Directed Verdict (43 page)

He glanced at the document handed to Strobel and had the sinking feeling that the photos of juror four would never see the light of day. It was such a pity; it would have been the perfect plan.

What fun, what sheer genius it would have been to dupe the street-savvy paralegal who had already caused so much trouble. But now Barnes’s cleverly planned fireworks would never explode. With this proffered testimony, everything had changed. Juror four was the least of their worries.

There was only one thing left to do.

* * *

In the turmoil, only Nikki noticed that Ahmed Aberijan leaned over the rail separating defense counsel from the gallery and said a few words into the ear of the short and stocky investigator who had handed her the deposition at the close of court Saturday. Ahmed then joined the man as the pair headed for the back door of the courtroom.

Nikki glanced over Brad’s shoulder as he looked through the proffer. She let out a soft, low whistle and said to nobody in particular, “No wonder he left.”

She grabbed Bella, whispered a few things in her ear, then ran out the back doors of the courtroom to follow Ahmed. Bella in turn found Rasheed Berjein in the second row of the spectator section. She pulled on his arm, and he followed Bella out of the courtroom, just a few seconds behind Nikki.

* * *

In the downstairs lobby, Frederick Barnes and Ahmed Aberijan impatiently waited to retrieve their firearms from the marshals who manned the metal detectors. As was their daily habit, the marshals had taken the guns, tagged them, and placed them in a locker to be reclaimed at the end of the day.

But now, as Ahmed and Barnes tried to leave the court building, the marshals were busy checking a long line of persons entering the court through the metal detectors. So the two men waited. And waited. And waited.

Nikki stepped off the elevator and made herself inconspicuous on the other side of the lobby, keeping a close eye on Barnes and Ahmed.

“Gentlemen,” an exasperated Barnes said, “we are severely pressed for time. Here are our tags. You’ve got our weapons in your lockers, and we need them as we leave.”

“Sir,” one of the harried marshals said, “we’ll be with you as soon as we can. Can’t you see we’ve got a lot of people to process?”

“I don’t care how many people are lined up to get into this place,” Barnes said. “We’re entitled to get out.” He gritted his teeth. “Now,
get us our guns
.”

“That attitude just earned you an extra five minutes,” the marshal replied. “We give the orders, not you.”

Barnes looked at Ahmed and shook his head in disgust. “You wait here for the guns,” Barnes said. “I’ll get the car and bring it out front.”

Barnes left the courthouse, cut through the protesters, and headed north on Granby Street to where he had parked. Nikki exited a few seconds later, cut through the protesters, and headed south on Granby Street two blocks to get her car. She looked over her shoulder and saw the stocky man break into a jog. Nikki kicked off her heels and broke into a run of her own.

The timing was perfect. Ahmed received his Glock from the marshal just as Barnes pulled in front of the courthouse in his black Lincoln Continental. The marshal refused to turn loose Barnes’s Smith and Wesson unless Barnes himself presented the claim slip. Ahmed gave the marshal some severe grief in nearly flawless English, then decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. Barnes could get his weapon later.

The police cleared a path through the demonstrators as Ahmed exited the courthouse and entered the backseat of the Lincoln. His presence on Granby Street created quite a furor, as some of the protesters broke out in cheers and others hurled insults.

As Ahmed climbed into the vehicle, the man in the yellow chicken suit saw his chance for glory. He ditched his sign, slipped through the police lines, jumped up onto the hood of the Continental, and started shouting incoherently. In his mind’s eye, it was a heroic move akin to Boris Yeltsin’s mounting the Russian tank during the Moscow coup.

To the police, he was just another fruitcake who needed to be arrested.

Barnes blew his horn furiously, but the chicken kept jumping around on the hood. The police mounted the fenders, grabbed the man by the feathers, and pulled him, sliding, onto the pavement. They cuffed him, read him his rights, and dragged him kicking and screaming into a nearby squad car. They finally cleared a lane, and the Continental sped south on Granby, free at last from the circus in front of the courthouse.

The delay in the Continental’s departure had allowed Nikki to reach her Sebring and position her car one block south of the mob that had delayed Barnes. As the Continental flew by in the opposite direction, Nikki pulled a quick three-point turn, holding up traffic and setting off a chorus of horns, then headed out in pursuit of Barnes.

Barnes had already placed several hundred feet and more than a few cars between his vehicle and Nikki’s. But Nikki was determined and kept him in sight. The pursuit carried them through the busy side streets of Norfolk and then racing out of the city on I-264. As she drove, Nikki wondered where Barnes was headed and what in the world she would do if she actually caught him. But as always, she would take it one step at a time, and for now her only goal was to keep him in sight and not let him get away.

* * *

Barnes called his firm in D.C. from his cell phone. “Lease a private jet immediately,” he ordered. He thought for a moment. If he guessed right, the Norfolk airport would be crawling with federal agents within the hour. He would try a private municipal airport in Hampton. Nobody would expect that. “Lease it from the Hampton Municipal Airport. We’ll be there in thirty minutes. File a flight plan for touchdown at Reagan National and then on to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. We must take off immediately. We’ll work out clearances for the other end once we’re in the air. Two passengers. I don’t care what it costs.”

He ended his first call and immediately made a second. “Cancel the money wire,” he said. “Everything’s changed.”

He had about thirty miles of interstate to cover to get to the airport, including a trip through the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel. It was risky. But he knew the attorneys would be squabbling in court for at least thirty minutes before Judge Baker-Kline even knew what was happening. It would be another hour before she could order any type of bench warrant. By then, Aberijan would be in the air and on his way outside the jurisdictional limits of the United States, far away from the reach of the judge and her federal court marshals.

But first Barnes had to shake Brad Carson’s pesky paralegal. He kept the accelerator against the floor, intent on burying the speedometer needle, and flew by the other vehicles on the interstate. He would simply outrun Moreno. And if that didn’t work, he would pull over and let her catch up. He would drag her into their vehicle, and Ahmed would put a gun to her head and end it. He knew that nothing would give the Saudi more pleasure than to extinguish the life of a woman who had already caused him so much grief.

45

JUDGE CYNTHIA BAKER-KLINE TOOK
her perch on the bench in the hushed courtroom. She held the one-page proffer in her left hand and peered down over her long nose and reading glasses at Brad Carson. “Mr. Carson, there are very serious accusations contained in this document. The court does not take these allegations lightly.”

The proposed testimony had stunned Brad just as much as it had Ichabod. He was just now getting his bearings and thinking straight. He still didn’t understand all the implications. But he was in too far to turn back now.

“And we do not make them lightly,” he answered.

“I’m going to allow the testimony, Mr. Carson,” Ichabod ruled, her face wrinkled into sternness. “But if these accusations turn out to be unfounded, if this is just another gimmick, then I will personally petition the state bar to revoke your license. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, Your Honor.”

Brad waited for the jury to return to their seats. He stood tall and straight, facing the rear of the courtroom. He looked down at Sarah one last time.

“She cares about you,” Sarah whispered. “Trust her.”

“The plaintiff calls Leslie Connors as our next witness,” Brad announced.

A marshal disappeared into the hallway and a few seconds later opened the rear door of the courtroom. Leslie walked elegantly down the aisle, her head held high, her perfect lines gracing the courtroom. She avoided looking at Brad as she walked past him and stopped in the well of the court, raised her hand, and took the oath. She was dressed in a conservative white blouse, a black pin-striped skirt that hovered just above the knees, and a matching vest. Her auburn hair was pulled back and braided. Dark blue makeup accentuated her deep-set sky blue eyes.

How could the men on the jury not listen to
her
?

She took the stand with an unmistakable air of dignity. Only the redness of her eyes and the slight puffiness surrounding them betrayed the fact that this witness had probably not slept much the prior night.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Leslie Connors.”

“Were you formerly co-counsel for the plaintiff in this case?”

“Yes.”

“When did you withdraw from that role?”

“This morning.”

Brad felt like he was in a dream; this moment was so surreal. He was starting the examination of his own co-counsel, a woman he had dated, and he didn’t have the foggiest idea where this was ultimately headed. He was no longer in control, but at the mercy of a woman who had double-crossed him just last night. Still, the situation felt right.

There had been a flicker of hope in his subconscious the night before, a thought he didn’t dare acknowledge, a spark that had now become a flame. Despite what he saw, could he still trust her?

At present, he had no choice.

“Are you testifying today under a grant of immunity?” Brad asked. He had picked up that much from reading the proffer.

“Yes.”

“Will you tell the court how that came about?”

“Would you like me to start at the beginning?” Leslie asked.

“Please,” Brad said. It was one of the best ideas he had heard in days.

* * *

Nikki flew down the interstate, trying her best to keep pace with Barnes but dropping farther behind every minute. He was still barely in sight, now headed west on I-64 toward the Norfolk airport. She hoped the police would see the speeding vehicles and pull them over. She slowed ever so slightly and took one hand off the wheel to reach for her cell phone. She used the speed dial to reach Bella.

“Aberijan is heading west on 64. The airport’s the next exit. I’ve barely got him in sight.”

“We’re not too far behind you,” Bella said. “I’m pushing my Honda as fast as it’ll go. Rasheed is with me, and the old boy looks like he’s in shock.

“Look out!” Nikki heard Bella scream, apparently to some other driver. Nikki envisioned poor Rasheed, white knuckles clutching the dashboard, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

“Why don’t you call the police?” Nikki heard Bella yell into the car phone.

“And tell them what?!” Nikki asked. “That they should pick up this visiting foreign dignitary for speeding? What about diplomatic immunity? The police won’t get involved.”

“Then why are
we
chasing him?” Bella asked. “What are
we
going to do?”

“I’m not sure,” Nikki admitted. “I just know that if he leaves the country, we’ll never see him again, but if . . . Bella! He went by the airport exit! He’s heading for the tunnel!”

“Wha—” Then Nikki heard the sound of Bella’s cell phone hitting the floor. She heard muffled shouts from Bella and Rasheed, but she heard no squealing of tires or crunching of metal.

She hit the End Call button and focused on the traffic she was flying by.

“Then why are
we
chasing him?”
Bella had asked. “
What are
we
going to do?”

In truth, Nikki had no idea what she would do if she caught Ahmed, but in the deepest depths of her subconscious, she knew exactly
why
she was chasing him. And now, for a fleeting moment, as the cars on I-64 became a blur, she allowed those subconscious thoughts to bubble to the surface—she allowed herself to admit it, to own the reason she was doing this. And she knew in that same instant that there could be no turning back.

Ahmed was no different from her father. Abusers prey on the innocent until they meet resistance; then they flee. Nikki had never tried to withstand her father when he beat on her mom . . . couldn’t have stopped him if she tried . . . so she just turned up the volume of the music in her bedroom to drown him out. Then one day he up and left. Just like that. And she let him go . . . happy to rid their family of the beast.

But she had never confronted him, and nobody had ever held him accountable for the scars he had created. Sure, she ignored him; she never spoke to him again. That would hurt him, she told herself. That would pay him back.

Who was she kidding?

Years of abuse, and he just walked away! And right now he’s probably doing it again to someone else. Years of hating myself because I never took him on.

Abusers prey on the innocent; then they run. Gone forever. Scot-free.

Not this time, she told herself.

The Sebring was now doing ninety-eight. She was gaining on them.

* * *

“It all began this past summer,” Leslie recounted, “when I returned from Europe to work full-time on this case. The first thing I learned was that I had missed a deadline for objecting to interrogatories—written questions that Sarah Reed had to answer under oath—and that Mr. Strobel was trying to use that mistake to win the case on a technicality.”

“How was he trying to do that?” Brad asked. He remembered full well the tactics of Strobel, but he wanted to make sure the jury understood.

“Well, one of the interrogatories they sent to us asked Sarah to identify all the members of the churches in Saudi Arabia whom she ever worshiped with. Sarah knew that if she did that, they would be in danger—”

“Objection. She can’t testify about what Sarah Reed knew or didn’t know,” Strobel said.

“Sustained,” Ichabod ruled.

“Anyway,” Leslie continued, without flinching, “I knew that we would not provide those names under any circumstances for fear of what might happen to those persons. So when we missed the deadline for objecting to the interrogatory, Mr. Strobel filed a motion asking this court to either make us answer that question or dismiss the case against us.”

Brad was amazed at Leslie’s apparent composure. Her voice and gaze were steady, hardly betraying the incredible pressure she was under. But she could not entirely fool Brad. He noticed the small red blotches on her neck, a sure sign she had scratched nervously in the hallway before she took the stand.

“How did that lead to a meeting with Mr. Aberijan?”

“It was at that point that I realized the defendants were not interested in justice, only about winning this case, and they would do anything to make it happen.” She turned to the jury.

“Objection,” Strobel shouted. “She’s got no right to mischaracterize our conduct like that.”

“Mr. Strobel, sit down and let the witness testify,” Ichabod said curtly. “You can cross-examine her later.”

Strobel sat down hard and dropped his pen noisily on the table. Ichabod shot him a look but said nothing.

“At that point,” Leslie continued, unflustered by the distraction, “I decided that two could play this game. I couldn’t bear to lose this case knowing that Mr. Aberijan had killed Sarah Reed’s husband. I lost my own husband not so long ago to cancer, and I guess I became personally involved in Sarah’s quest for justice. And I began to believe the system could not deliver justice on its own; it needed help. To Mr. Strobel, it seemed that justice was just a game, and I was not about to let him beat us at the game and deny my client the justice she deserved.”

Strobel stood to object.

“Overruled,” Ichabod said before he could speak.

“So I set up my own little sting operation,” Leslie said. “I knew Aberijan would deny what he did until the end, so I decided to set a trap and obtain a confession.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Brad asked.

For the first time Leslie diverted her gaze from Brad and the jury. A pained expression crossed her face, her shoulders slumped, and she compressed her lips. When she spoke, her words came out softly, in the manner of a confessional.

“Because I knew you played so much by the book that you would never have allowed it. And by the time I was ready to come to you . . . wanted to come to you . . . I was prohibited by my immunity deal from doing that. There was so much at stake—this case, my future, everything really. . . .”

It was starting to make sense to Brad, but the sting of her betrayal lingered. Maybe she wasn’t working
against
him on the case, but she was still going behind his back. She didn’t trust him; it was as simple as that.

He could barely bring himself to ask the next question. It was of no legal significance, but he simply had to know. “Would you do it the same way again?”

Leslie hesitated and seemed to shrink back from the question. “Never,” she said in a barely audible tone. “Your unshakable faith in the system and Sarah’s unshakable faith in doing the right thing have impacted me in ways you’ll never know. I eventually realized that the only thing that separates the good guys from the bad guys is that we’re not willing to bend the rules to obtain justice.”

Brad let out an audible sigh.

He now had a million other questions swirling through his mind. But first he needed to nail down the basics. Leslie was testifying under a grant of immunity. A good lawyer always put the details of those deals on the table first.

“Did you eventually negotiate with the authorities?” he asked.

“I approached Angela Bennett in the U.S. attorney’s office,” Leslie said. “She agreed to grant me immunity and agreed I could testify in this case before any arrests would be made.” At this critical moment in her testimony, Leslie paused ever so slightly to let the tension build. She turned to face the jury squarely. “In return, I agreed not to talk to anyone else about this plan, except for a gentleman named Patrick O’Malley, who already knew, and I agreed to help obtain substantive evidence against Mr. Aberijan for obstruction of justice, witness intimidation, jury tampering, and conspiracy to commit murder.”

This shocking list of accusations set off a wave of activity in the courtroom, ranging from gasps to a general buzz of excitement. Mack Strobel stood and asked to approach the bench. Even Brad rocked back on his heels in disbelief.

* * *

“Approach,” Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline said.

Baker-Kline had a feeling during Leslie’s testimony that something in the courtroom was different; something was out of place. Now, as she quickly surveyed the courtroom, her eyes came to rest on the first row of the spectator section, and she realized what it was. There, for the first time the entire trial, sat ADA Angela Bennett. And on the defendants’ side of the courtroom, though the lawyers were all sitting in their proper places—mouths now hanging open—Ahmed Aberijan had vanished.

“Ms. Bennett, you too,” Baker-Kline commanded.

“Mr. Strobel,” the judge said as she glowered at the defense lawyer over her wire rims, “I’m sure you’ve got a hundred and two objections, and we’ll deal with those later. Right now, I need to know why Mr. Aberijan is not with us in court.”

Mack Strobel looked at her and clenched his jaw. “I do not know where Mr. Aberijan is or why he is not here,” he said tersely. “Further, even if I did know where he was, I would not be at liberty to say since he is my client and any information I have about his whereabouts would be protected by the attorney-client privilege.”

Baker-Kline turned from Strobel to Bennett. “Is this true—this testimony about a deal to obtain evidence against Aberijan?”

“Yes.”

“Jury tampering? Obstruction of justice?”

“Yes.”

“Conspiracy to commit murder?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” the judge said. “You may return to your seats.” She waited calmly for the lawyers to take their places. “We will continue with testimony from Ms. Connors. But before we do, there is another urgent matter that we should tend to. Based on a sidebar with counsel of record and Ms. Bennett, I am hereby issuing a bench warrant for Mr. Aberijan to be brought into this courtroom to answer potential contempt charges along with other matters.”

She turned to the marshals. “I want him brought before this court immediately, and I want you to begin by contacting the Norfolk airport and alerting officials there to check all outgoing international flights—including private charter flights.”

The judge then turned to Brad, who had taken his place behind the podium. “You may now resume your examination,” she said in the calmest tone imaginable.

* * *

Clarence lumbered from the courtroom and went straight for the pay phones. The other marshals could call the Norfolk airport. He would call Bella Harper.