Exile: a novel

by Richard North Patterson

  Awaking with a start, David saw the red illuminated numbers of his alarm clock.

  His mouth was dry. Already, he felt the dream recede into his subconscious, leaving half-remembered fragments. As with other dreams, he could make no sense of it, except as the eruption of emotions he had been struggling to repress.

  David closed his eyes, trying to focus on tomorrow.

  The day’s first witness, Dr. Elizabeth Shelton, was the medical examiner for the City and County of San Francisco. Slender, blond, and crisp in manner, Liz Shelton had become, in her late forties, a nationally respected expert. And, in David’s opinion, her testimony served no purpose except to turn the jurors’ stomachs.

  He had said as much to Judge Taylor, offering to stipulate to the deaths. But Sharpe had insisted on her right to prove, by whatever means she thought best, the most rudimentary elements of a murder case—that those murdered were, in fact, dead. And so Hana sat with David, gazing at the table, as Sharpe led Dr. Shelton in painstaking detail through the ways in which the bomb carried by Iyad Hassan had transformed its victims.

  This exegesis was illustrated by slides of fragments of body parts, teeth, and bones, projected for the jury on a screen. The cause of death, Shelton told the jurors, was a massive explosion; the charred remains, such as they were, did not allow examiners to distinguish one victim from another, save through dental records and DNA. Eyes shut, Hana would not look at the projections.

  All in all, it took Sharpe and Shelton an hour to kill Amos Ben-Aron, an hour longer than this task had taken Iyad Hassan. When it was done and Judge Taylor called a recess, David felt a light hand on his shoulder. “So,” Saeb inquired softly, “do you think Munira should have heard this? Or seen it?”

  David merely looked up at him. Saeb gazed at his wife; their eyes met, and then Hana turned away from him, looking at no one.

  Approaching the witness, David stopped abruptly, as though struck by a sudden thought. “Tell me, Dr. Shelton, just why is it you’re here?”

  Composed, Shelton looked toward Sharpe. “Objection,” the prosecutor called out. “Not only is the question vague and ambiguous, but it calls for a legal conclusion. Obviously the United States called Dr. Shelton to establish cause of death.”

  “Is there any doubt,” David asked Judge Taylor, “about how the victims died?”

  “I hadn’t thought so,” Taylor said in an arid tone. “But I’m sustaining Ms. Sharpe’s objection. Make whatever point you have some other way.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Facing Shelton, he asked, “As far as you know, Dr. Shelton, does the defense dispute that the cause of death was the explosion Ms. Sharpe screened for the jurors only yesterday?”

  Shelton’s lips compressed; David sensed that she had not appreciated being used as Sharpe’s prop, and did not relish becoming David’s. Evenly, she answered, “Not that I know of.”

  “Do you know anything at all about whether Hana Arif is in any way responsible for this explosion?”

  Shelton folded her hands. “I don’t.”

  “Other than what you’ve heard alleged about Iyad Hassan, do you have any personal knowledge whatsoever about who might be responsible?”

  “No.”

  “Then let me ask you again: why is it that you’re here?”

  “Objection,” Sharpe called out, sounding as annoyed as David had intended. “The same objection. This is a waste of time.”

  “Your Honor,” David responded calmly, “it strikes me as incautious for Ms. Sharpe to accuse me of wasting time. Since Dr. Shelton took the stand, all of us are an hour and a quarter closer to being dead, and not a minute wiser as to Ms. Arif ’s innocence or guilt. It seems only fair that I make that point.”

  “It seems that you have,” Taylor rejoined. “So I’ll ask you both not to consume more time with speeches.”

  Glancing at the jury, David saw Ardelle Washington contemplating Marnie Sharpe with a look of seeming displeasure, and sensed that he had made his second, unstated point—that Sharpe was trying to exploit the jurors’ emotions.

  “In that case,” he said to Taylor, “I’ll keep this witness no longer.”

  During the noon recess, David retreated to his office with Angel Garriques; hastily they gobbled sandwiches while discussing the morning’s events. Responding to Angel’s encouragement, David told him, “I scored what points I could. But I might as well have ‘reasonable doubt’ tattooed on my forehead—our defense is all questions, and no answers.

  “The only concrete evidence in the entire case points to Hana’s guilt. Once Sharpe calls Ibrahim Jefar, all that gore will resonate with the jury. Not to mention help Sharpe argue for the death penalty. That’s why she’s doing this.”

  The telephone rang. David hesitated, then picked it up.

  His caller was Zev Ernheit. “I’m still waiting on the forensics lab,” Ernheit told him without preface. “It’s true that the lab received materials from Saeb Khalid, asking for some tests. But all my sources are willing to say is that his purpose wasn’t discerning fingerprints—Hana’s or anyone else’s.”

  “Shit.”

  “What they did test,” Ernheit continued, “I don’t know. I can’t get the documents.”

  David glanced at Angel, who was following David’s end of the conversation with obvious concern. “Keep trying,” he told Ernheit. “I think it may be helpful.”

  “If the test isn’t for fingerprints, David, how could it be useful?”

  “I’m not sure. But we’re in trouble here. Whatever might help, we need.”

  Ernheit was silent. David found himself wondering, yet again, what role the Israeli government was playing in Ernheit’s efforts. “All right,” Ernheit replied at last. “I’ll try.”

  In the afternoon, Sharpe called Special Agent Dante Allegria, an explosives expert from the FBI. With his dark, curly hair, open face, and straightforward manner, Allegria reminded David of the sort of contractor who would remodel your kitchen, finish on time, and send you an honest bill. He was also a skilled and experienced witness; as he testified, Allegria spoke directly to the jury, building a rapport. “The assassin,” Allegria told them, “used a plastique explosive known as C-4. It’s the American version of an eastern European plastique, Semtex, which is the explosive of choice for terrorists.”

  Sharpe stood to the side, a bit player in Allegria’s tutorial. “Why, in your opinion, would Hassan choose C-4?”

  “Objection,” David said without standing. “Lack of foundation. We don’t know who chose this explosive, but we’re pretty sure it wasn’t Hassan. According to the indictment, he found it in a container in South San Francisco. All he did was connect the wires.”

  “Sustained,” the judge ruled.

  “Why,” Sharpe amended with some exasperation, “would someone have chosen C-4 to blow up the prime minister’s limousine, and Mr. Ben-Aron with it?”

  “Because you need a charge sufficient to destroy armor. Most explosives can’t do that. But even one saddlebag of C-4, attached to a motorcycle, has an excellent chance of achieving what happened here: totally destroying an armored vehicle. The flying metal alone could have killed the people inside.”

  Only that wasn’t necessary, Allegria did not need to add. More subtly than Liz Shelton, Allegria had enabled Sharpe to resurrect the carnage. “And how did Hassan ignite the C-4?” Sharpe asked.

  “It’s pretty simple,” Allegria said. “The plastique was electronically wired to a toggle switch on the handlebars of both motorcycles. Press the switch, and the C-4 ignites. Technically, all Hassan needed to know was how to wire the C-4 to the switch.”

  “Is that technique familiar to you?”

  “It is. Al Qaeda’s used it. In the Palestinian territories, so have Hamas and the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade. The only new thing is that this happened in America.”

  At the mention of Al Qaeda, David saw, Bob Clair raised his eyebrows—with a single question, Sharpe had managed to conjure something alien and terri
fying, the shadow of 9/11, while reminding the jurors that the second such horror, the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron, had introduced suicide bombing to the streets of San Francisco.

  “Thank you,” Sharpe said. “That’s all I have.”

  Approaching the witness, David stood between Allegria and the jurors, forcing him to focus on David. “Were you able,” David began, “to determine the specific source of the explosive used by Iyad Hassan?”

  “We certainly tried,” the witness answered earnestly. “One place we always look at is the military—greedy or disgruntled soldiers, sometimes Al Qaeda sympathizers, who steal explosives and sell them on the black market. But here we just don’t know.”

  “So you’ve got no idea whatsoever where these particular explosives came from, or who procured them, or even who left them for Hassan to find.”

  Allegria shook his head. “I’m afraid not, no.”

  “Do you know of any evidence linking Hana Arif to the procurement of those explosives?”

  “None.”

  “All right. Judging from the technique you describe, would you say that the assassination itself was a professional job?”

  Allegria considered this, his deep brown eyes regarding David with a look of thoughtful candor. “What I’d say,” he allowed, “is that Hassan used a technique favored by those who practice terror as a profession, one that was particularly suitable for eliminating a head of state.

  “In other bombings where the objective is blowing up a car, terrorists will often detonate the explosives by remote control. But that’s a little less reliable, and may not work on an armored car. In this case, the planners chose the right technique, a suicide bombing; the right plastique, C-4; and the ignition system most likely to do the job.”

  David cocked his head. “But those choices also require the bomber to know the specific route of Ben-Aron’s motorcade, true?”

  Allegria hesitated. “True.”

  “As well as any change in route.”

  “Yes. This wasn’t a random bombing.”

  Having drawn the jurors’ thoughts back to the possibility of a security leak, David asked, “Given this technique, would you say that Iyad Hassan expected to die?”

  For an instant, the witness looked bemused—as, David saw, did Marnie Sharpe.

  “Unless he was delusional,” Allegria answered. “Once he pushed the switch, he was gone.”

  “But not before?”

  “No. Until it’s detonated, C-4 is very stable. You and I could play catch with it.”

  “No thanks. From your testimony, I gather C-4 is easy enough to wire.”

  “Yes.”

  “Indeed, Hassan wired his bike with great success.”

  Allegria looked slightly puzzled. “If you mean that Hassan succeeded, obviously so.”

  “So why didn’t Ibrahim Jefar’s bike go off?”

  For a long moment, Allegria gazed back at David. “I’m not sure,” he answered finally. “When I inspected Jefar’s motorcycle, the wiring was connected to the toggle switch, but not to the C-4 concealed in the saddlebag.”

  “Isn’t that why Jefar’s plastique failed to explode?” David asked with mild incredulity. “That’s a pretty elementary mistake for Hassan to make.”

  Judge Taylor leaned forward, clearly grasping David’s point. For the first time, the witness looked down, considering his response. “It would be,” Allegria answered, “if that’s what happened. Perhaps it was jarred loose in the explosion.”

  “But if Jefar pushed the switch before Hassan—which is what the indictment claims—that didn’t happen, did it?”

  “I guess not.”

  “So isn’t the most likely explanation either that Hassan failed to wire it properly or that Jefar disconnected it?”

  The witness spread his hands. “They’re both certainly possible. If it was Hassan, we’ll never know.”

  “That’s kind of a problem, isn’t it. But let me ask you this: if you assume Hassan wanted Jefar to live, wouldn’t he do just what I’m suggesting—not complete the wiring?”

  “Sure,” Allegria answered, his tone combining perplexity with protest. “But why on earth would he do that?”

  On the bench, Taylor gazed up at the ceiling, attempting to conceal a faint smile. “Why don’t you leave that one to me,” David suggested to Allegria. “Please, answer the question.”

  Allegria settled back in the witness chair. “Even if what you say is right, Mr. Wolfe, Hassan couldn’t be sure Jefar would live. Way too big an explosion; way too many flying pieces.”

  “Nonetheless, wouldn’t you say that whoever disconnected—or failed to connect—the wire substantially enhanced Ibrahim Jefar’s chances of surviving?”

  Allegria folded his hands. “A lot would depend on luck, and how close Jefar was to the explosion. But if ‘substantially’ means going from ‘no chance’ to ‘some chance,’ then the glitch in wiring enhanced Jefar’s prospects of surviving.”

  “And, in fact, he did survive.”

  “Yes.”

  David skipped a beat. “And therefore,” he prodded, “Jefar was alive to repeat Iyad Hassan’s story about Hana Arif.”

  “Objection.” Sharpe’s voice crackled in the courtroom. “The question piles speculation on speculation.”

  David did not care—that he had made his point was apparent from the curiosity on Bob Clair’s face as he looked from Sharpe to David. “I’ll withdraw it,” David told the judge with a careless air. “The last few answers were sufficient.”

  But David’s moment of satisfaction was brief. At five o’clock, when the trial recessed, Angel joined him for the beginning of their second eight-hour shift, as they rehearsed, rearranged, and debated his cross-examination of Sharpe’s next witness, Ibrahim Jefar.

  Toward midnight, David repeated what was obvious to both of them: “All questions and no answers.”

  7

  Even had David been a visitor, he would have sensed that this day in court might tilt the balance of the case against Hana Arif.

  Outside the federal building, police cordoned off the streets, and satellite trailers crowded tightly together. A small army of reporters recited live feeds into minicams; demonstrators shouted across the barricades. Inside the courtroom, reporters jammed uncomfortably into the wooden benches; the later arrivals leaned against the walls on both sides, their continuous chatter noisier than before. At the prosecutor’s table, Sharpe was flanked by her smart and methodical chief assistant, Paul MacInnis; Victor Vallis, the FBI agent in charge; and George Jennings, the head of the Criminal Division for the Department of Justice. David sat between Hana and Angel Garriques, who, like David, had memorized every fact they could gather about Ibrahim Jefar.

  Awaiting the judge, Hana was quiet, filled with thoughts David could only imagine. Their brief conversation had touched on that morning’s news reports—the killing by the IDF of two Al Aqsa members in a village near Ramallah; the murder of a Jewish settler living above the souk in Hebron. Softly, despairingly, Hana had murmured, “My country,” and lapsed back into silence.

  Behind them, Saeb took his place in the first row. Though he appeared self-contained, the thumb and forefinger of his left hand rubbed together, as though he were twisting a piece of paper into a tight ball. Even the jury seemed subdued.

  “All rise,” the courtroom deputy proclaimed, and Judge Taylor took the bench.

  Quiet descended. Folding her hands, the judge scanned the scene in front of her. In a tone that aspired to matter-of-factness but did not quite achieve it, she told the prosecutor, “You may call the next witness, Ms. Sharpe.”

  Intently, David absorbed his first impression of Ibrahim Jefar. Under her breath, Hana murmured, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this boy before.”

  Her accuser was quite thin, with hollow cheeks and a neatly trimmed beard that did not age his unlined face or limpid brown eyes. He looked alien and confused, as though he had arrived here by some cosmic accident, a wrinkle in t
ime or space. And something terrible seemed to have seeped into his gaze: a hopelessness that pervaded his very being, the vision of years and decades spent waiting to die, sealed away from a life that, from now until death, would exist only in his memory. It would have been better, David thought, if Jefar had blown himself to pieces—not just for Hana and David, but for Jefar himself.

  After a few preliminary questions, Sharpe asked Jefar to relate the story of his sister’s experience at the checkpoint. Even here, his voice sounded hollow and dissociated. “So this is why you joined Al Aqsa?” Sharpe inquired in a neutral tone.

  “Yes.” Jefar said listlessly. “I wished to redeem my sister’s honor.”

  “How did you become involved in the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron?”

  Jefar, David noted, was unable to look at anyone for very long; his presence here seemed to have deepened his sense of failure. At length, he said, “One day, Iyad Hassan sat down next to me in class. He knew of my sister, and what the Jews had done to her. We talked for perhaps an hour.”

  “Concerning what?”

  “The Zionists.” Jefar crossed his legs. “Iyad said that we would never be free until the scab of Israel was removed from all our lands, and we returned to claim what was ours. He said that only cowards shrank from the will of God.”

  Beside David, Hana studied Jefar with a look of perplexity; if her knowledge of the witness was any deeper than David’s own, she showed no sign of it. “How did you respond?” Sharpe asked the witness.

  Jefar looked up at her fleetingly, almost shyly. “From how Iyad was talking, I knew he was more religious than me. But I agreed with him about the Jews.”

  “Did you discuss Prime Minister Ben-Aron?”

  Jefar gazed into the distance, as though recalling the fatal divide between his life then and now. “I called Ben-Aron the abortionist of my sister’s baby. The soldiers at the checkpoint were only his assistants.”

  “After that,” Sharpe asked, “did your relationship with Hassan continue?”

  Jefar nodded, still addressing some middle distance. “After class, we would meet for coffee and talk about jihad and the occupation. I was very careful—I did not want to reveal that I was with Al Aqsa, or betray Muhammad Nasir, my commander in Jenin.” Jefar hesitated, then said rapidly, “But one day I told Iyad that every time I thought of my sister, my blood boiled and I wished to become a martyr—to make the Jews in Israel feel what they made us feel.”