Directed Verdict

by Randy Singer

  “Were you followed?” Nikki asked, as she slid the chain lock back in place.

  “Yes, but I lost him,” Sa’id said. “They don’t know the back streets in this city like I do.”

  “Good,” Nikki said, encouraged by this rare piece of good news. “By now Rasheed and Mobara ought to be at the embassy. I’m going to pack my stuff up and join them.” She looked around the room; her clothes and makeup were scattered everywhere.

  Sa’id glanced around curiously at the mess in the room.

  Nikki shrugged. “I thought I’d have some time to come back after we processed Rasheed and Mobara,” she said. “Sa’id, can you give me a ride to the embassy and let Hanif know that he can go now? Tell him thanks for everything.”

  As Sa’id opened his mouth to reply, a blast in the hallway blew the door partway open. Only the chain lock kept it from opening completely.

  “I thought you weren’t followed!” Nikki yelled.

  “I didn’t think I was,” Sa’id retorted, staring at the door in disbelief.

  While Sa’id stared, Hanif reacted. He grabbed Nikki by the arm and lunged for the sliding glass door that led to the balcony on the opposite side of the room. He yanked it open and flung her out onto the concrete balcony. Another blast hit the hotel room door. This time the chain lock broke, and the door banged open against the wall.

  A large concrete pillar on each side of the balcony separated it from those belonging to the adjoining rooms. A waist-high, cast-iron railing kept anyone from falling seven floors to the hard pavement of the parking lot below. In the split second available to decide, Hanif apparently decided to take an escape route that headed down.

  He grabbed Nikki under both her arms and swung her over the railing. She was petrified and didn’t dare move. Hanif let his strong hands slide up her arms as he lowered her quickly toward the deck of the balcony below. His hands gripped tightly around her forearms; then he swung her body slightly out away from the building and let the momentum carry her back toward the deck of the balcony. At the last second, he released her and Nikki landed shaken but unhurt on the balcony below. Hanif then swung over the railing himself, hung down as far as possible while grabbing the lowest part of the railing, and swung and jumped onto the deck next to Nikki.

  After regaining his balance, he reared back and kicked with all his might, landing the heel of his shoe squarely against the sliding glass door of room 603. The door shattered, and in a heartbeat he unlocked the door and pulled Nikki inside the room. She heard a thud behind them, signaling the arrival of one of Ahmed’s men on the balcony just a few steps away.

  Hanif and Nikki sprinted into the hallway, slamming the door behind them. To their left, just a few short feet away, a large metal doorway led to a stairwell. To the right a long hallway led to elevators and another stairwell. Hanif pushed Nikki to the left and yelled, “I pick you up out back,” as he sprinted down the hallway. Nikki stared for a split-second after him, wondering if she would ever see him again.

  Stunned, she turned and ran through the door directly in front of her and into the stairwell. The metal door slammed, and she immediately felt claustrophobic, surrounded by masonry walls with no windows, trapped in a narrow stairwell with only one way out. She instinctively grabbed the handrail and took a few steps down. Then she heard it. The sound of heavy breathing in the stairwell below her, accompanied by hurried footsteps coming in her direction. The footsteps of a man, huffing as he climbed. Probably the mountain man she had seen outside Sa’id’s office.

  She could not go back through the steel door and into the hallway, because she might encounter the man on the sixth floor. She couldn’t go down, or she would run smack into the arms of the mountain man. And so she started climbing as fast as her legs would carry her.

  She went up six flights and started slowing, her legs heavy, her chest tight and heaving. The relentless sounds of the footsteps below were still coming, but they were farther away. Those hours on the StairMaster had paid off. The prey gained a few seconds on the predator.

  She closed her eyes, took her chance, and ducked into the hallway of the twelfth floor. She ran halfway down the carpeted corridor, glancing over her shoulder and noticing that most of the doors on her right were open. She looked into one room as she was sprinting by and saw a maid with a cart of cleaning supplies. Nikki ran a few steps past the room, turned quickly around, and darted back into the room where the startled maid was making the bed.

  “Do you speak English?” Nikki asked breathlessly, bent over with her hands on her knees, sucking wind.

  The maid just lifted her hands, palms turned upward.

  Nikki put her fingers to her lips, signaling the maid should be quiet. She then pulled a wad of riyals from her pocket and put them in the maid’s hand. Without saying another word, Nikki climbed into the large cloth bag on the maid’s cleaning cart, curled up in the bottom of the bag, and covered herself with used room linens. The maid apparently understood. Nikki could hear her humming and tucking in the sheets on the bed.

  Nikki had never been so scared in her life. She lay perfectly still. The maid’s humming was drowned out by the sound of Nikki’s own ragged breathing and the pounding of her heart. She felt hot beads of sweat dripping down her back. She was helpless, totally at the mercy of a woman she didn’t know, banking on that woman’s willingness to help a stranger escape detection.

  Ahmed’s men could enter the room at any time, and the maid needed only to nod toward the laundry bag. It would be over before Nikki even knew what had happened.

  She thought about her life, all the things left undone. Her back to the wall now, all her cleverness, confidence, and guile were of no use. She didn’t know what else to do as she lay there, curled up and trembling.

  So she prayed.

  Dear God, if You’re out there, if You are as real as Sarah says You are, please help me! I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m desperate, and Sarah needs me alive. Please blind these men looking for me.

  Nikki thought for a moment about this next line. She had heard Sarah pray this way before, but it seemed to limit the type of God she was praying to. If the Hindus or Muslims were right, she was about to make a big mistake. But then again, if the Muslims were right, why would God rescue her anyway? After all, she was trying to help a Christian missionary.

  In the name of Jesus, amen.

  A few seconds later, Nikki heard a breathless male address the maid in Arabic. The woman responded, and a short discussion followed. Nikki braced herself for the sound of a gunshot, the feel of bullets ripping into her flesh.

  But only silence ensued—no talking, no humming, no noise at all. Nikki thought about coming out from under the laundry. But just before she could make her move, she felt a strong hand reach through the sheets and pull her up by her arm.

  Busted.

  It was the smiling maid.

  She was chattering in Arabic and pointing wildly in the direction she had just sent the Muttawa officer. Nikki climbed out of the laundry bag, but before she headed off in the opposite direction, she gave the maid a spontaneous hug. The maid seemed entirely unimpressed, and when Nikki released her, the maid held out her open hand for a more tangible reward. Nikki gave her another fistful of riyals, thanked her again, then headed out of the room and away from the stairwell—toward the elevators.

  Nikki wondered how many members of the Muttawa still roamed the Hyatt. With any luck, only a few.

  Where would I look if I were in their shoes? They last saw me climbing the stairs, heading up. They would be looking for me to escape using the stairs or climbing from balcony to balcony. No person in her right mind, fleeing for her life, would ever allow herself to be trapped in the elevators . . . so, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Take the elevator down to the second floor. Get below them. Then sprint down a flight of steps and into the parking lot.

  Nikki’s recklessness surprised even herself. She waited at the elevator door, glancing left and right, left and right, for an
interminable two minutes. The car going down was empty. She jumped in and prayed some more. Amazingly, the elevator didn’t stop until the second floor. When the elevator door opened, Nikki stuck her head out and quickly looked both ways. Then she ran down the hall and sprinted down the stairs, surprised not to see any of the Muttawa along the way. She slipped out the side door and into the parking lot.

  As soon as she exited the building, she heard an engine turn over and, seconds later, saw a car swerving toward her. Hanif! She jumped in, glancing behind her. He gunned the engine and squealed the tires as he exited the parking lot.

  “Thanks,” Nikki gasped as they sped away.

  “Any time. You still like my do?” he asked in stilted English.

  “I thought you didn’t speak English,” she said sheepishly. “But the answer is yes.”

  She leaned her throbbing head back against the headrest and counted her blessings. They would soon be at the embassy, hopefully without further incident. “Thanks, God,” she said under her breath.

  She wondered what happened to Sa’id.

  * * *

  Sa’id looked pathetic as Ahmed and the mountain man rejoined a dark-eyed Muttawa officer who kept watch in room 703. The trembling Saudi lawyer lay on the floor next to the king-size bed, his hands cuffed behind his back. The officer kicked Sa’id and commanded him to stand when Ahmed entered the room. He obeyed immediately but kept his gaze downward, not daring to look Ahmed in the eye.

  “Take the handcuffs off,” Ahmed demanded.

  The man with the dark eyes and scar removed the slender manacles.

  Ahmed walked over to Sa’id, towering over him. Sa’id, only five-nine when he stood straight, hunched forward in humility. Ahmed, nearly six inches taller to begin with, grabbed Sa’id’s right hand and pushed the hand down toward the right forearm, nearly bending Sa’id’s pudgy wrist in half.

  Sa’id whimpered at first, then let out a bloodcurdling scream. “What do you want?” he cried in Arabic as Ahmed increased the pressure.

  “Where did Rasheed and Mobara go? What happened to the American?” Ahmed hissed. He pushed harder on the wrist, forcing Sa’id to kneel in pain.

  This was his moment of truth, left at the mercy of a man who showed no mercy. Whether he lied or told the truth, Sa’id sensed he was drawing his last few breaths. Rasheed, Mobara, and Nikki would need all the time possible to make the embassy, gain asylum, and leave the country. Every minute could be the difference between their survival or their capture. The truth might cost them dearly. But a lie would betray his country and his god. He had but a moment to think.

  Like Nikki had done a few minutes earlier, Sa’id prayed quickly and silently. Another desperate prayer, but this one asked Allah for forgiveness.

  “They are driving to Dhahran,” Sa’id gasped, struggling for breath in spite of the pain. “Rasheed and Mobara . . . just left.” His voice quickened, sharp words through the pain as the pressure on his wrist increased. “They are heading back to my office to pick up Moreno and will drive to Dhahran. They knew you would go to the Riyadh airport. . . . They will leave through Dhahran. . . . They already have visas.”

  * * *

  Ahmed squeezed on the wrist with all his might until he heard the pleasing sound of breaking bone. He released it, and the wrist hung limp. Sa’id whelped and collapsed on the floor, holding his broken wrist gingerly with his other hand. As Sa’id moaned, Ahmed withdrew his gun and pointed it at the attorney’s forehead.

  “Beg, you dog,” he ordered. Sa’id was of no further use.

  “In the name of Allah, please! I will help you catch them! Please, sir! Spare my life!” Sa’id struggled to his knees, holding his wrist in his left palm, begging for mercy and looking desperately at Ahmed.

  “I said beg!” Ahmed yelled.

  Sa’id fell on his face at Ahmed’s feet, groveling and pleading for his life. When he had heard enough, Ahmed reached down and grabbed Sa’id under his chin. He pulled the man’s head upward so he could enjoy the terror in Sa’id’s eyes. With his free hand, Ahmed calmly placed his gun against the small man’s forehead, smiled, and pulled the trigger.

  “Clean this place up and write a report. Make it self-defense,” Ahmed said to the man with the scar and the dark eyes. “I want the Dhahran airport crawling with officers. And send a few to Riyadh just in case, though I don’t think this worm had the guts to lie.”

  Ahmed turned to leave the hotel room but first stopped in the bathroom to wash the blood from his hands.

  39

  THE PRISONER IN THE ORANGE JUMPSUIT took his time getting to the stand. He moved slowly because his ankles were chained together, and he clanged when he walked. Though manacled, the young man still managed to swagger. He strutted his youth, his dreadlocks, his multiple tattoos, and a five-day growth of curly stubble.

  When he finally took the stand, he slouched in his seat, put his chin in his hand, and scowled.

  “State your name for the record,” Brad said as he took his place behind the podium, giving the convict a wary look. He was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea.

  “Othello Biggs,” came the muffled reply. “They call me Shakespeare.”

  Brad couldn’t tell whether the man was kidding, so he played it straight.

  “Mr. Biggs, do you know why you’re here?”

  “Huh-uh.”

  “Mr. Biggs, this is a civil case. My client is Sarah Reed, this lady seated at counsel table to my right.” Brad motioned toward Sarah, but Shakespeare didn’t bother to look.

  “So what?” he glowered.

  “We have sued the defendants because we say the police in Saudi Arabia wrongfully arrested Mrs. Reed and her husband. We say they tortured the Reeds and ultimately killed Mr. Reed. So basically, this is a case where we are trying to prove police misconduct.”

  Shakespeare scowled at the defense lawyers. He had probably been the victim of police misconduct a few times himself. Brad could sense a little softening as Shakespeare turned back to him.

  “The police say the Reeds were actually running a drug ring and selling cocaine and marijuana,” Brad continued. “We say the Reeds were missionaries, just having a little church.”

  Shakespeare laughed out loud at that one.

  “Very creative,” he scoffed.

  Strobel rose. “Does Mr. Carson have any questions for this witness, or does he plan to tell him about this case for the rest of the day?”

  “I’m providing some context, Your Honor,” Brad explained. “It won’t take much longer.”

  “It better not,” Ichabod warned. Brad took that as a cue to continue.

  “We’ve heard testimony about the use of cocaine, a subject that I understand you might know something about. I want to show you some of that testimony and see if what they said is true.”

  As Brad spoke, Leslie prepared to cue the tape of Omar Khartoum’s testimony.

  “But first, I’ve got to establish your experience in this area. Mr. Biggs, how many times have you been arrested for drug use?”

  “State or federal?” he asked proudly.

  “Both,” Brad clarified.

  “I been arrested ’bout ten, twenty times. I only done time three times, ’cludin’ this one.”

  “Mr. Biggs, you’ll have to sit up straight and speak into the microphone,” Ichabod scolded.

  Biggs didn’t move.

  “How many of those were cocaine arrests?” Brad asked.

  “Most of ’em.”

  “Have you ever been convicted of selling cocaine?”

  “I said I did time. Somethin’ ’bout that you don’t understand?” Biggs’s scowl told Brad they had spent enough time on his arrest record.

  “Just a few more questions about experience,” Brad said, treading lightly. “For how many years have you been involved with cocaine use?”

  “Since I was thirteen,” he said.

  “And how old are you now?”

  “Twenty-two.”

 
“Do you have experience with smoking crack cocaine as well as snorting cocaine?”

  Shakespeare snorted as if that were the dumbest question he’d ever heard. “’Course.”

  Brad signaled Leslie to begin the tape, and everyone watched a few minutes of the cross-examination. Khartoum was shown tasting the cocaine. Then Brad asked Khartoum, “How did you know it was fake from tasting it? How is this substance different from the real cocaine you’ve tasted?”

  “The substance is sweeter,” was the translated reply on the tape.

  “Is that how you tell whether a substance is cocaine? You see how sweet it is?” Brad asked on the tape.

  “Yes,” was Khartoum’s reply.

  Brad hit the Pause button. “Is he right about the way cocaine tastes?” asked Brad.

  “That fool’s lyin’,” Shakespeare said disdainfully, apparently happy to catch another witness in a lie. “He ain’t never tasted rock, man. You know it’s real ’cause it bites. Man, it numbs yo’ whole tongue and the whole inside yo’ mouth if it’s pure stuff. Ain’t nothin’ ’bout it that’s sweet.” He furrowed his eyes at Brad, daring the attorney to question his judgment on this matter.

  Brad rolled some more tape. Khartoum demonstrated how he would snort a large pile of cocaine.

  “What do you think of that?” Brad asked.

  “I said he’s a fool,” Shakespeare said, “or he’s trippin’. You use a rolled-up bill, man. You don’t jus’ dump it on the table and snort.” Shakespeare chuckled derisively. “And, man, if you snorted that much snow, you’d be dead like that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis.

  Brad rolled some more tape. Khartoum described how they would cook the cocaine to make crack, at temperatures in excess of 250 degrees. This time, when Brad shut off the tape, he didn’t have time to ask a question.

  “If that boy heated coke at two-fifty, he’s an even bigger fool than I thought.”

  Strobel shot to his feet again. “Your Honor, I object to the way this witness characterizes Mr. Khartoum. This is not testifying to facts. It’s character assassination.”