“He told Carter he’s being watched by al-Qaeda, so he’s role playing with me, acting like he’s really on the al-Qaeda team and planning the next shooting.”
“Carter bought that?”
“Apparently. I wouldn’t say Carter is naive enough to totally trust Abdul, but Abdul has a proven track record of results for him going back to the Bush Two presidency. Carter’s heart is in the right place, but his biggest flaw is that he’s willing to cut a deal with the devil if it gives him a clear path to his objective. I guess Carter figures that if he gives Abdul enough latitude, they’ll flush out the real al-Qaeda connection.”
Jack took a minute to absorb all of it, then framed a question. “Do you know for a fact that Abdul trained Xavier?”
“I don’t know for a fact. He probably did.”
“Why do you say ‘probably’?”
“Why else would Xavier go silent and say nothing in his own defense? He must think Abdul will kill me if he names the shooter.”
“Are you saying Abdul was the shooter?”
“I don’t know that. You asked me if I thought Abdul trained Xavier, and I gave you my best guess.”
Jack didn’t respond right away. He gave her words a moment to swirl around her, and he watched her demeanor. It wasn’t exactly a lie detector test, but he noted that she didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with nervous jabber the way most liars did.
“Let me ask you this, and I want an answer that is based on actual facts known to you and in your head. Was Xavier the shooter?”
“He was targeted and recruited to do it. No question.”
“But did he do it?”
Her dark eyes met his, burning with intensity. “No.”
“How do you know?”
She looked away, then back at Jack. “Because I wouldn’t love him if he did.”
Theo returned with Maritza’s coffee.
“Theo, can you give us another minute?” asked Jack.
“That’s all right,” said Maritza, rising. “I have to go. I’ve said everything I came to say.”
Jack believed that much. “We should talk again.”
“If Xavier wants,” she said. “He knows how to reach me.”
Theo gave her the coffee to go, and she thanked him. “See you around, Jack.”
“Hope so.”
She turned and left, and Jack watched as the only hijab on the promenade disappeared into the early evening crowd of tourists.
Chapter 50
Jack and Theo were in no rush to leave their café table. Theo had scheduled himself for bartending duty starting at eight p.m., so he ordered a second espresso to help him power through till closing. Jack was still thinking of his conversation with Maritza. Theo was people watching.
“Why do you think it is that Brazilian women are so freakin’ beautiful?” he asked in an almost philosophical voice.
Jack followed his friend’s line of sight to the other side of the promenade, through a stand of potted palm trees, to four young women having dinner and cocktails outside a Brazilian steakhouse. They were smiling and cutting glances at the young men at the next table, and it was Jack’s quick take that the ladies were trying to decide who among them had the best command of broken English to thank the Americanos for sending a round of drinks. Another case of girl from São Paulo meets boy from Saint Paul. Language was never a barrier on South Beach, but only if you were paying attention.
“I’m sorry. What’d you ask me?”
“Forget it. New question. You gonna spend the rest of your night inside your own head, or you gonna tell me what Maritza said?”
Jack had been too busy processing what he’d learned to waste time repeating it. But he took a minute to give Theo the gist.
“You want to know what I think?” asked Theo.
It had taken him all of thirty seconds to form an opinion. Theo was not the ruminator Jack was. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do you think?”
“Your client either did it or knows who did it.”
“You could be right,” said Jack. “Or you could be wrong.”
“If you think I’m wrong, then why’d you ask me what I think?”
“I didn’t ask what you think,” said Jack. “I think it was you who asked if I wanted to know what you think, and I thought I did—”
Suddenly, that old R.E.M. song that it had taken two days to get out of his head was back again: I think I thought I saw you . . .
“Can we drop this?” Jack asked, but there was no dropping it. “The thing is . . .”
“The thing is what?”
The question that had been nagging from somewhere in the back of his mind finally gelled. “Why would someone—Abdul, al-Qaeda, or whoever it was—target Xavier for recruitment and radicalization in the first place?”
Jack’s cell phone rang. He checked the incoming number, then told Theo who it was.
“Mike Posten at the Miami Tribune.”
Jack received at least five calls a day from reporters. He’d stated publicly that the trial of Xavier Khoury was going to take place in the courtroom, not in the media, and he’d meant it. He ignored ninety-nine percent of reporters’ calls. Some numbers he’d even blocked. But Posten at the Tribune was an old friend, or at least as much of a friend as a criminal defense lawyer who was the son of a former governor could have in the media. Jack answered.
“How goes it, Mr. Posten?”
“I need a quote, Jack.”
“Get in line.”
“Come on. One sentence. That’s all I need.”
Jack was about to decline, but an idea struck. “Maybe we can help each other here.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Posten was the reporter who’d broken the story that the weapon used in the Riverside school shooting was registered in the name of Xavier’s father.
“I want to know the date of the first registration of the gun in the name of Amir Khoury,” said Jack.
“You do realize that’s not public information,” said Posten.
“Yes. And even though your story didn’t print the date of the first registration, I’m guessing you have that information.”
“I probably do,” the reporter said coyly. “But just so we’re clear, you can’t just go online or call the Department of Agriculture and get the name of registered gun owners. Florida law prohibits it. That information is exempt from public records laws.”
“I understand.”
“To put an even finer point on it,” said Posten, “if I give you this information, there will be a very usable quote from you.”
“Deal.”
Jack could almost feel the journalist smiling through the line. “Hold on, Jack.”
He waited with the phone pressed to his ear.
“What’s this about?” asked Theo.
“I hadn’t really thought this was important before. But talking to Maritza got me thinking that maybe I’m focused on the wrong lies and the wrong liars.”
“How’s that?”
“I keep asking myself the same questions. Did Xavier lie when he said ‘I did it’? Was Molly lying when she said she had nothing to do with the disappearance of the clothes, the goggles, and all the other stuff the shooter was wearing? Is Maritza lying about her and Xavier? Then—boom—it hit me. What about Amir?”
“What about him?”
“Amir told me that he bought the gun after nine-eleven.”
“So?”
Posten was back on the line. “Got it for you, Jack. The gun was first registered in the name of Amir Khoury on January seventeen, two thousand and one.”
It was an easy computation—nine months before the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001.
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Hey, what about my quote?”
Jack said the first thing that popped into his head. “We intend to defend these charges vigorously.”
“Bullshit, Swyteck. You’re going to have to do a lot better than that.”
&nbs
p; “Give me twenty-four hours, Mike. This quote will be killer.”
Chapter 51
Jack’s drive from South Beach back to the mainland was against rush-hour traffic. Eastbound lanes on the Julia Tuttle Causeway were three long lines of monotony, but Jack was cruising toward downtown, making a blur of the evening glow from the waterfront homes of entertainment icons, Russian oligarchs, and pharmaceutical billionaires on Star Island. Theo took an Uber back to his bar in the Grove, so Jack had time alone in his car. A phone call was the last thing he wanted, and when his cell rang on Bluetooth, his first inclination was to answer only if it was Andie. He glanced at the number on the console. It was pretty unusual for Bonnie to call from the office after five o’clock. He answered.
“What are you still doing at work?”
“I had some filing to catch up on. Good thing. Molly Khoury came by. She needs to see you.”
“Why?”
“She says it’s important.”
“Can you put her on?”
“She doesn’t want to talk on the phone. She’s in bad shape, Jack.”
“You mean drunk?”
“I mean really bad shape. You need to come.”
She was talking as if she couldn’t say more. Perhaps Molly was standing nearby, and Bonnie didn’t want to be overheard. Whatever the problem, a call like this from his trusted assistant of almost twenty years wasn’t something Jack could ignore.
“Okay. I’ll be there in twenty.”
He called Andie and let her know he’d be home late, drove past his exit to Key Biscayne, and headed back to his office. He arrived sooner than promised, fifteen minutes later. Molly’s Mercedes was in the driveway, but Bonnie’s car was not. The door was locked, so he used his key. Molly was alone in the lobby, seated in the armchair.
“Where’s Bonnie?”
“The freezer is broken on your refrigerator,” said Molly. “She went to get some ice.”
“Ice?”
“For what?” he was about to add, but then she turned her head, and Jack noticed her eye. The bruising was still fresh, but it was going to be one ugly shiner. Jack went to her, concerned.
“What happened to you?”
“Four-week anniversary of the shooting. A pretty awful day at the Khoury home, as you can imagine. Things got out of hand.”
“Did Amir do this to you?”
She hesitated before answering. “I fell.”
“You fell,” he said in a tone that let her know he wasn’t buying it. “Do you want to see a doctor?”
“No. I’m sure this looks a lot worse than it is.”
“Has this happened before?”
Another hesitation. “People fall all the time, I guess.”
“Molly, you have to be honest with me. You did the right thing by getting out of the house. You probably feel like there are not a lot of people you can turn to, with all that’s happened in the last four weeks. But I’m glad you came here. I want to help, and you can trust me.”
A tear from her good eye ran down her cheek. The drops pooled in her other eye, trapped by the swelling. Jack went into the kitchen and ran a paper towel under the faucet. Trying to get really cold water from a Florida tap was like the proverbial search for snowballs in hell, but something was better than nothing. He folded up the wet towel and gave it to Molly.
“This’ll have to do until Bonnie brings the ice,” he said.
Molly thanked him and gently applied it to the swelling.
“Where are you planning to stay tonight?” asked Jack.
“A hotel.”
“Which one?”
“The usual.”
“So this isn’t the first time?”
“Xavier has always been a flash point in our marriage,” she said.
“It might sound like a stupid question to ask why,” said Jack, “but up until four weeks ago, I would have pegged him for the perfect son. Perfect grades. Accepted to MIT.”
“Xavier was perfect. For a long time. Maybe he would have stayed that way if Amir had accepted him.”
“Accepted him? In what way?”
She dabbed her eye, then looked at Jack. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“You can tell me anything.”
“When Amir and I were engaged, he broke things off six weeks before the wedding.”
“Why?”
“If you think he has a temper now, you should have known him then. The ‘why’ is not important. I was devastated and made a very dumb decision. I got really drunk and went to see my old boyfriend.”
“We’ve all been there,” said Jack.
“I suppose. Anyway, Amir and I obviously got back together. A month later, we were married. Eight months later, Xavier was born.”
“Oh,” was all Jack could say.
“Yeah. Oh.”
“I’m guessing Xavier was not the product of make-up sex when you and Amir got back together.”
“No. But my old boyfriend looked a lot like Amir. I’ve never been drawn to WASPy-looking guys. So it was never an issue outside our marriage.”
“But inside?”
She lowered her gaze. “Relentless,” she said in a soft but sad voice.
“Is that what tonight was about?”
She nodded. “The anniversary of the shooting brought it all to a head. He said Xavier’s sin was Allah’s punishment for my sin.”
“You know that’s not true, right?”
Molly didn’t answer. Jack didn’t know whether to take the conversation in its logical direction, or to let logic wait for her to heal emotionally. But he was running out of time.
“There’s something important I need to tell you, Molly.”
She looked up. “What?”
“I’m not in a position to share many details, but I can tell you this much. I’m having serious doubts about Xavier’s guilt.”
A car pulled into the driveway, the sound of tires parting pea gravel alerting Jack.
“That must be Bonnie with the ice,” said Molly.
Jack had a completely different thought, knowing how abusers operated, and he went quickly to the door. Through the glass he saw Amir coming up the steps. Before he could turn the deadbolt, Amir charged the entrance and pushed his way inside, the door hitting Jack in the chest as it flew open, knocking Jack backward to the floor. He’d seen Amir’s temper before, but nothing like this.
“Molly!” he shouted, in a voice that made his wife shrink.
Chapter 52
“Tell me what you said to him!” Amir shouted.
Molly didn’t respond, perhaps because she was too afraid to speak, or perhaps because experience had taught her that there was never a right answer.
Jack quickly climbed to his feet and stood firmly between them. “Back off, Amir.”
Amir’s anger shifted to Jack. “What did she tell you?”
“If you’re going to stay, I need you to sit down and shut up. Either way, I’m calling the cops.”
“Don’t!” Molly shouted, but it wasn’t an order. She was begging him. “Please don’t do that. If the media gets wind of this, I can’t handle it,” she said, her voice quaking. “Have you seen my new name on the Internet this week? Machine-Gun Molly, mother of the Riverside School shooter. I just can’t handle one more thing, Jack. I just can’t.”
Jack put his cell phone back in his pocket, then looked at Amir.
“She fell,” he said, his tone lacking any hint of believing it. “That’s what she told me.”
Amir seemed relieved, or at least satisfied enough to take his anger down a notch. He looked past Jack. “I told you not to drink so much,” he said, and then he looked at Jack, adding nervous laughter in a lame attempt to wring the awkwardness out of the air. “These women at the country club. They start with a glass of wine at lunch, drink all afternoon, and then come home and fall flat on their face. Literally.”
It was a cheap shot, but things were de-escalating, and Jack hoped Molly would let it go. She didn’t.
“Jack was just about to tell me what he learned today. He thinks our son might be innocent.”
She went right for the hot button, choosing not to call Xavier by his name and instead emphasizing our son.
“Go on, Jack,” she said. “Amir might be curious to hear too.”
Jack was in one of the most dangerous places on earth, alone in a room with an abuser and his victim and standing right between them. He wanted nothing more than to help Molly, but she wasn’t facilitating it.
“Amir, I think it’s best if you leave now,” said Jack.
“No!” said Molly. “Amir, you stay. Tell him, Jack. Tell him what you know.”
“Yes,” said Amir. “Tell me what you know, Jack.”
“Molly, it’s time for Amir to leave.”
She didn’t take his lead, and Jack knew it wasn’t because she was stupid. Either she felt safer with him standing there, or she’d simply had enough of Amir.
“Just curious,” she said. “When did the questions begin in your mind, Jack? Was it the curious lack of evidence that Xavier was radicalized? No social media posts? No suspicious Internet searches? No radical cleric at the local mosque? No crazy uncle visiting from overseas?”
Jack was listening to the voice behind him, but he was watching Amir. Part of his brain told him to call the cops, but the expression on Amir’s face told him that he had better not reach for that phone.
“That left only two possibilities,” said Molly. “Xavier didn’t do it because he was never radicalized. Or he did it because he was radicalized at home.”
“This is a very dangerous game you’re playing,” said Amir.
“I agree,” said Jack. “The door is right there, Amir.”
The man didn’t move.
“Did you know our house has been under surveillance?” asked Molly, her question apparently directed to Jack. “They have listening devices.”
“That’s not true,” said Amir.
“It has to be,” said Molly. “I didn’t think about this until I was driving over here to see Jack. Apparently, when the FBI or whoever is watching us does surveillance, they have the decency to call the Coral Gables Police when they hear a husband hitting his wife. The cops were at our front door in three minutes. Lucky for you the police can’t do anything if the wife doesn’t speak up. But who called nine-one-one, Amir? The kids weren’t home. It wasn’t me.”
Twenty Page 26
