David managed to thank Steve Levy and get off the phone, overcome by how profoundly the meaning of his life had changed. And, if he and Hana could bear it, the trial itself.
David Wolfe was Munira Khalid’s father.
Twenty minutes later, Sharpe and David were sequestered in Judge Taylor’s chambers, the judge appraising the lawyers from behind her desk. “The jury’s waiting for us,” she said to David. “You requested this conference.”
David felt the tingle of his nerve ends. “I need a recess,” he said baldly. “Over the noon hour, I learned about a new piece of evidence, potentially transformative of my client’s defense. It also may affect my status as her lawyer.”
Taylor’s eyebrows shot up. David watched her mentally catalog the possibilities, including that David had just discovered that Hana Arif had lied to him about her innocence. “Can you favor us with a more elaborate explanation?”
“I can’t, Your Honor. Not before I discuss it with my client.”
Though wary, Sharpe regarded him with the trace of a smile: she plainly suspected, as David would have in her place, that whatever had shaken him so badly could only serve her case. “Ms. Sharpe?” Taylor asked.
The prosecutor shrugged. “On behalf of the United States, I don’t want any delay. But I suppose we can spare one afternoon.”
“That’s all I’m giving you,” the judge told David. “So meet with your client straightaway.”
When David entered the courtroom, the jury was assembled and Hana waited at the defense table. He walked past Saeb without acknowledging his presence.
Hana looked up at him anxiously. “What’s happening?”
For all David thought he knew about her, he felt as though he were seeing a different person. Slowly sitting down beside her, he answered, “I’ve asked the judge for a recess. Her clerk is looking for a witness room, so we can talk.”
Worry stole through her eyes. “Concerning what?”
David inhaled. “Thirteen years of deception. Yours, to be precise.”
12
The marshals sequestered David and Hana in the same claustrophobic witness room as before, the wooden table between them. She studied him with an even gaze that did not quite conceal her anxiety, as if she felt a danger she could not yet define. Warily, she asked, “What is it we need to discuss?”
“Our daughter.”
Hana was still, her eyes widening slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Do not do this.” David spoke the words slowly and emphatically. “One more lie, one more evasion, and I’ll petition Taylor for leave to withdraw as your counsel. When I tell her why, she’ll have no choice but to grant it.”
Hana’s throat pulsed. “How can you know that you’re her father?”
“The same way as Saeb. He had three hair samples tested for DNA— his, yours, and Munira’s. I just added mine to the mix.”
“Please, I don’t understand.”
“Oh, I think you do. You’ve fooled us both, beginning at Harvard. But Saeb’s not quite as dense as I am. Though to be fair, he’s had thirteen years to live with you, and a daughter who became a walking clue.” David’s voice was level, relentless. “What would motivate you, I always wondered, to become part of this assassination? But now it all makes sense.
“In Israel, Zev Ernheit told me the story of a married woman who became a suicide bomber. She was pregnant with her lover’s child. Her brother-in-law gave her a choice: take some Jews with you or become the victim of an honor killing—”
“I didn’t know.”
David ignored this. “Saeb must have given you a choice,” he continued. “Let him use you as a cutout, or he’d unmask you as the whore whose daughter was fathered by a Jew. So you became his operational protection, insulating him from discovery by communicating with Hassan—”
“Then why would I hire Munira’s father as my lawyer?” Hana’s voice shook, and tears surfaced in her eyes. “Yes, I wondered. And when Munira grew older, and taller, I was afraid. But that is all.”
“Really?” David paused, then quoted her own words back to her, across the years. “ ‘We’re a shame culture, not a guilt culture.’ ”
Hana stared at him. “Do you really know me so little?”
David gave her a cold smile. “I don’t know you at all.”
“Saeb never told me, David. I swear it.”
David felt no pity. “That’s quite a marriage,” he said. “I hope you don’t feel too misled.”
Hana flinched. “I know you’re hurt—”
“‘Hurt’?” David echoed. “Another woman might find a less trivial word.”
“Stop it.” Her voice was tight, desperate. “You’re so caught up in my betrayal that you can’t recognize the truth when it’s staring back at you.”
“ ‘The truth’? What is it today?”
“That I had no motive. And that Saeb’s motive is Munira. Tell me how long he has known this.”
Whatever David suspected, the tremor in her voice had the undertone of discovery, terrible in its consequences. “Almost a year now!”
Briefly, Hana closed her eyes, as though struggling to extract sense from memory. “Saeb must have suspected for years before that,” she said slowly. “The more he doubted, the more he turned his own torment—his images of you and me as lovers—into making Munira everything I was not.” Hana massaged her temples. “And when Saeb became certain whose daughter she was, he brooded over a way of punishing me more terrible than a bullet in the head. A Muslim honor killing dressed up as an American murder trial.
“An enlightened Arab would divorce me. A traditional man would murder me. Saeb selected a more useful death.” Hana gazed at David imploringly. “I’m innocent, David. How many more polygraphs do you wish me to take?”
David was buffeted by emotions too complex to unravel. “Then in your version of the truth, Saeb becomes the handler.”
“Yes. He could have taken the paper, and gotten the cell phone from my purse.” Hana’s voice filled with anguish. “What did he mean to do to her, once all this was over? What will he do—”
“Don’t use her on me,” David snapped. “All I want from you is the truth.”
“You can choose what truth to believe: Saeb blackmailed me, or he framed me. But either way, Munira is your daughter. Please, she’s not to blame for any of this.”
This caused David to sit back, silent. He had a daughter, a young Arab girl who, for much of her life, had been punished in her parents’ place. And now that fact—and that girl—were the hidden key to her mother’s trial, transforming the inexplicable into a pattern that made its own chilling sense. “What’s between the two of us,” David said at last, “has to wait. The one decision that can’t wait is the role Munira will play in your defense.”
Hana’s face contorted. “I can’t expose her, David. Not in open court.”
“I don’t want you to. I’ll save that revelation for later.”
“And tell Munira and the world that Saeb is not her father? Can’t you see what that would do to her?”
“It might well be devastating.” David answered. “So would you rather be found guilty? Do you think Munira would prefer having a dead mother to having a father who’s a Jew?”
David watched the full implication of his question overcome Hana’s last reserves. She covered her face, shoulders trembling with sobs he could not hear.
“Who gets to survive, Hana? You or Saeb? You can ‘protect’ Munira only by protecting the husband you say is trying to kill you. Or you can try to save yourself and our daughter by letting me nail your husband to the wall.
“I’ve only known that I’m a father for two hours. But now I can put a price on all I’ve given up for you: Munira’s life. No father would leave this girl to Saeb Khalid.”
The only sign that Hana heard him was her stillness. After a time, she uncovered her face in what seemed to be an act of will. “Tell me what it is you want.”
“For you to testify in
your own defense. Not as the angry Palestinian woman I saw fencing with the FBI but as the one I’m seeing now. And then I want you to sit back and watch me trade your life for Saeb’s.”
“Even if you think I’m the handler. Even if you think that Saeb blackmailed me into helping murder Amos Ben-Aron.”
“Even so,” David answered. “Ben-Aron’s dead. Munira’s still alive.”
Hana watched his face. “I’m sorry, David. I know what I’ve done to you. To be a parent changes everything.”
David let her apology go unanswered. “You’ve got eighteen hours,” he said. “Then you have to choose between Munira’s feelings and her life. I’m going to spend that time reflecting on the only thing about this maze of lies I know for sure: that Munira is my daughter.”
As though in a trance, David returned to his office, coping with details that could not wait, striving to clear the mental space to absorb the fact that, elsewhere in this city, a girl who was part of him lived frightened and alone.
David heard a soft rap on his door. Expecting Angel, he called out sharply, “What is it?” When the door opened, he saw that his visitor was Carole Shorr.
Tentative, she stopped in the doorway, eyes filled with uncertainty. “I was afraid to call,” she said.
David touched the bridge of his nose, and then looked up at her. “You could have,” he said gently. “I’d never refuse to see you. It’s just that this isn’t a good day for it.”
She stood there, unsure of whether to stay or go. “I’ve been following the trial. All I wanted to say is that I understand a little better. Maybe when the case is over, we could talk about whether that matters to us.”
The word “us” told David more than anything else she could say. He did not know how to respond; all he could feel at this moment was the need for a friend, a way to share his burden. Softly, Carole said, “I’ve never seen you look this tired.”
Perhaps it was the simple word of kindness; perhaps it was the memory of days and nights when Carole was his closest friend, when they talked and listened and planned and argued, each believing, at least hoping, that the only end to their life together would come in their old age. Whatever the cause, David felt the rush of dammed emotions he could no longer quite control. “I’m more than tired, Carole. I feel like my life has been turned inside out, that I’ve completely lost my balance. You know me—I always felt I was prepared for anything, and could deal with whatever life threw at me. No more.”
Carole tried to smile. “Then maybe it’s good I came.”
David heard a familiar note in her voice, Carole as source of comfort and advice. “If anyone could fix this,” he said, “you could. But no one can.”
“I could try.”
David shook his head. “It’s more complicated than you can ever know. And I can’t tell you why, because it involves lives other than yours or mine.”
Carole shook her head, bemusement combining with persistence. “Please, David. I tried to walk away from you. But I’m finding that I never did, not in my heart. Give me the chance to help you. Please don’t shut me out.”
“I don’t want to,” David burst out. “You can’t know how much I’d like to talk with you, and how much I don’t want to seem like someone who never loved you. Because that’s just not true. But what’s happened to me is something I can’t share with anyone. Because an innocent person could suffer, or worse than suffer. And I can’t burden either one of us with that.”
Carole watched his face. “Is this about Hana Arif? Please, tell me.”
David exhaled. “Hana, and much more than Hana. It’s also about me.”
Carole stared back at him, and the blood seemed to leave her face. “You still love her, don’t you?”
David shook his head. “It’s not just about love, or who I love. I can’t say any more than that.”
Carole looked away. After a time, she said, “Once I thought we were the essence of each other’s life. But you don’t have a life to give me. Whatever happens, you’ve given it to her. I could never be more than a substitute for Hana, standing with my nose pressed against the glass.” Abruptly, she stood, speaking in a despondent rush. “I’m sorry, but I have to leave now. I have to take my own life back.”
She hurried to the door, as if to make it outside before she fell apart. Then she was gone, the door ajar behind her, and all that remained was the rapid click of her heels on the marble floor.
13
By the time he reached Saeb’s apartment, David had regained his self-control, though he still felt poised on the edge of a precipice. But when Saeb opened the door, David felt a coolness steal through him.
Hana’s husband stared at him, making no move to step aside. “What is it?”
“I came to see Munira. And you.”
An emotion akin to irritation, but more edgy, crossed Saeb’s face. “Without calling?”
“Hana wants me to talk with her daughter. I was on my way home, and I realized that this is my window of opportunity.”
Saeb’s eyes hardened. “I lack your sense of urgency. It is not as if Munira’s leaving. As you know, we are prisoners of your government.”
“Munira’s certainly a prisoner. And I’m still standing in the hallway.” David kept his voice quiet. “You and I have some things to settle. As for Munira, if you want Hana to get an order giving her lawyer access to her daughter, I’ll be back. Or we can just talk now.”
A smile of disdain, summoned with apparent effort, flashed and vanished on Saeb’s face. “Such theatrics. But I suppose you’re tired.”
Grudgingly, Saeb admitted him. Glancing about the starkliving room, David looked for Munira and saw no one. He took a chair without invitation.
Saeb hesitated, then sat on the edge of the couch across from him. “Hana will be testifying,” David said bluntly. “I want Munira to be there. Professing maternal devotion to a girl the jurors have never seen is no longer an option.”
Saeb shook his head. “This is too much stress for her.”
“More than a dead mother? I don’t see Munira as quite so fragile.”
Saeb gave David a long, appraising look. “And if I refuse?”
“I already told you.” David still spoke quietly. “I’m not here to ask your permission. I came to take Munira to dinner and tell her what to expect. Alone.”
The corners of Saeb’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though he was sensing a change in the balance between them. “Hana’s on trial. Her needs are paramount, I agree. But it is not for her lawyer to bark orders at me about our daughter.”
David inclined his head toward the bedrooms. “I count three doors in that hallway. You can make me open them all, or you can get Munira yourself. I’ve got no more time to spend with you.”
Saeb hesitated and then smiled, a belated effort to evince superiority. “As I said, such theatrics. But soon this will be over, and you and I will part company, as will you and Munira. So enjoy your little moment of transitory power.”
Stiffly, Saeb stood, walking past David to the hallway. David did not look over his shoulder; he heard Saeb, speaking in Arabic, then the light voice of his daughter. Only when a door opened did David turn.
Munira stood beside Saeb, glancing in confusion at David, still a girl at the beginning of her emergence into womanhood. But the alteration David saw in her was more than the passage of weeks, and it was all he could do not to show this on his face. With a penetrant gaze, Saeb looked from Munira to David. “I’ve explained to Munira why you’ve come,” Saeb said. “So take her. You and I will discuss this later.”
Side by side, they walked five blocks to the Elite Café, where David could secure a private booth—a lawyer in his business suit, an Arab girl in a dark head scarf and abaya. Recognizing David, the hostess ushered them to a table, with a curious look at Munira.
The girl sat across from him, carefully rearranging the folds of her clothing with graceful fingers. “You came to talk about my mother,” Munira said worriedly. “Is
she all right?”
David nodded, clinging to his role as lawyer. “She’s testifying soon. I know, and you know, how important you are to her. I’d like the jurors to see for themselves how important she is to you.”
Munira looked at him from beneath dark lashes. “You wish me to be in court?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will be, no matter what he says. I could not stand to lose her.”
She spoke the words with such intensity that David’s heart went out to her. David imagined her sleepless nights and anxious days, cocooned from the world in a place that held nothing of her own, not even the person David was now certain Munira loved most. “Good,” he said. “That will really help her.”
Munira nodded gravely. Their waiter came, dispensing menus. “Take a look,” David suggested. “You could probably use something to eat.”
As Munira considered the Cajun offerings of the menu, David studied her without embarrassment. A few moments of this changed his earlier assessment: she would be beautiful, he decided, merely in a different way from Hana, the lines of her face stronger and more chiseled, her eyes less limpid but flashing with intelligence. Still scanning the menu, Munira put a curled middle finger to her lips and rested her index finger on her cheek, and David knew at once where this mannerism had come from. It was his mother, to the life.
David felt as if his heart had skipped a beat. You’re my daughter, he wanted to say. Don’t you feel it? Looking up at him, Munira asked, “What is blackened catfish?”
David managed to smile. “I’m not sure you want to know, Munira. How do you feel about spicy seafood?”
He knew nothing, of course, about what his daughter liked or disliked—except, perhaps, Jews. “At home,” Munira informed him, “we eat many spicy things.”
“Then maybe you should try the gumbo.”
Taking their order, the waitress bought David coffee. Munira gazed at the porcelain cup in front of him. “Whenever I see a coffee cup,” she said softly, “I remember my grandfather’s parents, leaving their teacups on the table when they ran away from the Zionists. They thought they would be back soon.”
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