Exile: a novel

by Richard North Patterson

  “Thank you,” David said. “No further questions.”

  During the ten-minute recess before Sharpe’s cross-examination, David looked vainly for his secretary, hoping that she had come with phone records retrieved by Yasmin’s mother. At the prosecution table, Sharpe methodically scribbled notes, oblivious to the three members of a family that was slowly being torn apart. David gazed at each of them: Hana sat lost in her own thoughts; Saeb stared fixedly at the floor; Munira, looking worried and unhappy, sat perhaps a little farther from the man she still believed to be her father.

  When the recess ended, Sharpe was quickly on her feet. “Do you believe, Ms. Arif, that Palestinians have the right to kill Israelis?”

  Hana and David had prepared for this. “In the past,” Hana answered, “I said that we were entitled to kill those who occupied our land—soldiers, not civilians. But I no longer say such things, or believe them. My daughter has seen too much death.”

  “Yet you quit the negotiating team that tries to work out disputes with Israel.”

  “Yes.”

  “And at the time you called the Israelis in general—and Amos Ben-Aron in particular—thieves and liars.”

  Hana appraised Sharpe calmly. “I said much more than that, actually. I also said that the security fence was cover for stealing land and water, and that Amos Ben-Aron was a pious hypocrite, not some saintly dove of peace. And I meant every word. But words are not bombs.” Her voice acquired a tinge of sarcasm. “If you imprisoned Palestinians for angry words, as the Israelis sometimes do, the IDF would have no one to harass at checkpoints. All of us would be prisoners.”

  Easy, David counseled her mentally. Sharpe favored Hana with a skeptical smile. “So tell me, Ms. Arif, just who is it that inflicted this terrible injustice by fabricating evidence against you?”

  “As I said,” Hana answered, “I don’t know. Being innocent means that I can’t know who is guilty.”

  “Does it? You have no idea whatsoever how you might have provoked such loathing, or in whom?”

  David did not look at Saeb or Munira. On the witness stand, Hana shifted, appearing fretful. “I suppose there must be those who hate me. But as to who did this, I can’t tell you.”

  “Of the nameless people who hate you, how many have access to your office or your cell phone?”

  Hana gave a helpless shrug. “As I say, I have no information about this.”

  “Did your daughter frame you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You don’t think she had a motive?”

  Hana composed herself. “That is not a serious question. Munira is twelve years old. Our quarrels are about her homework, and the careless way she sometimes loses things.”

  Softly, Sharpe said, “I guess that leaves your husband.”

  Hana began to speak, then did not. “What do you mean?” she finally asked.

  Briefly, Sharpe smiled as if at the feebleness of this response. “Let me spell it out for you. Your only explanation for the physical evidence against you is that you were framed. Yet you admit that no one had your cell phone number but your husband and your daughter—”

  “As far as I know,” Hana protested.

  “Asfar as you know,” Sharpe echoed disdainfully. “So aren’t you saying that, as far as you know, you were framed by your own husband?”

  Hana gazed at Saeb and Munira, her tension palpable; David had brought her to the brink of an accusation, and now Sharpe had called their bluff. “I would like to think,” Hana temporized, “that our marital disappointments have not gone quite that far.”

  “I don’t care what you ‘would like to think,’ ” Sharpe snapped. “I care about the physical evidence: a telephone number, a set of fingerprints, and a telephone call. You claim that they were planted. By whom if not your husband?”

  Hana looked away. “I don’t know how this happened. I can’t say who did this.”

  “Your husband obviously.” Sharpe paused, as if struck by a new thought. “Oh, and Iyad Hassan. Did Hassan hate you, too?”

  “I don’t know how he could have. As I have said, I never met him.”

  “Then why did he tell Ibrahim Jefar that you’d recruited him to assassinate Amos Ben-Aron?”

  “I don’t know,” Hana insisted. “I don’t even know if Hassan said that to Jefar.”

  “In that case, can you tell me why your husband and two men you say you never met, Hassan and Jefar, all conspired to frame you?”

  For a moment, Hana seemed to stare into a void. Among the jurors, David saw, Bob Clair’s apparent sympathy was being replaced by a sharp-eyed look of skepticism. “I don’t know how this happened,” Hana repeated at last.

  Sharpe let Hana sit there a moment longer, an object lesson in evasion. “In that case,” she said dismissively, “I see no point in asking you anything more at all.”

  This last, gratuitous comment was beyond David’s power to repair. Wondering how to buttress Hana’s credibility on redirect without revealing Munira’s paternity, David glanced over his shoulder and saw his secretary holding a manila envelope.

  “Your Honor,” David said to the judge, “I request a ten-minute recess.”

  15

  Alone in the witness room, David spread the telephone records in front of him. To his relief, they listed all the long-distance calls placed to or from Yasmin’s cell phone. As Munira’s account had suggested, there were two such calls on June 14, minutes apart: the first, brief call to Yasmin’s phone was consistent with Munira leaving a message; the second call, from Yasmin’s phone, twenty-two minutes in duration, clearly reflected a conversation. Staring at the cell phone number of the person who’d originally called Yasmin—undoubtedly Munira—David felt an emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

  The number, (415) 669-3666, had a San Francisco area code. It was the number about which the FBI had interrogated Hana and Saeb; the number, David had learned since, of the cell phone used to warn Iyad Hassan that the route of Ben-Aron’s motorcade had changed from Tenth to Fourth Street. Though borrowed by Munira, the cell phone was Saeb’s, and it meant that Saeb Khalid—not his wife—might well have been the handler for Iyad Hassan.

  David tried to grasp the full dimensions of what he had just learned. Hillel Markis had probably leaked the change of route, and his call had likely been to Saeb. If true, this meant that Saeb must be connected to the ultimate authors of the plot, if only through an intermediary. This made it far more plausible that Hassan had lied to Jefar about the identity of his handler. With this fact, the credibility of the remaining evidence against Hana was tarnished; there was now far less reason for David to doubt Hana’s claim of innocence—and less need, save for a lawyer’s need for dispassion, to wall himself off from her.

  But one wrenching and unavoidable problem remained: all this, and Hana’s acquittal, rested on the memory of a twelve-year-old girl, an unwitting witness against the man she believed to be her father. Worse, this man might be, along with his unknown coconspirators, a threat to Munira’s life from the moment he learned what she had done. David was caught between two imperatives: to free Hana, and to save their daughter’s life.

  His ten-minute recess was up.

  David rushed to the courtroom, composing his thoughts as swiftly as he could.

  He did not have time to tell Hana anything. Nodding to Sharpe, who followed him, David approached the bench.

  “What is it?” Taylor asked with a touch of asperity.

  “I’d like to dismiss Ms. Arif from the stand, Your Honor, pending the right to recall her. Beyond that, I request that you extend the recess. I’ve just received a new piece of evidence, one that I believe may completely absolve my client.”

  “Then let’s hear about it, Counselor.”

  “I can’t discuss it yet. Not before I’ve spoken to my client.” At Taylor’s look of displeasure, David added quickly, “What I’ve learned, Your Honor, is deeply personal to Ms. Arif. With her permission, I’ll spell everything out in cham
bers. All I can tell you now is that this involves much more than the outcome of this trial—including a child’s life.”

  Taylor glanced at Sharpe. “Weren’t we just here?” the prosecutor asked with some annoyance. “Not twenty-four hours ago, Mr. Wolfe had important new information to discuss with Ms. Arif. All that followed was her appearance here to tell the same old story of mystification and victimhood.”

  The judge nodded. “Setting aside the characterization,” she told David, “what the prosecutor says is true enough.”

  David felt his stomach clench. “As an officer of the court,” he answered, “I promise you that this is not a ploy. If what I’ve learned isn’t handled responsibly among all of us—the defense, the prosecution, and the court— there may be consequences none of us would want to live with.”

  The judge considered him closely. “All right,” she said. “We’ll adjourn until nine a.m. tomorrow. At that time, we’ll either meet in chambers or finish out this trial. So make good use of your time with Ms. Arif.”

  In the witness room, Hana sat across from him. “I may owe you an apology,” David told her softly. “I just found some evidence that actually suggests you’re innocent.”

  Hana looked stunned. “How?”

  “Munira gave it to me.”

  Hana shook her head, as though trying to clear it. “The day before Ben-Aron was killed,” David said, “Munira borrowed Saeb’s cell phone. When he found out that she’d taken it, he was furious, even though Munira said she’d never used it. What he doesn’t know yet is that she lied to him: she’d already used it to call Yasmin Al-Shanty.” David covered Hana’s hand. “Saeb’s cell phone was the one used to call Iyad Hassan. Your husband is the handler, Hana. But only your daughter can prove it.”

  Hana closed her eyes. “All I would have to do,” David continued, “is have Munira tell the jury her story, and then introduce Yasmin’s phone records. But in Munira’s mind, that would require her to betray her father in order to save her mother.

  “That’s not the worst of it. Everyone I’ve located who could have helped me unravel this plot has been killed—Lev and Markis, I’m sure, by the people who designed this conspiracy.” David drew a breath. “I’ve come to think that Saeb hates Munira as much as he hates you. Even more, perhaps, because he looks at her and imagines us together. Once he discovers the rest, I’m not sure that anything would stop him—or them.”

  Hana stared at him, eyes widening with anguish. “We need to protect her, David. How can I let her testify? Even if Munira isn’t killed, we’d have traumatized her for life, causing her to hate herself; and to hate you and me for putting her on the witness stand. I can’t betray her like this.”

  “We’re talking about my daughter, too.” David softened his tone. “I won’t let you die, Hana. And I won’t risk putting our daughter in the hands of someone who may kill her. I mean to postpone this reckoning for a day or two and try to find another way out.”

  “How?”

  “By asking the judge to put Munira in protective custody, and then calling Saeb as a witness.”

  Tears ran down Hana’s face. “You would ask him about Munira?”

  “Only if it’s necessary,” David said. “But I’ll do whatever I have to. Thirteen years and four warped lives is enough. If I can end this thing with Saeb, so much the better.”

  16

  After a telephone call to Judge Taylor, followed by a night of broken sleep, David appeared with Marnie Sharpe in the judge’s private office. Taylor sat behind her desk, looking expectantly toward David. “You asked for this party, Mr. Wolfe. Just what do you have for us?”

  Reaching into his briefcase, David handed Sharpe and Taylor copies of Yasmin Al-Shanty’s cell phone records with the two critical calls circled in red ink. “This is the record of a call placed by Munira Khalid to a friend in Washington, and the friend’s call to Munira. Ms. Sharpe should recognize the number of the cell phone Munira used.”

  Taking out her half-glasses, Sharpe looked for the number and then, finding it, stared fixedly at the paper. Looking up at Taylor, she said slowly, “It’s the cell phone used to call Iyad Hassan.”

  Taylor shot a look of surprise at David. “You can explain this, I suppose.”

  “Munira can. She ‘borrowed’ this cell phone from Saeb Khalid without his knowledge. When he found her with it, he exploded, and then badgered her about whether she’d used it. Fortunately, she lied.” David looked from the judge to Sharpe. “I assume I don’t have to spell out the rest.”

  Sharpe willed her features to be expressionless, her tone flat. “How do you know all this?”

  “Munira told me. But she doesn’t understand what any of it means. Let alone that she’s become her mother’s principal witness.”

  Sharpe shook her head emphatically. “This doesn’t magically make your client innocent. At most, it suggests that her husband is a coconspirator.”

  The judge turned toward David. “If Saeb’s the handler,” she told Sharpe, “then Hassan was lying to Jefar. Which suggests that Khalid typed Hana’s cell phone number on the slip of paper and took Hana’s cell phone from her purse, enabling Hassan to place his midnight call—”

  “That doesn’t follow,” Sharpe interrupted tersely. “The case against your client is independent of any case against her husband. Both of them could have been the handlers, operating together.”

  “You heard Hana’s testimony. The two of them can barely stand each other.”

  “The two of them,” Sharpe rejoined, “could be gifted actors, with you their unwitting impresario. If you’re angling for me to dismiss this case, forget it.”

  David turned to Taylor. Slowly, the judge shook her head. “I can’t terminate this trial, Mr. Wolfe. Not without more than you’ve given me.”

  “Then at least take Munira Khalid into protective custody. Two potential witnesses have been murdered in Israel. Unless Munira’s safe, I can’t put Khalid on the witness stand. And that’s what the prosecution is forcing me to do.” Facing Sharpe, he added pointedly, “Unless the government of Israel has other ideas. I don’t intend my questioning to be constrained by the national security concerns of either government.”

  “So we’re back to blackmail.”

  “That’s getting pretty tired, Marnie. A member of Ben-Aron’s protective detail—probably Markis—seems to have called Khalid. And Khalid may be in bed with Hamas or the Iranians. Maybe both. As a prosecutor, I’d think you’d at least be curious; as Hana’s lawyer, I believe that I’m entitled to ask the questions.”

  “You are,” Taylor said, turning to Sharpe. “Unless, Ms. Sharpe, you want me to certify an immediate appeal to the circuit court. All I can tell you is that I won’t hogtie Mr. Wolfe, and I don’t think the court of appeals will, either. But I can recess the trial, if you want, and let you find that out for yourself.”

  Sharpe hesitated, her expression sour. “There are people in Washington I have to consult, and people in Israel they may want to consult. As Mr. Wolfe well knows, this raises complications.”

  “Mr. Wolfe,” the judge said with a slight smile, “knows that very well. But that still leaves the question of what to do with Munira Khalid. As I understand your request, Mr. Wolfe, you want me to dispatch federal marshals to collect your client’s daughter before her father knows what’s about to happen to him—which, I must say, is a rather extraordinary thing for me to do. Are you telling me that Khalid might murder his own daughter?”

  David paused, considering for a final moment whether to reveal a more incendiary truth. But he had little choice. “There’s another reason to worry,” he said in the calmest tone he could muster. “It bears on Munira’s safety and on Ms. Sharpe’s suspicion that, rather than being framed by Khalid, Hana is in collusion with him. All I can request of the government and the court is to keep this confidential unless it has to come out in open testimony.”

  The judge frowned. “Unless I know what it is, I can’t make any promises, and
I doubt Ms. Sharpe can either. So you’ll have to trust our judgment, or keep whatever it is to yourself.”

  Reluctantly, David nodded. Then he handed Sharpe and Taylor copies of a three-page document. Quickly, Taylor scanned it. “What is this, exactly?”

  “A DNA test requested by Saeb Khalid, based on three hair samples he submitted to a lab in Tel Aviv. What it shows is that Khalid is not Munira’s father, and that he knows it.”

  Tight-lipped, Sharpe studied the report. “The samples aren’t identified. How do you know that Khalid is sample A?”

  “Because there’s one more test,” David answered, and gave both women copies of the DNA analysis performed by Diablo Labs. “This completes the picture.”

  Taylor read the report closely. Finishing, she looked up at David, eyebrows raised. “So who is sample D, the father?”

  “I am.”

  The judge sat back, her face hardening as she stared at David. “You’re not joking, are you?”

  “No,” David answered quietly. “I’m not joking.”

  “My God,” Sharpe burst out. “You took the case because Arif and you were lovers. You’ve been playing games with the government and this court, covering up the truth—”

  “Wait a minute,” David snapped. “I don’t owe you an accounting of my personal life, or my reasons for defending Hana. Or Hana’s reasons for asking me to.” Facing the judge, he said. “If I were Hana’s husband, she could hire me to be her lawyer. There’s no ethical rule that bars me from trying to prevent her execution.”

  “There might be,” the judge retorted angrily, “if your illegitimate daughter was a potential motive for Khalid to frame his wife. That makes you a witness in your client’s defense, barred from acting as her lawyer.” The judge’s voice rose. “I can’t believe this—you’ve planted a potential mistrial at the heart of Arif ’s defense, knowing you could blow up the whole damned trial anytime you pleased. To call that unethical is to be polite. Lawyers lose their licenses for less than this.”