by Randy Singer
“If the signature is a forgery, then the terms of the trust agreement fail, and the money in the account reverts back to its original owner—Saudi Arabia.” Ahmed paused. “Our friend is not as clever as she thinks.”
He walked over to the small wet bar in his room, poured himself another soda, and took a long swig. “Nobody blackmails Ahmed Aberijan and lives.”
“What’s your plan for taking her out?” There was a slight tremor in Barnes’s voice. He was trying to act tough, like this was all in a day’s work, but he had never been an accomplice to murder before.
“Not my plan,” Ahmed laughed. It was a hollow and mirthless laugh. “I’m leaving the country as soon as the jury starts deliberating. How she dies, that’s up to you. It’s why you get paid so handsomely.”
Ahmed pretended to ignore the stunned look of silent protest on the face of Barnes. In truth, he had no intention of leaving such an important and rewarding matter in the hands of a hired henchman. But the look on Barnes’s face told him everything he needed to know. When push came to shove, the investigator could not be trusted. He simply didn’t have the guts to kill, or worse, he had determined that it was not in his best interest to do so.
Either way, Ahmed would be forced to take matters into his own hands. And with that issue settled, Ahmed receded back into his own little world, deep in thought. He stared out the window for several minutes, soaking in the storm, and did not blink as Barnes left the room, softly shutting the door behind him.
* * *
Barnes arrived fifteen minutes late for his meeting with the brain trust, an unlit stogie tucked firmly in the corner of his mouth. The greetings were cool and guarded, and Barnes got right down to business. He stood at the end of the conference table, his large girth nearly resting on the table itself. The group’s mood matched the weather, and they frowned disapprovingly at this man whom fate had chosen to be their ally.
“Here are some more photographs,” he said, slapping a folder down on the table. “I’ll have the man who took the photos ready to testify in court tomorrow.”
Strobel grabbed the folder and ripped it open. The photos showed the face of juror number four and the back of another man. There were two sets of photos from two different restaurants.
“They have met at least three times in the last few weeks,” Barnes said. “In one of the restaurants, my man was seated close enough to overhear some of their conversation. Stein has promised his vote for one hundred thousand cash, fifty now, fifty later. If you check his bank account at the Bank of Tidewater, you’ll see that fifty has already been deposited. He’s definitely working for Brad Carson.”
“How do you know that?” Teddy asked.
“I can’t say,” Barnes answered smugly. “But I’ll stake my reputation on it.” He paused for a moment and eyed the lawyers, daring any of them to challenge this information.
“Why would a juror take this incredible chance for a mere hundred thousand?” Win asked. “It almost destroys your faith in the system.”
“A hundred thousand is still a lot of money to some people,” Barnes replied. His voice reproached these big-firm lawyers. He looked from one to the next with disdain. He took a small bite of the cigar, spitting the piece to the side. “But that’s beside the point,” he continued. “Our old buddy Zeke Stein happens to be cheating on his wife. So the deal is not just his vote for a hundred thou; it’s his vote for a hundred thou and the silence of the plaintiff’s investigator.
“Here are the pictures to confirm the affair, if you’re interested,” Barnes said, tossing another folder onto the table. Unlike the other folder, nobody snatched this one up. All four men stared at the folder, resisting the urge to grab it, tear it open, and gawk at the contents. Their dignity and status in life required no less . . . at least for now.
“How did you find out about the affair?” Win asked.
“You mean juror four’s affair?” Barnes asked, as he tossed an accusatory look toward Win.
“Of course.”
Barnes smirked. “My man will testify that he heard juror four and Carson’s lackey, the man whose back you see in the pictures, talking about it at the restaurant. That man confronted juror four with pictures of the affair.
“And after the conversation in the restaurant, my man followed Mr. Stein around for a while and—voilà—we’ve got our own photo gallery of him and his little mistress. It seems our man just can’t stand to be away from his Internet sweetheart. He’s probably with her right now.”
Win couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the folder, obviously riveted by the thought of what it might contain.
“I’m assuming that you’re planning to take this information to the judge first thing tomorrow morning?” Teddy said to Mack.
It was not so much a question as a command. But Barnes harbored no respect for the old guy and did not realize that Teddy’s suggestions should be treated like they came down from the mount.
“I would still recommend holding it until the jury actually starts deliberating,” Barnes suggested before Mack could reply. “That way you’ve got a surefire mistrial because, by then, this juror will have poisoned the deliberations. If you unveil this stuff first thing Monday morning, the judge could just dismiss juror four and allow the other jurors and substitute alternate to begin deliberations.” Barnes paused, chomping down hard on his cigar. “And, fellas, I don’t want to be the one to break it to you, but you don’t have the most appealing jury case.”
Teddy Kilgore clenched his jaw and stood slowly, using the table to help himself up. He extended a long, bony, trembling finger toward Barnes. “Listen here, sir, you will not come waltzing into these offices and tell us how to try this case. Your suggestions are both unwise and offensive.” His voice was rising, nearly cracking with anger.
“You suggest that this firm should lie to the court for strategic reasons? sacrifice the integrity of this firm and the trust of the bench, which has taken decades to build, just to get a mistrial? If we wait until after the jury begins deliberations to put your man on the stand, the judge will rightfully ask why we didn’t bring this to her earlier. And either your man lies, and he says we just found out about it, or we look like complete fools. Am I right?”
Barnes knew better than to answer the question.
“Then what you are actually suggesting is that your man perjure himself on the stand and that Mr. Strobel should knowingly present perjured testimony to the court,” Teddy continued, the long knobby finger pointing at Barnes’s stubby nose.
It was exactly what Barnes was suggesting, although he may have phrased it somewhat more delicately.
“You obviously do not know this firm very well,” Teddy huffed. He sat down, but his gaze did not leave Barnes. “You’ll have your man in the courtroom, ready to testify, first thing tomorrow morning. Mr. Strobel will keep the photos of the meeting between juror four and Carson’s gopher for evidence. You may take your other sleazy photographs and get out!” With this, Teddy waved his hand in a long arch, dismissing Barnes, the photos, and a guaranteed plan for a mistrial.
Out of the corner of his eye, Barnes saw Win, ever so subtly, cock his head to the side and look at Mack. Do something, the look screamed.
But Mack ignored him. Teddy still had a towering presence and great influence in this firm. And it was obvious that he had just levied a nonnegotiable edict.
Even Barnes knew better than to take on the man in this setting. Instead, he stuffed the folder back into his briefcase and stalked out of the conference room, cursing Teddy Kilgore under his breath.
His plans for a mistrial had been dealt an unexpected blow. But for something this important, Barnes believed in redundancy planning. Exploiting juror number four was now a bit more challenging, but Barnes still had a way. And securing the vote of juror six was no longer a luxury. The informant would have to deliver.
He flicked some ashes on the Persian rug as he headed for the elevator.
* * *
She
drove like lightning through the downpour. At ten minutes until nine, she was still twenty minutes from downtown Norfolk. Brad had kept everyone late while he reviewed his closing argument. They had videotaped him, then spent several hours critiquing his closing. Listening and critiquing. Listening and critiquing. Afterward, he still wanted to practice it several more times.
As far as she knew, Brad was still pacing around the conference table, cajoling the empty chairs, choreographing every inflection and gesture. And here she was, about to meet with Ahmed Aberijan one last time and render that closing argument moot.
The rain continued to fall in sheets against the windshield, the lines on the interstate becoming a blur. At least the thunder and lightning had stopped. Her wipers beat furiously, but they were no match for this flood from heaven. She hit a pool of standing water, and the car pulled hard to the right, almost ending in a spin. Her heart pumped harder as she realized she had almost lost it. She strained her eyes for more dark pools of water. Her speedometer said eighty-five.
The cell phone rang, and she jumped. She slowed slightly and took one hand off the wheel.
“Hello,” she said tentatively.
“Man, girl, you are bookin’. Slow down a little. Ahmed ain’t goin’ nowhere.” It was O’Malley. She had lost his headlights in her rearview mirror a few minutes earlier.
“Are you sure this’ll work?”
“Look, baby, you’re totally wired. First sign of trouble, I’ll be there,” he promised.
“What if he pulls a gun?”
“I’ll be right outside. Ten seconds, max. You’ve got to relax, hon. Aberijan can smell fear.”
“Easy for you to say.” She hydroplaned on another pool of standing water. “I’ve got to go. . . . Thanks for being here, Patrick.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She made it safely to the hotel but was ten minutes late. She pulled up under the overhang in the front of the building and gave the valet her keys. She walked through the large revolving doors and into the luxurious lobby. She took a deep breath and turned left down the hallway toward the combination deli restaurant and bar. A waiter greeted her with a smile.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“No thanks. I’m just looking for someone.”
She walked a few feet into the restaurant and took stock. Immediately in front of her, a few patrons enjoyed a late dinner and watched a large television. To her right, a few corporate road warriors sat in the sunken bar and talked to the bartender. A flight of stairs to her right led to a dimly lit area with a pool table and a few private dining tables. It overlooked the remainder of the restaurant and was bounded by a black iron railing. Two patrons played pool, but otherwise the upstairs room looked empty.
She headed up and wondered why she had chosen this place. The Reed case had received so much publicity that she could no longer meet with Ahmed in public. But why here? She had eaten here before—many times. But tonight it felt different. Darker. Musty. She could feel the evil.
She walked past the pool players and nodded at them. Then she saw him. Sitting in a booth in the far corner, not even visible from the main floor of the restaurant. He saw her too, and he locked on to her. She could not meet the gaze of his emotionless gray eyes.
She sat down at the booth without a word of greeting. She knew he could sense her fear, but there was nothing she could do about it.
“Did you come alone?” she asked.
“No,” he said firmly. He was obviously done playing games.
She nodded in question toward the men at the pool table.
“No.” He did not take his shrouded eyes off her; it seemed he did not even blink. She began glancing around the room.
“Give me the wire,” Ahmed demanded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.
“You’re wearing a wire. Either give it to me or this meeting is over.”
Slowly, she reached under the table, under her fleece and sweater, and pulled out the small microphone, wire, and transmitter. She laid it on the table.
Ahmed picked it up carefully and studied the equipment. “The lady is signing off now,” he said into the mike. Then he placed the equipment gently on the floor and stomped hard, crushing the pieces with his heel.
“Now we can talk,” he said.
* * *
Barnes watched the valet park the car in the first floor of the parking garage, then jog out of the garage to fetch the next one. He had been watching the young man for nearly twenty minutes and calculated it would take several minutes for the valet to return. Plenty of time to get the job done.
He pulled out a small black bag of high-tech gadgets and strolled toward her car. He popped the lock with a slim-jim and was inside in seconds. With a small screwdriver, a sharp knife, and practiced fingers, he unhooked the dome light, stripped the hot wire, and connected a small microphone to this energy source. No batteries necessary. It would record indefinitely.
He hid the mike inside the plastic covering of the dome light, clipped the cover back in place, and went straight for the cell phone. Nokia—perfect. Quickly, efficiently, he removed the plastic cover, planted the bug, then wired the bug to the cell phone’s internal antenna. As he snapped the cover back on, he heard the muffled sound of a car engine. He softly closed the driver’s-side door, slid down in the seat, and watched through the side mirror as the valet drove by. Barnes listened as the car engine shut off and the door closed. He sat still for another two minutes—enough time for the valet to be out of the garage.
Barnes slowly lifted his head, checked every direction, then opened the door and got out of her car. His task complete, he strolled calmly out of the garage and headed around the corner to the front door of the Marriott.
* * *
“I came through on Shelhorse.”
“And I came through on the money,” Ahmed hissed.
She was very much alone. Terrified. Though her voice would probably tremble, she needed to stay on the offensive. “The Shelhorse money was nothing. I want the rest on deposit by tomorrow morning, 9 a.m., or we pull back our friend on the jury.”
Ahmed laughed. It was a bitter, forced laugh. A mocking laugh. “Someone as smart as you proposes a plan like this? Let’s see, I wire a million into one account—let’s call it the ‘verdict account.’ And then a hundred million into another account—let’s call it the ‘trust account.’ And then you say, ‘Thank you very much,’ leave the country, and are never seen or heard from again. You double-cross me, the jury returns a huge verdict against me, and I . . . do what? Go to the police? ‘Officer,’ I say, ‘this lady did not uphold her end of a jury bribery scheme.’”
“The hundred million will be protected by the trust agreement.”
“I’m not worried about the trust account,” Ahmed snapped. “That money will be there before the jury begins its deliberation. But the verdict account—that million dollars is protected by what? Your promise that I’ll get a verdict?”
“First, the price is two million, not one.” She swallowed hard. “And second—”
At the edge of her peripheral vision, she saw a man just behind her shoulder. She flinched, ducking to the side and turning.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” the waiter asked.
It was impossible to respond immediately, her heart was in her throat. Ahmed flashed the same smug smile he had worn when he testified. She took a deep breath and ordered a Diet Coke so the waiter would be forced to return soon.
Ahmed ordered nothing. He did not even look at the waiter. His eyes remained glued on her, and she subconsciously slid to the end of the booth.
“Do you have the signed trust agreement?” she asked after the waiter left. She wanted to make this as quick as possible, to get out of a trap that she sensed would spring soon.
Ahmed took an envelope from the seat beside him and placed it on the table. He did not let go with his hand, and she did not try to take it.
“How do
I know you will deliver juror six?” he asked.
“So you need him now?”
“How do I know . . . you will deliver?”
It was time to feign indignation. She scowled and spoke in an intense whisper, meeting Ahmed’s fixed gaze with an unblinking stare of her own. “You don’t trust me? I’m shocked.”
“I love it when you talk tough,” Ahmed mocked. “But I need something more than your word to justify this rather substantial investment. Tell you what. You deliver the verdict first; then I’ll pay. You have my word for that.”
That smirk was driving her nuts. What does he know? What’s about to happen?
She withdrew a two-page document from her pocket and unfolded it, trying hard to control the trembling of her hands. “Here are the wire and investment instructions for the Swiss bank account where you wire the two million dollars. You can check this one out too. As soon as the money hits the account, it gets invested in put options on U.S. oil companies. There’s also a caveat that these investment instructions cannot be changed for two weeks.”
Ahmed gave her a puzzled look, and her confidence grew. “These put options are basically a bet that the stock prices of these companies will go down. If the stock prices stay the same, the put options will lose a little value, though not much. But we both know that a verdict against Saudi Arabia would destabilize relationships with the United States,” she continued, “and cast a cloud over foreign oil supplies. If that happens, the stock prices for U.S. oil companies will go through the roof.”
She slid her paper next to the envelope Ahmed was holding. “If the stock prices of U.S. oil companies go up, the put options that will be purchased with this account become essentially worthless. In other words, if there’s a verdict against Saudi Arabia, the money in this account will disappear.”
She looked dead into his eyes. “In addition to that, you have my word,” she said sarcastically.
“Clever,” Ahmed said. The detestable smirk was back. He took her paper and slid his envelope toward her. She carefully peeled it open. It appeared to be the same trust agreement that she had drafted, but she still read every word—forced herself to concentrate in spite of her fears—to ensure he hadn’t changed the language. She saw the verified signature at the bottom of the last page, a signature belonging to the minister of the department of public safety. Two others had signed as witnesses. One of them was Ahmed. The signatures had been notarized.