Exile: a novel

by Richard North Patterson

  “Then let me ask the question in another way. How would you explain it if the cell phone used by Munira had the number (415) 669-3666?”

  In the jury box, Bob Clair leaned forward against the railing as though he did not wish to miss even the slightest change in expression. “I can’t answer these hypotheticals,” Saeb parried. “Your questions are phrased so as to disguise the truth beneath a smokescreen of assumptions—”

  “Not assumptions,” David cut in. “Facts. Yasmin’s mother can identify cell phone records showing calls to and from Yasmin involving the number (415) 669-3666. It’s also a fact that (415) 669-3666 is the cell phone number used to call Iyad Hassan ten minutes before the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron. My question is why that phone was in the pocket of your coat one day before Hassan blew up Ben-Aron.”

  Saeb glanced around the courtroom, and then his eyes lit on Hana. “Perhaps the telephone was Hana’s, not mine.”

  “How gallant,” David said coldly. “Are you now suggesting that Hana stole it from your coat pocket?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Wolfe. I no longer know what to think.”

  David stood straighter. “On the morning of the assassination, Dr. Khalid, did you receive a telephone call informing you that the route of Ben-Aron’s motorcade had changed?”

  “No.”

  “Did you call Iyad Hassan to tell him that the route had changed?”

  “Of course not,” Saeb shot back. “I was with Munira. It was Hana who was alone.”

  This was true, and it deepened David’s dilemma: if Munira was Saeb’s alibi for the day of the assassination, only testimony from Munira could refute this. Saeb sat straighter, as though sensing that at least in this area, David had no angle of attack. Gazing at the witness with an unimpressed half smile, David asked, “So you know absolutely nothing about who planned the assassination, how it was executed, or who helped carry it out.”

  “That’s correct,” Saeb answered firmly.

  “And you had no reason whatsoever to try to bring about a prosecution that could result in Hana’s execution or imprisonment.”

  For an instant, Saeb glanced toward Hana, then responded with a mixture of scorn and bemusement. “This is the stuff of fantasies. Disagreements about child raising are no basis for your baroque attempt to slander me in the interests of my wife.

  “Am I sorry that Amos Ben-Aron is dead? In candor, not particularly. Am I sorry that Hana is charged for this crime? Very much. But I can no more explain that than anything else about this devious plot.”

  Saeb was regaining confidence, David saw; the shock of Yasmin’s phone records was receding, replaced by the hope that this was David’s only weapon. Abruptly, David asked, “Do you have a heart condition, Professor Khalid?”

  A brief glimmer of uncertainty passed through Saeb’s eyes. “Yes,” he answered. “My heart is congenitally weak. My condition also includes arrhythmia, which, under extreme conditions, could cause my heart to stop beating.”

  “And what is the course of treatment?”

  “I take medication. And, of course, I have a cardiologist.”

  David saw the judge’s expectant glance and expressions of puzzlement on several of the jurors’ faces. “In Amman, Jordan?” David asked.

  Saeb gave David a look of offended dignity that did not quite conceal his unease. “I fail to see why my cardiac misfortunes should be of interest to anyone but me. However, yes—I have visited several times in the last three years with a specialist in Amman, Dr. Abdullah Aziz.”

  “How many times have you visited Dr. Aziz?”

  “Several. I have not kept a running count.”

  “If I said that there were five such visits in the last three years, would you dispute this?”

  Saeb shrugged. “I can neither dispute it nor confirm it.”

  “Can you tell me, at least, how long these appointments lasted?”

  “I did not time them. Always with doctors, one waits.”

  “But if I tell you that the medical records of these visits show that each trip to Amman shows a single visit to Dr. Aziz, you would have no reason to dispute this?”

  Now Saeb looked distinctly guarded, as though recalculating the dangers he was facing. At the edge of his vision, David spotted Avi Hertz watching Saeb with a jeweler’s eye. “I’ve never seen my doctor’s records,” Saeb finally answered. “Frankly, I would have thought them confidential—”

  “Did any of your appointments,” David interrupted, “last more than one day?”

  Saeb hesitated. “I think not.”

  “And yet your passport shows that your trips involved a minimum of three days in Jordan and, on one occasion, seven days away from the West Bank.”

  Saeb summoned a condescending smile. “Which tells you what? Perhaps that it is pleasant to be free of Israeli occupation. It is the only upside of my medical condition.”

  “So what do you do in Amman when you’re not visiting with Dr. Aziz?”

  “What anyone would do. See the sights, eat in restaurants, wander and observe the people. Experience what it is to be in a place that, whatever its defects, is at least under the governance of Arabs.”

  “Did you ever meet with representatives of any foreign government?”

  “I met many people. I do not always remember to ask who their employers are.”

  “Is that a yes, Dr. Khalid? Or a no?”

  “Neither.” Saeb bristled slightly. “It is an ‘I don’t know’ and an ‘I don’t remember.’ Why don’t you just dismiss me, so you can testify yourself?”

  “Oh, I’m sure there must be some question you can answer. For example, during one of your trips to Amman, did you travel to Tehran, the capital of Iran?”

  Marnie Sharpe, David saw, leaned slightly forward at the question. “Yes,” Saeb said stiffly. “I did not know this was a crime.”

  “What did you do while in Iran?”

  “I was anxious to see life in an Islamic state, so different from life in a Jewish colony. I recall a pleasant dinner at the home of an Iranian professor.”

  “While you were there, Professor Khalid, did you meet with any representatives of the Iranian government?”

  “Not intentionally. Perhaps at the dinner. But I cannot recall.”

  “Let’s be more specific, then. Did you meet with anyone employed by Iranian intelligence?”

  Sharpe stirred, as though considering an objection, and then said nothing. “If I did,” Saeb said with an edge of scorn, “they did not announce their affiliation, any more than America’s intelligence agents have ‘CIA’ monogrammed on their shirt pockets. I cannot see what these questions have to do with the charges against my wife—”

  “While you were in Tehran,” David cut in, “who paid for your hotel room?”

  “I did, of course.”

  “And during your trips to Amman, who paid your hotel bills at the Intercontinental?”

  Once more, Saeb hesitated. “Again, I did.”

  “How did you pay?”

  Saeb turned to the judge, palms upraised, as if to ask whether he must answer such foolish questions. When Taylor’s expression did not change, Saeb turned back to David and said, “I really can’t remember.”

  “If I told you that you paid each bill in cash, would you dispute that?”

  “I dispute nothing,” Saeb answered in a clipped voice. “I confirm nothing. Nothing about this is important.”

  “Really? Then let me quote an answer you gave earlier this morning: ‘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.’ Do you remember making that statement?”

  “Of course.”

  “So what about a nine-hundred-and-thirty-dollar hotel bill paid two weeks before the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron. Did you pay that bill in cash?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “How could you have paid in cash if you dislike carrying cash?”

  Saeb’s voice
rose. “I don’t recall my thought processes.”

  “That was less than six months ago, Dr. Khalid. Do you at least recall whether that cash was given to you by the representative of a foreign government?”

  “Of course not.” Saeb paused, then added, “At least as far as I know.”

  “So you do recall that someone gave you cash to pay that bill?”

  In the jury box, Ardelle Washington looked intrigued; though she could not know what David’s questions portended, Saeb’s growing agitation suggested their importance. Biting off each word, he said, “I do not recall anything specific.”

  David felt his heart beat faster. “You don’t recall whether you got this cash from your bank account or from an outside source?”

  “No.”

  “But if you got it from your bank, its records would show that, correct?”

  A hint of panic surfaced in Saeb’s eyes. In that moment, David saw that for the first time his antagonist feared that—as with Barak Lev and Hillel Markis—David Wolfe might bring about his death. His tone less assured, Saeb said, “I cannot tell you the state of my bank records.”

  “Do you still deny that someone else gave you cash to pay for your hotel room?”

  “As before, I’m neither confirming nor denying.” Saeb’s voice rose in challenge. “Are you suggesting that someone bribed me to implicate my own wife in the murder of Ben-Aron for the price of a hotel room in Amman?”

  David smiled briefly. “No, Dr. Khalid, I’m not suggesting that. Are you familiar with a concept called ‘honor killing’?”

  Saeb crossed his arms. “I do not know how such a question can possibly relate to this trial.”

  David moved closer. “I do. So does Ms. Sharpe, who, you’ll note, is not objecting. I’ll repeat the question: are you familiar with a concept called ‘honor killing’?”

  Saeb looked toward his wife, and then abruptly faced Judge Taylor, speaking in a tone that seemed more shrill than confident. “Must I respond to this nonsense?”

  “Yes,” Taylor answered evenly. “Unless you believe that the answer may tend to incriminate you. If so, I will give you the opportunity to consult with counsel.”

  Saeb stiffened, hands braced on the arms of the witness chair. Without responding to the judge, he spun on David, saying scornfully, “Yes, I am familiar with the concept of an ‘honor killing.’ ”

  “Under that concept, Dr. Khalid, is an Arab man entitled to kill a female relative who has brought dishonor to his family or to himself?”

  Saeb looked directly into David’s eyes. “Yes,” he said grudgingly. “Under that concept.”

  David moved still closer. “What kinds of behavior constitute dishonor?”

  Saeb shook his head. “This is too subjective,” he protested. “You are asking my opinion on what some generic proponent of honor killings might feel—”

  “No,” David interrupted, “I’m asking for your understanding of the traditional grounds for an honor killing. For example, is a man entitled to kill his wife for having sexual relations with another man?”

  Saeb’s eyes hardened. “I have heard of such things.”

  “Suppose,” David ventured in a tone of mild curiosity, “that the woman involved is only his fiancée. Is an Arab man entitled to kill his fiancée for having sexual relations with another man?”

  Saeb’s mouth opened, and his chest shuddered slightly. An awful suspicion crept into his eyes; David knew that Saeb knew about his affair with Hana, and now David intended to hold nothing back. “According to whom?” Saeb answered. “All this is hypothetical.”

  “Then let me narrow the hypothetical a little. Is an Arab man entitled to kill his fiancée for having sexual relations with a Jew?”

  The thin veneer of indifference slipped from Saeb’s expression. In a tone etched with venom, he answered, “I cannot imagine a woman so degraded.”

  “Can’t you?” Abruptly, David walked to the defense table, watching Hana’s stricken gaze. I have to do this, he tried to tell her with his eyes, knowing that, for the three of them, all that had once passed between them and the thirteen years of deception that had followed were coming to a final reckoning. Then David took a three-page document from a manila folder and gave it to the court stenographer. Saeb stared at the document, utterly still, as though unable to speak or move. With a calm he did not feel, David said, “I would like this document marked as Defense Exhibit Number Twenty-three.”

  The court reporter stamped it. As Judge Taylor looked on, stone-faced, David presented the exhibit to Marnie Sharpe, who flipped its pages and handed it back. David then passed the document to the jurors; as each juror inspected it, David looked across the courtroom at Saeb Khalid.

  Saeb stared back at him with an expression that combined dread, humiliation, and enormous rage. But what David felt toward Saeb was a terrible coldness; as with Muhammad Nasir, David had the sudden sense that he was staring at a dead man. He did not care if Saeb died on the witness stand or in a murder intended to silence him, precipitated by David’s questions. All that mattered was whether Saeb would force him to take this to the bitter end, exposing Munira’s paternity and traumatizing a young girl who was not Saeb’s daughter, but David’s. Every moment that the jurors perused the lab test, not yet grasping what it meant, brought the two men closer to the moment of Saeb’s decision, a moment David dreaded as much as Saeb must.

  At last, David retrieved the exhibit from the jury. Crossing the courtroom, he placed it in Saeb’s hands. “Can you identify Defense Exhibit Twenty-three?”

  Saeb raised his head, the document in his lap almost forgotten, the two men’s eyes meeting as at that long-ago lunch in Cambridge, with Hana caught between them. There is no “way out” for “us,” Saeb had told him. In the end, only one of “us” survives.

  Abruptly, Hana’s husband turned to Judge Taylor. In a brittle voice, he said, “I ask to see a lawyer. To discuss my rights.”

  Taylor’s expression was opaque. “Very well, Dr. Khalid. We will recess the trial until tomorrow morning. If you cannot find or afford a lawyer, the court will refer you to a federal public defender.”

  David felt a shudder of relief pass through him. Then he saw the terrible dullness that had surfaced in Saeb’s eyes. In that moment, at last, David felt something like pity for Saeb Khalid.

  18

  Within ten minutes, Saeb Khalid had hurried away; the marshals had escorted Hana back to prison; and David had requested a hearing in the judge’s chambers. “That was a courtroom moment I won’t forget,” the judge said to David from behind her desk. “I take it you have a motion.”

  “I do,” David answered. “We request a further recess, to allow us time to renew our request for information from the government of Israel.”

  Sharpe looked nettled, the judge wholly unsurprised. “What information do you want?” Taylor asked.

  “Anything that links Saeb Khalid to Hamas, the Iranians, or the breach in Ben-Aron’s security—testimony, documents, phone records. Any connection, direct or indirect, that might tie the Iranians to the Israeli right. Any information about the murder of Hillel Markis and Barak Lev. Any and all information about the operations of the Iranian secret intelligence service in the United States or Israel. Anything relevant to my further cross-examination of Saeb Khalid, assuming he decides to testify.” David turned to Sharpe. “And no more polite requests through legal channels, please. I want the Israeli ambassador, or some other suitable official, brought before the court in person. If Israel continues to refuse discovery, the United States should not be allowed to maintain this prosecution.”

  The judge angled her head toward Sharpe. “Before you respond, Ms. Sharpe, let me say what troubles me. Thanks to Dr. Khalid, Mr. Wolfe’s broader defense—a multifaceted conspiracy—has become less speculative and more germane. In my opinion, his case against Khalid is as good as your case against Arif. Yet the government of Israel may still be withholding evidence pertinent to Khalid and Mr. Wolfe’s
conspiracy theory, while the United States maintains this prosecution based on the only evidence anyone has against Ms. Arif. If you were presiding over this trial, you might be as uncomfortable with that as I am.”

  “This trial,” Sharpe responded, “is about Hana Arif. What we do about Khalid is a separate matter. But the fallacy in Mr. Wolfe’s argument is that his direct evidence of Khalid’s guilt—which comes down to the grievances of a twelve-year-old girl regarding cell phone use, a girl who so far has not even testified—does not logically equate to his client’s innocence. The evidence against her remains intact.” A note of accusation crept into Sharpe’s tone. “Mr. Wolfe resents the term ‘blackmail.’ But what he’s trying to do is end this prosecution—not with a jury verdict, or on the basis of the evidence but by cornering the State of Israel, which says that it has no evidence about Arif herself. Like so much of this defense, it’s a cute trick hiding behind a fig leaf of legality.

  “As for his factual defense, it comes down to the same tired ploy: blame your client’s coconspirator for everything your client did. That hardly justifies a fishing expedition into the national security apparatus and investigative processes of Israel. The court should tell Mr. Wolfe to put his theory of a frame job to the jury, and let them decide for themselves.” Sharpe held her hands up, palms extended. “Maybe Hassan deliberately lied to Jefar. Maybe he rigged Jefar’s motorcycle not to detonate, confident—for some reason that eludes me—that Jefar would survive the explosion. Maybe Khalid managed to keep his fingerprints off a piece of paper that he was certain had Arif ’s prints. Maybe he sneaked into the closet at midnight so Hassan could call him on his wife’s phone. Maybe he informed Hassan about the change of route while watching CNN with Mr. Wolfe’s daughter. Maybe the shadowy masterminds who plotted the assassination were more concerned with assisting Khalid’s revenge against his wife than with ensuring that Jefar blow up Ben-Aron if Hassan could not. Maybe Ms. Arif was wandering Union Square by mere coincidence. And maybe—given Mr. Wolfe’s considerable talents—he can sell this preposterous package to a jury. But this court should make him try.”