Chosen People

by Robert Whitlow

  Jakob waited for the nurse to leave before pounding his fist into the mattress in frustration. He turned on the TV and tried to lose himself in a sitcom with a piped-in laugh track.

  A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. So far, his only visitor had been Butch Watson, who had walked over from the maternity wing and spent most of his visit apologizing for asking Jakob to go to the apartment. Jakob reassured the new father that he didn’t blame him for anything that happened.

  “Come in,” Jakob said.

  The door opened, and a dark-haired woman emerged from the shadows. It was Hana Abboud.

  “Are you feeling well enough for a visit?” she asked in her accented English.

  “Yes, I was just talking to the nurse practitioner from my neurologist’s office about going home.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “Not really. She put me off. How did you find out I was here?”

  “Ben Neumann called.”

  With the amount of crime that took place in a city like Atlanta, Jakob was surprised that his assault had been singled out for special attention.

  “It was on the news?”

  “No, your receptionist told him when he called your office. How bad is it?”

  Jakob could see Hana staring at the right side of his head, which was totally swathed in a bandage.

  “The assailant hit me three times, knocking me unconscious. I also have some sore ribs. He stole my wallet but didn’t ransack the apartment I’d just left. Even if he had, I doubt he would have wanted a fancy new baby monitor.”

  Hana didn’t smile at his feeble attempt at humor. “Did you see the attacker?” she asked. “Are you sure it was a man?”

  Hana’s question raised an issue Jakob hadn’t considered. “No. I assumed it was a man. It could have been a woman. I’m sure I’ll be back at work within the next few days. Tell Ben I’m going to be okay.”

  While he talked, Jakob felt himself become light-headed and disoriented. He tried to focus his eyes on a generic painting of a seascape on the wall opposite the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” he heard Hana ask from what seemed like a great distance away.

  Jakob tried to answer, but gibberish came out of his mouth. He could see alarm sweep across Hana’s face. She opened her mouth and began to speak in words as incomprehensible to him as what he’d said himself. Jakob closed his eyes for a moment and exerted all his willpower to bring the chaos of his world into order. When he opened his eyes, Hana was reaching for the call button that was on the bedside table.

  “No, no,” Jakob managed as the room came back into focus. “It’s nothing. The doctor said I might have short moments of confusion due to the swelling of my brain.”

  Hana looked at him skeptically. “Are you sure? I thought you were about to faint or have a seizure.”

  Jakob’s mouth felt dry. He reached for a cup of water on the tray table and watched as his hand unsteadily made its way forward. Hana picked up the cup and held it close to his mouth. He took one drink through a straw followed by another one. Hana returned the cup of water to the tray.

  “Thanks,” Jakob said. “That was weird. I couldn’t understand what I was saying or what you said.”

  “There’s an explanation for why you couldn’t understand me,” Hana answered. “I was praying for you in Arabic. After that you went to sleep or passed out for at least a minute before coming around.”

  “A minute?” Jakob asked in shock. “It was only a couple of seconds.”

  “I was here. I know.”

  Jakob reached up and gently touched the right side of his head. “Maybe I’m in worse shape than I’d like to admit. I don’t think I have any court appearances for the next few days.” He paused. “But I don’t trust my memory on that. Where’s my cell phone?”

  Jakob sat up straighter in bed and turned to the right. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he quickly resumed his previous position. Hana found the phone in the small drawer of the table beside the bed and handed it to him. The phone was almost dead. Relieved that he remembered his password, Jakob checked his calendar. It was clear except for appointments with clients and reminders for things that needed to be done.

  “I’m good,” he said. “One of the guys who practices in my building can bring my laptop. I won’t be functioning at one hundred percent, but I can make it work.”

  “How many episodes have you had like the one that just happened?” Hana asked.

  “None. My brain is adjusting to the trauma. And in the meantime, let Ben Neumann know that I’m recovering.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Right. What’s our next step in his case?”

  “I’m going to locate a private investigator in Israel. But we can talk about that later. You need to rest.”

  “Come up with a list of candidates, and I’ll jump in for the interview process. Once I have my computer, I can look into possible investigators, too. I’ve done a lot of research on terrorist groups and found links to posts that mention Gloria Neumann’s death.”

  “Okay, take care.” Hana stood and moved toward the door.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Jakob said.

  After Hana left, Jakob glanced at a small clock on the nightstand. It was nine forty-five, late for a visit from a virtual stranger.

  CHAPTER 11

  Leon whimpered and complained when Hana deposited him in his wire kennel for the night. She’d spruced up the space with a host of toys positioned around soft bedding.

  “This is better than my bed,” she said to the dog as she closed and latched the door. “Janet says your wolf ancestors loved sleeping in a secure den where they would be aware of any enemies who approached in the night.”

  Leon wasn’t persuaded by Hana’s appeal to his remote canine ancestry. While he yelped, she tossed and turned in her bed and debated whether to surrender to his cries and bring him into her bedroom. She covered her head with her pillow, turned away from the door, and squeezed her eyes shut. When nothing worked, she slipped out of bed to open the kennel, only to be met by silence before she reached her bedroom door. She froze in place. The dog remained quiet. Worried, she peeked through the door and in the pale light from a full moon saw Leon curled up in a ball in the middle of the padding on the bottom of the cage. Within minutes, Hana herself was asleep.

  When she awoke in the middle of the night, she stayed in her bedroom to pray instead of spending time in the living room. One of the main concerns on her heart was Jakob Brodsky. The lawyer was more seriously injured in the attack than he realized or was willing to admit. Upon returning home, she’d researched the complications from a serious blow to the head. And Jakob was struck not once, but three times. Because Ben Neumann was now a client of Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella, Hana had an obligation to make sure the client’s interests were protected, and in a morbid way, the injury to Jakob made Mr. Lowenstein’s instruction that Hana assume primary responsibility for the case easier to implement. Even thinking in those terms made Hana uncomfortable.

  She awoke for the second time as the first rays of sun peeked around the edges of the plantation shutters that covered her bedroom windows. She checked on Leon, who opened one eye, saw her, and hopped to his feet. She opened the door of the kennel to greet him. The puppy’s entire body communicated a hearty hello. After taking him outside, Hana watched him lap water while she fixed her morning coffee. When she dropped him off at the doggie day care center, Leon clearly remembered the fun he’d had the previous day and trotted off with the attendant to his assigned area.

  “Should I bet a month’s house payment that you went to the hospital to visit lawyer Brodsky?” Janet asked when Hana stopped by the assistant’s desk to greet her.

  “I have aunts who play the Israeli lotto every week,” Hana answered.

  “Do they ever win?”

  “Not as often as you would if you bet that I went to the hospital to visit Jakob Brodsky.”

  Janet’s eyes widened
. “I can’t believe you did it. I even prayed you’d go on the way home. What convinced you?”

  “I needed to see for myself how seriously injured he is, in part because of the impact it could have on the Neumann case, but mostly because Jakob seems like a decent man who was viciously attacked.”

  Hana summarized what she’d seen and observed.

  “That’s a shame,” Janet said, shaking her head. “I have a nephew who wasn’t wearing a helmet when he wrecked his dirt bike. He hit his head against a tree and hasn’t been the same since.”

  “Dirt bike?”

  “A motorcycle that people ride on trails in the woods.”

  Hana sipped the strong black coffee she’d brewed in the law office break room. “I’m not sure if I should mention the possible complication to Ben Neumann now or wait to see if Jakob gets better. I read a couple of articles about severe concussions, and it seems the person often gets worse rather than better.”

  “It’s hard to predict is all I know.”

  Coffee in hand, Hana went into her office. Her first item for the day was to contact one of her former colleagues, a Jewish woman named Anat Naphtali who had worked with Hana at the airport. They’d talked a couple of times since Hana started working in Atlanta. Less than five minutes after sending an email, Hana received a phone call.

  “I am at home trying not to throw up,” Anat said in Hebrew. “Ari and I just found out that I’m pregnant, and I will never joke again when someone tells me she is suffering from morning sickness. It’s terrible.”

  Anat and Ari had been together for five years, but they were not religious and the last Hana knew had never married. Jewish marriages in Israel were heavily regulated by the ultra-Orthodox religious establishment, and it was difficult for secular Israelis to obtain a marriage license. Often, couples like Anat and Ari traveled outside the country to marry because the Israeli civil government would then recognize their foreign marriage licenses. Cyprus was a popular wedding destination.

  “And before you ask,” Anat continued, “Ari and I went to Cyprus a week after I saw the doctor. We are officially a married couple. Finding out he’s going to be a father has had a big impact on him. He’s trying to get a promotion at work and promised to use the extra money to buy things for the baby, not a fancier surfboard.”

  Hana smiled. Ari loved the ocean. It seemed like every picture of the couple on Instagram had been taken on one of the many Israeli beaches along the Mediterranean.

  “Send pictures as soon as you have an ultrasound,” Hana said.

  “Will do. And I have a few names to suggest for your private investigator. Do you want a Jew or an Arab?”

  “You know me. I can work with anyone. I’m not sure it matters.”

  “Hana, it always matters,” Anat replied. “Can you tell me what you want this person to do?”

  Hana hadn’t provided any details about the Neumann case in her email. “The reason for the investigation is confidential, but he will need to interview Arab men if I can’t do it.”

  “That’s your answer. You need an Arab. As a woman, you would have a tough time convincing a conservative Arab man to talk to you.”

  Anat was right, especially in light of the likely connection between the Zadan brothers and Islamic radicalism.

  “Agreed.”

  “Just a minute,” Anat said. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  A couple of minutes passed before she returned. “Sorry. That should be it for hugging the toilet today. It is no longer called morning sickness if I get sick in the afternoon. I’ll send along two names for you along with their contact information and a little bit about them. They have different personalities and skill sets, so it will be up to you to decide which one is a better fit for your needs. Both of them are determined and work hard.”

  “Thanks so much, and congratulations. You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”

  “Tell Ari’s mother that. She’s given me four books on parenting and acts like I don’t know how to change a diaper.”

  Anat didn’t come from a large family like Hana. “How are your diapering skills?”

  “Excellent. I changed a diaper on a friend’s baby a few weeks ago. And I’m not going to use cloth diapers, even though Ari’s mother thinks it’s more sanitary. I mean, what woman living in the twenty-first century washes diapers?”

  After the call ended, Hana printed out the email containing names and contact information for the two investigators: Daud Hasan and Sahir Benali. According to Anat, both men had performed security work for the government in the past and now sold their services in the private sector. When Hana checked their websites, she saw that neither furnished a photograph, which made sense if they didn’t want to be easily identified. Benali was more experienced and had worked for years in law enforcement, both as a police officer and as a detective in several Arab towns. Hasan’s qualifications emphasized education and training. His name sounded vaguely familiar, but Hana decided to contact the more experienced Benali first. She dialed the number in East Jerusalem, and a receptionist answered in Arabic-accented Hebrew.

  “This is Hana Abboud, a lawyer in America,” Hana replied in Hebrew.

  The receptionist immediately switched to broken English. Hana interrupted her. “Hebrew or Arabic is better for me,” she said in Arabic.

  The receptionist then spoke in Arabic with a Jordanian accent. “We require submission of an online information form prior to discussing Mr. Benali’s services,” the woman said.

  “That’s fine,” Hana replied. “Anat Naphtali, a former colleague of mine, recommended Mr. Benali to me, and I have a few background questions. This matter involves investigation as part of a lawsuit that would be filed in the United States against persons or companies based in Israel, and I need to know if he has experience working with American clients.”

  “Yes. He also has his private investigator license in New York and Florida.”

  “Does he have an area of particular expertise?”

  “Mr. Denali handles a lot of missing person cases and domestic disputes, and he locates people who don’t want to be found.”

  The third item on the list was exactly what Hana was looking for. She needed someone who could track down and interview people to determine possible connections with the attack on the Neumann family.

  “And he has contacts within law enforcement from his time working with local police departments?” Hana asked.

  “Yes, many.”

  “Does he have Israeli citizenship?”

  “Yes, but he also carries a Jordanian passport.”

  It wasn’t unusual for people within Israel to have passports from multiple countries. When she worked at the airport, Hana had often interviewed people who could lay down passports like playing cards.

  “That helps,” Hana responded. “I’ll fill out the information sheet and send it to you. I work for the American law firm of Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella.”

  “Lowenstein?” the woman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And your name again?”

  “Hana Abboud. I’m from Reineh, but I live and work in Atlanta, Georgia, in the United States.”

  There was a brief moment of silence. Hana suspected the receptionist was processing assumptions about a woman who spoke Hebrew, Arabic, and English, grew up in a Christian town in northern Israel, and now worked in the United States.

  “I’ll pass the information sheet to Mr. Benali. He’s out of the office this afternoon but will return in the morning.”

  “Thanks.”

  The call ended. Hana stared at Daud Hasan’s contact information and decided to fully evaluate Mr. Benali first.

  Jakob ate the final bite of breakfast. He’d awakened feeling more normal. His face looked terrible because the bruising had finally reached his right eye. The door opened and Dr. Bedford entered.

  “Good morning,” Jakob said before the neurologist spoke. “I slept well and feel great.”

  “Let me che
ck you out.”

  The doctor examined Jakob’s eyes. Jakob tried to open his right eye, but it was impossible to do more than squint.

  “My eye looks bad, but I can see well enough. I just can’t open it all the way.”

  The doctor didn’t respond. He removed the bandages from Jakob’s skull and gently touched the knots with his fingers. Jakob stoically kept himself rigid. He’d not yet seen the damage, but he knew someone had shaved the hair on the right side of his head. The doctor then checked the muscles in Jakob’s neck and asked him to move his head.

  “How does my head look?” Jakob asked.

  “Like a man who was beaten severely with a blunt object yet survived. Whistle for me.”

  It was the fourth time Jakob had jumped through the neurological hoops to determine the presence and severity of a concussion. After whistling, he smiled, clenched his teeth, and moved his hands into various positions to prove he didn’t have any tremors. Jakob then began answering the standard questions in a mini mental-status exam without being asked. Dr. Bedford held up his right hand to stop him.

  “Do you want to be discharged?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes,” Jakob answered.

  “You’ve suffered a significant concussion,” the doctor continued. “If you played professional football, you’d be on the sidelines in the concussion protocol.”

  “But I’m a lawyer who uses the inside of his head, not the outside,” Jakob responded confidently.

  “It’s the inside I’m most concerned about,” Dr. Bedford said as he put the bandages back in place. “Have you experienced any problems besides headaches?”

  “No,” Jakob answered. “And the medication knocks the edge off the pain without any side effects. I’d be willing to transition to over-the-counter meds.”

  Jakob had concluded that the altered consciousness and confusion he experienced during Hana Abboud’s visit was most likely due to low blood sugar. Dr. Bedford flipped through the medical file.

  “All right, I’ll let you go home so long as you come into the office tomorrow. Fill the prescription for pain medication even if you’re determined not to take them. You’ll thank me later.”