“There’s a difference between us, David. Also between who I was when you knew me and today. In only a few years there will be three generations of Jews born in Israel, who will grow up speaking Hebrew like their parents and grandparents. It is all they know, like the Galilee was all my parents and grandparents knew. What are we to do, eradicate them all or simply turn them into refugees? And where does it end?” Hana shook her head, her expression rueful. “I wish there wereno Israel.Butif Ido not ask myself these questions now, what kind of person would I be?”
“And Saeb?”
“Saeb was defined when he was fourteen. He lost everyone; I merely lost an aunt. From that, I could perhaps imagine him becoming a suicide bomber—our young people have seen too much, and they feel so little hope. But to exploit them? It is morally bankrupt.”
“Is that what Saeb believes?”
Hana folded her hands. “I’ve told you, David. If Saeb consorts with so-called terrorists, I do not know it. Just as I told your FBI I know nothing about Ibrahim Jefar. Let alone why he’s lying.”
“I’m not at all sure he is.” David paused. “They gave him a lie detector test, Hana. He passed it.”
Her reaction was almost undetectable, a slight movement of her shoulders that made her seem smaller. “I see.”
“Sharpe believes him, and she dismisses my theory that you were framed as an excuse to meddle with our intelligence agencies and the Israeli government. That’s why she’s so comfortable asking for the death penalty.”
Head bowed, Hana said nothing.
It was time to confront her, David thought. “There is one thing you can do.”
“And what is that?”
“Take a lie detector test. Just as Jefar did.”
For a moment Hana was silent. “And the risks?”
“There’s only one. That you won’t pass.”
When Hana did not answer, David felt tension tightening his chest. “It would have to be done here,” he went on. “So Sharpe will know we’ve tested you. She’ll leak that to the media. If I can’t say you’ve passed . . .”
Still Hana did not look at him. With a calm he did not feel, David continued, “If you do pass, Sharpe may want the FBI to test you. But this at least might give her pause. And I can use the test results with Judge Taylor to justify going after the Israelis, and to tell the media Sharpe is prosecuting an innocent woman.”
David omitted the rest—that another use of the test was to force a guilty client to face reality. Or that, far more than he wished, Hana’s answer mattered to him. Like David, she seemed hardly to breathe. “In law school,” she said at last, “we learned that these tests are little better than witchcraft. The guilty can pass, the innocent fail. It won’t matter to this prosecutor.”
“So you won’t do it.”
“No, David, I will.” She looked up at him then, eyes shiny with tears. “Because it matters to you.”
David told her nothing about how the test worked, what the examiner would do to arouse her fears, or that it was fear that made the test so useful. He recognized this as a form of ruthlessness in himself, less as a lawyer than the man who wished to know if Hana had betrayed him. That he was also betraying Hana he understood too well.
They met with the polygraph examiner, a rotund former FBI agent with an avuncular demeanor, in a room that, though larger, was as white and featureless as the one where Hana and David consulted. The examiner, Gene Meyer, sat across from them, his machine on the table. He began by trying to engage her in seemingly random small talk while he assessed her reactions. Hana’s responses were perfunctory, her manner indifferent. Abruptly, Meyer asked, “Have you had enough sleep, Ms. Arif?”
“Under the circumstances.”
“Then let me explain how the test works. When I ask you a question, three needles will record your reaction as a roll of paper runs through the machine, sort of the way doctors measure how our heart is functioning. So this machine is not the lie detector. You are.”
“And how is that?”
Hana spoke with an air of boredom, as though she did not have sensors stuck to her wrists, her thumbs, and, beneath her jumpsuit, near her heart. “When we lie,” Meyer continued, “our bodies react in ways that betray us—changes in breathing, heart rate, even the amount of perspiration on our skin. You don’t like to lie, do you?”
“That depends,” Hana answered. “But usually not.”
Meyer glanced at David. Only David knew, from long ago, that what passed for chill indifference could be anger Hana was struggling to restrain. “Then let’s try something.” Meyer fished a deck of cards out of his pocket and spread them on the table. “Pick one.”
Hana did this. When she picked it up, David saw the queen of spades. “I’ll name every card in the deck,” Meyer said, “from ace to deuce, and ask if that’s the card you drew. Your job is to answer no to every question— even when the answer is yes. Do you understand?”
“Completely. With every card but one, I am to tell the truth. Once, I lie. And then you will see how good a liar I am.”
Meyer’s amiable pretense had begun to slip. Turning on his machine, he said briskly, “That’s the idea, Ms.Arif. Is the card you’re holding an ace?”
The paper began unspooling. “No,” Hana answered.
“Is it a king?”
“No.”
“Is it a queen?”
Briefly, Hana paused. “No.”
She did not change expression with this answer, nor with the answer that followed. Impassive, Meyer watched the graph unfold in front of him. “Is your name Hana Arif?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you married to Saeb Khalid?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a daughter named Munira?”
“Yes. And I’d like to be with her again someday. So why don’t you ask about what I’m supposed to have done.”
Meyer’s eyes narrowed. “Do you recall ever meeting a man named Iyad Hassan?”
“No.”
“Within the last six months, have you spoken by telephone to Iyad Hassan?”
“No.” Hana leaned forward. “Let me suggest a question, Mr. Meyer: Were you involved in the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron?”
David felt himself tense. Meyer stared at her, then repeated the question.
“No,” Hana answered calmly. “But for the sake of completeness, perhaps you should ask if I was aware of any plan to kill him.”
When Meyer glanced at him, David nodded. It took all the discipline he had not to watch the needle. “Before the death of Amos Ben-Aron,” Meyer asked Hana, “were you aware of a plan to kill him?”
“No.” With the same indifferent manner, Hana sat back. “Now I will answer your other questions.”
They were numerous and detailed—whether Hana had typed her telephone number on a piece of paper; whether she had received a cell phone call on the night before Ben-Aron was killed; whether she had ever spoken to Ibrahim Jefar; whether she had made any cell phone calls between the beginning of Ben-Aron’s speech and the bombing. The pattern fell into a rhythm that David found hypnotic: two voices, one asking damning questions, the other answering “No” ; the faint scratching of three needles on paper. Watching it unspool, David felt perspiration on his forehead.
Hana did not look at him. It was as though she had forgotten he was present.
When Meyer was done, he was silent for a time, studying the roll of paper. “How do you think you did?” he asked Hana.
Hana shrugged. “I suppose it depends on how good the machine is. Or you are.”
Meyer looked up from the paper. “Can you think of any reason why you wouldn’t have passed?”
“I’m sorry. That’s not something I can answer with yes or no.”
Slowly, Meyer smiled. “You passed, Ms. Arif. Not a twitch. Except on the queen of spades.”
David inhaled. Turning to him, Hana spoke with a quiet that betrayed a deeper emotion. “So now your questions are answered, Da
vid. Except, of course, whether I have a conscience. For that, no machine can help you.”
20
Her eyes slit in concentration, Marnie Sharpe read the report of Hana’s polygraph examination. When she had finished, her tone was weary. “Some women could drown their babies in a bathtub and pass a test. This one may well be a sociopath.”
“As opposed,” David asked, “to the psychopathic human bomb you’ve chosen to believe?”
“Jefar intended to die. His story makes sense. There’s evidence to support it that implicates Arif.” Her tone became sardonic. “But this test does suggest that you might want to call her as a witness on her own behalf. She may have the same mesmerizing effect on a jury that she had on this machine. And, it seems, on you.”
“Meaning?”
Sharpe considered him. “You’re better off when you don’t believe,” she said evenly. “When a case is just a chess game. Arif ’s got you off balance.”
Nettled, David held his temper. “This kind of thing won’t help us. I could as easily say that you’re an overambitious prosecutor with a make-or-break case, feeling so much pressure that you’d rather convict the innocent than no one.”
“And you will say it, I expect. Sooner or later.”
“Only if you force me,” David answered. “The first day I joined this office, your sainted predecessor, Bill Kane, drilled it into me that I had an absolute obligation to ascertain the truth, to act with fairness and integrity and leave nothing to chance. And never to bring charges against anyone who I didn’t absolutely believe was guilty. So is that still the standard, Marnie? Or is ‘less than certain’ okay when the victim’s the prime minister of Israel?”
Sharpe took a sip of her tea, gazing at David over the rim. “What are you proposing?”
“That maybe we’re both right—Hana’s telling the truth, and so’s Jefar. The difference is that Hana knows the truth, and Jefar just knows what Hassan told him.”
Sharpe shook her head. “That makes no sense. Why would Hassan lie to someone who was going to kill himself?”
David shrugged. “Why did Jefar’s motorcycle not blow up?”
“Accident,” Sharpe answered dismissively. “Your theory piles coincidence on top of an incongruity: that Arif was framed for no reason, by a man about to die. At least give me some plausible human motivation that would lend this notion credence.”
With unerring aim, Sharpe had illuminated the flaw in David’s logic. “I can’t yet,” he conceded.
Sharpe’s smile was skeptical. “And Ms. Arif has no idea, of course.”
“No. Nor do you. As far as I can tell, you’re prosecuting Hana without a clue about how the assassination was put together, or by whom. Shouldn’t that bother you a little?”
For a moment, Sharpe seemed to contemplate the swath of morning sunlight on one corner of her desk. “Our investigation is far from over. In the meanwhile, what would you have me do? Issue a public apology and ship Arif back to Ramallah?”
“Not before you give her your own polygraph,” David said calmly. “Take a chance, Marnie. Hana’s even willing to sit for the same examiner you used on Ibrahim Jefar.”
Sharpe raised her eyebrows, an expression of surprise tinged with distrust. “There are conditions, of course.”
“Just one: that if she passes, you’ll dismiss the case. If you come up with more evidence, you can always refile.”
Sharpe shook her head emphatically. “Kick her loose because she can pass a polygraph? No way. I wouldn’t test her even if your proposal weren’t absurd.” She jabbed a finger at the report in front of her. “For whatever reasons—which might be prior training or sheer heartlessness—we already know Arif can pass a polygraph. If she passed yours, I can only imagine your next performance on the Today show.”
Abruptly, frustration broke through David’s patience. “This is something out of Kafka,” he snapped. “You tell me Jefar passed a polygraph, then say that Hana passing one means nothing. So now we’re on the conveyor belt, moving toward the trial of a woman you can’t be sure is guilty.” His speech became staccato. “Maybe you’ll convict her. Maybe you’ll even get the death penalty. But based on the evidence as it stands, will you have the nerve to show up when she’s executed?”
Sharpe’s eyes were as opaque as shuttered windows. “It seems we’re at an impasse. ‘Based on the evidence as it stands,’ it’ll take more than polygraphs and rhetoric to keep me up at night. Tell your client to think a little harder.”
That afternoon, in an airless inner room provided by the FBI, David began reviewing boxes of documents produced by the prosecution.
The boxes were jammed with useless paper reflecting the government’s desire to be inclusive, or merely to waste hours of his time while honoring Taylor’s order to a fault. But any clues to a broader conspiracy were missing; the multitude of witness statements, though capturing the horror of the assassination, added little to what David already knew, and the report of the medical examiner was sickening but not enlightening. When David pointed this out to Sharpe, she answered, “This is a ‘rolling production.’ You asked for a lot, and we can’t give you everything all at once. Especially given the breadth of your proposed defense: Palestinians and Israelis, all mixed in together.”
For days on end, David remained a prisoner, eating takeout, culling dross until late at night, always getting up to run before daylight, shower, and return for another day of captivity. On occasion, when he caught a meal with Angel or one of the few friends he retained despite his defense of Hana and his breakup with Carole, he felt like a gopher emerging from its hole, blinking in the light after a very long winter.
After one such lunch, Sharpe called him on his cell phone. “We just got something you’ll want to look at,” she said. “I don’t see that it helps your client. But given your imagination, I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
The document, David found, was a preliminary report by the FBI regarding its inquiry into the circumstances surrounding Ben-Aron’s death. Its literary style was familiar: a mix of bureaucratic jargon, awkward sentence structure, and an overuse of the passive voice. Unknotting his tie, David scanned it for several minutes before a passage stopped him:
Regarding Saeb Khalid, no evidence has been found that links him to the events under investigation, although statements have been discovered suggesting his advocacy of violent acts concerning Israel.
Two pages further, David found an account of the FBI investigation into the background of the assassination. As a catalog of frustration, the summary had a certain eloquence:
The operation appears highly professional. The explosives used were stolen, perhaps from a military base. The provenance of the police uniforms is not yet known, although such can be acquired on the Internet. The motorcycles were purchased by unknown men, apparently of Middle Eastern origin, whom agents have not been able to trace. The storage container bore no suspect fingerprints except for those of Hassan and Jefar, nor did the remaining motorcycle. Hassan’s and Jefar’s driver’s licenses were forgeries of high quality, their credit cards obtained under false names and mailed to post office boxes. No other suspicious persons known to have entered the United States before the assassination seem implicated at this time.
The absence of leads may be interpreted to indicate a well-planned conspiracy “rolled up” by highly skilled operatives of a number and origin currently undetermined.
David paused to reflect on Bryce Martel’s conjecture, then read on:
At this time, no further evidence has been found to link Hana Arif to the events under investigation. Telephone calls on the cell phone used by Hassan were made to cell phones purchased for cash, also by a man appearing to be of Middle Eastern origin. These cell phones have not been found or traced to any individual. Also, although Ms. Arif has associated with persons known or believed to be members of the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, Hamas, and, in one instance, Islamic Jihad, it is unknown whether she is affiliated with any such groups
.
What about Al Aqsa itself? David wondered. Reading on, he found a partial answer:
Since the assassination, Al Aqsa has sustained heavy losses due to Israeli military operations, including attacks on cars and the destruction of safe houses used by purported members. While elements of Al Aqsa have denied involvement in the assassination, this may be attributed to fear of more such reprisals as have already occurred. However, our intelligence agencies are doubtful concerning a substantial presence by Al Aqsa in the United States.
David found no speculation on who the conspirators might be. But the next-to-final page caused him to sit up.
At 1:10, the detail leader ordered that the route to the airport take Fourth Street instead of Tenth Street. The detail leader states that this was a routine precaution. He conveyed this order by secure telephone to the members of his detail, and also to the leader of the Israeli security contingent and the head of Dignitary Protection for the SFPD, who then transmitted the same instruction to the people under their direction.
These new instructions were completed by 1:16. At 1:22, according to a tape from a security camera at a store on Market near Tenth Street, Hassan is shown receiving a call on his cell phone, and then hurriedly leaving his location.
It is possible to conclude that the telephone call alerted Hassan to the change in route ordered by the detail leader. Moreover, the telephone number of the caller shown on Hassan’s cell phone is the same unknown cell phone number of the person who called Hassan in the last two days before the assassination. Jefar states that a map left for them in the storage container, but destroyed in the explosion, delineated in ink the original route on Tenth Street that was chosen three days before, as well as two alternative routes.
Taken together, these facts suggest that the original route, as well as the change, was conveyed to Hassan in a deliberate breach of security involving one or more persons informed of the plan. Our inquiry indicates that this information was confined to members of the Secret Service responsible for protecting Prime Minister Ben-Aron, as well as those police and Israeli security personnel with similar responsibilities.
Exile: a novel Page 28
