BOOKS BY ALAN DERSHOWITZ
The Case For Moral Clarity: Israel, Hamas and Gaza
The Case Against Israel’s Enemies: Exposing Jimmy Carter and Others Who Stand in the Way of Peace
Is There a Right to Remain Silent? Coercive Interrogation and the Fifth Amendment after 9/11
Finding Jefferson: A Lost Letter, a Remarkable Discovery, and the First Amendment in an Age of Terrorism
Blasphemy: How the Religious Right Is Hijacking Our Declaration of Independence
Preemption: A Knife That Cuts Both Ways
What Israel Means to Me: By 80 Prominent Writers, Performers, Scholars, Politicians, and Journalists
Rights from Wrongs: A Secular Theory of the Origins of Rights
America on Trial: Inside the Legal Battles That Transformed Our Nation
The Case for Peace: How the Arab-Israeli Conflict Can Be Resolved
The Case for Israel
America Declares Independence
Why Terrorism Works: Understanding the Threat, Responding to the Challenge
Shouting Fire: Civil Liberties in a Turbulent Age
Letters to a Young Lawyer
Supreme Injustice: How the High Court Hijacked Election 2000
Genesis of Justice: Ten Stories of Biblical Injustice That Led to the Ten Commandments and Modern Law
Just Revenge
Sexual McCarthyism: Clinton, Starr, and the Emerging Constitutional Crisis
The Vanishing American Jew: In Search of Jewish Identity for the Next Century
Reasonable Doubts: The Criminal Justice System and the O.J. Simpson Case
The Abuse Excuse: And Other Cop-Outs, Sob Stories, and Evasions of Responsibility
The Advocate’s Devil
Contrary to Popular Opinion
Chutzpah
Taking Liberties: A Decade of Hard Cases, Bad Laws, and Bum Raps
Reversal of Fortune: Inside the von Bülow Case
The Best Defense
Criminal Law: Theory and Process
Psychoanalysis: Psychiatry and Law
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Alan M. Dershowitz
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub.
First eBook Edition: October 2010
Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-446-55851-8
Contents
Books by Alan Dershowitz
Copyright
Prologue: American Colony Hotel
I: Decision
II: Habash Ein
III: Faisal Husseini
IV: The Investigation Begins
V: Shimshon Regel
VI: History Will Solve the Mystery
VII: Flix Movie Theater
VIII: TNT
IX: The Dossier
X: Rishon L’Zion
XI: Poison
XII: The Van
XIII: Kidnapped
XIV: The Trip
XV: Abe Ringel
XVI: Hostage
XVII: The Photo
XVIII: Double Cross
XIX: The Deal
XX: The Stakes
XXI: The Tactic
XXII: Yassir
XXIII: The Question
XXIV: The Button
XXV: The Meeting
XXVI: The Answer
XXVII: The Threat
XXVIII: Rendi
XXIX: The Photographer
XXX: The Confetti
XXXI: The Attempted Escape
XXXII: The Autopsy
XXXIII: The Photos
XXXIV: The Verdict
XXXV: Emma
XXXVI: Catch and Release
XXXVII: The Blackboard
XXXVIII: Dennis Savage
XXXIX: The “Talk” and the “Story”
XL: The Tell
XLI: The Truth
XLII: Elizabeth Mitchell
XLIII: The Family Connection
XLIV: Rashid Redux
XLV: The Promise
XLVI: The Hunch
XLVII: The Rest of Avi’s Story
XLVIII: The Discovery
XLIX: Armageddon
L: God’s Work
LI: The Explosion
LII: Arish Sopher
LIII: The Interrogation
LIV: The Whole Truth
LV: The Lab
Epilogue: The Gulfstream
Acknowledgments
This book is lovingly dedicated to the memory of
my mother, Claire Dershowitz, who died in 2008 at
the age of ninety-five. She always encouraged and
defended me. She would have liked this book.
PROLOGUE
American Colony Hotel
East Jerusalem, Sometime in the Not-Too-Distant Future
PRESIDENT BILL MOORE was a man of many talents, but choreography was not one of them. Yet the entire enterprise on which he had staked his presidency, along with the credibility of the United States, could now be threatened by his inability to choreograph the dance between two reluctant suitors, Prime Minister Amnon Ezratti of Israel and Mahmud Yassin, the Hamas leader who would soon become president of the newly established Palestinian state. Ezratti was willing to shake hands with Yassin, but his government could not survive the traditional Arab kiss on the cheek from a man widely regarded by Israelis as a mass murderer. Last-minute intelligence had alerted Ezratti to Yassin’s carefully designed plan to kiss him precisely in order to embarrass and perhaps topple his government.
Moore, who towered above Ezratti and Yassin, had assured his old friend Amnon that he would position himself so as to prevent a kiss, even if it took a not-so-gentle shove. “Remember, I played hockey at Dartmouth,” Moore whispered to the Harvard-educated Ezratti. The Israeli prime minister offered a subdued chuckle in recognition of Moore’s expectation that those around him would always laugh at his often lame attempts at humor. That’s what people do when presidents tell bad jokes.
Yassin huddled with his acting prime minister, Suri Chalaba, the leader of Fatah. Yassin had beaten Chalaba decisively in the last election, and there was no love lost between them. Chalaba had been appointed to his position as a symbol of unity, but it was expected that he would soon be replaced by a Yassin loyalist. The two men stayed in close proximity at public events in order to reduce the risk of an assassination attempt by supporters of the other.
“So this is what it comes down to,” Ezratti mused to Moore. “After so many thousands killed, peace depends on your ability to stop that son of a bitch from planting his big Arab lips on my pockmarked Jewish chin.”
“They don’t write about this kind of stuff in the history books,” Moore said with a look of solemnity returning to his handsome face. Ezratti forced a smile, masking his apprehension over the future.
“Okay. Let’s do it. The world is waiting,” Moore announced, adjusting Ezratti’s tie, then Chalaba’s, and finally his own, as the robed Yassin looked on w
ith bemusement.
“This is a historic moment,” Yassin said. “The end of a long journey and the beginning of an even longer one.”
Ezratti didn’t like the last part, interpreting it—as many doubting Israelis did—as a way for Yassin to preserve the option of destroying the Jewish state, either demographically or violently. Many Palestinians were equally doubtful, believing that Ezratti would never dismantle the remaining Jewish settlements that still dotted the Palestinian state-to-be or end the targeted assassinations of suspected terrorists.
“Friends don’t need peace treaties,” President Moore reminded the old adversaries. “Enemies do.” Moore was well known for his unsentimental pragmatism—surprising to some from a man of such deep religious beliefs. “Let’s sign and see if time, and a few well-placed American soldiers, can’t turn you from hot enemies into cold enemies. And then, maybe, by the end of our lifetimes, into decent neighbors.”
“And don’t forget a few well-placed American dollars,” Yassin quipped, reminding the president of his pledge to give the new Palestinian state $35 billion to resettle the refugees.
“You won’t let me forget,” Moore replied. “So let’s get on with the most expensive handshake in history.”
President Moore paused for a moment, crossed himself solemnly, and whispered a prayer. Ezratti, who was agnostic, looked on a bit awkwardly, while Yassin and Chalaba turned away.
The four men, with their small entourages and security details, proceeded to walk, almost march, through large doors in the west wing of the American Colony Hotel in East Jerusalem. Entering a poorly air-cooled courtyard, they made their way to the cordoned-off podium area. Chalaba stood directly behind Yassin, watching his every move. The audience, sweating profusely in the early-summer heat, consisted of cabinet members, diplomats who had been instrumental in bringing the parties together, and media representatives from around the world. TV cameras transmitted live images to millions of viewers. The public had been excluded for security reasons, despite President Moore’s request to invite some important donors and political friends. When it came to security, the president had a vote but the Secret Service held the veto.
President Moore, with his patented toothy smile, briefly introduced the two signatories, placing his large arms around their shoulders. “Now for the handshake that seals the deal,” Moore said out loud. “And don’t even think about kissing him or I’ll knock you on your ass,” he whispered to Yassin without moving his lips.
Yassin smiled. He had a plan of his own. Like an anxious lover calculating a conquest, he knew that any attempt to kiss his enemy now would be thwarted. But later, at the reception… He had already alerted an Al Jazeera cameraman to be poised.
Yassin thrust his hand forward, tossing a head fake at the same time to disarm Ezratti, who stepped back nervously. Moore took Amnon’s hand and brought it toward Yassin’s. At the precise moment their hands touched, a massive explosion rocked the entire area. Everyone near the podium was killed instantly along with several people in the audience. The blast was seen and heard on television screens throughout the world, just before everything went black.
It was not the worst terrorist attack in history. Thirty-one people were killed and more than a hundred injured—a fraction of the casualties suffered on September 11, 2001. But it was certainly the worst political assassination in history. Never before had so many heads of state and leading officials been murdered at the same time.
The Martyrs of Jihad, a small offshoot of Hamas with close connections to Iranian religious figures, immediately claimed credit, but both the CIA and the Mossad were skeptical, because fringe groups frequently claim credit for terrorist acts in order to raise their profiles and gain new recruits. Within hours a young Muslim radical named Faisal Husseini was seen videotaping the crime scene from the roof of a nearby building. He was arrested by the Israeli police and accused of being a member of the Martyrs of Jihad. He was also suspected of being one of those responsible for the attack. After less than an hour of interrogation by the Shin Bet—the Israeli security service—Husseini confessed to having planted the bomb on behalf of the Martyrs of Jihad, who believed that all of Palestine, including what was now Israel, was holy Muslim land and that the two-state solution was heresy.
Habash Ein, a Christian Arab graduate of Hebrew University Law School with a master’s from Yale Law School, was appointed to represent Husseini. This was done to mollify the Palestinians, who were furious that the case was being tried in an Israeli court, despite the fact that the American Colony was in the part of Jerusalem slated to become the capital of the new Palestinian state. The explosion had put everything on hold—including Palestinian statehood.
The arrest of Husseini did not slow down the investigations being conducted by the Israeli Mossad, or by the American CIA, FBI, and Secret Service. Both Israel and the United States claimed jurisdiction over the horrible crime that had killed their leaders. They were determined to solve it and to prosecute those responsible. The United States did not seek to extradite Husseini for trial in America—at least not yet. Their investigation was far from complete. Let Israel take the first shot at bringing Husseini to trial, the Americans reasoned. A rush to judgment—especially in such emotionally laden cases—often produced the wrong result. If the Israelis got it right, the Americans could always bring him to the United States later and execute him—assuming the Israelis didn’t execute him first, under a rarely used law that authorized capital punishment in extraordinary terrorism cases involving multiple victims.
The new president of the United States, former vice president Christine Randall, declared a week of mourning and solemn prayer, while at the same time raising the terror-alert level to red. The acting prime minister of Israel, former minister of justice Tal Bar-Lev, asked his people to “sit shiva” in memory of the murder victims, while sealing the borders with Palestine and placing its air force on the highest level of preparedness. The Palestinian parliament could not agree on a new president or prime minister, but the spiritual leader of Hamas called for jihad, which he said involved purification through vengeance. The supreme leader of Iran characterized the deaths as “Allah’s revenge” against infidels who would give sacred Islamic land to “Zionist crusaders,” while demanding that Russia bolster Iranian air defenses against a possible Zionist attack.
I
Decision
Cambridge, Massachusetts, a Few Days Later
DAD! I’ve got incredible news!”
Abe Ringel’s quiet morning was interrupted by the exuberant appearance of his twenty-six-year-old daughter, Emma. She’d only recently moved back to Cambridge after finishing law school at Yale, and Abe still hadn’t gotten used to her being home. In fact, while he read the morning newspaper, still filled with accounts of the devastation in Jerusalem and its political aftermath around the world, and drank his single cup of decaf—he was hyper enough without caffeine—he’d almost forgotten she was in the house. There was no forgetting her now. Her energy was palpable. Before he had a chance to ask what the news was, she’d begun speaking in rapid-fire sentences.
“I’m going to the Mideast. I’ve gotten a job with a Palestinian human-rights group,” Emma Ringel gushed, thrusting a printed-out e-mail into the lap of her father. Her words tumbled out breathlessly. “Remember my friend Habash from Yale? He hired me!”
“Habash Ein?” Abe set his paper on the kitchen table and retrieved the e-mail from his lap. As he read, a look of recognition passed over his face. “You used to bring him by for dinner, didn’t you? Isn’t he the guy they appointed to represent the guy who bombed the American Colony?”
“Yeah! It’s so exciting!” Emma threw herself into a chair and grabbed the e-mail back from Abe. Since she’d finished school, the number-one topic of conversation in the Ringel household had been what her first job should be following her clerkship. She’d had offers—quality offers—thanks to her great grades and good, if controversial, pedigree. The daughter of Abe Ring
el, famous defense attorney, part-time Harvard Law teacher, and celebrity in his own right (“TV ham” according to Emma), was sought after by law firms, corporations, and various do-gooder organizations around the country. But she’d turned down each job offer, much to Abe’s confusion. She told him she was waiting for the perfect job. It hadn’t occurred to Abe that she might leave the country. And now that the topic of going to Israel was raised, his stomach was uneasy.
“Habash needs help with the Husseini case.” She misconstrued the look on Abe’s face. “Jealous, Daddy? It’s your kind of case. But don’t try to horn in on me if I get to do it.”
Abe didn’t take the bait. “No way you’re going to the Mideast now,” he replied reflexively. Forty years of defending people in courts around the world made it hard for Abe to announce a decision without providing a detailed explanation. “It’s a tinderbox over there, especially with the leadership all dead. At least we have a vice president to take over for Moore. The Israelis have an interim prime minister, but the Palestinians have nobody. There’s going to be civil war on top of the existing war. Maybe two civil wars.”
His words hadn’t done a thing to dampen Emma’s determination. In fact, a smile lit up that face that looked so like her mother’s, with her brown eyes and long black hair. “It’s the perfect time. It’s so exciting. I can make a difference.”
“You’ve already accepted a clerkship with Judge Wolf. You can make a difference working with him.” When Emma didn’t say anything, Abe continued, “You can’t just pick yourself up and go to a battle zone! You have a commitment to the judge.”
She smiled, about to play her trump card. “That’s the beauty of it. Judge Wolf agrees. He’s holding the clerkship for me for a year.”
Abe was rarely outmaneuvered, and he didn’t like the feeling. Especially at the hands of his own daughter. “You told him first, before me!”
“I had to find out whether he would hold it before I told you.”
“Asked me, you mean.”
“No, Daddy, told you.” Emma crossed her arms over her chest, and her chin tilted in a display of stubbornness. She got that streak from him. “I’m an adult. I don’t need to ask you anymore, but I would love your approval.”
The Trials of Zion Page 1
