Directed Verdict

by Randy Singer

  Brad Carson stared at his feet and shook his head.

  She could feel the sympathy in the room. Even Strobel didn’t look happy. Silence descended on her chambers.

  Leslie finally broke the quiet. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said incredulously. “This man almost got killed outside, the police had to use tear gas to control the mob, and you’re not going to give us one lousy day to get his notes back together?”

  Just what I need. Brad Carson in a skirt.

  “Don’t take this out on me, young lady,” Baker-Kline scolded, now standing behind her desk. “I’m sorry you went through a gauntlet out there, but maybe if the lawyers in this room would keep their mouths shut—” she realized her voice had crescendoed, and she stopped to catch her breath and soften her tone—“if they would not be so vitriolic when the media start asking questions, we wouldn’t have such a circus out there.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Leslie muttered under her breath.

  “Do you have something to say?” Baker-Kline shot back.

  “Not to you.”

  “Then you’d better keep your mouth shut, or you’ll be reading about this case from jail.” Judge Baker-Kline stared Leslie down for a moment as the words echoed in her chambers. Leslie stared back, refusing to divert her eyes and give Baker-Kline a psychological victory. Finally, the judge looked at Brad, released a huge sigh, and sat back down in her chair. She took a few deep breaths, and some of the tension seeped from the room.

  “Look, I know this is not easy for anyone,” she said at last. “So here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll give you the morning off to get checked out and to get a change of clothes. We’ll reconvene at 1 p.m. I’ll keep the jury waiting in the jury room until then. I don’t want to send them out past that mob.” She paused and took a reading of the lawyers in the room. “Is that acceptable, Mr. Carson?”

  “If we can’t get a full day’s continuance, then I’d rather start this morning,” Brad said stubbornly.

  Baker-Kline snorted. Whatever! “All right then. Have it your way. Court will reconvene in fifteen minutes. Let the record reflect that I offered Mr. Carson a continuance until this afternoon and he refused.”

  “And let the record reflect that I object,” Brad added.

  The judge bolted up out of her chair and surveyed the room. “You are dismissed,” she said. She leaned forward, unsmiling and impassive, on her desk as Brad, Leslie, the court reporter, and Strobel filed out of her chambers.

  It was not easy being a federal court judge. But even in chaotic times like this morning, some principles were intransigent, unchanging, and sure.

  Justice delayed is justice denied, she reminded herself as she slipped on her black robe and prepared to enter her fiefdom. Things in the street might border on anarchy, but in Courtroom No. 1, Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline maintained order with an iron fist.

  * * *

  If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. When he heard his name called as the next witness, Ahmed Aberijan stood up tall and straight and absolutely sauntered to the witness stand. He proudly took his seat and glared at Brad with cold, dark eyes. A translator stood next to him.

  “Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” the court clerk said. The translator spoke. Ahmed did not move his hand. He spoke back to the translator in Arabic.

  “He cannot take the oath,” the translator said, “for religious reasons.”

  Ichabod seemed irritated, but she had undoubtedly confronted this before. “Just ask him if he promises to tell the truth,” she instructed the translator. “Tell him it’s not an oath. But also tell him that if he does not tell the truth, he will be guilty of perjury and face a possible fine or jail time.”

  After speaking to Ahmed, the translator turned back to Ichabod. “He understands,” he assured the judge. “And he wishes me to thank this court for not forcing an oath.”

  Brad rolled his eyes and took his place behind the podium, shielding the small tear in his slacks. Nikki had told him there was a dark shadow forming around his right eye and suggested he turn a little more to the left so the jury would notice it. Brad ignored her advice and stood squarely facing Ahmed. He had no notes or papers at the podium with him. He felt vulnerable and exposed, nearly naked, the weapons of his cross-examination lost somewhere on Granby Street.

  He began his questions more confidently than he felt. “We can dispense with the pretense that you don’t understand English, can’t we, Mr. Aberijan? Isn’t it true that you speak English very well?” Brad asked sharply.

  The translator did his work and issued his reply. “This is not true. I do not understand more than a few words of your language.”

  “Do you remember when you were personally served with this lawsuit by my paralegal, Ms. Moreno, at the law firm of Kilgore & Strobel?”

  “Yes, I remember very well,” came back the translated reply.

  “And isn’t it a fact, Mr. Aberijan, that you threatened her in English? that you said to her, after she served you with the suit papers: ‘You will pay’?”

  After the translator finished, Ahmed looked perplexed. He gave a lengthy reply that the translator interpreted in segments.

  “No, this is not a fact. Your paralegal, this Miss Moreno, she comes running at me at the law firm like she will attack me. Mr. Strobel is running behind her because she has entered his offices illegally. I think maybe she carries a gun. She throws the papers at me and is arrested for her unlawful conduct. I speak to her in Arabic saying, ‘What is the meaning of this?’ I do not give her any threats or say anything in English.”

  As Ahmed answered, Brad kicked himself. Never ask a question that allows the witness to give a narrative response. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. Establish rhythm. Keep him off-balance. C’mon, Carson. It’s Lawyering 101. He took a deep breath.

  “I noticed you refused to take an oath because of religious reasons. True?”

  “This is true,” the translator said after an exchange with Ahmed.

  “And you believe this court should not require you to take an oath. Correct?”

  “This is also true,” the translator affirmed.

  “In fact, if the court had tried to make you take an oath on the Christian Bible, you would have refused to do that because of religious reasons. Correct?”

  “Objection,” Strobel said, standing. “This is irrelevant.”

  “I will link it up if the court allows me a few more questions,” Brad promised.

  “You’re on a short leash, Counselor,” Ichabod warned. “Go ahead.”

  The translator spoke to Ahmed. “Yes, that is right.”

  “And the basis on which a person like you can refuse to take an oath in an American court, if the oath violates your religious beliefs, is because we have freedom of religion based on the U.S. Constitution and the UN Declaration of Human Rights. Correct?”

  “How can he possibly know that?” Strobel jumped up and asked. “He’s not a lawyer.”

  “Is that an objection?” Ichabod asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Sustained.”

  Though the words had not been translated, the smug look on Aberijan’s face deepened. Brad’s goal in this examination was to wipe it off.

  “Well, Mr. Aberijan,” Brad continued, “you are an officer of the law and of the courts in Saudi Arabia. Correct?”

  “Yes, that is true,” the translator answered.

  “And in Saudi Arabia, the court procedures and laws are based on Islamic law, and no one can refuse to follow them even if they have different religious beliefs. Is that true?”

  The question and answer were translated.

  “Yes, Mr. Carson. Our people are an Islamic people. Our laws and our procedures follow the Koran and honor Allah. When foreign citizens like Mrs. Reed come to our country, they know that they must follow our customs and our laws to live in our country.”

  “Is your country a member of the United Nations?” Brad asked. It was hard to get
a rhythm with this guy. The translator interpreted the questions and answers slowly, giving Ahmed plenty of time to phrase his answers.

  “Yes.”

  “And your country has signed the UN Charter and the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Correct?”

  “Yes, we have.”

  “Are you aware that Article 18 of the Declaration states as follows—” Brad reached down and took a copy of the exhibit from Leslie. Fortunately, Leslie had kept a copy of this one critical document in her briefcase—“‘Everyone has freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance’?”

  The article was translated in bits and pieces to Ahmed. He thought for a moment, recognizing the precariousness of his position, and apparently decided that ignorance would be bliss.

  “I am not aware of the exact language, no.”

  Brad looked incredulous. He hoped the jury was watching.

  “You mean to tell me that you are the head of the Muttawa, the religious police in Saudi Arabia responsible for enforcing laws that govern religious activities and worship in your country, and you are not familiar with the language from the UN Charter that your country signed?”

  The heads on the jury swung from Brad to Ahmed during the translation. Their faces were skeptical.

  “This Charter is not what governs my work in our country. Our laws require our citizens to follow Islamic law and practice. The United Nations is not sovereign in my country; the government of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia is sovereign.”

  “In Saudi Arabia, does a Muslim have the freedom mentioned in Article 18 to change his religious beliefs and become a Christian?”

  “No,” was the translated reply.

  “Does a Christian in Saudi Arabia have the freedom mentioned in Article 18 to practice his religious beliefs, if that practice includes seeking converts?”

  “No.”

  “And isn’t it true that if someone tries to convert from Islam to Christianity in your country, they can be punished with death?” Brad picked up the volume, the pace, and the intensity of his words.

  “Objection,” Strobel inserted. Brad knew the old warrior was just trying to disrupt his rhythm.

  “Based on what?” Ichabod asked.

  “Relevancy,” Strobel explained. A typical answer when lawyers don’t know what else to say.

  Ichabod smirked. “Nonsense. Overruled. Mr. Carson is asking about the very law Mr. Aberijan enforces.”

  Brad was surprised and energized by her ruling. Could it be that Ichabod was finally starting to support his cause? He would push it and find out, but first he waited for Aberijan’s reply.

  “Yes,” Aberijan admitted through his translator. “We are an Islamic country founded on Islamic laws. Conversion to another religion is blasphemous of Allah and punishable with death.”

  “And you yourself, Mr. Aberijan, have presided over numerous public beheadings of those whose only crime was to follow another religion. True?” Brad rocked forward as he spoke, his tone and face registering his total condemnation, his disgust for the man sitting before him. The man with the smug little smile.

  “Objection,” Strobel said. “This is ridiculous. Prior actions of this man are not relevant. We are here today only with regard to what happened between Mr. Aberijan and the Reeds, not with regard to the alleged punishment of others who violated Saudi law in the past.”

  “I agree,” Ichabod snarled. “Mr. Carson, that question is improper. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will ignore the question and any implications associated with it. You must completely erase it from your mind. Whatever Mr. Aberijan did or did not do in the past is not relevant here. You are to judge only his conduct on the night in question.”

  So much for Ichabod’s changing her mind.

  The jurors nodded their agreement with Ichabod’s instructions, but their eyes betrayed a growing distrust for Ahmed. Brad decided to drive the point home.

  “And it’s the job of your agency, the Muttawa, to enforce these laws that require death for any Muslim converting to Judaism or Christianity or Buddhism or—”

  “Objection!”

  “Mr. Carson,” Ichabod interrupted, almost simultaneously with Strobel’s objection, “move away from this line of questioning and get to the facts of this case now.” Her telltale vein became noticeable.

  “Judge, I believe we have a right to show that the laws of this man’s country permit executions for religious reasons, and that this man has himself executed offenders in the past and would not hesitate to do so with regard to Dr. Reed, even without the formality of a trial and conviction.”

  Brad had lit the fuse, and the Ichabod bomb responded. “Dismiss the jury,” she ordered.

  The jury stood and filed out. Some members quietly glanced over their shoulders at Brad, offering support with their eyes. It was all the encouragement Brad needed to face the fuming Ichabod.

  For the next five minutes, Brad endured a tongue-lashing that made him wish someone would throw him back to the demonstrators. Ichabod’s adjectives for his conduct included everything from unethical to childish. Her threats ranged from contempt to reporting his conduct to the state bar to ensuring that he would never practice law in federal court again. Her speech was punctuated with “yes, ma’ams” from Brad and an occasional “sorry, Your Honor.” He sounded contrite and fell all over himself to apologize. He took his licks, content in the knowledge that while Ichabod screamed, the jury sat in the conference room and contemplated the likelihood that, as part of his job, Ahmed had killed previously in the name of religion and would probably do so again.

  The Ichabod storm eventually fizzled out with no major damage to Brad’s wallet and no jail sentence. Brad considered himself a lucky man. Ichabod called the jury back into the courtroom.

  * * *

  The drama created by Ichabod’s wrath and the showdown between Brad and Ahmed caused all eyes to focus on these actors at center stage of the theater of the courtroom. For that reason, no one but Leslie seemed to notice when two well-dressed, middle-aged men with thin briefcases entered through the back door and squeezed into the seats on the first row just behind the barefooted Nikki.

  Nikki whispered something to the men, but Leslie could not hear her words. One shook his head. “Not yet,” Leslie saw him mouth to Nikki, who turned back with a frown. Leslie could not catch her eye.

  The men turned their attention to Brad’s cross-examination. Leslie pretended to be equally focused, but she kept watch on the men—and Nikki.

  * * *

  Brad shifted his weight, wincing at the pain that stabbed his knee, and reached for his reading glasses from his suit-coat pocket. Gone. Lost in the ruckus that morning. With or without his glasses to gnaw on, he decided to attack the issue of whether Ahmed had been acting as an agent of the government of Saudi Arabia when he visited the Reeds’ apartment.

  “Who was paying your salary on the night in question?”

  “The government of Saudi Arabia.” Brad could see the wheels turning in Ahmed’s head as he tried to anticipate where Brad was going.

  “And who paid the salary of the other members of the Muttawa?”

  “The government of Saudi Arabia.”

  “And who owned the squad cars that transported you to the scene?”

  “The government of Saudi Arabia.” A light of recognition dawned in Ahmed’s eyes. That smug, tight-lipped smile, however, never changed.

  “You do admit, do you not, that a stun gun was used that night on Dr. Reed?”

  “Yes, a stun gun was necessary to subdue him. He was violent and out of control, probably because of the drugs he had taken.”

  “Who owned the stun gun?”

  “One of my officers.”

  “No. I mean, who provided all the equipment—the handcuffs, the stun guns—al
l the things you used as an officer of the law.”

  Ahmed hesitated after the translation. “They are provided by the government of Saudi Arabia.”

  “You, sir, were there to enforce a law of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in your capacity as head of the Muttawa, the religious police of Saudi Arabia. You were paid by Saudi Arabia, equipped by Saudi Arabia, and authorized by Saudi Arabia. Isn’t it true you were acting as an agent of Saudi Arabia at the time of this arrest?”

  For Brad and, he hoped, for the jurors, the answer was obvious. He didn’t really care what Ahmed said in response. The power was in asking the question.

  Still Ahmed appeared unfazed.

  “I was acting as an agent of Saudi Arabia to enforce its laws,” the translator explained. “And as long as I and the other officers acted lawfully, we were within our authority. And we did nothing wrong. But if any officers had done what your client suggests, if any officers had tortured the Reeds or planted drugs or killed Dr. Reed or Mrs. Reed, those officers would have been outside their authority and no longer acting lawfully on behalf of the Kingdom. Our highest-ranking officials have made it clear that they will not tolerate any kind of police misconduct.”

  “Did anyone from Saudi Arabia ever investigate your conduct on the night in question?”

  “Of course,” was the reply. “We were investigated by many.”

  “Did any government official ever discipline you, reprimand you, or in any way tell you that they disapproved of your conduct?”

  “No, because we did nothing wrong.”

  “Charles Reed died!” Brad blurted out. “And you have the audacity to say you did nothing wrong?” Brad was livid at Ahmed’s cool and calculating manner on the stand. The smug little act of this unflappable sadist was getting under his skin.

  The translator gave Brad a puzzled look. “Could you use a different word than ‘audacity’?” he asked innocently. “I do not think I can translate that word.”

  Juror number four snickered.

  “Withdraw the question,” Brad snapped. “Why did you raid the Reed’s apartment on a Friday evening?”