Directed Verdict (14 page)

“Sure.”

“How do you keep everything around here straight? I mean, I’m finding as a single mom that I just can’t keep up with everything. Seems like I’m always showing up late or missing something or not getting something done. Yet here you are, single yourself, and basically keeping this whole firm running on schedule.” Sarah leaned forward and tilted her head a little. “How do you do it?”

It was, Bella thought, a good question. She pushed the novel aside. She was just thinking this morning about how she could see the strain showing on Sarah’s face. Maybe this would help.

After a few minutes of time-management coaching, the conversation turned to other matters. Bella finished her salad, but still she kept talking. She seemed to mesmerize Sarah, who kept her eyes glued on Bella, asked the most insightful questions, and seemed enthralled with the answers. Before long, Bella found herself snuffing out her half-finished cigarette and laughing with Sarah, in spite of herself. She couldn’t remember when talking to someone about nonlegal matters had seemed so natural.

“Tell me about your family,” Sarah said.

Bella hesitated. The first noticeable pause in the conversation. What was there to tell?
I’m not married. Never been married. An only child whose parents are divorced. The only person who ever loved me—my mom—can hardly recognize me. Tell me about your family.

What family?

“There’s not much to tell,” Bella said, looking down at her Tupperware. She began packing up. “Dad and Mom divorced when I was in college. No sisters or brothers. And Mom, well . . .” She could feel the tears forming in her eyes, the words catching in her throat. “Mom’s not well.” She sniffled. “Sorry.”

Bella stood to leave and threw her trash away. She felt stupid, tearing up about her mom, but she couldn’t help it. She knew it would be better to change the subject and get back to work.

But there was something about Sarah. “She’s in a nursing home,” Bella heard herself say, “with Parkinson’s.”

Sarah stood now as well and reached out gently to touch Bella’s arm. “Do you see her much?”

Bella nodded.

“Maybe I could go with you sometime,” Sarah said softly.

“You’d do that?”

“Sure. And there’s something else I’d like to do.”

“Okay.”

“Would it be all right if I prayed for her?”

“Right now?” Bella couldn’t imagine praying right here, right now, in the middle of the smoking room. Was it legal? It seemed so . . . well, so unclean. So . . . unnatural.

“Sure. What’s her name?”

“Gertrude.”

And before Bella knew what was happening, Sarah was praying for her and Gertrude right there in the middle of the smoking room, her hand gently rubbing Bella’s arm. Sarah was so sincere about the whole thing, this sweet missionary who had lost her own husband, passionately praying for Bella and her mom, that Bella felt guilty when she realized she had not once directed the conversation Sarah’s way.

Bella never closed her eyes, for fear that Nikki would blow through the door. Still, she somehow felt God couldn’t help but hear Sarah’s prayer on her behalf.

“Thanks,” Bella said when Sarah was done. “That’s one of the nicest things anybody’s ever done for me.”

Then she hustled out of the small kitchen area before the tears could start in earnest.

* * *

Nikki spent most of her summer on the road, touring the continental United States, talking to potential expert witnesses, hunting down doctors who had treated the Reeds at the military hospital in Riyadh, and spending money on clothes. She hit real pay dirt with a young intern stationed at Fort Bragg, an Army doctor named Jeffrey Rydell, who had been one of Charles Reed’s treating physicians in Riyadh. Nikki sat in a chair right next to Rydell, rather than across the small conference room table. She was wearing one of her stock-in-trade tight black miniskirts, and she crossed her legs provocatively, hoping the handsome young doctor would notice.

“How’s Mrs. Reed doing?” he asked Nikki with genuine concern.

“If you mean physically, she’s doin’ great. On the other stuff, give her time. She’ll be okay.”

“She seemed like a fighter. I really hope she can get through this. I’ll help any way I can.”

“You can start by telling me your opinion of the cause of Dr. Reed’s death.”

Nikki placed her mini digital recorder on the table. She leaned forward and struck a pose, placing her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, letting the doctor know she was interested. She tried hard to ignore the wedding band on his left hand.

“Cause of death was cocaine injection by the Muttawa that in turn led to an acute myocardial infarction. Even before this happened, Dr. Reed had advanced coronary artery disease, and as a result, the flow of blood to his heart was severely restricted. The cocaine, in my opinion, probably stimulated the formation of a blood clot in a man who was already in extreme distress from being tortured. The blood clot might not have been fatal in the arteries of a normal man, but in Dr. Reed’s case, it led to total restriction of the flow of blood to the heart, causing massive damage and ultimately death.”

“You seem so sure that the cocaine was
injected
into his bloodstream, Doctor.”

“I am.”

“Based on?”

“Well, first, the word of Sarah Reed that she and her husband never even experimented with the stuff. Second, neither Dr. Reed nor his wife had any of the telltale signs of drug abusers, and I’ve been involved in the management of hundreds of critical care patients with abuse problems. Third, the toxicological testing confirms that the concentration of cocaine in Dr. Reed’s blood actually showed higher levels at the second hospital he was in, the base hospital, than it did from the first hospital, the King Faisal Specialist Hospital.”

There was a pause, and a mesmerized Nikki realized it was her turn to speak. “What’s the significance of that, Doctor?”

“Well, it actually means that the cocaine must have been injected fairly close in time to when Dr. Reed was admitted to the King Faisal hospital, and that the cocaine was still being absorbed into his bloodstream while he was hospitalized. I was also shocked by the levels of cocaine found in the toxicological reports. They are not levels typically associated with snorting cocaine. When cocaine is snorted, it narrows the blood vessels in the nose, which in turn reduces the flow of blood, which results in a slower absorption rate. The types of elevated readings we saw in Dr. Reed’s case typically come from either injecting cocaine directly into a vein or from smoking crack.”

“Fascinating.”

“And finally, and perhaps most important, a very peculiar aspect of the toxicological report that I didn’t notice at first makes me certain the drug was injected.” Rydell paused for a second. “But if I tell you, then you have to reveal it in discovery or make sure that I mention it in my deposition, is that right?”

The question hung in the air for a while, as Nikki realized she didn’t have the foggiest idea what he had just asked. She had been too busy looking deep into his eyes, fishing for a sign of mutual interest.

“Huh? Oh, well, sure you would . . . What’s your question again?”

“If I tell you this hunch I have about the lab report, do you have to tell the other side about my opinion prior to trial?”

“Yeah, we have to tell them about any of the opinions you intend to testify about at trial, and then they will ask you questions about those opinions in a deposition prior to trial.”

“And then they will go out and hire sixteen other doctors to come and testify as to why I’m wrong. Isn’t that the way it works?”

“Something like that. I can tell you’ve done this before.”

Rydell looked pensive for a moment, perhaps conflicted on whether he should share his hunch with Nikki. “One more question,” he said after a pause.

Nikki raised her eyebrows.

“If it really isn’t my opinion yet, if it’s just a hunch and I don’t research this ‘hunch’ until just before trial, and if I can’t really form an opinion until I’ve had a chance to research the ‘hunch’ further, then would you have to reveal it?”

“There’s no rule that says we have to reveal a hunch,” Nikki answered confidently.

“Good. Then let’s just say I’ve got a strong hunch—” Nikki heard a vibration, and then Rydell looked down and checked his beeper. He looked worried. “I’m sorry, Ms. Moreno, but I’ve got to go. Like I said, I’ll help however I can. . . .” He was already up and out of his chair, heading for the door.

“Maybe I could come back for a follow-up interview. . . . There’s lots of stuff to cover,” Nikki offered.

“I’d be happy to talk further anytime you need me, but don’t feel like you’ve got to come out here. Just give me a call, set up a time we can get together by phone.” And with that, Dr. Rydell was out the door, off to save another life.

Nikki looked wistfully at the conference room door. She turned off her recorder and stuffed it in her briefcase. She worried that she was losing her touch. As she stood to leave, she caught sight of her own reflection in the conference room window. She straightened her posture, sucked in her stomach, and smiled.

That boy must be blind,
she said to herself.

15

BY THE FIRST WEEK OF JULY,
Nikki was preparing to take her investigation international. It had not been an easy trip to arrange. For starters, a visa to Saudi Arabia was impossible to obtain without a sponsor from within the country. And obtaining a sponsor was not easy when the purpose for entering the country was to investigate a high-profile case against its government.

Nikki started with the large multinational law firms that advertised a stable of English-speaking lawyers. Her goal was to hire a lawyer who would later help with depositions in the country and on this initial visit could serve as a translator and consultant. No respectable firm, however, was anxious to bite the hand that fed them.

After three days of phone calls and three days of rejections, Nikki gave up her insistence on a respectable law firm with specialists in international law. She would settle for any semiliterate Saudi lawyer who could speak passable English. And she finally found her man in Sa’id el Khamin, a sole practitioner obviously hurting for clients and ready to make a quick buck. She agreed to pay him the exorbitant sum of twelve hundred Saudi riyals per hour, the equivalent of more than three hundred U.S. dollars. Somehow the amount felt like a bribe rather than a legal fee.

With el Khamin’s sponsorship, Nikki finally obtained her visa and prepared to prove her worth in Saudi Arabia. With el Khamin at her side, Nikki would interview former neighbors of the Reeds and the members of the Friday night church group.

Nikki arrived at the King Khalid International Airport in Riyadh late in the evening on July 8. She was bone weary after the brutal flight from Reagan National Airport, during which she sat sandwiched between two large Europeans who both slept soundly while encroaching mightily upon her shrinking space. When she arrived in the Kingdom, customs took forever, the process slowed by a shortage of agents and the fact that she was a single unaccompanied female.

She was finally rescued by her sponsor, a rumpled and bearded Sa’id el Khamin, who convinced the authorities that she was harmless and would behave. They allowed her to pass into his custody.

“Here, I bring gift for you. . . . Wear this abayya please.” Sa’id presented Nikki with the ugliest garment she had ever laid eyes on, an enormous all-covering black cloak. To Nikki, who had seen similar garments in news coverage of Afghanistan, it was the very symbol of chauvinistic oppression. She held the thing at arm’s length, as if it contained the germs for some incurable disease.

“Change . . . here,” Sa’id suggested, pointing to a ladies’ bathroom. “No need to cover—” and he made a sweeping motion over his face. “But, please, Mees Neekie, put on over other garments.”

Nikki smiled and graciously headed into the bathroom, wondering why she was doing this. Mumbling to herself, she wrapped the cloak around her until she felt like a mummy, then looked at herself disapprovingly in the mirror. She immediately began to sweat. This would be a long week in the Kingdom.

When she came out of the rest room, her peculiar little host bowed deeply and thanked her enthusiastically. Sa’id himself was dressed in a white floor-length shirt that looked like a dress. He called it a “thobe.” As they walked through the airport, he pointed out items to Nikki and named them in Arabic, as if she were going to learn the language in the week or so she would spend in this place. Nikki had only two immediate goals: get to a nice American hotel room and get out of the oppressive abayya as soon as possible.

On the forty-five-kilometer drive from the airport to the Hyatt Regency in Riyadh, Nikki sat in the backseat and gawked at the sites while Sa’id chauffeured. Nikki was told emphatically that women did not drive in the Kingdom.

Sa’id made some lame attempts at conversation, but Nikki was more interested in admiring the sights in this strange and foreign land. She expected a backward and dirty city. Instead, Riyadh was a high-tech oasis of glass, steel, and concrete rising up from nowhere in the desert. It boasted freeways, high-rise office towers, big hospitals and hotels, and modern-looking houses that stretched beyond the horizon. She was struck by the cleanliness of the city and its modern, glistening architecture. She was equally amazed by the glut of vehicle traffic and the absence of pedestrians. The roads looked like rush hour in L.A., but the sidewalks looked like a ghost town.

Nikki also noticed, much to her relief, that not all foreign women wore the stifling black abayyas. She decided that tomorrow she would not be wearing hers. Sa’id would just have to get over it.

* * *

By her third day in Riyadh, the city had lost its charm. There was absolutely no nightlife, and alcohol of any type was strictly prohibited. All restaurants and stores closed during prayer time, and most closed for the day at 1 p.m. Nikki’s favorite pastime, shopping for clothes, might as well have been illegal. Many of the shops actually prohibited female shoppers, and she wouldn’t dare wear any of the styles offered by those that didn’t.

To her consternation, the culture rigorously enforced a strict separation between men and women. Families ate together in special sections of the restaurants, some of which refused to serve women at all. Women rode in the backs of buses, and a taxi driver refused to give Nikki a ride one night when she was unaccompanied by Sa’id. According to Sa’id, custom restricted women from looking men in the eye, a custom that Nikki enthusiastically violated by glaring at all sorts of Saudi males. Her behavior invariably resulted in loud arguments between Sa’id and the victims of Nikki’s rude behavior, reprimands from Sa’id, and threats to get Nikki a veil.

Contrary to her earlier intentions, Nikki reverted to wearing her hated abayya. It was the only way she and Sa’id could avoid unwanted attention as they traveled together, pretending to be husband and wife. Sa’id seemed to enjoy this fantasy, his body language and mannerisms belying the huge crush he had on Nikki. She did not know if Sa’id was married. She was afraid to ask.

The first three days of the trip had been a total bust. Nikki and Sa’id could not locate several of the former church members, confirming the rumors about a general crackdown on the church the night the Reeds were arrested. Those members they did find steadfastly refused to talk to either Nikki or Sa’id, with many refusing to even answer the door. Nikki was hot, discouraged, and tired of being insulted by men whose language she did not understand.

On the evening of the third day, Sa’id and Nikki found their way to the small apartment of Rasheed and Mobara Berjein and knocked gently on the door. A hesitant woman cracked the door and looked suspiciously at the couple in the hallway. Sa’id began a rapid explanation in Arabic about the purpose for their visit, but the woman did not move, and the crack did not widen. Nikki did, however, detect a slight widening of the eyes when the name Sarah Reed was mentioned, and for the first time since landing at the King Khalid International Airport, Nikki allowed herself a glimmer of hope.

Impatient with Sa’id’s slow progress, Nikki butted into Sa’id’s polite inquiry and produced a photo of Sarah and her kids. To Nikki’s surprise, the woman reached through the crack, took the picture, and studied it carefully. She murmured something to Sa’id in Arabic.

“She asks how she can know we speak the truth,” Sa’id translated.

“Tell her Sarah sends her love and a message,” Nikki said. Her words were translated by Sa’id.

Nikki could hear the woman speaking to someone behind her; then she peeked back through the crack and asked Sa’id another question.

“She wants to know what the message is.”

“This is the message from Sarah Reed: ‘God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.’”

Sa’id translated the message. To Nikki’s astonishment, the woman slowly and cautiously opened the door. She smiled timidly, introduced herself as Mobara Berjein and the man standing next to her as Rasheed Berjein, and bid the visitors come into her home.

After Nikki and Sa’id took their seats in the living room, Rasheed and Mobara offered them some Turkish coffee. Nikki had already learned from Sa’id that it was extremely impolite to refuse such an offer. Etiquette, Sa’id had said, must be carefully followed. Patience would receive its reward in due time; impatience would arouse suspicion. Nikki wondered how much of this was true, and how much was motivated by the fact that Sa’id’s patience was being rewarded to the tune of three hundred bucks an hour.

Mobara served the coffee in a tiny, handleless cup that held only a half-dozen sips. Following Sa’id’s lead, Nikki asked for her coffee to be served
mazboot
, which apparently had something to do with the amount of sugar. Nikki had to muster every ounce of her self-control not to make a face as she drank the thick, gooey liquid in her cup and listened to the others chat in Arabic. She dutifully drank every ounce, right down to the pile of grounds left sitting in the bottom.

After ten minutes of pleasantries, the Berjeins were apparently ready to talk church. They began asking some questions about Sarah, and as Sa’id started translating, Nikki’s paranoia took over. She thought it strange that no other members of the church would even talk to her and Sa’id. She worried about the ever-present eyes and ears of the infamous Muttawa. Her instincts told her the place might be bugged. She therefore suggested, through Sa’id, that Rasheed and Mobara join them in the car and talk about these sensitive matters where they could not be overheard.

They parked on an out-of-the-way side street in the city, then turned the radio up to an annoying level. The four of them huddled together in the middle of the car, Rasheed and Sa’id leaning back from the front seat while Nikki and Mobara leaned up from the back. After two hours of intense questioning, Nikki got what she was after. The Berjeins agreed to testify on behalf of Sarah Reed, no matter the consequences. To confirm their testimony, Nikki hand-printed an affidavit for Sa’id to translate and the Berjeins to sign. As Nikki drafted the affidavit, Mobara quickly wrote a letter to Sarah, telling her about the phenomenal growth of the surviving church, the conversion of Rasheed’s brother, and Rasheed’s valiant attempts to fill Dr. Reed’s shoes. She folded it carefully and handed it to Nikki.

As they returned to the apartment, Nikki notarized the affidavit bearing the Berjeins’ signatures and placed it in her briefcase. She laid out a plan that would secure the Berjeins’ testimony in an American court of law while minimizing the risks to them personally.

Before getting out of the car, Mobara extracted yet another promise from Nikki to make sure that Sarah got the letter. The women parted with hugs and Nikki’s promise to tell Sarah of Mobara’s continuing love.

* * *

Rasheed held Mobara’s hand as they walked back into their apartment, head held high. He was grateful for this opportunity to redeem himself and stand tall with Sarah Reed for the cause of their Savior. He locked the door behind him and immediately embraced his wife. No words were necessary, and no words could stop the trembling of Mobara in his arms.

They had done the right thing, but they would undoubtedly face consequences. After holding Mobara for the longest time and quietly stroking her hair as they embraced together just inside the door, he began to softly pray. It was only then that he felt Mobara finally stop shaking. And as soon as she did, almost as if events had been carefully choreographed and synchronized, a loud knock sounded at the door.

Rasheed turned calmly to the peephole, looking through as the impatient visitor knocked again, even louder than before. Four men stood outside his door, but Rasheed’s attention went immediately to one. He had seen the face on television, seen the hatred in the eyes. And now, only inches away, the eyes were even more intense, causing Rasheed to shudder involuntarily.

“It’s the Muttawa,” he whispered over his shoulder as he reached to unlock the door. “And Ahmed Aberijan is with them.”