This was another adroit response—carefully rehearsed, David understood, to remind the jury of what the defense could not explain. “But can you say,” David shot back, “that Professor Arif typed that number?”
“No. The printer used to type the number can’t be distinguished from others.”
“And the same model printer was issued to every faculty member at Birzeit University, correct?”
“True.”
“And it’s also true that anyone could have walked in or out of Ms. Arif ’s office.”
“That’s my understanding, yes.”
“And so anyone could have stolen a piece of paper, or even used her printer to type her number.”
“True. But we found no one else’s prints on her computer. And an intruder would have had no way to ensure that any individual piece of paper would have her fingerprints on it.”
This was the best possible answer, one for which David had no obvious comeback—only an unsupported suspicion, directed at Saeb, that he could not express. He paused, hands on hips. “Outside of this scrap of paper and a single call, is there any evidence that Ms. Arif ever knew, spoke to, or met Iyad Hassan?”
Vallis frowned at one corner of his mouth. “He was a student there—”
“That’s your answer?” David interrupted with mild incredulity. “Did Hassan even take a class from Professor Arif?”
“No.” Vallis hesitated, then added, “He did take a class from Saeb Khalid, Professor Arif ’s husband.”
“Are you seriously suggesting that Dr. Khalid introduced Professor Arif to Iyad Hassan, whereupon the two of them commenced a clandestine relationship—undetected by anyone—dedicated to the murder of Amos Ben-Aron?”
“Objection,” Sharpe said at once. “No foundation—”
“Overruled,” Judge Taylor broke in before David could respond. “I’d like to hear the witness’s answer.”
“That’s one possibility,” Vallis responded calmly. “Another is that they were connected by other members of the conspiracy, and arranged to communicate in secret.”
“Do you have any evidence that Ms. Arif was a member of the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade?”
“No.”
“Or Hamas?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea whatsoever as to how she could have become a member of this conspiracy?”
Briefly, Vallis looked down. “No.”
David smiled. “By the way, Agent Vallis, who were the other members of the conspiracy?”
Mindful of his demeanor, the witness refocused his gaze on David, responding with an air of seeming candor. “We don’t know yet.”
“Was it Al Aqsa?”
“We don’t know, Mr. Wolfe. All we have is Hassan’s statement to Jefar.”
“As an expert on terrorism, Agent Vallis, do you believe that this elaborate plot was carried out in America by the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade?”
Vallis hesitated, and then, like any well-schooled expert, conceded another point in order to retain his credibility. “I don’t believe they have the assets.”
“So who put the motorcycles in the storage container?”
“We don’t know. Because it was destroyed in the explosion, we’ve been unable to specifically identify the motorcycle used by Hassan. The one used by Jefar was purchased through an advertisement on the Internet, for cash, by a man the seller could identify only by a general description.”
“Which was?”
“That he appeared to be of Middle Eastern origin. We’ve been unable to determine who he is.”
David paused, letting the jury absorb that—for the first time, a conspirator other than Hana or the assassins had entered the jurors’ consciousness. “Do you know the origin of the police uniforms?” he asked.
“No.”
“What about the van?”
Vallis remained composed. “Same thing. Purchased through the Internet; bought for cash; the buyer an unknown man who might have been Arab.”
“What about the map?” David asked. “Any idea how the map got there?”
“No.”
“According to the chief of the Secret Service detail, he designated the original route less than three days before the assassination, and told only a few select members of Ben-Aron’s protective detail. Yet that same route appeared on the map found by Hassan and Jefar. Do you have any idea how that happened?”
“No.”
“Have you at least asked the Israeli government about it?”
For an instant, Vallis looked annoyed—perhaps at the Israelis, or at David, or simply at being forced to repeatedly admit his ignorance. “The Israeli government is conducting its own confidential inquiry. Whatever it may have learned, if anything, is not yet available.”
“But aren’t you kind of curious? I mean, here you are, prosecuting Ms. Arif for a capital crime, and you don’t even know who gave the assassins the original route, or how in the world that person got it.”
Sharpe began to stand. Before she could object, Taylor held up her hand, turning to the witness with a look of keen expectancy. “Our investigation is ongoing,” Vallis said. “But we believe that the evidence against Ms. Arif speaks for itself.”
“She didn’t put the map there, did she? You at least know that much, right?”
Vallis folded his hands. “We don’t assert that she put the map there, no.”
“And given what you know about her movements while in San Francisco, she couldn’t have.”
“Not as far as we can determine.”
“And yet,” David said with open scorn, “right now you’re offering the jury a three-person conspiracy—Hassan, Jefar, and Ms. Arif. One of whom can’t testify.”
“We know it involved more people—”
“You just don’t have a clue who they might be. Are you suggesting that Ms. Arif directed their activities?”
“No.”
“Or designed this very complex operation?”
“No.”
“Do you know anything in her background that suggests that she’s even capable of such a thing?”
“No.”
“And you don’t have a single name—not in America, not in the Middle East—of whoever might have planned this, or bought the van, or put the explosives in the storage container, or secured the uniforms and motorcycles.”
Vallis glanced at Sharpe. But Judge Taylor’s attitude had clearly dissuaded the prosecutor from objecting. “No names,” he answered. “No.”
“Nor do you know who leaked the change in route.”
“No.”
“You must know something. Any idea who ordered the murder of Ben-Aron’s security man Hillel Markis?”
“No.”
“Or of his friend Barak Lev?”
“No. If they were friends.”
David threw up his hands. “Isn’t that a whole lot of ignorance to place on the shoulders of a thirty-six-year-old wife and mother with no prior record of terrorist activities?”
At the corner of David’s vision, Ardelle Washington turned to Vallis, her silent gaze, newly stern, commanding him to answer. “Again,” Vallis said, “we may not know who planned the assassination. But the evidence against Arif cannot be ignored—”
“Didn’t you indict her,” David snapped, “hoping she could give you the names of those who did put this plot together?”
“Objection,” Sharpe said. “Asked and answered. The witness has already described the evidence underlying this indictment.”
“Such as it is,” David said to Taylor. “We’re entitled to know whether the government hoped to pressure Ms. Arif into naming others.”
“Objection overruled,” the judge said. “Go ahead, Agent Vallis.”
Narrow-eyed, Vallis composed an answer. “We have the requisite evidence,” he insisted. “Of course, it’s always our hope that parties to a conspiracy will identify their coconspirators—”
“What if Ms. Arif is innocent?” David interjected. “Then she’s
got no way out of this trial, and no coconspirators to trade in the hope of avoiding execution.”
“Objection,” Sharpe said. “No foundation. Finding the answer is what juries are for.”
“Sustained,” the judge ruled promptly.
Turning to the witness, David searched for a striking way to close. “Beyond what you’ve already said,” David asked, “are you aware of any additional evidence against Hana Arif?”
Vallis shook his head. “Not at this time, no.”
“Then don’t you thinkyou should have waited until you had more answers?”
Vallis hesitated. “We felt what we had was sufficient to proceed.”
“Did you,” David said with disdain. “I guess that’s what juries are for. No further questions, Your Honor.”
Sharpe’s redirect was brief. “With respect to the evidence against Ms. Arif,” she said, “does the FBI have any reason to believe that it was fabricated?”
“We do not.”
Sharpe stepped forward, slowing her speech to emphasize each word. “Do you know of anyone, Agent Vallis, with a motive for framing Ms. Arif?”
“We know of no one.”
“In your experience of terrorism, can you identify any logic behind the theory that someone took an innocent woman and decided to put her in the crosshairs of a conspiracy to assassinate the prime minister of Israel?”
“I can’t.” Pausing, Vallis shook his head. “That theory makes no sense to me. None at all.”
With that, the prosecution’s case against Hana Arif came to its end, on a question for which David had no answer.
10
Before the marshals took Hana back to the detention center, David arranged to meet with her in a private witness room. Though an armed marshal guarded the door outside, the cramped room had no window; for a few minutes of solitude, rare since Hana’s imprisonment, they were alone and unobserved.
Free of her need to project dignity and self-possession, Hana slumped in her chair. “I’m so very tired,” she said softly. “You must be, too.”
David felt himself coming down, the adrenaline high of cross-examination evanescing. “This is hard,” he acknowledged.
Hana looked up at him. “You were good.I can’t imagine anyone better.”
Though David could feel no elation, he managed to smile. “That’s because no one is.”
Unsmiling, Hana watched his eyes. “So tell me the truth,” she said quietly. “That’s what you want to do, isn’t it? Here, where no one can see my face.”
This was so precisely right that David had no heart for evasion. “Tomorrow, we start presenting our defense. The problem is that the jury’s already heard it.
“I’ve raised all the questions in cross-examination. The most I can do is reprise them. All we have is a grab bag of suppositions and a theory we can’t prove—that you were framed. But by whom? And why?” David softened his tone. “We both know the most plausible ‘who.’ But if there’s a plausible ‘why,’ I don’t know what it is.”
Hana shrugged, a twitch of her shoulders.
David studied her face. “I can’t go after him, Hana. Not without a motive.”
Hana’s eyelids lowered, her lashes veiling her abstracted gaze at the table between them. As if speaking to herself, she murmured, “In a week, perhaps two, the jury may find me guilty. The foreman will recite the verdict and, in seconds, my time as Munira’s mother will be over.
“I’ll never be alone with her. I’ll barely be able to touch her—or anyone.” Tears glistened on her lashes. “Prison gives me too much time to think, and leaves too little to the imagination. All I need is to take the months I’ve spent alone and multiply them by a hundred. Death might be a kindness.
“Have I described my cell? I can tell you about every inch. Or shall I describe my fantasies?” Her voice trailed off in embarrassment and irony. “Best they stay my own. Perhaps I can improve on them.”
Silent, David worried that her composure might slip away entirely. Instead, she asked, “How did all this happen, I wonder. How did all I hoped for, all I ever felt and wanted, come to this? What happens if Saeb controls her life?”
David had no answer. In a trembling voice, Hana said, “Do I need to ask you, David? After all that’s happened to us, it seems like so very little.”
It took a moment for David to comprehend her. Then, yielding to instinct, he stood and circled the table. She rose from her chair to meet him. It had been thirteen years since Harvard, thirteen years since he had felt her slender body against his, so strange yet so familiar. She was almost completely still, as though drawing his warmth and closeness into her being. Gently, David stroked her hair.
A tremor ran through her body. Except for her stillness, it was as though they were making love. Then Hana drew back her head, eyes tearless as she looked into his, their mouths so close he could feel the soft exhalation of breath through her parted lips before they formed a wistful smile. “I know, David. You don’t need to tell me.”
Perhaps she meant that he was still her lawyer; he did not know. She touched his face with cool fingertips, letting them linger there. “I’m all right now.”
Before he could respond, Hana turned and knocked on the door, summoning the marshals.
They took her away. David drove home, trying to comprehend the meaning of what had occurred between them. Then he forced himself to focus on the opening witness for the defense, Bryce Martel.
The trial resumed at nine a.m. the next day. When they brought Hana into court, she gave David a faint smile, most apparent in her eyes. Then she looked at her husband, and their light vanished.
David’s opening minutes with Bryce Martel elicited a brisk summary of Martel’s credentials as an expert in national security, intelligence gathering, and counterterrorism. In itself, Martel’s presence lent new credence to what, heretofore, had been David’s lonely defense of an accused Palestinian terrorist. But Martel’s principal role was to educate jurors like Bob Clair about the ways of terrorists.
“For terrorists and spies,” Martel told the jury, “deception and concealment is a fact of life. It can be no other way.
“Take Jefar and Hassan. From the moment they entered the United States, they depended on pseudonyms, false identification, and untraceable cell phone communications. That’s completely consistent with the entire plot. Each step was so closely held that not even Hassan or Jefar knew what would happen until the next call from their handler. And the overall plan was so shrouded in security that the government can’t even tell you who supplied the explosives, the motorcycles, the map, or the van. The operation simply vanished, leaving four men dead.” Martel frowned. “In its grim way, this is a textbook assassination. Except for one anomaly.”
“Which is?” David prompted.
“The case against Hana Arif. From a planning perspective, everything else about this crime is flawless. But every piece of evidence against your client reflects flaws I find inexplicable.” Adjusting his glasses, Martel addressed the jury in the lucid manner of a gifted lecturer. “Take the obvious: Hassan told Jefar that Hana Arif was his handler and recruiter. That’s just not done—if Hassan had mentioned a name at all, it should have been a pseudonym. A male pseudonym, at that.”
“Even if they expected to die?”
Martel smiled wryly. “A terrorist can hope to die. But even Jefar acknowledges knowing they could be detected and arrested—to Jefar, that’s why Hassan threw away the last cell phone. And yet Hassan violated the most basic rule of the ‘operational security’ he was otherwise so careful to maintain: don’t reveal your handler’s name.” Pausing, Martel once more addressed the jurors. “Then there’s the supposed selection of Ms. Arif—a woman known to Hassan from his time at Birzeit—as Hassan’s handler. The real handler should be a stranger, whose true identity Hassan would never know.”
David glanced at Ardelle Washington, her attention seemingly gripped by Martel’s clarity and expertise. “What other anomalies did you
find?”
A flash of disdain surfaced in Martel’s eyes, the distaste of a perfectionist for human error. “I hardly need dwell on the idea that Ms. Arif would use her own cell phone to further an assassination plot. All I have to say is that it’s literally senseless. So is giving Hassan her telephone number on a piece of paper.
“Of course it would have her fingerprints. Of course someone else might find it. She might as well have tucked her business card in Hassan’s wallet. For that to make any sense, you have to believe two things: that Ms. Arif is a fool, and that whoever planned this assassination is a bigger fool for using her.” Martel paused for emphasis. “Everything we know about this operation tells us just the opposite. Whoever planned the murder of Amos Ben-Aron can stake a claim to genius.”
David paused, letting the jury absorb this. “Just to tie up a loose end, Mr. Martel, how should a competent handler communicate his telephone number?”
“In the simplest possible way—I tell you the number; you commit it to memory. Then you forget it as soon as you can.”
“So is there another way to look at all of these anomalies?”
“There is,” Martel said firmly. “Instead of assuming that they make no sense, assume they do. Once you make that assumption, these flaws are consistent with the whole—an intricate plan, designed by a very clever mind, to point the finger of blame at a woman who knows nothing.” Martel’s eyes glinted with something close to admiration. “If that’s the case, the fabrication of a circumstantial case against Hana Arif is the ultimate blind alley, leading nowhere. In fact, you might view this prosecution as a cul-de-sac: the government can only go backward, or in circles.”
Eyeing the jury, David felt a deep satisfaction: his father’s friend had imbued David’s theory with substance. Only Marnie Sharpe looked unimpressed.
This was her manner when she rose to cross-examine—crisp, skeptical, and wholly lacking in deference. “I’ve listened to your theory,” she told Martel. “So let’s get back to facts.
“According to her phone records, the midnight call to the defendant’s cell phone took slightly over five minutes. If Ms. Arif was framed, who was it that answered?”
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