Abe didn’t try to comfort him, because he agreed. It was Habash’s fault. His fault for inviting Emma to Israel, his fault for encouraging her boldness, his fault for not keeping her out of harm’s way. But Abe promised Rendi he wouldn’t make accusations that would damage their relationship, since they had to work together to get Faisal acquitted.
So they soldiered on, presenting a united front to the general public. Abe called a press conference the day after the kidnappers contacted him and announced that he had agreed to step in for his kidnapped daughter on Faisal’s legal team because that is what she would want him to do.
The stakes were high indeed as Abe walked into the small Israeli courtroom on Weizman Street in Tel Aviv, where the preliminary phase of the trial would be conducted.
Unlike in the United States, where courtroom backups cause trials to be delayed for months, criminal trials in Israel—especially ones involving terrorism—tend to be placed on a fast track. In this case Abe had demanded a speedy trial for his confined client, and his motion had been granted.
Abe was accustomed to grand American courtrooms, with high ceilings, portraits of judges adorning the white walls, and majestic desks from behind which the judges presided with mahogany gavels. Not so in Israel. Courtroom Gimel, the Hebrew equivalent of three, looked more like a small classroom in an underfunded American public high school. Everything was functional, including the folding chairs and the mismatched tables from which the prosecution and defense argued their cases. The judge, too, sat behind a single table in front of a black-and-white photograph of Israel’s president and a small blue-and-white Israeli flag. There were three rows of seats for the press, as well as a pressroom on the floor below, which carried the proceedings via video hookup. There were two rows of seats for spectators—Habash pointed out Faisal’s mother, who sat draped in yards of black fabric, holding a picture of her son. Several other Palestinian Arabs sat near her. At the back of the room, nowhere near Faisal’s mother, was a man who looked like an Israeli businessman. Habash whispered that this was Rashid Husseini, the defendant’s brother, in disguise. As he did so, Abe noticed that Habash’s hands balled into fists.
Abe was both pleased and angry. He was pleased because Rashid would see how hard Abe worked to get his brother’s acquittal, but he was angry because the man who might kill his daughter was sitting free in an Israeli courtroom. For a moment he thought of approaching Rashid and asking about Emma, but he knew he couldn’t do that. What if Rashid were identified and arrested? Then Emma’s life would be in danger. Abe simply had to act as if Rashid weren’t there. He told Habash as much and made him promise to keep his head.
The windows opened to the busy street two floors below, and the constant honking of car horns punctuated the words of the soft-spoken judge. “Since everyone here, including the defendant, speaks English, and since Mr. Ringel does not speak Hebrew, I propose that the trial be conducted in English, unless there is any objection.”
Abe looked to where the prosecution sat and saw that they posed no objection. The lead prosecutor nodded his head at Abe, and as Abe was about to speak, Faisal rose.
Faisal was shaky on his feet; the poison had left him unable to stand without aid. But the cane he’d been using clattered to the floor, lending a dramatic flair to his actions.
“What are you doi—” Abe began to ask him.
Faisal shouted in Arabic, pounding his hand on the table in front of him.
Abe looked to Habash for translation. “He wants the proceedings to go on in Arabic,” Habash explained grimly. At Abe’s blank expression, he continued, “He’s technically allowed to request this, as Arabic is one of Israel’s two official languages.”
“Can you explain to him that I don’t speak Arabic?”
As Habash spoke rapidly in Arabic to their client, Judge Shamgar calmly asked Abe to restrain Faisal. “We will not tolerate outbursts in this courtroom, Mr. Ringel.”
“I understand, Your Honor,” Abe replied. He noticed that the prosecuting attorneys sat quietly, with their hands folded in their laps and amusement in their eyes. Abe realized that they thought this case would be easy to win. They had no idea how motivated their opposing lawyer was and that he would stop at nothing to beat them.
Finally Habash got Faisal to sit, not with logic and words but by reaching out to touch his shoulder. Faisal, avoiding Habash’s grip, fell into his chair, whispering in Arabic. He turned his face away from the judge and from Abe in disgust. He pushed his hands through his unkempt long hair and sat stoically.
“Well?” Abe asked Habash under his breath.
“He talked himself out of the request,” Habash whispered in response. “He decided that if his demand were agreed to, it would lend an air of legitimacy to what he calls ‘an entirely illegitimate proceeding.’ ”
Abe turned to the judge and spoke clearly. “My client has withdrawn his objection to conducting the trial in English, sir.”
“Very well. My clerk is fluent in Arabic as well as Hebrew and English, and so if anyone does not understand a word or phrase, she will be available to translate. Does anyone have anything to add before we proceed?”
Abe quickly rose, his “robe” draped so casually around his shoulders that it rode down his jacket sleeve. Although everything else about the courtroom was far more casual than its American counterpart, Israeli lawyers were required to wear robes—a throwback to the days when Palestine was part of the British mandate. But true to Israeli style, the robes—dismissively referred to by Israeli lawyers as shmattas (Yiddish for “rags”)—had themselves become more informal over the years, to the point that they were more like scarves or shawls than the full-body robes worn by British barristers.
“Your Honor,” Abe began, “the charge against my client is that he was part of a large conspiracy to carry out the awful bombing at the American Colony Hotel, in which several heads of state were killed, but the indictment fails to include any other alleged conspirators. How does the government propose to prove a conspiracy without conspirators?”
“Good question, Mr. Ringel. I’m sure the prosecution has an equally good answer. Does it?” The judge turned his gaze upon the prosecutors.
“I hope so, Your Honor,” said Yehuda Arad, the state attorney, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a large gut. “Though I’m sure my answer will disappoint some. We will prove that there were at least three and probably many more conspirators, but we are unable to name them at this time.”
There was an audible groan from the media representatives, who were hoping for names.
Abe rose again. “Unable or unwilling?” he insisted, hoping for a legal issue.
Mr. Arad also rose. He was a theatrical man, an attorney who loved being a part of prominent cases. When he spoke, it was with the voice of an actor, loud and pronounced. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Ringel, but we simply don’t know their names. I’m fairly sure, however, that your client does. Perhaps he is willing to share them with you”—here he paused for effect before continuing—“and with us.”
For the first time since arriving in Israel, Abe was completely comfortable. He shook his arm with a small flourish and said, “My client refuses to speak to me. He will not tell me anything about what he did or didn’t do—or whom he did it with or didn’t do it with. But the burden of proof is on the prosecution, not on us. They have to prove he conspired, and if they can’t name his alleged co-conspirators, I will be free to argue that there was no conspiracy or, if there was one, Faisal Husseini was not part of it.” He tipped his head toward Mr. Arad.
“We still have a week before trial,” the prosecutor replied. “We have overwhelming evidence of a conspiracy, but we currently lack the names of other conspirators. We expect to have more evidence by then.”
“As the defense rightly says, it is your burden,” the judge said. “Mr. Ringel has no burden to produce anything.”
“We understand our burden and expect to carry it,” the prosecutor insisted.
/>
“Is there anything further?” Judge Shamgar asked. When both lawyers said nothing, the judge continued, speaking to Abe. “I’m troubled by your lack of communication with your client, Mr. Ringel. If you want to raise any legal issue concerning that, please do it now. I don’t want to go through an entire trial and then have you file a complaint that your client was incompetent to stand trial.”
Abe gestured to Faisal, who had continued to focus on the empty wall to his left throughout the entire exchange between lawyers. “My client is completely competent. He simply regards himself as a prisoner of war and a political prisoner.” At this, Faisal finally shook off his statuelike pose. He glanced briefly at Abe, narrowing his eyes. “Faisal Husseini does not recognize the authority of this court and refuses to lend it any legitimacy by participating in the proceeding.” Abe looked at Faisal for confirmation, and as if he realized that he was cooperating with his lawyer, Faisal looked away contemptuously. But Abe felt for a moment that there had been a very brief thawing in Faisal’s feelings toward him.
“That’s his choice,” the judge replied. “As long as he’s making it competently.”
“He is, Your Honor,” Abe assured the judge. For all that Faisal knew, Abe had been faithfully articulating his position. But Abe couldn’t have cared less about what Faisal wanted or what political messages he wanted to send. All he knew was that every day the trial lasted was one more day that Emma must endure horrible imprisonment.
“The trial will begin next Sunday,” the judge said as he got up and exited the courtroom.
Abe watched him go. He wondered how he’d be able to wait an entire week before beginning.
XXI
The Tactic
ABE FOLLOWED FAISAL to the small cell in the basement of the courthouse, where he would await transportation to the secret location in which he was being held pending trial. After the attempt on his life, the Israelis had assigned twenty-four-hour guards to Faisal, and they’d moved him to a cell that was virtually underground. They wouldn’t even let Abe come to see him without several days’ worth of planning. So he knew it was now or never. Abe would have only fifteen minutes during which to try to persuade Faisal to accept the only tactic that Abe believed could save his daughter, without compromising his obligation to his client.
The holding cell was barely large enough to fit Faisal, and he was as small as a person could be. Though he’d survived his poison attack, his flesh still had a wasted appearance. Sitting on the metal wall seat, he looked malnourished and gaunt and unsteady.
Faisal crossed his arms when Abe entered the cell but didn’t turn his face away. Abe knelt on the floor so that he could look into his client’s face as they—or rather he—talked.
“Listen, I know that you know about the case against you. Habash has been thorough.”
Faisal said nothing, so Abe continued. “The evidence against you is all circumstantial. I’ve been reading the notes on the case and reading the newspapers. There are doubting Thomases among your people, Palestinians who don’t think you had the brains or guts to do this.” Abe noticed a tic in Faisal’s jaw when he said this. Abe had been hoping that Faisal was aware that some thought he hadn’t the strength or wherewithal to carry out such an attack. Judging from the mounting tension in the cell, Abe could tell that it made Faisal angry. He played on these feelings. “There’s only one way to convince them.”
Silence. But Abe knew he was getting to Faisal, and he wasn’t going to stop now. “The only way to convince them is for you to testify.”
Abe couldn’t believe he was saying this to his client. Although the client has the right—at least in theory—to make the final decision whether to take the stand, Abe had spent a professional lifetime trying to persuade arrogant, know-it-all clients not to testify on their own behalf. Usually he succeeded, but sometimes the client insisted—almost always with disastrous results. As Abe had learned over the years, they did fine on direct examination from their own lawyer. But then would come cross-examination by the prosecutor, and boom—the whole case would blow up. There would invariably be damaging facts the defendant hadn’t told his lawyer, because he was sure the prosecutor wouldn’t find them. But good prosecutors always did, and then the defendant would try to lie his way around them, and the trap would be sprung. Checkmate! Time for sentencing.
Now Abe was doing his damnedest to persuade his client to take the stand—in order to prove his own guilt! Everybody said the Middle East was a topsy-turvy world, but this was even more than Abe could have anticipated. He’d never needed so desperate a tactic before, and he’d never had a less cooperative client.
He looked deeply into Faisal’s eyes. They were surrounded by dark circles, aftermath of the wasting poison. But there was intelligence in them, too, and Abe could almost see his wheels turning. Faisal looked away. He didn’t want to look into Abe’s eyes. He didn’t want to make a connection. But Abe’s argument resonated with him. He remembered the taunting he had received from some of his Palestinian cellmates before he was placed in solitary. They didn’t believe his claim that it was he who had planted the deadly bomb. How many others had similar doubts? Faisal wondered. After what seemed like many minutes, he spoke.
“I will tell the truth—a deeper truth than you can understand. I will testify. The world must know that it was I and my holy group who killed the infidels. There must be no doubt.”
“That’s good. We all want to hear the truth,” Abe assured him, reaching out a hand to touch Faisal but quickly withdrawing it. Their interaction was over, at least for now.
XXII
Yassir
PLEASE, CAN I PLEASE SEE the television?” Emma stood in her room, half dressed. On the bed beside her lay a pile of new dresses, dresses that were demure and long-sleeved.
Nawal stood by the door, arms crossed. “Try the purple. It will look nice on you.”
Emma ignored her, crossing her own arms. Nawal had brought her new clothes, but that wasn’t what she wanted. She’d been held prisoner for days now, spending her time walking in the garden, reading books from the library, and eating. Each day Nawal made sure there was food for her, just as she’d made sure there were fresh clothes. She’d been wearing dresses of Salma’s since she’d arrived. But Emma was aware that today was the first day of the trial, and she was desperate for news, for a glimpse of Abe and Rendi and Habash. She was certain that the Israeli news services would at least show footage of them walking into the courtroom. “What’s the big deal? I just want to know about Faisal’s case. Don’t you?”
Nawal pursed her lips, a mark of sudden tension. “That is not my concern. What happens will happen. Here, try the purple.” She took the dress from the pile of clothes and held it up for Emma.
“Fine.” Emma capitulated. She put on the dress. “Let’s go.”
Her only hope now was to endure her daily walk with Nawal—and then perhaps she could elude her guard during her library visit. She’d go to the room with the television by herself. It was a risky thing to do, but she was fairly certain that nothing would happen to her even if she got caught. Adam—Mohammed—would protect her, at least until the trial was over.
Nawal zipped up the back of the dress and led her into the hall. The ever-present gunman followed. Emma walked steadily so as not to betray her thoughts.
The house held nearly a dozen men plus Nawal and Salma, and yet it was always quiet. There was hardly ever a sound—it was so large that people in other rooms seemed to not be there. But now, as they walked, Emma heard a low, angry voice, speaking rapidly and intensely. Beside her, Nawal’s face tightened.
They turned a corner, the gunman striding past them, his weapon raised. Nawal also sped up. The gunman suddenly stopped in his tracks, and Nawal pushed past him, her voice rising in Arabic.
The object of her anger was the heavyset man who’d dragged Emma into the room when she’d met Rashid—she remembered that his name was Yassir. Now he was wildly gesticulating to the person he was tal
king to, a person who was backed up against the corner of the hallway. It was Salma. Emma could tell they were conspiring about something.
“You shouldn’t be here, Salma!”
Salma scurried away before Nawal could get to her.
Yassir stared at Nawal in a way that made Emma’s skin crawl. “You shouldn’t be here,” he sneered. Nawal stopped in her tracks. She was afraid of him, and this terrified Emma.
“Come, Emma, let’s go.” Nawal laid a gentle hand on Emma’s arm and nudged her toward the exit to the garden.
But as she walked away, Yassir called after her, “American girl!” When Emma turned to him, he smiled a menacing smile, pointed at her, and then drew a finger across his neck. “I’ll see you soon, American girl.”
XXIII
The Question
THE TRIAL ITSELF— the taking of testimony as opposed to the preliminary legal maneuvering—was to be held in Jerusalem’s largest public auditorium, the Binyanei Ha’uma, where trials of great public interest, such as those of Adolf Eichmann and John (“Ivan the Terrible”) Demjanjuk, had been conducted. It would also be carried live on television around the world. The auditorium, though spacious, was sparse and functional. The stage had been converted into a makeshift courtroom. Judge Shamgar sat in a high-backed leather chair behind a simple oak desk. Habash and Abe sat on two folding chairs behind a large pine table. There were many people behind the prosecutor’s table: Mr. Arad and his two legal aides plus Dr. Shai Avigdor, a well-known forensics expert who’d spent years working with the Shin Bet and, before that, Mossad.
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