Directed Verdict (25 page)

* * *

The protesters were out with a passion at the end of day two. Despite the steady drizzle, the ranks of the Christians had swelled to several hundred. News that the defendants were striking evangelicals right and left had ignited the sidewalks. Now outspoken pastors matched the fiery speeches given by Muslim leaders. As the crowd noise and fervency grew, the Reverend Bailey and his band of prayer warriors moved a half block away so that they could petition God in relative solitude.

Unlike the calm that greeted the participants as they exited the courthouse after the first day, the respective crowds erupted in cheers as their favorites emerged on day two. Even Bella had to smile as the Christian demonstrators assured Sarah she was in their prayers.

The escalating tensions delighted the man in the chicken suit, a veteran of many high-profile trials. He predicted that soon T-shirt vendors and other hawkers would start selling paraphernalia for both sides. A fight or two would likely break out, especially if the right-wing Christian militia groups could be enticed to enter the fray. It promised to be an exciting month on the sidewalks of Granby Street.

2
6

“SARAH, YOU’RE READY,”
Leslie pronounced. “The main thing now is to get some sleep.”

They had been at it four straight hours, from 6:30 to 10:30, using a clean end of the conference table as a makeshift witness stand. Leslie popped questions; Sarah responded; then Leslie critiqued Sarah’s responses. Sarah’s willingness to accept the criticism and carefully respond with another variation of the same basic answer amazed Leslie.

“Are you sure?” Sarah still sounded unconvinced. “Can’t we go through the events on the night of Charles’s death one more time?”

“Sarah, we’ve been through it three times already. If we do it again, it will sound like you’ve memorized it.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Leslie stifled a yawn and started packing her notes. The adrenaline from another day in court had long since seeped out of her body, taking every ounce of her energy with it.

“Leslie, I want you to level with me, okay?” Sarah looked up and waited for a promise.

“Sure.”

“How bad are the judge and jury we ended up with?”

The frankness of Sarah’s question caused Leslie to stop packing and look straight at her. Sarah’s eyes, her most prominent and becoming feature, were bloodshot, the lids heavy, the wrinkles underneath more pronounced than when Leslie first met her. In fact, Sarah’s whole face was drawn and gaunt; her clothes now seemed to hang on her frail frame. She looked so very fragile. Her husband’s death, the post-traumatic stress, the strain of being a single mom, and the pressure of the case had all taken a considerable toll.

Through it all, Sarah had remained stoic and determined. And Leslie had never sensed that she wavered in her optimistic faith. Until this moment.

“The jury’s pretty bad,” Leslie said. “The judge is worse.” She wondered how much more Sarah could endure.

“I thought so,” Sarah said softly.

They looked at each other in silence.

“Go home!” Brad shouted as he burst through the door.

Leslie jumped and grabbed at her heart. To her surprise, it was still beating.

Brad laughed. “This is a marathon, not a sprint. My star witness and my star co-counsel better get some sleep.”

Brad’s exuberance instantly lifted Leslie’s spirits. But she couldn’t let him know he had the power to alter her mood so easily.

“What are you so happy about, cowboy?” she deadpanned. “Did you go to the same trial we did today?”

“Yes, and we sandbagged ’em beautifully.” Brad strutted around the room. “Strobel is probably out getting drunk and celebrating, and here we are working our tails off. They’re overconfident. It’s working.”

“Yeah, and you’ve got the judge wrapped around your little finger,” Leslie mocked.

“Mr. Strobel,” she continued, taking on the tone and air of Ichabod, “do you have any other jurors you would like to get rid of so that I can watch your opposing counsel squirm and squeal like a boiled lobster?”

Brad twisted his face and contorted his body, doing a pitiful imitation of a boiling lobster. They all laughed.

He stopped suddenly. “Sarah, I thought I told you to keep her out of the sauce,” he said. “Go home, that’s an order. You’re both getting a little punchy.”

“Us?!” the women said in unison. But Brad was already halfway out the door, in full retreat. Leslie looked at Sarah and shook her head.

“What got into him?” Leslie wondered.

“Whatever it is, I want some of it,” Sarah said. “I love that guy.” She said it without the least bit of embarrassment and apparently without even thinking about anything more than a fraternal attraction. “I’m so glad he’s on my side.”

“Mmm,” Leslie muttered. She didn’t understand the way Sarah spoke so casually of loving somebody. Leslie’s own feelings for Brad went way beyond the “he’s a great guy” attitude of Sarah, but she didn’t dare call it love.

Then what was it, exactly? She had this longing to be with him. All the time. She came alive when he walked into the room, especially when he touched her. She studied his every move, loved the sound of his voice, every word. If this wasn’t love . . .

Whatever it was, it scared her.

Her emotions had begun to decimate every detail of her life’s plan that she had so carefully, so logically, constructed during the past two years. She needed advice.

“Sarah, do you think you’ll ever remarry?” she asked before she realized she had verbalized the question.

Sarah’s countenance fell. She sank back into her chair as if she couldn’t will herself to remain standing. She had just answered dozens of questions about Charles and how much she missed him. But this unscripted query seemed to hit her so much harder.

“There will never be another Charles,” Sarah said simply. “People tell me God has someone special for me—maybe not the same as Charles, but just as right for me. I smile and I nod, but I don’t believe it. They didn’t know Charles the way I did. Otherwise, they wouldn’t say such things.”

“Do you think it would be wrong to remarry? I mean, in the sense that it would somehow cheapen Charles’s memory?”

“Heavens, no,” Sarah exclaimed. “In fact, I believe Charles would want me to remarry. He’s probably up in heaven right now saying, ‘Sarah, have you thought about Richard?’ or ‘Sarah, Joe would make a great father for our kids; he’s such a nice guy.’” Sarah smiled knowingly and sighed a beleaguered sigh. “It’s just that I can’t imagine ever loving someone as much as I loved Charles. But, Leslie, it’s only been a year. If I do meet the right man, I’ll know. And if my heart says go for it, I’ll go for it.”

Leslie knew Sarah discerned the real reason for the question. “That sounded more like a pep talk than an answer.”

Sarah reached over and put her hand on Leslie’s. “I’d have to be blind not to see the chemistry between you and Brad,” she said softly. “Trust your heart, Leslie. Bill would tell you the same thing if he could.”

* * *

After chasing the women from the office, Brad polished up his opening statement and headed home. He arrived after midnight.

He had a good feeling about this opening. And a good feeling about Sarah as his first witness. Tomorrow, the momentum would shift. Tomorrow would be a good day for the good guys.

Brad kicked off his shoes and threw the morning paper and unopened mail onto the kitchen counter, where it joined a pile of other unread papers and unopened mail. He slung his coat over a chair, loosened his tie, and went straight for the refrigerator. He chugged some 2 percent milk from a half-gallon jug. It had that tart taste of milk one day short of being sour, or maybe one day past. He made a face at the aftertaste, then twisted the top back on the jug and placed it back in the refrigerator. As he headed for the stairs, he noticed the red blinking light on his answering machine and punched in the code.

Four new messages.

“Brad, Jimmy Hartley here. Look, I know you’re in the middle of a trial, but I’ve got to see at least some interest payments on the car loans and home equity line. I tried to call at work but—”

Brad hit star seven, and the message was gone. Bella would handle this. He made a mental note to remind her.

The next three messages were from Leslie. Strange that she would call the house instead of his cell phone. Leslie’s first message came at 10:45 p.m. From the background noise, she was calling from her car.

“Brad, Sarah is ready. I mean, really ready. Direct exam will take about four hours. I’d like to talk about a couple of tricky areas at lunch tomorrow, or if it’s not too late when you get this message, just give me a call. I didn’t want to talk strategy in front of Sarah. She’s nervous enough as it is.”

The second message came five minutes later.

“By the way, Brad, I’m still concerned about the possibility of our office being bugged. I know we aren’t using the office phones for anything confidential, but we are preparing witnesses in the war room. Is there any way we could get O’Malley to check for bugs at different times during the day? He always checks first thing in the morning, and if someone is taking the time and effort to bug our offices, they’d surely notice the pattern. Call me paranoid, but I’d feel better if he would check both in the morning and at some unpredictable time in the afternoon. Thanks.”

There was a brief pause, and Leslie concluded, her voice uncertain. “And call me if it’s not too late.”

The third message, logged in nearly an hour after the first two, proved that Leslie was ignoring Brad’s admonition to sleep.

“Brad, sorry to leave this on your answering machine, but it seems like we never get a chance to talk together . . . alone.” Leslie’s voice was tentative and so quiet that Brad pressed the phone harder against his ear. “And when we do . . . well, I’ve tried to say this a hundred times but never got it out. Brad, I know what you said about waiting until the case was over to, um, see where we stand. But that seems like such a long time from now and, well, I was just . . . um—” after a noticeable pause the words rushed out in a torrent—“wondering if we could try to maybe start over again this weekend. Like maybe Friday night. Well, if that works for you, just let me know. If not, you don’t need to say anything . . . and I’ll understand. If you’d rather just wait until the case is over . . . um, that’s okay too.”

A short beep signaled that Leslie was almost out of time for her message. Her voice continued at an even more rapid clip.

“Anyway, I didn’t mean to ramble on. Just thought you might want a distraction this weekend after staring at the lovely Ichabod all week.”

Brad checked his watch. It was 12:45, probably too late to call. The first two days of trial had been tough and unproductive. But his instincts were right. The third day would be a charm. And it had just gotten off to a rip-roaring start.

27

“MAY IT PLEASE THE COURT.”
Brad nodded toward Ichabod as he began his opening. He stood and moved with measured steps around the podium toward the jury box, buttoning his suit coat, and starting the timer on his wristwatch along the way. He half expected Ichabod to make him retreat to the podium. But he also knew she wouldn’t want to jump on his case right away, for fear of alienating the jury.

He carried no notes or other distractions to occupy his hands. He wanted to have a little family chat, lawyer-to-jury, common allies in the search for truth. He moved as close to the jury box as possible without encroaching on the jurors’ space. He stopped and made eye contact with each. He knew this first sentence was key. He had worked so hard to capture the essence of the whole case in the first few phrases that came out of his mouth.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in soft, confident tones, “this is the case of the lions and the saints. The persecution, torture, and abuse that is this very moment being inflicted on Christians around the world is both frightening and appalling. It is every bit as vicious and grotesque as when the first-century Romans marched the first-century saints into the Coliseum, cut them to watch them bleed, and cheered as the bodies of the Christians were shredded by starving lions. Many of the twenty-first-century victims, like Sarah Reed, have suffered similar fates. Many of the twenty-first-century victims, like Sarah Reed, have seen loved ones tortured and killed. And many of the twenty-first-century victims, like Sarah Reed, are U.S. citizens and deserve the protection of U.S. courts.”

Brad delivered these words in a near whisper, and the entire courtroom seemed to grow even quieter as he spoke. He knew those in the back of the courtroom probably couldn’t hear, and he didn’t care. It was the jury, and only the jury, that formed his audience. This was their case now, and they listened intently, nearly holding their collective breath. Brad paused, surveyed every face again, and started pacing to put them more at ease.

He raised his voice a notch and empowered them.

“You now have the collective power to end the madness. Like no jury before you, you can send a message that will be heard by every dictator and abusive ruler around the globe. You, and you alone, can strike a blow for religious freedom everywhere and for everyone. What you decide in this case can protect the Buddhist and the Baptist, the Muslim and the Methodist. It can protect those in Africa and America, in Sudan, and yes, in Saudi Arabia. You, and you alone, can shut down this modern-day Coliseum.”

Strobel was on his feet. “I
object
!” he bellowed. “Your Honor, I’m sorry. I hate to object during opening statements, but openings are supposed to be a preview of the evidence, not a sermon about human rights and worldwide—”

“Agreed,” Ichabod said.

Brad checked his watch. A minute and thirty-five seconds. Strobel had disappointed him. Brad put five bucks on Strobel’s objecting within thirty seconds. Nikki said less than a minute. Bella said ninety seconds based on tactical reasons, and Brad noticed Bella’s “I told you so” grin out of the corner of his eye.

“Mr. Carson, please confine your opening to a preview of the evidence, not a stump speech. I will not have you turn this courtroom into a circus. And furthermore, please continue your opening statement from behind the podium.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Brad hid a smile and retreated to the podium. He not only anticipated the objection; he had instigated it. He wanted the jury to see him as a champion for justice, as the advocate for not just Sarah Reed but for persecuted persons everywhere. He wanted the jury to hear Strobel object, to see Strobel try to avoid the broader issues on everyone’s mind, to sense that Strobel was trying to keep something from them.

Brad grabbed both sides of the podium and switched gears. The family chat through, he transformed into an evangelist for justice. The folks in the back row would have no trouble hearing this next bit.

“We will prove that this man—” and here he pointed directly at Ahmed Aberijan—“is the ruthless and repressive leader of Saudi Arabia’s religious police, a group called the Muttawa. We will prove that he learned about Charles and Sarah Reed and their young children, missionaries to Saudi Arabia, who were reaching out to the people of Saudi Arabia with the love of Jesus Christ.

“We will prove that this man, Ahmed Aberijan, masterminded a raid on the Reeds’ small apartment for the sole purpose of torturing and humiliating the Reeds and learning the name of every church member, as well as leaders of other churches, so that he could terrorize and torture them as well. When Charles and Sarah Reed refused to give in to his demands, Aberijan and his men beat Charles Reed, breaking his wrist in the process, and repeatedly shocked him with a stun gun, sending electrical volts surging through his body.”

Brad was in his rhythm now, his voice rising and falling with emotion. “You will hear testimony from Dr. Jeffrey Rydell, a physician who tried desperately to save Charles Reed’s life. He will talk about the burn marks at the base of Charles Reed’s skull inflicted by repeated use of a stun gun, even though Charles Reed could have posed no threat to the arresting officers.

“In fact, the evidence of that fateful night will support only one scenario. Based on the firsthand testimony of Sarah Reed, the marks on Charles Reed’s neck, the broken wrist, and the autopsy finding that Charles Reed’s stomach was essentially empty of all contents, it is clear that Aberijan first beat Dr. Reed and broke his wrist, then stood over Dr. Reed, screaming at him and torturing him repeatedly with the stun gun, while Dr. Reed lay helplessly on the floor in his own vomit, gasping for breath and begging for his life. With no mercy, Aberijan shocked Reed again and again, sending the electricity surging through Reed’s body, frying nerve endings and singeing flesh, smiling in his arrogance while Reed writhed in pain. And all the while this man—Aberijan—was demanding names of other church members so that he could hunt them down like animals and torture them as well.”

Brad shouted now as he glared and pointed at Aberijan. Aberijan glared back, smugly, as if he didn’t understand the language. It was precisely the reaction Brad hoped he would elicit. Brad stopped to catch his breath. He had been carried away with his own passion and found himself exhausted by the intensity of his emotions. And he was just beginning.

The jurors were sitting forward, processing the accusations, waiting breathlessly for more. All except juror four, who sat back with his arms crossed, trying mightily to send the signal that he was not impressed.

“Sarah Reed will testify about the events of that horrible night that changed her life forever. Judge for yourself her credibility. She will tell you how Aberijan gave the order for his men to ‘have their way with her,’ an order that his men understood as permission to rape her. She will tell you how these animals began ripping her clothes off, how she tried to resist them, how they threw her to the ground, bouncing her head off the floor and rendering her unconscious.

“And then this man, Mr. Aberijan—” Brad sneered at the scum sitting at the defense table—“not satisfied with torturing Charles Reed and ordering the rape of his wife, thinking of nothing but his own reputation, committed another atrocity that night. With Charles Reed unconscious from the torture, and Sarah Reed unconscious from the blow to her head, Aberijan ordered that they both be injected with cocaine in order to set them up as common criminals deserving of such horrible mistreatment.”

For one full hour Brad ticked off points of evidence and painted his client and her children as saints. He ran the gamut of emotions. Harsh and intense words for Aberijan and the government of Saudi Arabia. Words of compassion for the Reed family, for the children who lost a loving father, for the wife who lost her lover and best friend. He choked back tears; he shook his fist in anger. He mesmerized the jury. And he knew all the while that the reporters would eat it up; they loved this stuff.

At one hour, Ichabod began inquiring, in a studied monotone, as to whether Brad was almost done. Five minutes later she asked again. Ten minutes later she told him to wrap it up or she would cut him off. Brad decided it was story time. He knew it would be unorthodox . . . a calculated gamble, but he was banking on Strobel’s reluctance to object during the opening statement and Ichabod’s attempt to look like she wasn’t paying attention.

“At the height of the degrading games and bloodshed of the Roman Coliseum, a monk named Telemachus lived in a monastery far outside the city of Rome. One day he heard God calling him to take a pilgrimage to the city of Rome, though he didn’t know why. Small and stooped, he gathered all his belongings in a backpack and started on his long trip.

“When Telemachus arrived at Rome, he was swept up by the crowds and carried into the gore and violence of the Coliseum. There, to his horror, he saw the gladiators killing one another for sport. He could not stomach the shedding of innocent blood, and he knew he had to do something.”

Brad noticed Ichabod shoot her eyes toward Strobel, trying to get Mack’s attention, undoubtedly trying to prompt the man to object.
Speaking of doing something,
she seemed to be saying,
how about an objection here?
But Strobel seemed content to ride it out.

“So Telemachus jumped to the floor of the Coliseum, ran between two gladiators, held out his hands, and said, ‘In the name of Christ, forbear.’” Brad stooped over and flung his arms wide—the very picture of Telemachus.

“At first, the crowd cheered, thinking Telemachus was a clown running around for their entertainment. But eventually, they began to boo and hiss as Telemachus continued to insert himself between combatants, trying to stem the flow of blood.”

Brad sensed that this story had revived the jurors’ interest. None fidgeted; none looked away.

“I object,” Strobel finally announced. “This is supposed to be an opening statement, not story time.”

Brad was sure story time was now over, but the mercurial Ichabod surprised him.

“I agree, Mr. Strobel,” she said harshly. “But you should have made that objection a long time ago. By now, you’ve waived your objection. Mr. Carson, you may finish.”

Brad figured Ichabod just wanted to know how the story ended. She could always gut its usefulness with a few well-placed words later.

“Thank you, Judge.” Then Brad turned back to the jury, slipping out from behind the podium, wielding an imaginary sword. “Anyway, one of the gladiators got frustrated with this awkward little monk and ran him through with a sword. But even as Telemachus lay on the floor of the Coliseum in a pool of his own blood, he thought not of himself but only of those gladiators and of his mission that had now become so clear. And as life left his little body, with his dying breath, he lifted up his hands and begged one last time—” Brad lowered his voice, closed his eyes, and lifted weary arms ever so slightly—“‘In the name of Christ, forbear.’

“A funny thing happened that day in the Coliseum. Disgusted by the bloody slaughter of an innocent monk, a spectator got up from his seat and left the Coliseum, never to return. He was followed by another and another and another. One by one, the spectators all rose silently in protest and left the bloody place. And history records, that from that day forward, the bloodletting in the Coliseum ceased forever.”

Brad stopped speaking and stood perfectly still, letting the solemnity settle over the courtroom. The enormity of their task descended heavily on the jurors, as Brad stood before them with imploring eyes.

“In a real sense, you have been called, like Telemachus, as one man or one woman to make a difference. History will judge your verdict—”

“I must object,” Strobel said forcefully, rising to his feet. “This is totally improper.”

“Will you have the courage to end the bloodshed and violence?”

“Sustained!” Ichabod said. She slammed her gavel. “Mr. Carson, that is quite enough!”

“Are you willing to look at this animal, Mr. Aberijan—”

“I object,” Strobel yelled. “The court has ruled. This is insane!”

“Mr. Carson, not one more word!”

“. . . and say, ‘In the name of justice—forbear!’?”

“That does it,” Ichabod screamed. “In my chambers. Now!” She bolted from the bench, her black robe flying behind her. She left a chaotic courtroom erupting in her wake, excited murmuring, reporters writing furiously, jurors sitting wide-eyed, and Strobel shooting daggers at Brad with his eyes.

In the swirling madness, Brad walked quickly but calmly to his counsel table. He stopped next to Leslie, placed an arm on the back of her chair, then bent over and whispered in her ear.

“I’d love to take you up on your offer for Friday night,” he whispered, “as long as I’m not in jail.”