Directed Verdict (7 page)

Leslie’s friends thought she was insane for living alone in such an isolated setting. But Leslie loved the seclusion, the scenery, the wildlife on the riverbanks, and the price of the apartment. Besides, Leslie practically lived in the law school library. Her apartment was just a way station for sleeping, showering, and licking her wounds.

By the time Leslie turned off the main road, she had pretty much concluded that she would always be second best. She had also decided that she had no desire to practice international law at the firm of Kilgore & Strobel. She dreamed of a day when she, a big-city lawyer, would try cases against Strobel and his small-town law firm. She would crush him with superior resources and clever lawyering. She had a sudden hankering for the Big Apple, where she could plot her revenge.

Leslie parked her car in the garage and slowly climbed the steps to her apartment. The sun was just beginning to set over the Chickahominy, and the light show was spectacular. She planned to microwave dinner, grab a law book and a bottle of wine, and sit on the dock until the sun completely disappeared.

She had struggled with dependency in the days following Bill’s death, and she had therefore not allowed herself even one drink since the start of the semester. But after a day like today, she had earned it. She would indulge just this once. As she popped a Lean Cuisine into the microwave and poured her first drink, she also checked her phone messages.

The first caller had not left a message. The second one was a consolation call from Carli.
“You did great. You should have won.”
Sweet lies to make Leslie feel better. The third call made her quickly forget the other two.

“Hello, Leslie, this is Brad Carson. Listen, great job in moot court today. I know this sounds a little strange, but I’m actually investigating a real case that is similar to the hypothetical case we were discussing. I need someone familiar with international law to do some research and help me determine if we’ve got a cause of action. Uh . . . I’m willing to pay enough to make it worth your time, and you can work around your school schedule. Anyway, if you’re interested, give me a call, and my secretary will set up a meeting.”

Leslie replayed the message twice, wrote down the number he left, and weighed her options. She didn’t have time for this. She needed to stay focused on school to maintain her class ranking. Good offers from top firms would follow. Besides, it was March, and Leslie planned on spending the summer abroad as part of the William and Mary study program in Exeter, England.

But as Leslie walked down to the dock, the lawyer in her couldn’t help but argue the other side. She owed Brad a favor since he had saved her from complete humiliation. Maybe this would be her big break in international law. She was tired of studying concepts and arguing hypotheticals. The thought of a real-life case with a real-life client was intoxicating. Besides, she needed the money.

She debated with herself vigorously until the sun finished its descent and she had polished off the tiny helping of Lean Cuisine lasagna and two glasses of wine. By then she had rendered her verdict. She would call Brad first thing Monday morning.

After another glass of wine, she finished critiquing her performance and decided maybe she hadn’t done such a miserable job after all. She was ready to practice some real law and work with a real lawyer. Forget Monday. She would go to the library first thing tomorrow morning. She would call Brad tomorrow afternoon and sink her teeth into a real case by the beginning of the week.

It was a beautiful night, and her head was starting to spin. She lay on her back on the dock and watched the stars as they circled the sky. A chorus of bullfrogs serenaded her, accompanied by the steady rhythm of small windblown waves lapping against the bank. She felt her nerves relax as exhaustion overwhelmed her weary body. Before long, she closed her eyes and drifted away.

She dreamed of humiliating Strobel.

7

MILES OF TREE-LINED SIDEWALKS
snaked their way among the tall and stately brick colonial buildings, each adorned with beautiful white columns, that made up the City of Virginia Beach municipal complex. The sprawling office park boasted plenty of green space and immaculate landscaping, adding to its bucolic appeal.

The courthouse building was always a beehive of activity. And on this Friday morning, as on most Fridays, large crowds crammed themselves into the courtrooms for “motions day,” the weekly cattle call where lawyers hashed through all their motions on their cases so they could reserve the other days for trial work.

Two weeks after her moot court argument, Leslie walked into the weekly melee of Virginia Beach Circuit Courtroom No. 7 and took a seat in the back. Brad had told Leslie he didn’t know what time he would be done with his motions, but afterward they would have lunch and discuss her research.

She decided to come a few hours early to see how motions and other important legal issues were decided in the real world. Her valuable time bought a study in mediocrity that made Leslie thankful for her class ranking and more determined than ever to avoid the slosh pit of mundane law where most lawyers wallowed.

The cases of Billy “the Rock” Davenport dominated the morning’s hearings. Leslie immediately recognized the name. The widely known senior partner of Davenport & Associates was the genius behind his firm’s irreverent and ubiquitous television ads: “When trouble rolls, call the Rock.” It was the kind of advertising Leslie detested, the kind of exposure that gave all lawyers a bad name. Turn the television to Jerry Springer, and the breaks would be accented by a tough-sounding and mean-looking lawyer with boxing gloves ready to deck the insurance companies. Watch ESPN, and another lawyer, this time fit and in jogging shorts, told you how to avoid the insurance company runaround. Tune in to your favorite soap, and a young and handsome lawyer assured you that Davenport & Associates literally feels your pain. Of course, none of the lawyers on television looked even remotely like the short, bald, pudgy man who meekly took his place behind the counsel table in Courtroom No. 7.

For forty-five minutes, defense lawyers of all stripes took their turns pummeling the Rock. The cases were different, but the themes were the same—the Rock had not answered interrogatories in a timely fashion, the Rock had failed to provide required medical reports, the Rock had failed to show for a scheduled deposition, the Rock had failed to name expert witnesses in a timely manner, and so on and so on. The lawyers asked for sanctions against the Rock, or that the cases be thrown out, or that the Rock be forced to concede major points in penance for his failure to comply with discovery rules.

The Rock was clearly on the defensive, shuffling papers, mumbling lame apologies, trying to survive the morning with some of his cases still intact, and above all, avoiding eye contact with the judge. By the end of his time on the hot seat, Leslie couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the hapless Rock and desperately sorry for his clients. She sighed with relief when Brad finally got his turn at the counsel table.

By 1:15 the judge had ruled on the last case, and Leslie was ready for lunch. Brad insisted that they eat at one of his favorite restaurants on the Lynnhaven River. He offered to let Leslie ride with him. They could talk business on the way.

She was not looking forward to this. Leslie’s initial enthusiasm for this assignment, which waxed so strong in the beginning, had been decimated by her sobering research into the black-letter law. Sarah Reed had no case. And now it was Leslie’s job to ruin Brad’s lunch and explain to him the harsh realities of sovereign immunity law.

* * *

The three adults waiting anxiously in the dimly lit apartment had little in common except a dangerous faith. They had all been members of the church in Riyadh formerly led by Charles and Sarah Reed. They had been severely beaten by the Islamic radicals unleashed by Ahmed Aberijan. To their great shame, they had recanted with their lips, if not with their hearts.

But now Rasheed and Mobara Berjein had boldly reinstated the weekly prayer meetings. These two young schoolteachers were joined by Kareem Bariq, another former member of the Reeds’ church, who drifted from one construction job to another and was presently unemployed. The Berjeins were doing what they could to help Kareem both financially and spiritually, with mixed results on both fronts.

The Berjeins had been overjoyed to reunite with Kareem and to learn that he had struggled with the same feelings of guilt and conviction. The tiny church of three rededicated themselves to the cause of Christ and the study of His Word. Over time, forgiveness replaced guilt, and courage began to take the place of fear.

The Berjeins became so emboldened that on this night they had invited another couple from school, close personal friends and spiritual seekers. When Rasheed heard the special knock at a few minutes past ten and welcomed his friends to the meeting, he was expecting nothing short of a miracle.

But now that the guests were there, Rasheed didn’t really know where to start. He looked at Mobara with rising panic in his eyes and asked her to share a little about her own spiritual journey. Mobara smiled warmly and launched right in, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Before long, she was fully engaged, passionately telling of her own feelings and faith. She talked about her life as a devoted Muslim, as an ardent follower of Mohammed and the teachings of the Koran. She talked about how much she had learned from her time as a Muslim and what great respect she had for other devout Muslims. But she also shared about an emptiness, a longing for something more than the discipline and sacrifice of the Islamic faith. She longed for peace; she longed for joy; she longed for assurance of eternal life. In a word, Mobara said, she longed for a Savior.

Without realizing it had happened, Rasheed found himself entranced, on the edge of his seat, as if he were hearing his wife’s story for the first time. He loved to watch Mobara’s ever-changing expressions as she took her listeners through a gauntlet of emotions, every feature on her face going all-out to accentuate her words. And then Mobara seemed to notice this as well—that she had become the center of attention—and she suddenly seemed self-conscious about it. Perhaps only Rasheed, who knew his wife so well, noticed the slight change in her countenance. And he was not at all surprised when she turned to him and flawlessly asked him to tell how they had found the answers to all their spiritual searching, to all of their many questions, in the Bible.

Rasheed swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and suddenly realized how thick his tongue had become. He said a quick prayer, licked his parched lips, and opened his Bible. He began sharing some stories that were not found in the Koran. He started with some of the great teachings of Christ, common ground for Muslims and Christians. As he talked, with his guests listening politely and Mobara nodding her agreement, he grew bolder. He felt a power not his own, an eloquence he did not know he possessed.

Oh, he still stammered around some, and he couldn’t remember half the Bible passages he wanted to explain, but he was now ready to hit the issues head-on. He explained how Christ had suffered and died on a cross. How Christ had paid the price for sins. He knew this was a major sticking point for Muslims; it had been his own greatest obstacle.

“I couldn’t believe that a God of love would actually let His own Son die on a cross,” Rasheed admitted, looking at his guests. He saw the same question register in their eyes. “If God is all powerful, why did He allow this to happen?” A long pause. “But then I realized that the very love of God required this—that He loved us so much He was willing to pay any price, including the death of His own Son, to provide us with a way to be brought back into relationship with Him.”

He couldn’t tell if he was getting through, but there was no stopping Rasheed now. He talked about Christ’s resurrection and the historical evidence for this miracle. He said that new life in Christ was available to everyone—Jew and Muslim, male and female—that God was the Father of all.

“In the Christian faith,” Rasheed explained earnestly, “salvation does not come from sacrificial living, faithfulness in prayer, or following a certain set of rules. Christ obeyed all the rules, kept the entire Law, something we could never do. And He did it for us.

“Salvation comes through faith in Jesus Christ.”

It was time to put the choice squarely to his friends, Rasheed could feel it. And he knew that these words were not his own, that somehow the Holy Spirit prompted them. “Christ cannot be regarded as just another good man, or even another great prophet in a long line of prophets culminating with Mohammed. Christ claimed to be God and wants to be Lord of your life. We must either accept Him on those terms or reject Him as a liar or a lunatic.”

Rasheed put down the Bible he had been holding in both hands and looked squarely at his guests. “Does that make sense to you?” he asked.

There was a long and uncomfortable silence as his question hung in the air. His guests looked down, quietly studying the floor, and Rasheed had no idea what to do. He had blown it. He had gotten so excited that he had overwhelmed them. He had not communicated clearly. He had turned them off. Here he was, a trained teacher, and for some reason he couldn’t explain the most basic thing in the world—the simple gospel of Jesus Christ.

And then the woman looked up. Rasheed saw the tears welling in her eyes. Her husband reached over, gently taking her hand. He nodded his head ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. He was saying it all made sense!

“It does?” Rasheed asked, more surprised than anybody else in the room.

The man just nodded his head again. “What do we do now?” he asked softly.

Startled, enthused, bewildered, and excited, Rasheed looked at Mobara. She smiled and turned to the guests. “Rasheed will lead you in a prayer,” she suggested. “A prayer that can change everything.”

Hesitantly at first, then with great enthusiasm, Rasheed led the couple in a prayer that ended their separation from God and started their relationship with Christ. They talked for an hour afterward.

That night the small church grew by two. That night Rasheed became a pastor.

They ended, as always, in another prayer. And their prayer ended, as always, with the petition that God would help them to remain faithful to Christ, “no matter the cost.” They did not have the option of the cheap and easy Christianity of the West. Their faith, with its great reward, would also demand great sacrifice.

* * *

Brad didn’t spend one minute talking about the Reed case on the way to the Lynnhaven Mariner. A master storyteller, Brad entertained Leslie with improbable tales of quirky lawyers, convoluted cases, and irascible clients. After they arrived, he made the long wait longer by insisting they hold out for a table on the dock overlooking the bay, and Leslie surprised herself by not minding any of it. At one point she laughed and realized her anxiety about this bad-news meeting had faded.

Brad didn’t get down to business until their lunches sat before them.

“So, Counsel, do we have a case for Sarah Reed? Don’t pull any punches.”

Leslie hesitated for just a second. “It doesn’t look good, Brad. I wouldn’t say impossible, but the next thing to it.” Her eyes met his. He stared at her intently, and she felt her throat constrict. “I’ve got a complete memo in my car, but I can give you the nutshell.” Was that her voice? Was she going hoarse?

“Go for it.” He continued staring.

She took a quick drink of water and collected herself. “Sarah would have a potential cause of action against both the individuals who tortured her as well as the government of Saudi Arabia for the actions of government officials. There are different laws and procedures for each. With regard to the individual police officers, there is a cause of action under the Torture Victim Protection Act.

“That part of the case is pretty straightforward,” Leslie continued. “We would have to prove that Sarah and her husband were tortured by official representatives of the Saudi government. We could recover against those persons who performed the torture and against any higher-ups who authorized, tolerated, or willingly ignored these acts.”

“Sounds good to me,” Brad quipped. “Where do I sign up?”

Leslie risked looking Brad in the eye again. “As you know better than anyone, the issue is not whether you can get a verdict, but whether you can collect against the defendants. Even if you can pinpoint the police officers who were involved, they probably don’t have a dime to their names. And you can’t even try to collect against them unless they have property in the United States or enter the country personally.”

“What about Prince Asad?” Brad asked. “There’s no one I would rather sue . . . with the possible exception of Bill Gates.”

“There is no indication that the prince either authorized or sanctioned this conduct,” Leslie said in her best professional mode, trying hard to burst Brad’s bubble. “The real issue is whether you could win a judgment against the government of Saudi Arabia for the actions of their agents.”

“I’m pretty sure the Saudis have the bucks to satisfy any billion-dollar verdict we might get.” Brad shooed away the waiter who was coming to refill their drinks. “So what’s the answer?”

“I think it’s a loser, Brad.” Leslie knew it was not good news, and she liked him too well to sugarcoat it. “Foreign countries and their agencies have enjoyed immunity from suit in American courts since 1812 with only a few minor exceptions. And none of them apply here.” She stopped abruptly. Brad was leaning forward, chin propped on both hands, looking directly at her. She found it hard to read his eyes. “Is this boring you?”

“Not at all,” he said, then smiled. “I was just thinking how much I could use someone like you to help research some of the issues I’m constantly running up against. You sound like an encyclopedia.”

“Thanks. I think.” She couldn’t help but blush. She felt like a schoolgirl with a wicked crush.
I don’t even know this guy!