Living Stones

by Lloyd Johnson

  Robert stood in the middle of the cell, hearing the footsteps of his guards receding down the echoing hall. Suddenly alone, he stared at his enclosed cell. It smelled like floor cleaners. The light in the ceiling, covered with a steel mesh, would be just enough to read. The toilet and fold-down bed on one side balanced the steel chair and table on the other. He stared blankly, thinking of all that had transpired in one hour, his greatest fear now realized. He grimaced and shook his head.

  It had all started with such excitement, such fervor, as he would prove to the West, to the U.S. and Israel, their injustice to the Muslim world. He had prayed facing Mecca. But it didn’t seem to protect him. Maybe Allah wasn’t merciful after all. He had been in the company of jihadists, but now he was alone. They offered no help.

  He used the toilet and then sat down on the bed. It felt hard, with a thin mattress enclosed in tough plastic, a small pillow, and two blankets. Robert Bentley lay down, unable to sleep. He saw no one. He was in solitary confinement. He thought of his parents. They would soon find out where he was. What should he do? The FBI guy mentioned that anything he said could be used against him. So the best thing was to say nothing. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of any reply. They would have to prove his guilt. The guy had said something about getting a lawyer. He wouldn’t even do that. A lawyer might make him talk somehow.

  Gordon collapsed in bed at six a.m. and set his alarm for nine o’clock. The State Police laboratory chief called just after it went off. Gordon’s wife had insisted that he sit down to eat.

  “What have you found so far?”

  “Gordon, we’ve got enough on this guy’s computer alone to hang him.”

  “Passwords any problem?”

  “Not for our people.”

  “So what have you found?”

  “E-mails galore to and from Islamic radicals here and abroad. He came out to Seattle because of a group that frequented the Islamic Center of Imam Jabril. From his online banking evidence, we found the missing link, the check for thirty grand that the imam split, sending fifteen to Mossad’s guy in Jerusalem.”

  “You know if he went to Pakistan?” Gordon asked.

  “Yeah, we’ll get the CIA going on that. We won’t leave any stone unturned.”

  “Good. We’ll send everything here to the FBI lab for confirmation—fingerprints, traces of explosives, anything we find. But we’ve got enough evidence now for any prosecutor to put this murderer away for life, even if he says nothing.”

  Ashley slept in after the excitement of the previous night. She boiled a couple of eggs to go with her toast when the telephone rang. Her housemates had left for work.

  “Hello.”

  “Ashley, this is Gordon, from last night. We got him.”

  “You mean you already have the bomber? In jail?”

  “Yep. Behind bars. His name is Robert Bentley.”

  “I can’t believe it!” She exhaled slowly … and for a moment couldn’t speak. “You guys amaze me! Anyway, Najid apparently found the right guy, huh? Have you confirmed it?”

  “Ashley, his computer is full of incriminating evidence. This is all preliminary of course, but there’s hardly a snowball’s chance in hell that he’s innocent of the bombing.”

  “Isn’t there a lot more to do? Has he said anything?”

  “Yes there is, and no, he won’t talk.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Will he get out on bail?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I assume you can’t discuss details with me, but do you think he has any accomplices here that might be looking for me?”

  “Ashley, I don’t know. It’ll take time to find that out. We do know now that you were followed in Israel, four times, with the intention to abduct and kill you.”

  “Uh … only three times, Gordon. Twice in Bethlehem and once in Jerusalem.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s four times. You were stalked in Nazareth on a shopping afternoon, but you apparently never realized it. I am not sure what happened to thwart that one.”

  “I didn’t know that. Are you sure?”

  “Your stalker over there, guy by the name of Walid, has confessed to all four attempts, including the one in Nazareth.”

  “Oh my goodness! How did this ‘Walid’ get involved, or even know me?”

  “It’s a long story, Ashley, but just know that Robert Bentley here in Seattle paid thousands of dollars to have you wiped out in the Holy Land because he feared you recognized him and would turn him in. Which you did.”

  “Oh my goodness! It’s all …” Once again, the reality of how and why she came so close to being killed in Israel shocked her into silence.

  “Are you still there, Ashley? You OK?”

  “Yeah, I think so. It just hit me again how close I came. So there still could be someone out there he paid to track me down here in Seattle?”

  “It’s possible. For now I’d still be careful.”

  Ashley hung up the phone and sat down to think. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. They got the bomber with lots of evidence against him—that was the good news. But did someone out there, here in Seattle, still want her in his gun sight? Most jihadists didn’t work alone.

  Chapter 64

  Robert heard footsteps rumbling down the hall, echoing off the bare walls. An armed officer opened his cell door and stepped in, followed by the tall FBI guy who arrested him the previous night. Robert had only had a couple hours of sleep.

  “Robert Bentley, I’m Gordon Appleby with the FBI. We met last night, as you will recall.” He quickly showed Robert his FBI documentation.

  Robert remained silent.

  “We informed you of your right to be silent and to be represented by an attorney. It would be best for you to have one. Are you agreeable to that?”

  Robert stared at the floor without speaking.

  “Alright. Let me explain the situation to you. We have evidence from many sources, now including your computer, that you may be guilty of a combination of hate crimes. That puts you in federal court jurisdiction. This is not your usual local or state court system. So you are now in the Federal Detention Center in SeaTac. Do you understand that these are serious charges against you and that the justice system of the United States of America will govern what happens to you next?”

  Robert struggled to keep from shaking. Trembling, he would not speak, even if tortured.

  “You will be treated fairly and are presumed innocent until proven guilty. I’m going to explain the procedures you will go through. You will be taken to a U.S. district court where the federal judge will talk to you and give you some good advice. This is a preliminary hearing. He will decide whether you could be released on bail. He will review the charges against you and explain the procedures. The government has the legal right to keep you confined here during the pretrial period if it comes to that. You could avoid a trial by pleading guilty in court. Do you understand, or do you have questions?”

  Robert shifted his position on his bed and said nothing. His mind whirled. He had lots of questions. He couldn’t seem to put everything together. Watching crime shows and court scenes on TV didn’t prepare him for this.

  The next morning they came for him. The orange jumpsuit didn’t bother him, but the shackles and chains on his wrists and ankles did. He stared as he walked into the stark courtroom. The judge peered down at him. The presumed U.S. Attorney with the FBI guy across the room and the armed guards all looked frightening. Reporters with notebooks crowded the area behind the railing. Robert felt nauseated. This was for real. They ushered him to stand before the judge, who seemed to look right through him. The room remained silent as the judge gazed at some papers on his desk. Finally he spoke to Robert.

  “You, Robert Bentley, are being charged with several serious crimes. You are in federal court because of the nature of the charges. I will ask the federal prosecutor to bring the allegations based on whatever evidence they have.�
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  The attorney stood to read the charges. “Your honor, Robert Bentley is charged with assault using powerful explosives, second degree murder, and attempted murder with intent to kill.” He sat down.

  The judge looked at Robert. “How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

  Robert said nothing. He stood still, head down.

  “Do you hear the charges against you? Are you guilty or not?”

  Robert’s heart raced and he shook visibly.

  After several moments, the judge continued. “Hearing no plea, the court presumes the defendant alleges innocence.”

  The judge spoke again to Robert. “Young man, you have heard the charges. The court determines you will remain in custody without bail because of the risk you pose of either fleeing or being a danger to others. Your case will go to a grand jury, which is normal procedure in the federal court system. A jury of your peers will decide whether the evidence presented by the federal prosecutor will be sufficient to indict you. That means they will decide whether you should stand at trial for the charges against you. If they are not sufficient, you will be freed. If they are, you will be tried in federal court by another jury. If you decide to plead guilty, you can avoid a trial and will appear in court to be sentenced. Do you have any questions?”

  Robert shifted his position a bit. The shackles dug into his ankles. He heard all the judge said, but it seemed unreal. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

  “Robert, I understand you don’t want to talk. Listen to me now. You need a lawyer. These are very serious charges. The crimes you are alleged to have committed have reverberated around the world. The United States federal courts have prized evenhanded justice for over two hundred years, to free the innocent but also to punish the guilty, usually with imprisonment. You are at risk for possible life in prison, if not the death penalty.”

  Robert felt his face blanch. His shackled hands shook. He suddenly felt faint as his heart thumped rapidly in his chest.

  The judge continued: “To serve as your own lawyer is not wise. You can hire your own counsel, or we will appoint a public defender for you on standby, to advise you even if you don’t want him or her. You need a defense attorney to represent you and guide you, beginning with your appearance before the grand jury. You will have visiting privileges and telephone access while in detention. If you decide to talk or ask questions, let one of the officers at the center know and an attorney will be available.” He banged his gavel. “Court dismissed.”

  Chapter 65

  Conrad Bentley leaned back in his reclining wood chair, set his feet up on his desk, grabbed his early morning coffee, and reached for his New York Times. He’d been so busy the previous day he’d skipped the evening news broadcasts. But no deadlines today. So good to stay home. Internet access made it unnecessary to fight the crowds on the Long Island train going to Wall Street every day.

  Life had treated him and his wife well, except for their only son. Lorraine and he missed Robert, despite his tirade when he left one year ago. He had never sent an e-mail or called. They had tried to find him on social networking sites, but to no avail. They talked about him frequently, expressing regrets for being too busy for him in earlier years, wondering where he went and when they would find him. They had considered contacting police about his being missing, but Robert had reached legal age and had a right to his independence.

  Conrad opened his paper and stared at the headline, SEATTLE BOMBER CAUGHT. Then his eye stopped at the first paragraph in bold print: “Robert Bentley, 22, of Seattle, the alleged synagogue bomber, apparently acted alone. Taken into custody early yesterday …”

  “Lorraine! Come here!” He read on, his mind a blur as he scanned the article, seeing the words “Long Island” and “Pakistan” and “homegrown radicalized Islamist.” He couldn’t get enough air to breathe. He pulled his feet off the desk and spilled his coffee over his lap, dropping the cup on the floor. Lorraine rushed in.

  “What happened? What is it? Are you OK?”

  “Read this!” He shoved the paper at his wife and buried his face in his hands. His breath came in quick gasps while she read out loud.

  Her voice quivered as she read the story. He looked up to see her face flush down to her neck. Her voice broke as she finished the article and shook her head. She began to cry.

  “No, no! This must be a mistake!” He continued: “Robert had issues, but not this. Turn on CNN while I go online.” The story was all over the online news sites. Every one had screaming headlines, bloggers’ comments, analysis, interviews with police, security experts, the FBI. CNN had information in its news scroll as its anchors interviewed various sources with information or speculation.

  Suddenly, Conrad Bentley’s cell phone beeped. He didn’t recognize the “206” area code.

  “Robert Bentley speaking.”

  “Mr. Bentley, this is Chad Harris with The Seattle Times newspaper. May I speak to you about Robert Bentley? We understand he is your son and—”

  Robert clicked off his cell. “Oh my God! Lorraine, the news media knows Robert is our son.”

  Lorraine wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “Robert, you used to be such a fine boy. You’ve had trouble, but this? What could have possessed you? We’ve tried to raise you to respect people. But a rabbi died as a result of the bombing. You’re being charged with murder. I can’t believe you did it. This can’t be!”

  Lorraine threw the paper on the floor sobbing. She looked at her husband, still bent over with his head in his hands. The coffee soaked his pants and the cup lay on the floor. “My baby! Our child? What has happened? There must be some horrible misunderstanding. What can we do?”

  “We’ve got to find out more,” Conrad said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Turn off your phone, dear. I am going to call the office and tell them not to respond to any media inquiries about our son … and I am going to reach out to the FBI.”

  After a couple of phone calls to regional FBI headquarters, Conrad reached the Seattle office where a receptionist answered the phone.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Robert Bentley’s father. I’m calling from New York.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. We’ve have had a hectic morning with calls from the media here and around the world.”

  “So you do have him?”

  “He’s at the SeaTac Detention Center south of Seattle.”

  “Can you give me more information?”

  “Sir, I am certain our agents will want to speak with you, but for now here is the number of the center. I suggest you start there. But first, give me your contract information.”

  Conrad tried the number. After several more minutes on hold, a male voice answered. He acknowledged that Robert occupied a solitary cell in the highest security wing.

  “I’m his father, calling from New York. Is it possible to speak with him?”

  “No. I’m sorry. We’ve had many reporters wanting to get to him. I have no way to verify you are not a reporter right now.”

  “Look! I’m just his dad, for heaven’s sake! I want to talk to my son. He’s innocent until proven guilty, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. OK, let me get some information from you so we can confirm who you are.” He proceeded to ask several questions that only the family would know.

  The hours ticked by slowly as Robert’s father tried to work. He couldn’t concentrate as he stared blankly at the stock exchange data changing wildly around the world. He talked to several family members who called about Robert. Finally after dinner, the call came. Both he and Lorraine picked up the phone.

  “Conrad Bentley? I’m calling from the Federal Detention Center in SeaTac, Washington.”

  “Yes. I’m on the phone with Robert’s mother as well. Can we talk with our son?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Officials have been attempting to talk with him all day as part of our investigation. He refuses to say anything or answer any questions. They did ask whether he would take a phone
call from you, and he shook his head. In fact, that response is the only one we have had from him.”

  “Does he have a lawyer?”

  “Not to our knowledge. The arresting officers read him his Miranda Rights. He’s just been arraigned in federal court today.”

  “How will he defend himself without an attorney?”

  “The judge has strongly advised him to get counsel. Even if he refuses, the court usually appoints a public defender to monitor the proceedings and advocate for him as needed to be sure he is treated fairly.”

  “So he knows anything he says may be used in court against him?”

  “Right.”

  “He needs a lawyer right away. If we flew out to Seattle, do you think he would see us?”

  “I don’t know. You are welcome to try.”

  A few minutes later, Lorraine Bentley walked down the stairs to her husband’s office. “I don’t know what to think,” she said to Conrad. “If he won’t even talk to us—”

  “He must be scared to death, Lorry. So he won’t talk to anyone, even us. Of course we might be the last people he wants to confront right now. I wonder if he would talk even to a defense attorney.

  “Whatever he has done, he needs legal help. We have to get a lawyer for him. I’m going to book a flight for tomorrow, for both of us.”

  Chapter 66

  Conrad and Lorraine Bentley stepped into the large, stark white reception office at the Federal Detention Center. “We spoke over the phone yesterday. I’m glad you flew out today. I’m Officer Greg McKenzie.” He shook hands with both Bentleys.

  “We’re sick about Robert,” Lorraine began. “We haven’t seen him for a year and have no idea where he lives or what he has been doing.”

  “Remember to be careful in what you say, Mrs. Bentley. He is innocent until proven guilty.”

  “We hope he is innocent of the charges, of course. Does he have a lawyer yet?”