Exile: a novel

by Richard North Patterson

  David forced himself to maintain a calm he did not feel. “With respect, Your Honor, that’s not the case. I didn’t know Khalid wasn’t Munira’s father until five days ago, nor until two days ago that I was her father. There are witnesses in Israel and San Francisco who can confirm that. If I had known any sooner, you’d have known. And if I’d have known before the trial, I wouldn’t be Hana’s lawyer.

  “But I am. And now you know. This trial is Khalid’s contrivance—an elaborate honor killing, and his revenge on Hana and me. That’s his motive—”

  “Then you’re a witness,” Sharpe cut in.

  “I don’t think so,” David said. “What’s relevant here is that Khalid knows he’s not Munira’s father, not who her father is.”

  “Your Honor,” Sharpe protested. “Mr. Wolfe witnessed the assassination of Ben-Aron. Now we know he had an affair with the defendant, and that he’s offering their daughter as his lover’s chief defense. How much more entangled with the facts does he have to be? The idea of him cross-examining the man he cuckolded is absolutely grotesque.”

  “If entertaining,” the judge said grimly. Turning to David, she said, “How, if I may ask, do you propose to manage that?”

  “The way I would if Hana and I were strangers to each other. The prosecutor is asserting that I shouldn’t be allowed to do this. But if Hana still wants me as her lawyer—which she does—then the real question is whether I’m competent to finish the job. Does my work so far raise any doubts about that?”

  Taylor’s face clouded with doubt. After a long silence, she turned to Sharpe. “I’m at least as unhappy about Mr. Wolfe’s disclosure as you are. But do you really want a mistrial? I can’t give you one without stating why, which would only warn Khalid. You’d be better off dismissing the case against his wife.”

  Sharpe frowned. “Without an explanation or a clearer basis in fact? I don’t believe the government’s prepared to do that.”

  “Then the truth might be better served by letting Mr. Wolfe have at his friend Khalid. I recognize what a mess this is. But isn’t the ultimate point not only whether Arif is guilty but who else was involved in the murder of Amos Ben-Aron?”

  Narrow-eyed, Sharpe seemed to contemplate a spot on Taylor’s desk. “No response?” the judge asked. “Then here’s what I’m going to do.

  “I’m recessing the trial for twenty-four hours, in order to give the government time to consider whether to appeal my ruling. The ruling is this: I’m going to let Mr. Wolfe remain on the case and call Saeb Khalid as a witness. Khalid may invoke the Fifth Amendment. If so, we’ll deal with that; if not, we all may be enlightened.” Turning to David, the judge continued, “As for Munira Khalid, I will instruct the U.S. Marshal’s Office to place her in protective custody on the grounds that the court has received confidential information regarding her safety. Given her gender, age, and background, the personnel protecting her should be women.”

  David felt a rush of relief. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Taylor regarded him closely. “It occurs to me to wonder, Mr. Wolfe, whether Munira knows that Khalid is not her father. Or that you are.”

  The question sobered David at once. “She doesn’t know any of that, Your Honor.”

  “Then I hope there’s some better way for her to find out than in the middle of her mother’s trial. I trust you’ve given that some thought.”

  “I have. But I can’t predict where my questioning of Khalid may have to go. All I know for sure is that I’m grateful Munira won’t be there to watch.”

  “So am I, Mr. Wolfe.” Sternly, Taylor added, “If Ms. Sharpe decides we should proceed, do your best. Because you’re not coming back for any retrial. This will be your one and only shot at Saeb Khalid.”

  By the next morning, the government had determined not to appeal Judge Taylor’s ruling; the United States Marshal had sequestered Munira Khalid in an undisclosed hotel room; and an angry Saeb Khalid, served with a subpoena to appear as a witness for his wife, was standing before the judge.

  Taylor had cleared the courtroom, ensuring that neither the jury nor the media could hear what would transpire. Aside from Sharpe and David, each standing to one side of Saeb, the only others present were the judge’s deputy, a court reporter, and two security guards from the marshal’s office. If Saeb was frightened, he did not let this show; he addressed Taylor with a clipped and angry precision. “What you call ‘protective custody,’ ” he told her, “is nothing more than kidnapping under the color of law. Tell me how you justify the seizure of my daughter.”

  The phrase “my daughter” caused no change in Taylor’s expression. “The court has information,” she answered, “suggesting that Munira’s life may be in danger. That fact, combined with Mr. Wolfe’s indication that he may call her as a witness in her mother’s defense, has caused us to take this temporary measure. If you wish similar protection, you will have it. If you wish to challenge my order, I’m prepared to have a hearing directly after your testimony concludes, or as soon thereafter as you’ve retained a lawyer. Suffice it to say that I did not take this action lightly, and regret having to do so at all.”

  Saeb shot a sideways glance toward David, at once questioning and furious. “I don’t know how Mr. Wolfe has justified this,” he told the judge, “but he did not come to me seeking to protect my daughter. How can you usurp the rights of a father on the word of a lawyer? What kind of system is this?”

  Taylor’s swift glance at David suggested that they shared a common thought—that whatever Saeb suspected, he did not yet perceive that David, or the court, knew of Munira’s paternity. To Saeb, she answered, “A fair one, I hope.”

  Clearly uncertain about how to proceed, Saeb glanced at Sharpe as though seeking her intervention. When Sharpe said nothing, he straightened, standing taller despite his frailty, his eyes alive with the defiance of someone who feels trapped. “I would like for Mr. Wolfe to state the grounds on which he calls me as a witness, and arranges the abduction of my daughter.”

  In other words, David thought, you want me to reveal the traps you may be facing. “Mr. Wolfe,” the judge answered, “has represented to the court that he believes your testimony can help him exculpate Ms. Arif. But he isn’t required to spell out in advance his line of examination. If you wish to retain counsel to challenge the subpoena or to advise you about your rights as a prospective witness, I’ll recess the trial to allow you time for that.”

  Saeb glanced at David, then rearranged his features for Judge Taylor, adopting the puzzled look of a layperson at the mysteries of law. “Isn’t there a marital privilege? And wouldn’t my testimony violate that?”

  The judge regarded him with the same air of patience. “The marital privilege, Dr. Khalid, exists to prevent one spouse from having to testify against the other. But the privilege can be waived by the subject of the testimony—in this case, Ms. Arif. Your wife has waived the privilege, freeing you to testify.” The briefest of smiles crossed Taylor’s face. “Mr. Wolfe assures me that his questions are not intended to damage his own client. Nonetheless, if you have questions about the marital privilege, you’re free to consult counsel before Mr. Wolfe attempts to enlist you in his effort to exonerate your wife.”

  The last comment, mordant beneath its seeming neutrality, left Saeb without a response. “The other privilege to consider,” the judge continued, “is that which protects a witness from giving testimony that may tend to incriminate him. Obviously, I can’t anticipate what you might say under oath, or advise you concerning the risks of testifying, if any. But your own lawyer could, and I can fund one at the government’s expense. If you need the advice of counsel before facing off with Mr. Wolfe, please say so.”

  Again the judge’s remarks, while legally impeccable, contained a witch’s shaft directed at Saeb’s pride. Any doubt that Taylor wanted Saeb to testify had vanished: she had always wanted the truth, and now she had a chance to get at it. Eyes glinting, Saeb responded, “I need no protection from Mr. Wolfe. A
nd I am more than ready to protect my wife, no matter how peculiar her lawyer’s stratagems may be.”

  Sharpe, David saw, had a curious expression—nettled that the trial was slipping out of her control; intrigued by what might be about to happen. Conscious of the record, the judge asked Saeb, “Are you absolutely certain about that?”

  Saeb folded his arms. “Of course.”

  To one side, the court reporter entered Saeb’s answer. “Very well,” the judge told him. “If at any time during the questioning you wish to consult a lawyer or invoke your privilege against self-incrimination, please advise the court and we’ll adjourn the proceedings at once. Do you understand that, Dr. Khalid?”

  A flicker of disquiet crossed Saeb’s face as if, rather than reassuring him, the judge’s warnings felt like a trap, binding him to a confrontation with David Wolfe. “I understand,” Saeb answered with less assurance than before. The court stenographer could record only his words, not his air of ambivalence. And this was enough for Judge Taylor.

  “Open the doors,” the judge said to her courtroom deputy, “and bring in the defendant. Then Mr. Wolfe can call Dr. Khalid.”

  Saeb turned to David, a bitter smile playing on his lips. Though neither had known it, David thought, this moment had been coming for thirteen years. Staring back at Saeb, he could almost feel his own pulse rate lowering, a deliberate coolness seeping through his brain and body.

  A marshal brought in Hana. She stopped, looking from her husband to David. Then she walked to the defense table, eyes straight ahead, as though fearing to deepen the psychic disturbance that seemed to permeate the courtroom. The doors opened, and the waiting crowd pushed into the courtroom. Among them, as David expected and intended, was Avi Hertz, guardian of the interests of the State of Israel.

  17

  The first moments of testimony involved the usual preliminaries: Saeb’s name, profession, and residence; his relationship to Hana and, ostensibly, to Munira. David’s tone was pleasant, that of a considerate host introducing his guest to an unfamiliar environment. But the jury, remembering Hana’s testimony regarding the marriage, seemed to watch the two men almost as closely as Saeb watched David’s eyes.

  Stay cool, David reminded himself. But he felt more than cool; he felt a cold, concealed anger, the visceral need to protect Hana and Munira from the man who sat ten feet away. He could only hope that this emotion served them well.

  “I’d like to begin,” David said, “by discussing the prosecution’s evidence against your wife. It includes a piece of paper on which someone typed Hana’s cell phone number, and which bears her fingerprints and those of Iyad Hassan. Are you familiar with the telephone number shown on that piece of paper?”

  “Of course,” Saeb said. “It is Hana’s number.”

  “How long have you been familiar with the number?”

  “Since Hana bought the cell phone, as she said.”

  “And you also had access to her office.”

  “The same access as anyone,” Saeb answered with a shrug.

  “So, in theory, you could have taken the paper from her office.”

  “True,” Saeb said mildly. “And also paper she used at home, to spare you the trouble of asking that.”

  “Thank you. So I assume that, also in theory, you could have typed her telephone number on the paper and given it to Iyad Hassan.”

  Saeb gave him a tolerant smile. “In theory, yes. That’s one of the problems with this piece of evidence. Anyone could have ginned it up.”

  In the areas he could anticipate, David perceived, Saeb would prove to be an adroit witness, adopting the role of David’s partner in a common effort to raise doubts on his wife’s behalf. In the same pleasant tone, David asked, “You also had access to Hana’s phone itself, did you not?”

  Saeb nodded. “In the sense that we live together. I recall borrowing it on one or two occasions when my own phone needed recharging. Munira did the same, I believe. As Hana noted, our daughter sometimes loses things.”

  This, too, was clever—anticipating David, Saeb was trying to create an alternative user of Hana’s cell phone. “Are you suggesting,” David inquired, “that on June 15 Munira took an early morning call from Iyad Hassan?”

  “I suggest nothing. I don’t know what that telephone call is about— who received it, or who placed it.”

  “But again, in theory, you could have removed the cell phone from Hana’s purse while she was sleeping, gone into the bathroom, taken a call from Hassan, and left the phone on long enough to create the impression of a conversation.”

  Saeb looked at the ceiling with an air of bewilderment, as though trying to follow the convolutions of David Wolfe’s imagination. “I suppose I could have,” he conceded in an agreeable tone. “Where I get lost is why I would do such an insidious but clumsy thing. Let alone to Hana.”

  During the first moments of questioning, David had not moved from his post beside the defense table. “Why indeed? By the way, you also brought your own cell phone to San Francisco, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that cell phone, like Hana’s, had international cell phone service and the 972 country code used by Israel and the Occupied Territories.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you turned that cell phone over to the FBI when Hana was arrested, true?”

  “True.” Saeb conjured a weary smile. “I had to get a new one at my own expense. Your FBI does not issue replacements.”

  David paused, hands on hips. “Prior to the time that the FBI impounded your phone, did you have another cell phone in your possession?”

  Saeb’s eyes narrowed slightly. But he did not seem perturbed; the FBI had asked him the same question. “Not that I recall,” he answered. “At least in San Francisco.”

  “You don’t recall having a phone with the 415 area code for San Francisco?”

  Saeb spread his hands, his expression as matter-of-fact as his tone. “No.”

  On the bench, Taylor leaned forward, drawn by the spectacle of a witness perched on the edge of a trap. “Can you think of any reason,” David asked, “for you to use a cell phone in San Francisco with service that did not allow you to call home?”

  Saeb shook his head, still appearing perplexed. “No. None.”

  His answers, David noted, were becoming less expansive. “So you didn’t buy such a phone while you were here, for cash?”

  “No.” Saeb allowed a note of annoyance to creep into his voice. “Like any experienced traveler, I do not stuff my wallet with cash. For that reason alone, I would not buy a cell phone in this fashion.”

  This, David believed, was true: this cell phone, like those planted for Hassan, had been bought by someone else. For the moment, Saeb could feel safe; only he knew where he had discarded the cell phone, and no one could ever trace it to him. “So just to nail this down,” David said, “you’re absolutely confident that, while in San Francisco, you never possessed a cell phone with the number (415) 669-3666?”

  Saeb could give only one answer. “That is not a number I recognize,” he said brusquely. “Nor do your prior questions spur even a glimmer of recollection.”

  For the first time, David stepped forward. “While you were in San Francisco, Dr. Khalid, did Munira ever borrow your cell phone?”

  Ever so slightly, Saeb blanched, a moment that passed so quickly that had David not been looking, he might have missed it altogether. “I can’t recall.”

  Moving a step closer to Saeb, David felt Sharpe and the jury watching—the prosecutor knowing, and the jury sensing, that the dynamic between witness and interrogator was changing. “Let me be more specific,” David said evenly. “On the day before the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron, did you become angry with Munira because you found her with a cell phone she had taken from the pocket of your coat?”

  Saeb’s eyes widened. With a certain savage pleasure, David watched a series of realizations flash through his antagonist’s mind: that Munira had betrayed him to David; that hi
s previous answers, far from being safe, might be demonstrably false; that David meant to expose him on the witness stand. And then he took the only escape route he could find, the one David had left open to him. His brows knit, Saeb impersonated a witness straining to remember. “I seem to recall that something like this happened. But so much has happened to us, and there have been so many shocks. When your wife is on trial for murder, such incidents as you describe recede in memory.”

  David nodded. “Do you remember taking your cell phone back from Munira?”

  Saeb touched his temples. “Perhaps. But this is very vague.”

  “What cell phone would that have been, Dr. Khalid?”

  Saeb flinched. At this moment, Sharpe could have objected—there was arguably no foundation for David’s question. But Sharpe was silent; perhaps she was certain, as was David, that Taylor meant for him to have all the leeway he required. Slowly, Saeb said, “You are asking me to speculate about what is, at most, a vestigial recollection. But it could have only been the cell phone confiscated by the FBI.” He paused, then seemingly chose to take a gamble. “If Munira used it, that would no doubt show up on the phone itself, or on our phone records. But I seem to recall Munira saying she had not used it.”

  David smiled, his eyes fixed on Saeb. “Did you believe her?”

  The question jolted Saeb more visibly than any other; he seemed to shrink back on the stand, his frame twisting slightly. David could imagine his thoughts: years ago Hana had deceived him, and now, perhaps, so had Munira. “Of course,” Saeb answered, his voice hollow. “We raised our daughter to be truthful.”

  “Kids,” David said softly. “You just never know. Suppose I told you that Munira called her friend Yasmin Al-Shanty on the phone she took from you, and that Yasmin called her back. If the telephone used by Munira is not the one confiscated from you by the FBI, how would you explain that?”

  Saeb stared at him. “I can’t.”