Directed Verdict

by Randy Singer

  She placed the agreement back in the envelope. “I’ll have someone checking the accounts tomorrow morning,” she promised. “If the money’s in the trust account, and they confirm it’s being held subject to this trust agreement . . . and if the verdict account contains two million dollars—” she paused—“you can start celebrating your verdict.”

  “Let’s talk about the price of that verdict,” Ahmed said. “I don’t think we ever agreed.”

  She sensed that Ahmed was trying to keep her there for some reason, and she wasn’t about to find out why. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the waiter coming with her drink. It would be a good time to make her move. Perhaps her only time. She rose as the waiter approached the table. “My friend here will be getting the bill,” she said crisply. She looked straight at Ahmed. “Two bucks,” she said.

  The waiter gave her a curious look.

  “I’ve only got a buck fifty,” Ahmed replied.

  “Okay,” she replied, slapping a dollar down on the table. “You pay a buck fifty, I’ll cover the rest.”

  Then she turned and hurried down the steps.

  She rushed outside the hotel and stood under the overhang, waiting for the valet to bring her car. The rain was still coming in sheets, blown sideways by the wind, and spraying her despite the protection of the overhang. She was thinking about Ahmed, wondering what was taking so long, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped and turned, her heart pounding madly against her chest. She faced a short, stocky man chewing on the stub of a cigar, the same man who sat behind Ahmed every day of the trial.

  She jerked her shoulder away.

  “Let me give you some free advice,” he whispered, although there was nobody else around. “Don’t mess with that man in there. Do exactly what you promised. And if you want to survive, your man on the jury better be able to deliver. Get the defense verdict and get out of town. And that agreement in the envelope? It isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”

  She eyed him warily. Is this a setup? Is he here at Ahmed’s instructions? “What are you talking about?”

  The stocky man didn’t answer. He pulled his hood up on his Windbreaker and headed down the sidewalk, disappearing into the night.

  This was getting too weird. She felt lightheaded and vulnerable. She wanted to sit, but there was no seat near her. She waited in the biting wind for what seemed like an eternity before the valet arrived with her car and helped her in the driver’s door. He handed her a piece of paper, then waited, expecting a tip, but she was too preoccupied to catch his hints. When he reluctantly shut the door, she wasted no time in hitting the gas and putting some distance between her and the Marriott.

  She turned on the dome light and read the note as she drove. One eye on the road, one eye on the disconcerting note in her trembling right hand.

  The rain continued to come in torrents as she headed west on I-264. The wind was so strong she could feel it pushing her car sideways. This time, she was in no hurry. She flicked off the light in order to concentrate on the road and think her thoughts in darkness. As she drove, she wiggled out of her fleece and turned up the heater. At least her jeans and pullover wool sweater were still partially dry. The radio blared, but she didn’t hear it. She stayed in the right lane, doing no more than the speed limit, and still she had a hard time seeing the lines on the road. The wipers, beating furiously, mesmerized her.

  She shuddered from either the cold or the thought of Ahmed, filled with bile, staring her down. She now had a bounty on her head. One hundred million dollars. Her death grip on the steering wheel turned her knuckles white. Relax, she told herself. The worst is over.

  Then why am I shaking? Why am I starting to cry?

  C’mon girl, get a grip! She willed herself to relax, to take one hand off the wheel, to stop grinding her teeth. With her free hand, as an act of studied nonchalance, she flipped her wet hair out of her face and over her shoulder.

  The headlights from the vehicle behind reflected off the mirror and illuminated her silhouette—a model’s face and a long thin neck—framed by the sheen of her windblown and rain-soaked long auburn hair.

  43

  LESLIE DIDN’T KNOW HOW LONG the vehicle had been there, but she suddenly realized she was being followed. The headlights were elevated—it must be a truck or SUV of some sort. She slowed to give the tailgater a chance to pass. The lights, however, grew closer. She began to panic.

  She put both hands back on the steering wheel, resumed her iron grip, and started gradually increasing her speed to see if the tailgater would drop off. But the tailgater maintained the distance, as if attached to her car by a tow bar. The interstate suddenly seemed deserted, and she sensed real danger. She picked up more speed. The tailgater followed suit. She hydroplaned and regained control. The vehicle behind her was still there.

  The tailgater flashed his headlights and laid on the horn. Leslie’s hands were frozen on the wheel. She was in the left lane, passing what few vehicles were braving the night. Still the tailgater stayed glued to her bumper. She glanced down quickly at the odometer. Eighty-four miles per hour in the pouring rain. Where are the police when you need them?

  Her cell phone rang, and her heart raced. Who’s calling me now? Who’s chasing me? Should I answer? Her thoughts became jumbled, and her fears fed on themselves. Must settle down. Maybe it’s O’Malley. If they wanted to kill me, they wouldn’t have waited for me to get on the interstate.

  Answer the phone!

  “Hello,” she managed, in a feeble voice.

  “It’s me. Brad. Behind you,” he shouted into his phone. “Slow down and pull over.”

  Relief surged through her body, like a death-row inmate with an eleventh-hour reprieve.

  “Okay,” she said and hung up.

  Thank God. She slowed the vehicle and started looking for a shoulder. And then a new anxiety attack started. How did he get there? What does he know?

  What will I tell him?

  She found a good spot, the best that could be hoped for in the driving rain, and pulled over. Her car came to a skidding halt in a wet, grassy spot several feet off the road. She stayed in the driver’s seat with the door locked, staring back into the headlights of the vehicle behind her.

  It looked like Brad’s Jeep, but she couldn’t be sure. She could make out only the shadow of a driver. There was no one visible on the passenger side.

  She saw a figure open the driver’s door and step out into the wind and rain. She put the car in gear, ready to leave in a hurry. Cars flew by, casting long shadows off the silhouette moving toward her. The walk, the build, the posture, the way he carried himself—it was all Brad!

  She exhaled and pried her hands off the wheel. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. She put the car in park and jumped out, without even putting on her fleece, and started toward him. They met between the two vehicles, with the glare of the headlights in her eyes, the sound of cars rushing by on the interstate, the rain pelting them, and the wind blasting them. They stood there for a split second, her hair dripping wet and hanging in her face, her sweater quickly soaking through. She watched the rain pouring off his chin and onto his Windbreaker.

  He was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

  She had rehearsed in her mind over and over what she would say if she ever got caught. How she would act. How he would respond. But now that the moment was here, all those strategies seemed useless, lost deep in the gaze of his confused and hurting pale blue eyes.

  * * *

  He was angry, bitterly disappointed, and drenched.

  “Brad, I’m so glad it’s you.” She started toward him, but he took a step back.

  He shook his head. Slowly at first, then with more determination. He held up a palm to stop her approach.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” he shouted over the sound of the storm and the traffic. “It was you all along. Sleeping with the enemy. I saw you outside the Marriott tonight . . . meeting with Ahmed’s investiga
tor!” He was yelling now, emphasizing every syllable, hands gesturing wildly in frustration. He gave her no chance to answer. “You sold us out! Sold . . . us out.”

  “No!” she yelled in response. “What’re you talking about? Let me explain . . .” She reached out to grab Brad by the shoulders to calm him down and get his attention. Her eyes were pleading for a chance to be heard.

  Brad brushed her aside and continued his tirade. “I have listened to you. I’ve listened to you through this whole case.” He paused, stuttering for the right words. “You . . . Leslie . . . I saw you with my own eyes . . . my own eyes! There’s no explaining that.”

  “What were you doing there?” She looked astonished. Then, “Brad, you’ve got to . . . to trust me—” She began inching slowly toward him as he backed up to the hood of his car, shaking his head. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He didn’t dare reach out for her, knowing that the magic of her touch would melt his defenses and transform his anger to forgiveness.

  “You want to talk about trust!” he yelled. “Let’s talk about trust. I trusted you with everything—my feelings, my case—and what happened to that trust?” Now they were face-to-face, his muscles tensed, the rain pouring down his face.

  “Brad, I can explain everything. . . . Just give me a chance,” she pleaded.

  Brad wanted desperately to reach out and hold her, to draw her to himself and tell her that it would be okay. But he couldn’t let himself do it. He shook his head as words betrayed him. She was looking at him now, beckoning with her eyes. He could barely meet her gaze, but he forced himself to look into those sad blue eyes, beautiful even with the mascara streaking down her cheeks, the eyelashes matted together. And despite everything she had done—all the lies and deceptions—at this moment, he felt nothing but pity.

  He allowed her to take another step toward him, then another, to wrap her arms around his neck, to put her head on his shoulder. Slowly, almost uncontrollably, he pulled his hands from his pockets and squeezed Leslie to himself. And he wondered what in the world he was doing.

  “O’Malley and I ate dinner together at the Marriott,” Leslie said. “If you don’t believe me, just call him. We were going on a hunch . . . wanted to see if anybody we knew would be stopping by Ahmed’s hotel tonight. When I left . . . this guy you saw—the one who’s with Ahmed—came up to me and basically threatened me. . . .”

  He wanted to believe the fairy tale; the death of his dream was just so painful. But the same instincts and suspicions that caused him—literally propelled him—to follow her in the first place, would not allow him to believe her now. He had waited out in front of the Marriott, parked down the street, and watched the front door. She had been inside for no more than ten or fifteen minutes, certainly not long enough for dinner. And Brad had never seen O’Malley, either coming or going.

  “I’m sorry for being so paranoid, Leslie,” he said calmly as he stared into the distance. “I guess the pressure of this case is just starting to get to me.” He gave her a reassuring squeeze.

  He would definitely call O’Malley. As soon as he pried himself loose from this woman he could no longer trust.

  * * *

  Leslie dialed O’Malley’s number the moment she pulled away from her roadside rendezvous.

  “Hello, beautiful,” O’Malley answered.

  “I just had a close call with Brad,” she said, then explained that she would need O’Malley to back her story about dinner at the Marriott.

  “No problem, Leslie. Now tell me about the meeting with Ahmed.”

  For the next few minutes, she recounted every detail of her meeting with Ahmed. But she decided not to say anything about her brief encounter with Ahmed’s investigator.

  “Perfect,” O’Malley responded. “So the money hits the accounts sometime tomorrow morning?”

  “So he says.”

  “Once I confirm, I’ll pass the word to our juror. You sure we shouldn’t have held out for two mil?”

  She paused. He sounded disappointed. “I don’t know. I guess I just got a little spooked.”

  “Don’t sweat it, babe. A million and a half is still a lot of money.”

  There was a small beep on the phone. “Brad’s calling,” O’Malley said. “Gotta run. See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Don’t forget the tickets.”

  * * *

  Barnes watched Ahmed digest the words of Leslie’s phone call, then turn toward him. “Wire a million five to this account tomorrow at 8 a.m.” He handed Barnes a sheet of wiring instructions. “But I’ve got a bad feeling about this other trust account; there’s something we’re missing. . . .”

  Ahmed stopped midsentence; his eyes focused on something a world away. “We never technically agreed on a time deadline for the trust account, as long as it’s there before the jury starts deliberating. Don’t wire the money until after closing arguments are completed. If everything still looks good at that point, then follow these instructions.” He gave Barnes the second sheet with wiring instructions for a hundred million dollars.

  “You might not need to wire the money at all,” Barnes suggested.

  Ahmed raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

  “I haven’t played out my full hand on juror four yet. You know we’ve had our man paying juror four, pretending to be working for Carson . . .”

  “Of course. It’s why he’s been sending them such negative body language. Mr. Stein doesn’t like getting blackmailed.”

  “Well,” Barnes explained, barely containing his enthusiasm, “yesterday in court, I planted some compromising photos of Stein in the back of a deposition transcript that Carson’s paralegal left sitting around. They cart those things to court every day and religiously unload them on their counsel table. I’m sure they’ll have them for the closing arguments.”

  Barnes looked straight at Ahmed, studying the man for even the smallest sign of approval. “When Strobel introduces the photos of juror four in the restaurant being bribed, I’m going to go put my arm around one of those marshals and tell him that I just saw the Moreno woman stuff something like photos in the back of one of their deposition transcripts. When the marshals check, if the judge lets them, they’ll have proof that it was Moreno and Carson bribing juror four. And then . . . well, the fireworks should be interesting.”

  Ahmed thought about this for a moment; then his lips slowly curled into a wicked little smile. “Moreno, huh.”

  “Moreno.”

  “Perfect.”

  Barnes returned the smile, watched Ahmed turn serious again, and endured a long silence, the only sound coming from the speaker in the middle of the table as it captured the music from Leslie’s car radio.

  “One more thing,” Ahmed said. “Find out where Connors and O’Malley plan on going tomorrow. Under the present circumstances, I think it would be best if I terminated them myself.”

  Barnes tried to take this news as calmly as possible, cognizant of the fact that Ahmed was watching him for any hint of a reaction.

  * * *

  Pastor Jacob Bailey and the faithful members of Chesapeake Community Church filed out of Sarah’s house and headed home. They had prayed for Brad and his closing argument. They had prayed for wisdom for the jury and the judge. They had prayed for safety for the Riyadh church. And they had prayed for patience and strength for Sarah.

  At Sarah’s suggestion, they even prayed for Ahmed, Mack Strobel, and the rest of the defense trial team. They specifically asked that Sarah might be a testimony to those men, causing them to accept Christ as their Savior.

  Bella had joined the prayer meeting and lifted up some passionate prayers of her own, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to pray for Ahmed or Strobel. The others enjoyed listening to Bella pray, since she didn’t use the platitudes and Christianese everyone else seemed to fall into. Instead, Bella prayed the street-savvy prayer of a Brooklyn girl—direct, bold, and to the point. She didn’t hesitate to share everything on her heart. She was
a breath of fresh air to the others, who sometimes prayed to God but cared more about the Christians who were listening than the audience of one in heaven.

  After an appropriate season of prayer, the church members had enjoyed sharing a potluck dinner. Everyone had brought a favorite recipe, at least half of which fell into the category of sweet desserts. Bella especially liked this part; clearly she was born to be a church member. She would probably have her rough edges from here to eternity, but God was hard at work on her temper and judgmental tendencies. What a difference a prayer made!

  By 10:30 the last prayer warriors left, and Sarah began getting ready for bed. When she heard the doorbell ring, she assumed somebody had left behind a dish, a Bible, or some other item of value. She was already in her baggy flannel pajamas and anxious to get into bed; tomorrow was a big day. She hoped it was not someone with a confidential crisis, circling back after the other church members had all left.

  She was too tired tonight to bear even one more burden. She padded to the door hoping she could dispose of this caller quickly and feeling a little guilty for even thinking that way.

  She opened the door and stood there . . . blinked twice . . . Who in the world?

  She was staring at the drenched and frowning face of a middle-aged woman she had never met before.

  “I’m assistant district attorney Angela Bennett,” the woman said, flashing an ID. “And I think we’d better talk.”

  44

  BRAD DRAGGED HIMSELF OUT of bed at 5:30 Monday morning and decided to skip his morning run. He still had some major work to do on the most important closing argument he had ever delivered. And he had no energy.