”
Brad leaned forward and pointed directly at Ahmed. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Aberijan if there’s a foundation for my question?” Then he pointed at Rasheed. “Why don’t you march this man’s wife into the conference room so I can ask her?” He turned to Strobel, who was by now also leaning forward on the table. “How can you sleep at night representing people who torture and kill and then intimidate witnesses into lying about it?”
Strobel responded with a withering gaze. When he finally spoke, he did so loudly and slowly, emphasizing every word.
“You listen to me, Mr. Carson. Don’t you ever again make accusations you can’t back up. I’m tired of your nonsense. If you have one more outburst like that, I’ll leave, and I’ll take Mr. Berjein with me to file a criminal complaint against you with the Riyadh police.” Strobel turned to the translator, “Don’t translate that last question. I objected to it, and it’s not worthy of being translated.”
Brad and Mack stared hard at each other for a few seconds. Brad leaned back first.
“Did you meet with Nikki Moreno and Sa’id el Khamin several weeks ago?” he asked.
The question was translated. Brad knew Rasheed wouldn’t deny this meeting. Both Sa’id and Nikki could be called to testify. They could also produce the affidavit Rasheed had signed.
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it true, sir, that you told Mr. el Khamin and Ms. Moreno that neither Charles nor Sarah Reed had ever used drugs?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it also true that you told Mr. el Khamin and Ms. Moreno that you were tortured by the Muttawa the same night that the Reeds were tortured and Mr. Reed was killed?”
“Objection,” Strobel said, this time in a more businesslike voice. “The question assumes facts that have never been proven.”
Rasheed’s translated answer was really a question. “Should I answer it?”
“Yes,” Brad said. “The judge will decide later whether to sustain the objection.”
The translator passed on the message. “That’s what I told them,” Rasheed said.
“Were you lying when you talked to Mr. el Khamin and Ms. Moreno, or are you lying now?”
“Objection.”
“Just answer the question,” Brad demanded.
The question, objection, and comment were translated.
“I was lying to them,” Rasheed admitted.
“Do you lie when it suits your purposes?” Brad asked.
“Objection.”
“Sometimes,” Rasheed said through the translator.
It was one of the more truthful answers Rasheed would give on cross-examination. He proved to be a slippery and skillful witness. And at the end of two frustrating hours, Brad had still been unable to undercut his testimony. He decided to try one final, desperate question, one final stab at the truth.
“Look me in the eye and tell me that you are not being intimidated or threatened by the Saudi Arabian authorities.”
“Objection,” Strobel said evenly, “but he may answer the question. I’ll take this objection up with the judge later.”
As he had done all afternoon, Rasheed looked at the translator as he interpreted the question. But this time, rather than look at Brad when answering, Rasheed looked down at the table and muttered his reply.
“No such thing has occurred,” the translator said.
“Then I have no further questions,” Brad said.
The final image for the jury would be the top of Rasheed’s head.
* * *
Bella cleared everything off her desk except the firm checkbook, the firm ledger, and the huge pile of bills causing her to lose sleep. Her new weekly ritual was to stare at the firm’s checking-account balance and then prioritize the bills she could pay. The trial was still three weeks away, and the firm was burning through cash even quicker than Bella thought possible. The firm now operated off a three-hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit that had been drawn down to seventy-five thousand. All Brad’s assets were pledged to secure the loan.
She wondered how long it would be until the Johnson settlement check came through. She certainly wasn’t about to ask Nikki. Wrapping up these settlements could take weeks, even months, and Brad had admonished her to have no further contact with that file. Every other case with a potential for settlement had been put to bed.
Just in case, as a final contingency plan, Bella ordered twenty-five new credit cards for the firm, each from a different bank. The average credit limit for each card was a little over five thousand. If necessary, these cards could provide another $125,000 of operating income, but at a very steep price in t
erms of interest rate.
In the meantime, Bella would have to make do. Brad had stopped taking a salary several weeks ago, and that helped. Bella suggested that Nikki should also forego her salary, but Brad wouldn’t hear of it.
As she always did, Bella put the bill from Worthington on the bottom of the pile. She couldn’t believe he had the audacity to withdraw from the case and then send them a bill for expert services rendered. Bella wouldn’t have paid Worthington if she had all the money in the world.
Bella unilaterally decided to cut several “discretionary” items from the firm’s budget. Brad belonged to many legal associations but infrequently attended the meetings. Bella decided he wouldn’t miss his memberships as long as she intercepted the letters asking him to reconsider his withdrawal. She also decided that legal periodicals Brad never read were a waste of money. No sense killing those trees for nothing. These were the easy calls.
Slightly more difficult was the weekly bill for the office cleaning crew. But even with the crew in full swing, the office looked like a hazardous-waste dump. Besides, Brad, Nikki, and Leslie were all grown-ups and could pick up after themselves. The cleaning crew would be suspended.
The three bills that almost made the final cut but didn’t were the ones she would hear about. Carson & Associates not only paid Brad’s salary and bonus; it also made his car and boat payments. Brad would be way too busy in the next few months to ever use his boat. As for the cars, she figured she could buy at least ninety days before the repo man paid a visit. With any luck, the trial would be over by then. Bella divided the bills into “pay” and “no pay” piles. She thought about all the money that had flown through the firm in the past twelve years. Until the Reed case became the sole focus of the firm, they always had enough cases in the pipeline so that the contingency fees would just keep rolling in, each seemingly bigger than the one before. But that was yesterday’s money, and it had already been spent. Now Brad had decided to risk it all on one case, something they had never done before. A foolish gamble. And Bella was not feeling lucky.
As she had so often since Nikki claimed that whopping salary, Bella turned her attention from the firm’s bills to her own financial obligations. Only one commitment really concerned her, but it was enormous. As much as she cared for Brad, she would not let his financial indiscretions rob her of her livelihood and her precious mother’s care. If she kept at her plan diligently enough, with great care and caution not to misstep, that would never happen.