by Randy Singer
“I agree,” Ichabod said. “Sir, please limit your testimony to your own factual knowledge. Do not evaluate the testimony of Mr. Khartoum.”
Shakespeare just shook his head. “He still don’t know what he’s talking about,” he said defiantly. “I know for a fact you don’t make crack by cookin’ it at like two-fifty. You get it that hot, you destroy the cocaine, it turns into vapor. I done it before, man. I know.”
“One more question,” Brad said. “Let me show you one more segment of this tape and ask if the testimony is accurate based on your own personal experience.”
Brad rolled the testimony of Khartoum as he described the rush he got from snorting cocaine. “I would get a huge rush right away,” Khartoum asserted, “and I wouldn’t come down for hours.”
“That fool’s so full of it,” Shakespeare interrupted.
“Objection,” Strobel shouted.
“Sit down and shut up, baldy,” Shakespeare snapped.
“You close your mouth, Mr. Biggs, or I’ll hold you in contempt,” Ichabod shouted.
“And what?” Shakespeare asked, in a mocking tone. “Throw me in jail? Now I’m scared.”
Ichabod chose to ignore this last comment. She could no doubt tell he was not the least bit intimidated by her judicial powers.
“Objection sustained,” she ruled. “And if the witness makes one more remark like the last one, I will dismiss him from the stand and strike his testimony.”
Brad worked hard to keep from smiling. The marshals were probably loving this guy. Shakespeare might get a private cell tonight.
“Is it true,” Brad asked quickly, “that you get a sudden rush from snorting cocaine and that the rush lasts for several hours?”
“No way,” Shakespeare said, with the authority of a man who had been there a few times. “That’s why you smoke crack. Snortin’ don’t give you no rush for a long time, and the high don’t last that long once it comes. Maybe a half hour, maybe an hour . . . max. But smoking crack, man, that’s a different game. It’s like—” and now Shakespeare leaned back and brushed both arms up over his body—“this incredible rush hits you right away, man.” He smiled, as if reliving a high right there on the stand. Then he turned serious. “But you don’t get nothin’ like that jus’ from snorting cocaine. Nope. I don’t care what this judge and baldy are saying, that man on the tape don’t know what he’s talking about.”
* * *
On mile four of his run Friday evening, Brad still couldn’t make sense of anything. He couldn’t believe that Nikki had sold him out. The e-mail from her computer to Shelhorse bothered him most. Why would someone as savvy as Nikki leave such obvious evidence of being a traitor? It only made sense if she had already cut her deal and decided to stay outside the country. If that were the case, Brad knew he would never see Rasheed take the witness stand the next day. In fact, the man was probably already dead.
But if Nikki had already cut her deal, then why was this man named Hamilton calling and offering her one and a half million? Was Nikki somehow double-crossing Ahmed and getting paid off by some third party? But why would this Hamilton leave such an incriminating message in such a nonchalant manner on Nikki’s voice mail?
Every question yielded ten more. Where was Ahmed? Could someone have broken into Nikki’s office and sent a message to Shelhorse over her computer? But how would you explain the other leaks, such as the inside information about Worthington that knocked him out of the case? Could there be another traitor on the inside, a person who saw an opportunity to set up Nikki while she was out of the country? And who could that possibly be? Bella? Leslie? Sarah? O’Malley? Brad could not make himself believe, even for a passing moment, that any of these would betray him.
Time would sort out the mystery. If Nikki returned on schedule early Saturday morning, it would be hard for him to believe that she was involved. If she did not, he would know she was rich and Rasheed was dead. But who was Chad Hamilton? And why would Nikki betray Brad and Sarah?
He ran farther and faster, but he could not clear his mind this evening. He could not exorcise the demons of doubt.
40
“THIS IS STUPID,” Bella whispered to nobody in particular. “She isn’t coming. Let’s just face it.”
Brad ignored her. He could do without her negative thoughts right now.
The jury gathered in the jury room, and the lawyers sat at their respective counsel tables. Few protesters met in front of the courthouse this morning; a few seats stood empty in the gallery for the first time in days. The early morning newscasts had speculated that today Brad would announce he was resting his case. Brad noticed that Ahmed was back in the courtroom, bearing his normal scowl. 8 a.m.
Nikki and Rasheed could show. It was still possible. If they had gotten out of Saudi Arabia late Friday evening, they would have just enough time to make it to Norfolk by early Saturday morning. But Brad had still not heard from them, and even the eternal optimist in him had to admit that he was out of options.
“All rise!” the court clerk commanded, hushing the crowd. “Silence is now commanded while court is in session. The Honorable Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline presiding. God save this honorable court.”
God save me, Brad thought.
“Please, take your seats,” Ichabod said in businesslike fashion. Brad remained standing in order to address the court and request additional time. He was not relishing the task.
“Call your next witness, Mr. Carson,” the judge ordered.
“Your Honor,” Brad began, “our next witness was to be Rasheed Berjein. As you know, as recently as yesterday, we were trying to gain political asylum for Mr. Berjein so that he could leave Saudi Arabia and testify in this trial. He’s a critical rebuttal witness. Absolutely critical. He has already testified by videotape, but he is now prepared to correct that testimony in person. We have tried unsuccessfully in the last twenty-four hours to reach either Mr. Berjein or my paralegal who went to help him in this process. Accordingly, we would respectfully ask that his testimony be postponed until Monday.”
“Request denied,” Ichabod said firmly. Brad slumped his shoulders and pursed his lips. The fabricated testimony of Rasheed on videotape would stand.
“But I will grant a half-hour recess, Mr. Carson. A few minutes ago, in my chambers, I received a telephone call from your paralegal. She said she had been trying to reach you by phone but could not reach you, presumably because you could not bring your cell phone into court. She said that she had just received a number of e-mail messages on some kind of handheld computer device, now that she’s back in the country and within range of the cells where it works, informing her about court this morning. Ms. Moreno said she would be at the courthouse in about ten minutes. I decided to be generous and give you half an hour.”
The thought crossed Brad’s mind that if Ichabod truly wanted to be generous, she would have told him about this development when she first took the bench, but he was not about to complain. Nikki was coming. And she was bringing Rasheed.
“Court stands in recess for half an hour,” the clerk announced. Ichabod left the bench, and all eyes turned to the doors at the back of the courtroom.
None watched more intently than Ahmed.
* * *
Twenty minutes later Nikki burst through the doors with Rasheed in tow. Neither had slept for nearly forty-eight hours, except for a few fitful hours on the plane. Cognizant that all eyes were on her, Nikki self-consciously took inventory of her haggard appearance. She wore a pair of skintight faded jeans, an untucked blouse, and no makeup. Her normally pampered hair was oily and unkempt. She couldn’t remember when she’d last brushed it. At least her Oakleys hid her bloodshot eyes—assuming Ichabod didn’t make her take them off. But when she saw Brad, she forgot all about that.
Nikki ran down the aisle and threw her arms around her boss. “I love this country,” she whispered. “Hope I’m not too late.”
“You’re right on time,” he assured her.
She tur
ned to see Rasheed and Sarah embrace. Then Sarah tilted her head back, looked Rasheed over, said a few words of Arabic, and the two embraced again. Rasheed smiled widely with a kind of stupefied grin.
Bella stood a few feet away, left out of the original round of hugs. Nikki felt so good to be back on American soil, even if it was Ichabod’s courtroom, that she took a step toward Bella to embrace.
But Bella’s sour expression never changed. As Nikki stepped forward, Bella brought her two arms up like pistons, landed them hard against Nikki’s shoulders, and jarred Nikki backward. “You traitor,” Bella sneered. “How dare you come waltzing—”
Stunned by the reaction, Nikki stood frozen for a split second. But she wasn’t about to take a blow from the whale woman without retaliating. She regained her balance and lunged at Bella, fingernails searching for skin, insults flying from her lips. Brad jumped between them, grabbing Nikki before she could land any blows. Facing her, he held her back as she hurled invectives at Bella.
He eventually talked Nikki into taking a seat at the end of the counsel table farthest from Bella. She did so only after promising she would rip Bella’s lungs out, one at a time, as soon as court was over.
“This is the thanks I get?” Nikki asked. “For risking my life?” She stared at Bella, as if calling her out with her gaze.
Bella, now seated, stared stoically ahead and ignored her nemesis. Leslie sat next to Nikki, strategically placing herself in the way of Nikki’s challenging stare. Sarah sat next to Bella.
Brad turned and addressed the curious reporters. “Just a little family feud,” he said nonchalantly.
She’s history, Nikki thought, plotting her revenge. It’s just a matter of time. Bella didn’t know who she was messing with. She didn’t know the half of it.
“All rise,” the court clerk commanded, and everyone scampered to their seats. In the next moment Ichabod dashed into the courtroom, looking furious as ever. She stared at Nikki, who stared back from behind her shades. They were not coming off without a fight.
Ichabod apparently decided not to push the point. “Is Mr. Berjein prepared to testify?” she asked.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Brad announced wearily.
And at long last, Rasheed Berjein walked proudly to the front of this American courtroom, raised his hand, took the oath, and climbed into the witness box to testify against his tormentor—Ahmed Aberijan—in the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Virginia.
* * *
Sarah listened intently to Rasheed’s testimony, affirming him with her eyes. Even with the necessity of translation, his testimony was spellbinding. He spoke from his heart about the history of the small Riyadh church. He testified that, on the same night that Charles Reed died, Rasheed and his wife were arrested by the Muttawa on trumped-up drug charges as well. The Muttawa threatened them and beat them, made them recant their Christian conversion, then released them.
Rasheed described the sleepless nights after denying his Christian faith, his search for forgiveness, and the rebirth of the church. Without divulging the names of any church members, he detailed the tumultuous growth of the small church and the persecution it suffered. Sarah swelled with pride at the way the church had reestablished itself and carried on. She marveled at how the Lord had preserved some seeds from the church that was persecuted and nurtured them into a whole new church reaching the lost and preaching the gospel.
The thriving church was nothing short of a miracle, and it was marvelous in her eyes.
She glanced at Bella out of the corner of her eye. Rasheed’s testimony had obviously not captivated the still-seething legal secretary. Sarah picked up her pen and carefully wrote on the yellow legal pad in front of her. She slid it in front of Bella.
I don’t think Nikki did it, the note read. Why would she have come back with Rasheed if she was a mole for the Muttawa? This testimony is too damaging.
Bella read the note and scribbled something in response. She slid it back to Sarah. Then how do you explain the e-mail from Nikki to Shelhorse and the voice mail offering Nikki $1.5 mil?
Sarah thought for a moment, looking at Rasheed but not really listening. A lot of things didn’t make sense. She wrote a response and slid the note back to her right, even as she looked at the witness. She felt like a schoolgirl passing notes in class.
Why would Nikki write the e-mail to Shelhorse from her own computer? the note asked. Nikki knew we would eventually speak to Shelhorse and that Shelhorse would tell us where the message came from. Why would Nikki set herself up like that?
Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah watched Bella read the note and shrug. She didn’t pick up her pen to draft a response.
Sarah sensed that Bella was softening. She grabbed the paper again and decided to appeal to Bella’s new spiritual side.
The Bible tells us not to judge one another, Sarah wrote. Especially motivations. I think you owe Nikki an apology. How will Nikki ever be drawn to Christ if she doesn’t notice a change in you?
She said a quick little prayer and slid the paper down the table again. Bella read it and hung her head. A certain sadness crept into her eyes. She stared down at the table and eventually wrote a one-word response.
Okay.
Sarah gave her a small smile and a quick squeeze of the hand. Bella didn’t squeeze back, and Sarah decided not to push her luck.
* * *
“Did there come a time,” Brad asked, “when you were approached by Ms. Moreno from my firm about the possibility of testifying in this case?”
“Yes, I remember the day well,” the translator replied.
“Tell me about it,” Brad said.
“Ms. Moreno and a Saudi Arabian attorney, a man named Sa’id el Khamin, told me what happened to Pastor Reed and Sarah.” As he talked, Rasheed frequently looked over at Sarah, seemingly drawing strength from the brave missionary.
“I talked with your Ms. Moreno and agreed to give testimony in this case,” the translator continued as Rasheed spoke. “We met in their car because Ms. Moreno believed my apartment was—how to say—others were listening to my phones. Your Ms. Moreno said I should be ready for a visit from the Muttawa as soon as Ms. Moreno and Mr. el Khamin leave. So we agree on a plan.”
“What was that plan?”
“That day, I give your Ms. Moreno a written statement—how do you say it?—I swear is true . . .”
“An affidavit?” Brad offered.
“Yes, that is it,” came back the translated reply. “Then Ms. Moreno says I will be asked to give my story before the trial in something called . . .” Rasheed could not find the word; the translator waited.
“A deposition?” Brad volunteered.
“Yes. So Ms. Moreno and myself agreed that I would say whatever the Muttawa wanted me to say in the deposition. They had my wife—”
The translator waited on the visibly shaken Rasheed. The memory of his wife’s life hanging on his every word seemed to unnerve him anew. He shook on the stand, his lip quivering, staring at his hands, unable to speak.
The silence became uncomfortable, and Ichabod intervened. “Would the witness like to take a break?” she asked the translator.
The offer was translated, but Rasheed shook his head. “He just wants to get it over,” the translator said.
After another awkward pause and a glance at Sarah for reassurance, Rasheed continued.
“They, the Muttawa, were listening to the deposition in another room with my wife—”
“Objection,” Strobel called out, causing the witness to start and lean back in his chair, wide-eyed. “This is classic hearsay.”
“Sustained,” Ichabod said without enthusiasm. “Tell him to state only what happened and not what he heard from others,” she instructed the translator.
Seeing the look of confusion on the translator’s face, Brad intervened. “Did you tell the truth in your deposition?” Brad asked through the interpreter.
“No.”
“Why not?”
&n
bsp; “Because I had been threatened—”
“Objection . . . hearsay,” an exasperated Strobel said.
“It’s not offered for the truth of the matter asserted, Your Honor,” Brad explained. “It’s offered only to show motivation.”
This bit of verbal hocus-pocus seemed to satisfy Ichabod. “I’ll allow it,” she ruled. “But, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the alleged threats made against Rasheed should be considered only for the purpose of deciding whether he had a motivation to lie in his deposition. You should not concern yourself as to whether the threats were in fact true. Do you understand?”
Of course they didn’t. But the jurors nodded their heads as if they understood perfectly, anxious to hear all about these threats.
“I was told that if I did not testify and say that Pastor and Sarah Reed, and even myself, used drugs, I would never again see my wife alive. But Ms. Moreno and myself, even in our first meeting, had already thought about this possibility and agreed on two signals. The first signal was for this jury.” Rasheed turned and faced the members of the jury. “We agreed that Mr. Carson would ask a question a certain way and I would answer a certain way in order to show you, as the jury, that I was lying just to survive.”
The slightest smile creased Rasheed’s face, a smile of pride as he explained his clever little plot. Strobel rose to object but could apparently think of nothing to say. Without uttering a word, he sat back down.
“What was the question and answer?” Brad asked.
“You asked me to look you in the eye and tell you that I had not been threatened by the Muttawa. I was to answer but stare down at the table, to show the jury that I could not look you in the eye and say my testimony was true. This is universal language, Mr. Carson. Can you look someone in the eyes and tell them it is the truth? If not, it is a lie. This was my signal to this jury. I was telling them, by that signal, my deposition testimony was a lie.”
Brad was sure the jurors had not forgotten the last question of Rasheed’s deposition. The camera had focused on the top of his head as the picture faded to black.