Chosen People

by Robert Whitlow

  “No problem.”

  “Have you heard anything else from the police about the attack?”

  “No, and I’ll be surprised if I do. I notified my credit card companies and ordered a new driver’s license.”

  “Take it easy and stay away from the office for a few days,” the doctor added. “Rest is the best medicine.”

  “Will do. That will be easier at home than in here.”

  “Oh, and avoid straining your eyes. Limit TV viewing and reading to short periods of time. My nurse will call and give you an appointment time for tomorrow.”

  Jakob nodded. Dr. Bedford made a note on a sheet of paper and closed the medical file.

  “Thanks,” Jakob said. “What about driving?”

  “Keep it to a minimum and stop immediately if you start having dizzy spells or feel faint. Make sure you notify my office right away if you experience any additional symptoms. Your brain is weeks away from stabilizing.”

  The doctor left. Jakob sighed with relief and closed his eyes. When he opened them the opposite side of the room began jumping around. He shook his head. That didn’t help, and he closed his eyes again. When he opened them this time, the wall remained firmly in place.

  After he showered, Jakob put on the clothes he was wearing at the time of the attack. There was blood on the upper portion of his shirt, but he was able to remove most of it by holding the shirt under hot water in the bathroom sink and scrubbing it with hand soap. He placed the shirt on the windowsill to dry as much as possible before putting it on. He’d decided to catch a cab to Butch Watson’s apartment and retrieve his car. He was holding his shirt up to the light when there was a knock on his door and Butch entered.

  “Are you going home?” the new father asked.

  “Yes. How about Nelle and the twins?”

  “Maybe tomorrow, but we’re lobbying hard to stay an extra day. Nelle’s parents finally rolled into town. This twin thing is going to be way tougher than we imagined.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Jakob saw Butch eyeing his still slightly bloody shirt. The estate lawyer’s eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

  “I should have offered to swing by your place and bring you some clean clothes,” Butch said with a big yawn.

  “This will work until I get home for a real shower and change.”

  “Who’s picking you up from the hospital?”

  “I’ll call a cab.”

  “No way,” Butch said and held up his hand. “Did the police leave your car at our apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take you. I need a break.”

  “I’m not sure exactly when I’m getting out—”

  “Text me. I’m a five-minute walk away.”

  An hour later, the duty nurse told Jakob that he was cleared for discharge. He texted Butch, who walked alongside him for the obligatory wheelchair ride to the main entrance of the hospital. It was around noon on a sunny day. With the bandages on his head, Jakob attracted more than his fair share of stares.

  “I need to make up a better story than getting blindsided by a mugger,” Jakob said to Butch when they rolled out of the elevator on the main floor.

  “Nelle and I are just relieved you’re okay,” Butch responded. “She cried when I told her you were being discharged to go home.”

  “Aw, that’s nice.”

  “Don’t feel too special. She also cried when they messed up her breakfast order and her eggs were scrambled, not poached.”

  Jakob sat in the wheelchair while he waited for Butch to arrive with the car. As soon as his friend pulled up to the curb, Jakob stood. When he did, the scene in front of the hospital swirled around a few times. The elderly male volunteer who’d pushed the wheelchair reached out and touched him on the shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” the white-haired man asked.

  “Just need to get oriented.” Jakob placed his hand on the back of the wheelchair to steady himself. “Everything’s good to go.”

  He got in Butch’s vehicle, a two-seat sports car that was a holdover from his college days. Until the arrival of the twins, the car had been Butch’s baby.

  “I wanted to ride in Nelle’s new minivan,” Jakob said.

  “No such luck.”

  Jakob was surprised at the anxiety that rose up in his chest when they pulled into the parking lot for the apartment complex. He took several deep breaths.

  “The police had the area roped off with yellow tape for the first twenty-four hours,” Butch said.

  “The guy who knocked me out was in a hurry,” Jakob said. “All he took was my wallet. He could have grabbed my keys and figured out which vehicle responded to the key fob.”

  “Getting rid of a stolen car is a lot tougher than spending cash or using a credit card for a couple of days. And do you really think someone would want to steal your car?”

  “Don’t criticize my car. It’s paid for.”

  They parked beside Jakob’s vehicle.

  “I want to walk upstairs and look around,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” Butch asked in surprise. “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Except my blood.”

  “That’s gone. The maintenance guy cleaned it up as soon as the cops left.”

  Jakob had no physical problem following Butch up the steps to the landing. There were several dark splotches on the concrete area, but they looked like the effect of weathering, not blood.

  “I guess I was standing here when he decked me,” Jakob said, moving two feet to the left. “But I really don’t know.”

  “And then he dragged you down the stairs, which seems unnecessary if all he wanted was your wallet.”

  “No, I was up here when the ambulance came.”

  “That’s not what the detective told me when he interviewed me at the hospital.”

  “Nobody mentioned that to me.”

  Jakob had noticed scrapes on his lower back and right side when he took his morning shower. He’d assumed they occurred when he fell to the concrete on the landing.

  “But I didn’t regain consciousness until I was at the hospital,” Jakob said. “So I don’t know what really happened.”

  The two men stood next to each other in silence for a few moments. “Well, thanks for the ride,” Jakob said.

  “It’s the least I can do. I needed to come over here anyway. Nelle forgot her favorite pair of socks she likes to wear at night. Her feet can be like ice cubes, even in the summer.”

  “Mm,” Jakob replied without really listening.

  “When will you be able to go back to the office?” Butch continued. “I’d offer to help out, but I’m out of commission myself—”

  “Probably tomorrow,” Jakob broke in. “I just need to take it easy until I’m at the top of my game again.”

  After trading good-byes, Butch disappeared into the apartment. As a precaution, Jakob held on to the handrail while he descended the steps. He felt slightly light-headed, but nothing like the two instances at the hospital. Reaching the sidewalk, he stuck his right hand into his pocket to retrieve his car keys. When he did, he felt Butch’s spare apartment key. He started to go back upstairs, but then he decided to return it to its place behind the holly bush. As he did so, his eyes caught sight of something long and brown camouflaged in the dark pine straw near the edge of the sidewalk. He poked it with his foot to make sure it wasn’t a snake. The object moved, but it wasn’t alive. Jakob picked it up. It was a brown beaded necklace. The beads were wooden and uniform except for two black beads next to each other on a piece of strong leather. It had an African look and feel to it. Jakob slipped it into his pocket.

  CHAPTER 12

  The drive home from Butch’s apartment was more of an adventure than Jakob had anticipated. Twice, his vision became blurry, and when the sun shone in his eyes, it gave him an instant headache. Inside his apartment, he changed into clean clothes and lay down on the couch for a rare afternoon nap. One sign of a concussion was increase
d drowsiness. When he woke up, it took him a second to realize he wasn’t in the hospital. He went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water.

  Sitting on his couch, he signed into his office computer and began answering emails. Thankfully, it had been a slow couple of days, and an hour later he’d reached the end of new communications. Then he listened to his voice-mail messages. That was a longer process. A third of the way down the list was a call from Ben Neumann, who said he hoped Jakob was recovering quickly. He didn’t request a return phone call, but Jakob hit the redial button.

  “Thanks for checking up on me,” Jakob said after Ben answered. “I’m home now. I was surprised when Hana Abboud stopped by the hospital to visit me. She told me that you let her know what happened.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  Jakob gave an overly optimistic diagnosis and prognosis.

  “That’s good,” Ben replied. “Any word from the police?”

  “Nothing. There wasn’t a surveillance camera in the stairwell of the apartment, and it was pitch-dark.”

  Ben started talking, but Jakob felt like he was slightly detached from the conversation and had trouble following him.

  “I’m going to be fine,” Jakob said, hoping the words made sense.

  “Hana is pressing on with the case and has called me several times,” Ben said. “Her firm is really taking it seriously. She’s going to book a flight to Israel within the next few days.”

  “What?” Jakob managed.

  “She wants to personally interview potential investigators and do some initial work on her own.”

  Jakob sat up straighter. “She didn’t mention any of that when she came by the hospital.”

  “Probably because you’re in no shape to go anywhere right now. You need to focus on getting better.”

  “Oh, I’ll be on that plane,” Jakob said, summoning a strong tone of voice. “It’s not an option.”

  “Please, be careful,” Ben replied. “You just got out of the hospital. Talk to your doctor.”

  “I will. But first I’m going to call Hana.”

  “Don’t get upset with her. She’s come along at the perfect time.”

  “Yeah,” Jakob muttered.

  The call ended. Jakob decided to rest for a few minutes before calling Hana. He lay down on his left side and stared at the combination of light and shadow on the carpeted floor. And soon drifted off to sleep.

  Janet buzzed Hana’s phone.

  “There’s a Mr. Mebali or Denali or something like that on the phone,” the assistant said. “I try to get these names right, but when they start talking so fast, I’m left in the dust like a camel racing a sports car.”

  Hana chuckled at the comparison. “It’s Benali. He’s a private investigator I contacted in the Neumann case. I’ll take it.”

  Hana glanced at the clock. It was 7:30 p.m. in Jerusalem. She answered the call in Arabic.

  “Good evening,” she said. “I haven’t had a chance to submit my request for assistance in writing, but I intend to do so within the next day or so.”

  “Forget about formalities,” the investigator replied. “I checked you out on the law firm website, and there’s no need to send a written request. What sort of help are you looking for? Whatever it is, I’m the man for the job.”

  Listening to Benali reminded Hana of a merchant in a local market, or souk, inviting a customer into his shop. It was easy to imagine the former police officer communicating with ordinary people on the street.

  “Based on what your assistant told me, our case is different from what you usually handle.”

  “Maybe not. She’s only been working for me a couple of months. It’s hard to find a young person willing to put in the hours needed to succeed. I may be out of the office two or three days straight when I’m on a big case. I bet you have to put in a lot of hours working for an American law firm. You look about the same age as my daughters, and they don’t seem to want to—”

  “It can be busy,” Hana broke in. “I need help with a lawsuit based on the death of an American tourist in Jerusalem four years ago. We represent the husband and daughter of a woman who was killed.”

  “Car wreck?” Benali asked. “American drivers don’t realize what they’re getting into when they rent a car in Israel.”

  “No, it was a terrorist attack in Hurva Square. The woman was an American Jew stabbed to death by a twenty-year-old named Abdul Zadan. Abdul was shot and killed by border patrol officers, and his younger brother, Tawfik, was taken into custody as an accomplice. The brothers came from a village near Ramallah.”

  Hana’s summary of the case put the brakes on Benali’s loquaciousness.

  “And what would you hire me to do?” the investigator asked in a subdued tone of voice.

  Hana explained the basis for a damage claim under the US Anti-Terrorism Act. “Before filing a lawsuit in the United States, we need to locate a defendant or defendants who could pay the money awarded by a jury. My guess is the Zadan brothers don’t have significant assets, but that would have to be checked out to be sure. Are you familiar with the Arab Bank litigation filed in the US?”

  “Yes, my ex-brother-in-law used to work for a branch of the bank in Amman. Did any group with links to a bank claim responsibility for the attack?”

  “No. It appears to have been an attack by two brothers unaffiliated with a known terrorist network.”

  Benali was silent for a moment. “This isn’t a matter of a few phone calls,” he said. “It’s more like a formal police investigation. It would take a lot of time, and I would have to be extra cautious.”

  “I understand. How much experience do you have in obtaining financial records?”

  “That part would be easy. I have contacts who can unlock doors that don’t have keys.”

  Hana knew low-level bribery would likely be part of any investigation. Locals treated it like an unwritten fee for services.

  “We can’t be directly involved in—”

  “No problem,” Benali said before Hana could finish. “I know how Americans operate. They care about appearances even though they do the same thing on a larger scale on Wall Street. But the answer to your question is yes. I uncover financial assets and information in divorce cases. This would be similar. Finding out where to look would be the challenge.”

  “Exactly. And we can’t jeopardize the admissibility in court of the information obtained.”

  “No problem. I deal with that issue all the time. What’s the rate of pay? This will have to be hourly, not a flat fee.”

  Hana had considered asking Mr. Lowenstein for guidance on this point but knew the senior partner would defer to her. She’d prepared a rough budget for the investigation. Knowing she would have to negotiate, Hana tossed out an hourly figure below the amount she’d allocated.

  “I’d need at least twice that much,” Benali answered immediately. “I don’t have to tell you this will have to be handled delicately.”

  “There’s room for negotiation,” Hana replied. “This is just a preliminary call. I’m planning on coming to Israel to talk more before making a final decision.”

  “Perfect. I’ll look forward to meeting with you. But you can save yourself a trip if that’s the only reason you’re coming. I’m your man.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration.”

  The phone call ended. Hana stared at Sahir Benali’s website. The fact that Anat Naphtali vouched for Benali was important, but it wasn’t enough to sway her. She needed more input and remembered Jakob’s request that she keep him in the loop of information. Even though Mr. Lowenstein had told her to marginalize the young lawyer, Hana couldn’t justify not letting Jakob know about such an important decision. She placed the call. Jakob didn’t answer, and Hana didn’t leave a message. She then unsuccessfully tried to reach the other investigator, Daud Hasan.

  Jakob awoke with a start. The sunbeams on the floor were gone, and the room was dark. He grappled for his phone, which had fallen behind one o
f the seat cushions on the couch. It was after nine. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. His head was throbbing. He went into the kitchen and took one of the pain pills. Checking his phone again, he saw that he’d missed four calls and multiple texts. One of the phone calls was from Collins, Lowenstein, and Capella. Within a few minutes, the strong pain pills made him drowsy, and he went to bed.

  In the morning, Jakob gingerly moved his head. The hospital staff had sent him home with dressing material, and it took several minutes to fashion a bandage that didn’t make him look like a mummy who’d escaped from a tomb. During the drive to Dr. Bedford’s office, he noticed the brown necklace in the tray behind the shifter and slipped it into his pocket. He tried to call Hana Abboud but had to leave a message.

  At 9:10 a.m. Jakob was sitting in a treatment room at Dr. Bedford’s office.

  “Tell me how you’ve been feeling,” the doctor said after he’d entered and shaken Jakob’s hand. “Any headaches?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Why is that good?” Jakob asked in surprise.

  “Every human being with a functioning brain would experience headaches after undergoing the trauma you’ve suffered. It was a credibility question. How bad are the headaches?”

  “Rough enough that I’ve taken the prescription pain meds.”

  “Any other symptoms?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I’ve had several spells when I zoned out for a few seconds, perhaps longer.”

  “Nothing while driving?”

  “No, but are you going to recommend that I stop driving?”

  “It depends on the seriousness of what you’ve experienced. Tell me more.”

  Jakob felt like a witness trapped in his testimony. He described what had happened in the hospital room with Hana Abboud and the incident on the phone with Ben Neumann when he had trouble staying focused during the conversation.

  “I tried to chalk up what happened at the hospital to low blood sugar because I’d lost my appetite and hadn’t eaten. Now I’m not so sure.”