Chosen People

by Robert Whitlow

  “Yes, we don’t think Brodsky can convince another law firm to help him,” Mr. Lowenstein replied. “How much time do you need?”

  “A couple of days?”

  Lowenstein and Collins looked at each other. “That’s fine,” Mr. Lowenstein answered.

  “There’s one thing I need to do before I give an answer,” Hana continued.

  “What’s that?” Mr. Collins asked.

  “Meet with Sadie Neumann and her father.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Jakob paced back and forth in front of his desk. He’d notified Leon Lowenstein via email that he had the necessary funds in his trust account, but what really made Jakob nervous was how to communicate the news that Sadie Neumann wouldn’t be a party to any lawsuit. Gutting half the damage model might be a deal breaker for a potential cocounsel arrangement that was already as fragile as an antique teacup. Now he was arguing with himself about delaying disclosure of the change.

  “It won’t be an issue for months,” he muttered. “And the investigation will give me time to talk Ben into changing his mind.”

  His phone buzzed. “Hello,” he said.

  “Mr. Jakob Brodsky, please,” said a woman with a slight accent.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Hana Abboud at Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella. Is this a convenient time to talk?”

  “As good as any,” Jakob replied, puzzled as to why an associate lawyer was contacting him. “Have the partners made a decision? I have the money in my trust account.”

  “Not yet,” she replied. “I’d like to meet with Mr. Neumann and his daughter as part of the firm’s consideration of the case. Can you make the arrangements for that to happen?”

  Jakob hesitated.

  “I’m flexible as to time and place,” Hana continued. “You would be present, of course. Why don’t you look at your calendar so we can coordinate a meeting?”

  “Will Mr. Lowenstein be there?” Jakob asked, stalling for time.

  “That’s not necessary. If the firm agrees to join the case, I’m going to play a major role in the investigative phase.”

  “Why?” Jakob blurted out. “I got the impression this wasn’t something you wanted to have anything to do with.”

  The phone was silent for several moments.

  “Are you there?” Jakob asked.

  “Yes.”

  Another period of silence followed. Ms. Abboud obviously wasn’t going to explain her change of mind. Jakob turned to his computer and looked at his calendar.

  “Uh, I have openings tomorrow in the afternoon after Sadie gets out of school and again next Monday.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon works for me.”

  “Ben can usually leave the store for an hour or so. But I’ll have to confirm anything with him first.”

  “Would you like to meet at your office or mine?”

  Impressing Ben with the office layout at Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella would be helpful. “Your office would be better,” Jakob replied. “Ben needs to know where it is since we may be spending a lot of time there in the future.”

  “I’ll send my contact information as soon as we hang up.”

  The call ended. Five seconds later Hana Abboud’s name popped up on Jakob’s computer screen. He went to the law firm’s website, clicked open her biography page, and read every word in an effort to squeeze out any hidden agendas or motivations. One interesting point emerged: the lawyer had worked for two years as a security officer for the Israeli government at Ben Gurion Airport, which must have been the national service activity Hana mentioned during the meeting with Leon Lowenstein. Jakob jotted a few notes on a legal pad.

  Ten minutes later, he’d arranged for Ben to meet him in the reception area of Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella at four forty-five the following afternoon. Ben didn’t question Hana Abboud’s potential involvement in the case. Instead, he immediately saw that an Arab lawyer might be able to open doors an American Jewish Israeli attorney couldn’t.

  “It makes me believe they’re taking us seriously,” Ben said. “And she will know something about the court system in Israel.”

  “True,” Jakob acknowledged. “It could also save a bunch of money by removing the need to hire an Israeli lawyer on an hourly basis since the Lowenstein firm is working on a contingency basis.”

  Jakob paused before stating what he knew would be the biggest hurdle. “Ms. Abboud wants you to bring Sadie, too,” he said.

  “To the meeting at the law office? Why is that necessary since she’s not going to be involved?”

  “She didn’t say,” Jakob answered. “I was so caught off guard by the call that I didn’t ask her. Do you want me to call her back and tell her that Sadie can’t come?”

  Jakob held his breath.

  “No,” Ben replied. “She has to be with me anyway since Gloria’s mother isn’t available to babysit, but I don’t want her listening to anything about the attack.”

  “Understood,” Jakob replied with relief. “We’ll handle it like we did the other day in my office. Sadie can watch a movie on her tablet while we talk. That seemed to work okay.”

  “Sometimes it does; sometimes it doesn’t.”

  After the call ended, Jakob leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Ben sounded much more cooperative today. If Jakob could get past the meeting tomorrow with Hana Abboud in good shape, his plan to convince Ben that Sadie’s claims should be included in a potential lawsuit might work.

  Setting aside her other projects, Hana embarked on a crash course in US antiterrorism laws. The Anti-Terrorism Act, enacted by Congress in 1990, enabled an individual who had been “injured in his or her person, property, or business by reason of an act of international terrorism” to file an action in US federal court for recovery of three times their actual damages. “International terrorism” was defined as “activities that . . . involve violent acts or acts dangerous to human life that are in violation of the criminal laws of the United States.”

  Prior to the September 11, 2001, attacks by al-Qaeda in New York, Washington, DC, and the skies over Pennsylvania, legal actions under the ATA were rare. After that, people started filing lawsuits against organizations that allegedly gave “material support” to those who committed terrorist acts. The most highly publicized claims were against the banks used by terrorist organizations. At first, the courts were reluctant to hold banks responsible for the acts of depositors.

  Then a few cases began to go the other way, with the most famous being against Arab Bank, a huge financial institution based in Jordan with offices all over the world. Arab Bank served as the conduit for cash payments made to the families of Hamas suicide terrorists who died while carrying out attacks that killed and maimed hundreds of people. And more importantly, the bank didn’t try to hide its actions; rather, it publicly trumpeted them. Ultimately, it paid millions of dollars to settle 527 claims. Living in Israel, Hana knew about Arab Bank’s activities, but she’d never examined the cases in detail. She was able to go behind the information available in English and read background data written in Arabic. It was dark and sinister.

  Late in the afternoon she took a break and stepped out of her office. There was no current evidence in Jakob Brodsky’s thin file of involvement by a bank in the Neumann case. In fact, nothing indicated that Abdul and Tawfik Zadan were anything other than “lone wolf” terrorists.

  “Is tonight when you’re going to meet the young man from the church?” Janet asked. “I saw a reminder on your calendar this morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Bart Kendall. He works in media, something to do with commercials for women’s beauty products.”

  Janet nodded knowingly. “And you’re going to be featured in his next project.” She added, “I can totally see you in a hair commercial. Do you know how many women would give a year of their lives for hair like yours?”

  “I’m no different from many of the women in my family.”

/>   “And we’re jealous of them, too.” Janet ran her fingers through her mousy brown hair.

  “Don’t criticize your curls,” Hana replied, checking her watch. “I’m not sure if I should go home to change outfits or keep working and wear these clothes—”

  “Go home,” Janet said. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with what you have on, but that dark blue suit and white blouse is like hanging a huge sign around your neck that shouts, ‘I’m a lawyer! I’m a lawyer!’”

  Hana smiled. “I am a lawyer.”

  “Not twenty-four/seven. Tonight, you need to be more feminine.”

  “You win,” Hana said.

  “Send me a selfie, please. And include Bart in the photo unless it’s too awkward to pull it off.”

  “This is not really a date. He’s interested in learning about Arab culture.”

  “You’re not going to convince me of that,” Janet said and rolled her eyes. “Where are you going to dinner?”

  “It’s in my phone, but I don’t remember the name of the restaurant. I checked the menu. It serves gourmet food.”

  “Don’t let him talk you into ordering something exotic that you feel like you have to choke down even if it makes you gag.”

  “What time should I be home?” Hana asked with a smile.

  “How would your real mother answer that question?”

  Hana thought about dating protocol in the household in Reineh. “Unless a man lived far away from Reineh, his first meal might be at our house so he could meet my family.”

  Janet nodded. “I like that. I always wanted to know my father’s opinion about the men I dated. He could smell a rat quicker than I could.”

  Hana stood in front of her closet trying to decide what to wear. She’d bought a lot of clothes since coming to the United States. Israeli fashion was more European than American, and Hana had accumulated a conservative but stylish wardrobe. She selected a predominantly green outfit with sleek pants and a cream-colored top that let her show off a silk scarf she’d brought with her from Israel. The scarf was over forty years old yet still retained its vibrant colors. She took a selfie and sent it to Janet, who replied with a thumbs-up.

  While in law school, Hana had a steady boyfriend who was training to be a radiologist. A lot of doctors and nurses in Israel came from the Christian Arab community, and Hana’s family was thrilled that their picky daughter had found a man worthy of her affections. Ibrahim Ghanem grew up in a suburb of East Jerusalem.

  Ibrahim and Hana had shared many common interests, including matters of faith, and they began making plans to marry. In more traditional Arab Christian families, even for young professionals, parents communicated betrothal plans via an intermediary who had been mutually agreed upon. An intermediary had been selected and plans set in place for Ibrahim and Hana’s wedding in Nazareth followed by a honeymoon in Spain.

  But then Ibrahim’s father insisted that Hana drop out of law school prior to the wedding and not return until Ibrahim was working as a doctor. Mr. Ghanem argued that it was a necessary move so the young couple could concentrate on their marriage without outside distractions. Hana knew that in reality, her future father-in-law wanted her to abandon her career, start a family, and devote herself to raising a houseful of children. Hana loved children and wanted a family, but the resulting tension with Ibrahim, who wouldn’t stand up to his father, soured the relationship. To make matters worse, Hana’s mother agreed with Ibrahim’s father, thus adding another layer of conflict. Then Hana’s father, a quiet man, announced one Saturday evening that he was going to suspend marriage negotiations. Shocked, Hana dissolved in tears of relief. Six months later, Ibrahim was engaged to another woman.

  Hana knew there was gossip in Reineh that by taking the job in America she had resigned herself to singleness. Nothing had happened since her arrival to prove the gossipers wrong. Most of the men she’d met had revealed a level of immaturity and self-centeredness that made going to the next level of romance impossible. For the past few months, Hana had stopped mentioning dates when talking to her mother.

  The restaurant for her dinner with Bart was located in an older neighborhood close to the center of the city. The tiny parking lot was full, and Hana found an open space a couple of blocks away alongside the curb.

  It had been a warm afternoon, but after sunset the air cooled, and it was a pleasant walk up a gradual incline to the restaurant, which was in a 1930s vintage house with painted brick and windows framed in black shutters. The entrance featured a broad porch with seating for those waiting on a table. Bart Kendall was sitting in a chair on the porch waiting for her. He stood as she approached. The stocky young man with a well-groomed sandy beard and kind blue eyes was wearing a casual shirt, sport coat, and olive trousers.

  “Did you have any trouble finding the restaurant?” he asked.

  “No. Just a parking space, but I’m close by.”

  The front door opened, and a young woman appeared. “Mr. Kendall? Your table is ready.”

  Bart held the door for Hana, who followed the hostess to a table for two beside a window that looked out onto a small flower garden. Even in the fading light, Hana could see an array of late spring colors.

  “This is nice,” she said as they sat down. “Have you been here before?”

  “Yes, I discovered it during a photo shoot,” Bart answered. “We used the flower garden as a location for a commercial a few weeks ago. I came back for dinner and liked it.”

  A waiter brought water and handed them menus.

  “Any recommendations?” she asked Bart.

  “The calamari is the best I’ve eaten in Atlanta. It’s cooked in a Thai chili sauce with red peppers that really make it pop.”

  Hana’s eyes went to a miso-glazed sea bass.

  “What would you like this evening?” the waiter asked when he brought them water to drink.

  “Calamari with the house special salad,” she answered.

  “And I’ll have the sea bass,” Bart said.

  “I thought about that too.”

  “Which means I can share.” He grinned at her.

  “Thanks for agreeing to come,” Bart said after the waiter left. “Make sure you let me know if I say anything stupid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve traveled enough to know that it’s a mistake to assume everyone views things the same way as Americans. I embarrassed myself so many times during a trip to Europe a couple of years ago that I was afraid the French were going to kick me out of the country.”

  “What did you do?”

  Bart told Hana two stories, one of which made her laugh so hard she had to cover her mouth. With her knowledge of French, she could appreciate his subtle but significant error.

  “It must be crazy switching back and forth between all the languages on your computer keyboards,” he said.

  “Yes, it wears me out.”

  “But your English is great.”

  “Except for the idioms,” she answered with a shake of her head. “I’ve made mistakes as bad as the one you stumbled into in southern France.”

  Hana told him about her response when first hearing the term “going cold turkey” and seeing “chicken fingers” on a restaurant menu.

  “And then there are what I call the positional idioms,” she continued. “Things like ‘face the music,’ ‘sit tight,’ ‘lose touch,’ and ‘up in the air.’”

  “Have you been to France?”

  “Only Paris for a short stay, but I’ve visited Beirut many times, and my family is originally from Lebanon. It was under French control for years, and there’s an area in Beirut along the Mediterranean that’s like a miniature Paris. But Lebanon and Beirut are much different now than when one of my grandfathers studied at the American School. The political situation has been a mess for years.”

  “Is there a part of the Middle East where that isn’t true?” Bart asked. “Did your family have to leave Lebanon because of the political unrest?”

 
“No, my ancestors left four hundred years ago and moved to Nazareth when the whole area from Istanbul to Cairo was controlled by the Ottoman Empire.”

  “Wow. That’s a long time ago.”

  “Not by Middle Eastern standards. ‘Old’ there means thousands, not hundreds of years.”

  “Why Nazareth?”

  “It was a natural landing spot. There were Christians in Beirut and Christians in Nazareth. Religious affiliation influenced everything. Under Ottoman rule, Arab Christians had dhimmi status as second-class citizens in a Muslim-controlled society. They had to pay a special tax and couldn’t ride horses, own weapons, or hold certain jobs. It was less oppressive in areas with a higher percentage of Christians.”

  The waiter brought the salads, and Hana spent several minutes giving a thumbnail history lesson she’d shared many times with Westerners. She paused. “Are you interested in this?” she asked.

  “Totally. This is exactly what I wanted to know more about. And from what I’ve read, the treatment of non-Christians in Europe during the Middle Ages was just as bad or worse.”

  When the food arrived, Bart prayed a quick blessing for the meal and cut off a piece of sea bass for Hana before he sampled it himself. She gave him a couple of calamari rings. The sea bass was delicious, and Hana jealously eyed the piece of fish on Bart’s plate. She ate a bite of the spicy calamari. To her relief, it was also good.

  “I was a European history major in college,” Bart said. “Which wasn’t exactly perfect preparation for what I do now.”

  Hana asked about his work, and Bart explained the basic duties of a producer.

  “What’s the most challenging part of your job?” she asked.

  “Dealing with creative people,” he replied immediately. “Learning how to play well with others isn’t common in the media world, which leads me back to the situation for you and your family in Israel. What kind of oppression and discrimination do you face? And how does the current situation for Arabs compare to life under the Ottoman Turks?”

  Hana swallowed a bite of calamari. “How much do you already know about life today in Israel?” she asked.