Directed Verdict (33 page)

Brad had been practicing law for twelve years and had never endured a day remotely like this. He had been roughed up by demonstrators, chewed out by the judge, and forced to conduct the biggest cross-examination of his life while wearing torn clothes and without the benefit of his notes or his beloved reading glasses. As Leslie drove back to the office and the sun inched lower in the sky, Brad felt the adrenaline and energy leave his body. The boisterous voices of the women, who were making fun of Ahmed’s evasive answers, faded into the background and morphed into Brad’s dreams. By the time they reached the parking lot, he was fast asleep.

They didn’t move him or wake him as they softly closed the car doors and cracked the windows. Leslie would handle the medical doctors and nurses who would testify tomorrow. The least they could do was allow Brad a few hours of well-earned sleep. So, while the rest of the team prepared for court on Tuesday, and while commentators around the world critiqued the day’s events, the man who had been at the vortex snored soundly, sprawled out in the front seat of his Jeep in a Virginia Beach parking lot. For an hour and a half, he enjoyed dreams of captivated jurors and endured nightmares of outraged judges. And for an hour and a half, the world turned without the help of Brad Carson.

3
4

TUESDAY PROVIDED
a much-needed respite in the trial’s intensity level. The demonstrators discovered that the National Guard and Norfolk’s finest were serious about arresting anyone who disturbed the peace again, a fact that had a calming effect on all but the most radical elements. Ichabod had no more to say about the paucity of Brad’s evidence, giving the demonstrators one less reason to get their blood in a boil. All in all, Tuesday was just another day in court.

Leslie handled the witnesses while Brad sat at the counsel table and nursed his shiner. The doctors at the base hospital who treated Charles Reed marched to the stand and swore under oath that the stress, the cocaine, and a weak heart combined to take the missionary’s life. They testified that Reed exhibited none of the classic signs of habitual cocaine use. On cross-examination, they endured attacks on their integrity, consistency, and credibility. They left the stand bowed but unbroken, tarnished by Strobel’s subtle implication that the doctors sought someone else to blame for their own failed medical treatment.

* * *

That evening, Barnes chewed on the stub of a fine Cuban cigar while he waited for Strobel to invite him into the firm’s luxurious conference room. He decided not to light the cigar at this particular moment. He had other ways of knocking the socks off these prissy big-firm lawyers without destroying the uneasy peace he now shared with Strobel.

“This is Mr. Frederick Barnes,” Strobel explained, introducing Barnes to the three men sprawled around the conference room table. “He is an eminently qualified private investigator and consultant hired by Mr. Aberijan. At our last meeting, Win suggested we engage someone to tail each juror. I hired Mr. Barnes to conduct the surveillance, and well, I’ll let him tell you what he found.”

Barnes took a seat, tucked the cigar stub into a corner of his mouth, and cleared his throat. He looked into the expectant faces around him and savored his moment in the spotlight.

“We found some of the usual stuff you might expect on a case of this magnitude. Jurors reading the newspaper when they think no one else sees them, that type of thing. One juror even went to a Barnes & Noble and bought a book on Saudi Arabia. But none of this provided much to hang our hat on until we got a break with juror number four, Zeke Stein.”

The faces around the table remained blank, but Barnes knew he had them. Lawyers liked nothing better than a little intrigue on the jury.

“Mr. Stein met with an unidentified man on three separate occasions in three different public places during the first few weeks of trial. At the third meeting, Stein accepted an envelope from this guy. We had a hunch that maybe Stein was getting paid off, so my men conducted a thorough search of his house the next day. We found the envelope in the bottom of a sock drawer. There was ten thousand in cash stuffed in it. If we check his bank account, we’re liable to find a lot more.”

Barnes could read the worry and delight that mingled on the faces. An illegal search! A corrupt juror! Bribery! Blackmail! These men were silk-stocking lawyers, not used to playing at this level of corruption.

Barnes reached into his pocket and threw a series of photos on the table. Zeke Stein sat on a park bench shoulder-to-shoulder with a man. Barnes’s favorite shot showed Stein accepting an envelope, clearly visible, from the other man.

“So what’s our next step?” Strobel asked his partners. “How do we play this out?”

“We go straight to the court,” Teddy answered without delay. “You get your mistrial, and this juror serves time. I don’t see anything to discuss.”

From the looks on the other faces, it was clear that they thought there were several matters to discuss. But nobody wanted to be the first to tell Teddy.

Finally, when it was obvious the others would just sit there, Barnes spoke up. “What do you plan to tell the judge?” he asked Teddy. “That you hired a PI who saw two men meet and then broke into the house of a juror and found a bunch of money stashed in an envelope? Assuming my guys would be willing to say that and risk going to jail, which they wouldn’t, there’s still one small problem. We don’t have the money, and it would be our word against Stein’s.”

“How do you explain the fact that you’re surveilling the jurors?” Melvin Phillips queried.

“And how do you know Ichabod won’t just dismiss Stein and replace him with one of the alternates?” Win asked.

Barnes kept an eye on Strobel as the questions flew.

“Wait a minute,” Mack said, with the kind of authority that demanded everyone’s attention. “Juror number four is the one juror who’s giving us all kinds of positive body language. If there’s one guy on the panel who we’ve got, it’s him. How do we know that one of Ahmed’s own men is not paying him?”

The carefully phrased question shielded a more pointed question that Mack had decided not to ask his partners. Barnes and Mack were the only ones in the room who had been part of the jury selection process in the courtroom, the only ones who knew juror four was only on the panel because Ahmed had insisted they select him.

Mack’s eyes narrowed and caught Barnes’s as he waited for the answer. They were accusatory eyes, and they were telling Barnes that Mack wanted no part of this sinister plot.

“We don’t know who’s paying Stein,” Barnes said with a straight face, “but I think the court will assume that if you’re the ones bringing this to the court’s attention, then you must not be the ones doing the bribing.”

“What are you suggesting?” Strobel asked.

“I say we wait until deliberations begin,” Barnes schemed. “That way the judge will have to declare a mistrial because a tainted juror has participated in the deliberative process.”

Strobel looked at Mackenzie and raised an eyebrow.

“In a few more days, I’ll provide you with an anonymous tip, complete with photographs, alleging that Stein is getting paid off,” Barnes continued. “That will give me time to check his bank accounts.” He noticed surprised looks. “Don’t ask how. You take the photos to the court and ask her to authorize a search of Stein’s house and a subpoena for his bank records. You’ll have your mistrial, and this guy will be on his way to the pen.”

Strobel was shaking his head. “I don’t like sitting on this information. This ought to be brought to the court’s attention immediately.”

“We can’t prove anything yet,” Barnes insisted. “We don’t have any legally permissible evidence to show this guy accepted any money. We’ve got to have a little time to build the case, and coincidentally, I’ll deliver my evidence to you a few hours after the deliberations begin.”

Teddy had been making faces that grew more contorted as the conversation progressed. Finally, he said, “I don’t like it, but I really don’t see that we’ve got any choice. Mack, you know my style; I would never advocate hiding anything from the court. But we’ve got to have something more solid before we go to Judge Baker-Kline.”

“I don’t like it either,” Strobel grumbled. “It’s one thing to follow the jurors around and obtain evidence to justify a mistrial. It’s another thing altogether to engineer a mistrial ourselves.”

“Relax,” Barnes snorted. “You aren’t engineering anything. We’ll just follow our boy Stein around and see what we come up with. Look, we’re not the ones giving or receiving bribes. We’re just trying to catch this man in a way that benefits our case.” He chewed on his cigar and spat a small piece on the conference room floor. “What’re you guys feeling so guilty about?”

Barnes had presented them with a storybook ending. He was sure they would accept it, even if it meant they had to get their hands a little dirty.

“All right,” Strobel said as he broke the long silence. “But as soon as you get solid evidence you bring it to me—whether the jury has begun deliberating or not. Now, let’s get back to work.”

Barnes allowed himself a cocky grin, cigar and all. He was buoyed not by what Strobel said, but by what Strobel didn’t say. For whatever reason, Strobel had apparently decided to keep to himself the fact that Ahmed had demanded juror number four stay on the jury. This implicit pact of silence was all that Barnes could ask for.

“Why do I always feel like I need to shower after I meet with you?” Mack asked in a whisper as he showed Barnes to the door.

* * *

In less than a week, Hanif’s promise that his brother would have the last word with Ahmed had evolved into a widespread rumor that Rasheed himself was plotting an assassination attempt. The news reached Ahmed on Tuesday night.

“Increase surveillance on Berjein,” the director of the Muttawa ordered. “Wire his phones and follow him day and night. If he makes any attempts to contact Carson or any of his associates, including Sa’id el Khamin, let me know immediately. I will personally fly back to Riyadh and deal with him. If he makes any attempt to leave the country, terminate him.”

* * *

On Wednesday, Brad ended his case with a whimper. Dr. Calvin Drake, an economist, testified about the value of Charles Reed’s life. He talked about the lost income and the lost services to Sarah and the kids. He tried to put a dollar value on the emotional suffering, but Ichabod wouldn’t let him. The jury was as well qualified to decide that issue as the distinguished economist, Ichabod said, and therefore did not need his expert help. Brad kept Drake on the stand for less than an hour as he talked about the loss of earnings potential, present value calculations, and inflationary factors.

Although the eyes of most jurors glazed over after only a few minutes, Brad felt they would generally believe Drake because he sounded like he knew so much about the Byzantine world of economics and because he had an elaborate graph to support every one of his opinions. The bottom line, according to Drake, was that the missionary pastor could have earned a nice round one million dollars over the rest of his working years if his life had not been cut short by the events of this case.

Strobel’s associate performed a nifty cross-examination of Drake, poking holes in both his math and underlying assumptions. None of the jurors appeared interested. The situation was helped neither by the economist’s monotone and soothing voice nor by the fact that the courtroom seemed noticeably warmer than usual. Brad managed to stay awake by analyzing the body language of the jurors with Leslie. Nikki stayed alert by sending e-mails via her PDA, which she had managed to sneak into the courtroom. Bella made lists of things she should be doing at the office, although she had insisted on coming to court this morning so she could be there when Brad concluded the case.

By the end of Drake’s testimony, three of the jurors had fallen asleep, their heads bobbing erratically on rubberized necks. This sideshow was sufficiently interesting to keep the other jurors awake and snickering at their compatriots. The end result was that Drake’s cross-examination was heard in its entirety by only four of seven jurors and by both alternates, although Brad doubted any could have passed a pop quiz on a single thing that Drake had said.

After Drake stepped down, Brad stayed true to his earlier determination to save his expert toxicologist, Nancy Shelhorse, for a rebuttal witness. When Dr. Drake’s uninspiring testimony was complete, Brad shocked the world and awakened the three slumbering jurors by proudly announcing, “Plaintiff rests, Your Honor.”

“You what?” Ichabod asked, making no effort to hide her surprise.

“The plaintiff rests,” he repeated.

Strobel stood immediately. “Then I have a motion to make, Your Honor,” he announced, loud enough for everyone in the courtroom to hear it, “and it may take a fair amount of time to argue it.”

Brad knew Strobel was referring to a motion for a directed verdict. He would ask the court to throw out the case based on insufficient evidence. It was a routine motion, typically made by a defendant whenever the plaintiff rested her case. In most cases, it would be routinely denied.

But Ichabod sat up straight, apparently energized by the thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brad caught Leslie’s “I told you so” look.

“I believe Mr. Strobel’s motion merits serious consideration,” Judge Baker-Kline said. “Accordingly, we will take a ten-minute recess and then use the rest of the morning to argue the motion. The jury will be reconvened, if necessary, after lunch.”

With that short speech, Ichabod turned the dull events of the morning into high drama. As soon as she left the bench, the courtroom erupted. Reporters used their cell phones, spectators chattered, and the lawyers headed to the hallway to plot strategy.

* * *

As she walked down the aisle with the rest of Brad’s team, she noticed that Ahmed Aberijan lingered behind at his own counsel table, engrossed in writing a note. She had been looking for this type of opportunity all morning, so she headed back to her own counsel table and wrote a quick note of her own, anxious to deliver the message before the chance passed. She would have to hurry before the team missed her.

She finished the short message, folded the paper, and placed it under a deposition transcript. As she turned to walk out of the courtroom, she dropped the folded paper onto the table directly in front of Ahmed. Before he could unfold it, she was halfway down the aisle heading out the back door.

* * *

Ahmed looked around to see if anyone had seen the subtle exchange. He opened the paper and quickly read it.

Our case is finished, and Shelhorse did not testify. It’s time to pay. I’ll expect the money and the signed trust agreement by the end of the day tomorrow. The price for the verdict is still two million.

Ahmed jammed the note into his pocket and stroked his beard. He thought for a few minutes, then took out a fresh sheet of paper and scribbled his reply. He needed to make the words vague so they would not be incriminatory if they ended up in the wrong hands, but the message must be clear. He settled on two simple sentences:
I choose to wait until the pending motion is resolved and rebuttal witnesses are called. If necessary, we will proceed at that time.

* * *

Ten minutes later she followed the rest of Brad’s team back down the aisle and toward the counsel table. Her mind raced with thoughts of the upcoming argument, her note to Ahmed, the implied threat from Ichabod to dismiss the case. Where would her little scheme be then?