Man of the Hour (30 page)

“Allahu akbar!”
cried the doctor.

“No God but God.” Youssef tapped Nasser on the knee.

“A man who stays at home to pray is nothing in comparison.” The imam turned his smiling imp eyes to Nasser. “He will not enter Paradise as quickly as the warrior. One hour on the battlefield is worth a hundred years of prayer.”

“Insh’allah!”
Dr. Ahmed said loudly.

It felt good to Nasser, hearing this after being thrown out by his family. It felt right. To be here with these men, in this room, talking about things that were real, belonging in the company of warriors. It brought him back to the feeling he’d had in the early days of the
intifada
: the weight of the stone in his hand, his brothers alongside him in the crooked little streets of Bethlehem, that sense he once had of standing in the exact right place at the exact right time. Before he came to this country and lost his way.

“But of course, we must be cautious.” The imam poked him with a long, gnarled finger. “Trust in Allah, but tether your camel. You know this saying?”

“No,” said Nasser.

“One of the Prophet’s followers asked him whether he should tie up his camel or trust in God when they were traveling. So the Prophet said, ‘Trust in Allah
and
tether your camel.’”

Nasser bit his lip, considering this. Perhaps he’d been wrong, depending on God to arrange so much in his life.

“I want to talk about the place we should target next,” the doctor interrupted, tapping the floor with his fingers. “Where we can do the most damage with the
hadduta
.”

The imam leaned away from him. “Well, this must be studied,” he said vaguely.

Dr. Ahmed’s brow became a hardened ridge, and he began to rock more quickly. “I was thinking one of the great institutions they are so arrogant about. It’s true the brothers missed their chance at the World Trade Center a few years ago. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong to try something of this scale. The loss of many lives is important to make our point, to cause the disruption… . I was thinking about the United Nations again. It is possible to put the
hadduta
perhaps in the parking lot.”

The imam’s smile grew faint and he started to fidget. “Well, of course, this could be studied too,” he said. “I don’t know if it is necessary to go into such detail right now.”

Dr. Ahmed missed the hesitance in the imam’s voice and went on with his rocking and his planning. “I was also thinking to consider one of their great bridges and tunnels. The Lincoln Tunnel or the Holland Tunnel. My God, can you imagine? We could drown them all and stop traffic for days.”

The imam folded his lips and said only, “Sometimes, it’s best to keep things simple.”

Nasser watched him closely, wondering why he’d suddenly fallen silent. Was he afraid someone was listening in on their conversation?
Were they not alone?

Youssef had told him: The imam was not just a holy man, but a man of the world. He’d studied at the University of Cairo and for a time even went to classes at the University of Wisconsin. Naturally, he’d fought alongside his brothers against the Jews in Israel, but he was also a pragmatist. After all, he’d negotiated with the CIA to get military support for brothers repelling the Soviet invaders in Afghanistan, where he’d met both Youssef and the doctor. So perhaps he was aware of certain things in the air, attuned to potentials for calamity.

Trust in Allah
, he’d said.
But tether your camel.

“So what do you think, sheik?” Dr. Ahmed was asking. “Which should be the target?”

“I think,” said the imam, standing slowly, “I am late to prepare for the evening prayer downstairs and there will be another time to discuss this. Remember, it is more blessed to worship among enemies than it is to worship among friends.”

His smile came back as he made his way to the door. Youssef jumped up to open it. “Peace upon you, brother! God is greatest!”

“Asalam allakem.”
The imam nodded his acknowledgment as he looked back at Nasser and Dr. Ahmed. “Stay as long as you like, brothers. My home is your home. Or join me for the prayer downstairs in a few minutes.”

“Allahu akbar.”
Dr. Ahmed waved. “We’ll be along.”

“Insh’allah,”
Nasser called after him.

The door closed and Nasser noticed there was a brown Snickers bar wrapper sticking out of the garbage can next to it. Dr. Ahmed clapped his hands gleefully and turned to Youssef.

“So now it’s all set,” he said.

Nasser looked at him quizzically. “What’s all set?”

“He has given us his blessing. Didn’t you hear that?”

“Not at all.”

Nasser was still trying to decode the words the imam had said. Was some deeper meaning eluding him?

Dr. Ahmed stared to the left of him and worked the side of his mouth into a sneer.

“What’s the matter with you?” he said. “He could not have been any clearer. Does he have to spell it out when people could be listening? He wants us to do away with many of them.”

Before Nasser could protest that the imam had said nothing of the kind, Youssef came over, sat back down beside him, and put an arm around him.

“It’s okay, my friend,” he said. “You are young. But you must learn to listen with your heart and not just your ears.”

36

THE NEXT MORNING,
David sat with Renee and their respective divorce lawyers in Judge Katherine Nemerson’s chambers at 110 Centre Street. He had tried to get this conference delayed for at least another week until the investigation blew over, but both the judge and Renee’s lawyer, a blustery former prosecutor named J. Randy Barrett, insisted on going ahead, since David’s new notoriety presented a slate of complicating issues that needed to be addressed immediately.

So he slumped down in his chair, looking at one of the claw feet of the judge’s Louis Quatorze desk. Its nails were digging into a ball and he imagined that it was his heart being punctured.

“Okay, so what’s the problem?” asked the judge, a hard and leathery New York lady in her mid-fifties.

“Your Honor, let’s cut to the chase,” said Randy Barrett, who had wavy black hair and jowls as big as a woman’s purse. “Mr. Fitzgerald over here is the target of a federal probe. He’s accused of planting a bomb meant to kill at least twenty-four school-age children. He’s under constant surveillance and intense media scrutiny. So for the sake of the child, I want to terminate all visitation rights immediately and seek a waiver for my client to take Arthur out of state.”

“Hardball, eh?” The judge made a note to herself and pushed her bifocals up on her nose, liking his style.

David winced, feeling like he’d been struck in the chest with a sledgehammer. He waited for his lawyer, Beth Nussbaum, to respond. But Beth was anything but a hard-charger. An old school friend from Atlantic Beach, she was a gentle, kind, loving person, with a soft heart-shaped face and billowy yellow hair. More than once, David had worried she wasn’t vicious enough to make it in the matrimonial business.

“Your Honor, with all due respect, what counsel is saying is ridiculous,” she said, shuffling papers on her lap “My client hasn’t been convicted of any crime. He hasn’t even been arrested or charged.”

Though at the moment, it was hard to tell that. Stories about him were appearing in every newspaper and on every television station, twisting his image and taking everything he’d said on the air and in class out of context.

“Judge, I’m not stupid,” Barrett fired back. “I know the difference between arrest, arraignment, and conviction. What I’m saying is just look at the practicalities. Forget all of Mr. Fitzgerald’s shortcomings for a moment—we’ll get to those later. How is he going to care for his son and simultaneously mount a vigorous defense for himself? He could be going to prison for the rest of his life.”

Prison. David had been struggling hard to keep that image out of his mind the last two days. He’d visited students on Rikers Island, heard about the strip searches, the fingers up the butt, the shanks driven into chests, the systematic loss of identity and manhood.

“I’m not going to prison,” he spoke up. “I’m innocent.”

He felt Renee looking at him. Dark circles under her eyes, a little scab in the middle of her lip. Christ, why couldn’t they work this out between themselves? She wasn’t that far gone, was she?

“So what’s the story, Mr. Fitzgerald?” asked the judge. “Are you working in the meantime?”

“I’m still getting my salary,” said David, pulling himself up in his chair.

“That’s not what I asked.” The judge scrubbed away the excuse in her steel-wool voice. “I asked if you were
working
. So I take it the answer is no, they want you away from the kids.”

Before David could respond, Beth put a hand on his wrist, reminding him she was the mouthpiece here. “Judge, we’re confident that Mr. Fitzgerald will be cleared in due time and get his job back. He’s engaged the services of the criminal attorneys Ralph Marcovicci and Judah Rosenbloom.”

“Oh great, the Laurel and Hardy Show!” Randy Barrett snickered. “See, this is what I’m talking about, Judge! Ralph Marcovicci is the all-time clown master of the media circus. There’s going to be cameras around this case for months to come. This poor fragile little boy, Arthur, won’t have a moment’s peace. We’ve gotta protect him and get him out of town.”

David bared his teeth and looked sideways at Renee. “Don’t let him do this to us,” he murmured. “You know it isn’t right.”

“Judge, please tell him not to address my client.” Barrett cut him off, jabbing a finger at David. “He’s trying to play games with her head.”

“All right, all right, enough already.” The judge waved her hands. “I’ve never heard so much acrimony over so little money.” She touched the center piece of her bifocals and picked up a file. “Ms. Nussbaum, what say you about Mr. Barrett’s request to let his client take the boy out of town?”

David and Beth looked at each other sorrowfully. They’d discussed bringing up Renee’s deteriorating mental condition and had decided only to raise the issue in the most delicate way possible. But here Randy Barrett had gone nuclear on them.

“Your Honor,” Beth began slowly. “My client still loves his wife, but he’s beginning to grow concerned about her. Based on what he’s seen and what the boy has told him, he’s afraid she may be experiencing some kind of a breakdown and won’t be able to take care of the child. So we would strongly oppose any effort to take Arthur out of town.”

David saw Renee shudder in her seat. Her lawyer grabbed her elbow, meaning to reassure her but just startling her more.

“Your Honor, this is outrageous!” he bellowed. “Even I didn’t think Mr. Fitzgerald would sink to this level of character assassination. He has no right to cast aspersions on my client’s mental state.”

“Well, actually he does.” The judge was still studying the file, her mouth strained and dubious. “I’m reading Dr. Ferry’s report and he had some serious concerns about Mrs. Fitzgerald’s mental condition.” She dropped the file on her desk with a
thwap
. “So here we have a problem. On the one hand, Mr. Fitzgerald is being followed around by the press and the feds, which could have a traumatic effect on both the wife and the child. But on the other hand, Mrs. Fitzgerald doesn’t seem entirely capable of caring for him all by herself. So what are we going to do about this?”

She threw her hands open to the room, as if asking for suggestions, but everyone was looking down. David gripped his armrests and saw Renee digging her heel into the carpet.

“Does anyone want to see this child in foster care or sent to live with a grandparent?” Judge Nemerson asked.

“No,” said David, clearing his throat and raising his eyes.

“No.” Renee’s voice slid under his.

David looked at her gratefully, but she’d already turned away and started picking at her lip again. He reminded himself how much it must have cost her to keep it together as long as she had.

“All right, so let’s figure out what we’re going to do.” The judge took off her bifocals and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Barrett may have a point about all this pressure having a traumatic effect on the child.” She turned her eyes to David. “Mr. Fitzgerald, have your criminal lawyers told you how long they expect this investigation to last?”

“Oh, it shouldn’t be too long, Your Honor,” he lied. “The government has no case.”

Judge Nemerson cocked her head to one side, unconvinced. “Well, until this gets cleared up, I’m afraid I see things from Mr. Barrett’s point of view. I’m not going to cut off all visitation rights, but I am going to curtail them a little. The potential for damage is too great.”

David felt the talons digging deeper into his heart. Stay focused on Arthur and the kids, he told himself. That’s how you’re going to get through this.

“All right, here’s what we’re going to do,” said the judge, flipping open a desk calendar. “I’m going to schedule a custody hearing for four weeks from today, the sixteenth of next month, so we can settle this matter once and for all. Mrs. Fitzgerald”—she nodded to Renee—“I want you to continue seeing your psychiatrist and taking the medication he prescribes. If the drugs don’t work anymore, get new drugs. I want full and regular reports from your doctor about how you’re doing. If you try to leave the city with your son, the consequences will be
serious.
And Mr. Fitzgerald—” She drew a bead on David. “I suggest you get your situation with the investigation and your employment straightened out before the hearing. Those are going to be very important factors in my decision about who gets permanent custody of the child.”

“But Your Honor, that’s completely unfair!” Beth Nussbaum looked like she was about to start crying. “These matters are out of my client’s hands. You’re penalizing him just because he’s been falsely accused of something.”

“And what about the damage to my client and the boy from being in the middle of this media zoo all the time?” Barrett protested.

“Hey.” The judge shrugged. “Who do I look like, Solomon?”