It wasn’t hard to figure out that there were those among her captors who didn’t want her alive. Nawal’s eyes were wide as she gestured toward Emma. Mohammed glanced at Emma briefly before returning his focus to Nawal, nodding tightly. Then the two of them approached her.
“Nawal said you requested a television,” Mohammed said to her.
Emma responded, “That’s right. The trial began today.”
Nawal appeared more nervous than Mohammed. She watched him with darting eyes as he nodded his head. “Yes, it did. But they aren’t showing it,” he lied.
Emma bit her lip. “Even so, is there footage of my father at all?” She hated the sound of her own voice. It sounded young and feeble and terrified.
Mohammed inhaled sharply. “Yes, but you can’t see it. I’ll make you a deal.” Emma ignored the irony in those words. “I’ll bring you the newspaper in the library each day. Starting tomorrow.”
Emma looked back and forth between them, suspiciously. “What’s my part of the deal?”
Nawal held her breath as Mohammed withdrew something from his pocket and pressed it into Emma’s hand. It looked like a remote device to open a locked car door. “If anyone other than Nawal or me tries to take you from your room, you press this button.” He showed her where it was on the device. “And I’ll come for you.”
Now Emma was really frightened.
XXV
The Meeting
THEY WERE USHERED by court officers into a basement closet that could barely pass as a room. There were no windows, chairs, or tables, and the air was dead. Faisal walked slowly, led by the arms, and Abe and Habash followed him.
The court officers turned to the two lawyers, and one of them barked out an order. Abe and Habash hurried to the closet where they’d deposited Faisal, and Habash knelt down in front of him, speaking in a low voice a language that Abe couldn’t understand.
Faisal knew what Habash was doing. He was hoping to engender trust by speaking to him in his mother tongue. But Faisal didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust anyone who worked with Jews. While Habash spoke to him, Faisal eyed Abe, who stood in the corner with his arms crossed. Faisal thought that Rashid must have been involved in the hiring of the American lawyer. It was no coincidence that Habash had accused Rashid of kidnapping Emma Ringel and then suddenly her father was on his legal team. His brother’s group had a rich supporter, and he thought they must be paying the Jew lawyer. He’s doing it for the money, Faisal concluded. And Rashid was holding Ringel’s daughter as some sort of collateral. That made sense. Maybe he would be paid more if he secured an acquittal. He really was Judas, coins and all! Faisal’s contempt for his lawyer grew.
He felt some regret that the poison had not worked. He would have preferred to be stabbed or shot—more honorable deaths than by poisoning—but he wanted desperately to be a shahid, a martyr, to bring pride to his mother and to his community. Now his only hope was to be convicted and executed. But his own lawyer was ruining it for him. If he was acquitted, he would be humiliated—like a suicide bomber who couldn’t press the button.
Finally, after what seemed an endless stream of words, Habash finished his explanation of why Faisal must answer Abe’s question. Faisal could barely contain the contempt he felt for Habash—a betrayer of his own people. “I am guilty, and I must be convicted,” he spit at him in English.
“We are your lawyers. Our job is to defend you, to help you and try to prevent your conviction.”
Faisal smiled a sad smile. “Being acquitted will not help me.”
“Under the law it will.”
“Perhaps under the law of the Jews. But I must live by a deeper law.”
“The only law that applies in that courtroom is Israeli law,” Habash insisted.
“I don’t care about Israeli law or Mr. Ringel. He is my lawyer, and I insist that he follow my wishes. My wishes are for him to withdraw his question. He must obey my instruction. You must tell that to the judge.”
A worried look came over Abe’s face. He was not so much concerned that Faisal might be right as a matter of legal ethics. Ethics be damned, Abe thought. His mind was only on his daughter’s safety. He was worried that Judge Shamgar might agree with Faisal and rule that the question—which was Abe’s only real weapon—had to be withdrawn.
XXVI
The Answer
ABE DIDN’T SPEAK to Habash during the entire walk back to the courtroom, nor did he speak as the officers ushered Faisal back to his seat on the witness stand. He had to make sure that Faisal’s testimony proved that he did not plant the bomb, or else his daughter would die. But here he was under direct orders from his own client to withdraw the crucial question—the only question that could prove that his client didn’t do it. He had just a precious few moments to come up with a plan that would not only disprove Faisal’s guilt but save his daughter’s life.
Judge Shamgar arrived and took his seat, and Abe rose to address him. Every person in the courtroom listened attentively. This was the best legal theater these courts had ever seen. Even Habash, who’d spent years reading up on Abe’s notorious maneuvers, was on the edge of his seat, anxious to know how he would get them out of this fix.
“I have been instructed by my client to withdraw my question,” Abe pronounced. There was a ripple of conversation among the observers in the room, and the judge brought his gavel down hard to silence them. Abe acknowledged all the people in the audience with a sweeping look before continuing grandly. “With respect, Your Honor, I refuse to do so. My client wants to be convicted, but I believe he is innocent. I must do everything I can do to secure his acquittal. That is my job.”
Mr. Arad leaped to his feet, his belly brushing the side of the prosecutor’s table. “If Mr. Ringel has facts proving innocence, let him present them instead of engaging in his trickery.”
Abe directed his reply to the judge. “The fact that proves my client’s innocence is that he doesn’t know where the real bomb planter put the bomb. If he did, he would surely say so and prove his guilt, because we all know he wants to be convicted.”
Yehuda Arad refused to back down. If Abe successfully won this battle, Arad could lose his case. “But maybe he does know and is withholding that information to secure an acquittal—with or without his lawyer’s knowledge.”
Abe strode forward, ready to continue engaging in this legal argument, but at this point Judge Shamgar banged his gavel. “I’ve heard enough. I’ve seen enough. It is pretty clear to me what is going on. I believe—and so rule—that the defendant wants to be convicted. It also seems possible—although this is less certain and hasn’t been proven by either of you—that he is trying to take the blame for doing something that someone else did. Unless he can tell the court where the bomb was planted, I will have no choice but to reject his direct testimony.” The judge then stood up and looked straight at Faisal.
“You have instructed your lawyer to withdraw his question because you want to be convicted and executed.” The judge paused and stared the defendant in the eye. “I will not let you use this court to commit legal suicide. In this court we convict only the guilty. We do not allow suicide terrorists to abuse our legal system. If you are truly guilty, you should have no problem answering the question. If you refuse, or answer wrongly, that will be evidence that you are a suicide defendant, whose job is to be convicted regardless of whether you are guilty or innocent. The question therefore is relevant to my judgment. You must answer the question, or your direct testimony will be struck.”
Faisal felt trapped. Rashid, sitting in the last row of the courtroom, smiled. This time Faisal saw the smile and became even angrier. He turned to their mother, sitting behind the prosecution and clutching the same framed photo of her son that she’d brought to every legal session. She rocked back and forth, a handkerchief poised at her mouth. Faisal knew that she was confused by the attitudes of her two sons and that she wanted Faisal to live but not to be shamed. If he did not answer, he could be acquitted and humiliate
d. It would be worse than death.
Faisal thought for a moment, peered around the courtroom, then looked squarely at the judge and said, “You have given me no choice. I will answer my lawyer’s question.”
Abe spun on his heel and faced Husseini. This was the last thing he expected. After decades of defending clients, he thought he knew them fairly well: knew when they were lying and when they were telling the truth, knew often when they were or weren’t guilty. He’d bet everything—his own daughter’s life—on the fact that Faisal was a patsy. But now he began to panic. What if he’d been wrong? What if Faisal really had planted the bomb? What if he were to give the correct answer? There would be nothing Abe could then do to prevent a conviction. Emma would be killed. Had his tactic doomed his daughter?
But if Faisal really had placed the bomb, why did he not answer immediately? By delaying, he had planted the seed of his possible innocence in the mind of the judge. But now, by agreeing to answer, he had unplanted that seed.
Abe had learned in law school never to ask a question to which he did not know the answer. At an American trial, the defense attorney would have learned during discovery where the bomb had been planted. But Israeli security had kept that important fact from being discovered. Abe was in the dark when he asked the critical question.
Suddenly Abe realized what he had to do. It was risky, but it was the best chance he had. He faced his client and asked the question, this time most pointedly. “Tell the court precisely where you claim you planted the bomb—if you know.”
Faisal looked into Abe’s eyes and responded, “I placed the bomb in the briefcase of the secretary of state of the Palestinian Authority, who stood directly behind the Palestinian prime minister.”
There was silence in the courtroom as all eyes turned to Dr. Shai Avigdor, the Israeli forensics expert seated next to the prosecutor. He was the man who had conducted the investigation of the bomb—its components and its exact placement. Abe looked at Dr. Avigdor in an effort to discern a reaction. Was he surprised? Did he shake his head? Nothing! An absolute poker face. Abe would have to await his testimony to learn the results of Dr. Avigdor’s investigation—and his daughter’s fate.
Habash had briefed Abe on Dr. Avigdor’s history. In the Mossad he had famously designed the first cell-phone bomb that exploded when an incoming call from a specified number was answered. It killed a terrorist in Lebanon. When he retired from the Mossad, he joined the Shin Bet as a consultant specializing in foreign-made bombs. He had been assigned by the state to reconstruct the explosion at the American Colony and determine the precise nature and location of the bomb, which he had done. Here was the part that Habash was furious about: Dr. Avigdor had shared his conclusions with no one outside of the Shin Bet except the new prime minister of Israel. The Americans had their own expert, as did the Palestinians, but little information had been shared among them. Habash, too, was in the dark, though it was his opinion that the Shin Bet had authorized Dr. Avigdor to confirm or deny the testimony of Husseini. Habash doubted that the prosecutor knew where the bomb had been planted.
Faisal was dismissed from the stand, and Dr. Avigdor stood up, took an oath to tell the truth, and listened as Judge Shamgar addressed him. “Dr. Avigdor, in your expert opinion, was the bomb planted in the secretary of state’s briefcase?”
Dr. Avigdor looked at Abe and then at Husseini before turning to the judge and saying in a matter-of-fact way, “My investigation established with relative scientific certainty that the bomb had been placed in the briefcase of the man standing behind the Palestinian prime minister. As we saw in the playing of the video, that man was the Palestinian secretary of state. Mr. Husseini’s answer is correct.”
Abe felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He stood in the center of the courtroom, a still eye in a storm of pandemonium. Only the person who planted the bomb would know precisely where it had been planted. Abe himself had said that. Now he was trapped in his own net. His client would be convicted. His daughter would be killed. And it was his fault.
Abe caught Habash’s eye then, expecting to see defeat. But Habash didn’t look down, he looked dubious. Abe suddenly remembered what Habash had said about not trusting the Shin Bet.
The judge banged his gavel to quiet everyone. “Well, Mr. Ringel, what’s your next move?”
Abe breathed deeply and said, “I’d like to replay the video of the explosion.” Even as he requested it, he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. But it was a good way to gain some time so that he could decide how to undo the damage to the defense’s case that Dr. Avigdor had just done.
Once again the lights were dimmed and the video flickered to life. Every eye was on the screen as the three dignitaries once again walked to their death. Behind the Palestinian prime minister, a short, balding man could be seen carrying a thick leather briefcase. Habash whispered to Abe, “That is the Palestinian secretary of state.”
Then came the explosion. It was impossible to tell from the video the direction or source of the blast, since it happened so quickly, but Abe demanded that it be replayed at the slowest possible speed and that all other videos and films of the explosion be brought to the courtroom.
“What is your point, Mr. Ringel?” the judge asked. “Are you challenging Dr. Avigdor’s truthfulness?”
“With respect, Your Honor, I am. He is a Shin Bet doctor, who worked for the Mossad. His first allegiance is not to the truth. It is to the protection of Israel. The Shin Bet and the Mossad have licenses to lie, when necessary, to protect the state. Remember the Landau Report.”
The judge remembered the Landau Report. He had served on the Landau Commission, which had investigated charges that the Shin Bet had tortured some terrorist suspects and then lied about it. The Shin Bet had claimed a license to lie in the national interest. Although the Landau Commission had concluded that there was no such license, there were widespread accounts of continued lying by Israeli intelligence agencies, as well as other intelligence agencies throughout the world.
Judge Shamgar looked angrily at Abe and said in a stern voice, “I’m fully aware of our report, but it did not cover Dr. Avigdor or the current leadership of the Shin Bet. Now it is you, Mr. Ringel, who are making a serious accusation against a distinguished professional. You are charging him with perjury—a serious crime. Can you back it up?”
Abe knew he was upsetting the judge by his as-yet-unfounded accusation of perjury, but the judge was not his only audience. He was speaking as well to Emma’s kidnappers, a representative of whom was in the courtroom. If Dr. Avigdor’s answer were to dash their hopes of an acquittal, they might decide to kill their hostage. Abe had to raise their hopes for an acquittal, even if it meant temporarily offending the judge.
“Yes, I can. But I will need a few days to examine the videos and films. I will also need a subpoena for Dr. Avigdor’s work product, including his lab reports and any fragments of the bomb and the briefcase in which it was allegedly planted. Then I will place Dr. Avigdor under oath once again and cross-examine him. May these requests be granted, Your Honor?”
“Any objection from the prosecution?”
“Yes,” Arad countered. “Plenty. There are state secrets involved.”
“There are no secrets from me,” the judge insisted. “The matter will be considered in camera—that is, by me alone, with only the lawyers present—to the extent it involves state secrets. Mr. Ringel’s requests are granted. You had better be right, Mr. Ringel,” the judge insisted, not realizing how high the stakes really were. “The court is in recess.”
XXVII
The Threat
EMMA WAS VORACIOUSLY DEVOURING the newspaper while sitting in her room. She had never been an avid newspaper reader. Like many in her generation, she got her news from the Internet—and from comedy programs like The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. But this time her life depended on what the newspaper reported, even if it was always a day behind. Emma had read of her father’s dramatic question—and the equally
dramatic answer his client had given.
In between newspapers she’d been spending time in the library with Mohammed. After she’d pore over the accounts of the trial, they would talk about books and popular culture, staying as far away as possible from the conflict in the Middle East.
For a kidnapper and double-crosser, Mohammed wasn’t that bad, Emma thought.
Each day he asked how she was doing, and each day she said that she wanted to go home. But she understood that he was really asking if any of his co-conspirators had given her any trouble. Knowing that he was concerned about her welfare made her both scared and relieved. Scared that there were people in the house who wanted to act against her, but somewhat relieved that Mohammed was looking out for her well-being.
Emma was growing restless. She tried not to think of the status of the trial, because she would only worry. Sure, it seemed dire, since Faisal had apparently identified the placement of the bomb. But they were in recess, which meant that Abe was doing everything he could to counter his client’s damaging words. She knew her father. He’d find a way to make Faisal look like an innocent liar, rather than a truth-telling mass murderer. She was more confident in her father’s keeping his part of the deal than in her captors’ keeping theirs.
A knock sounded at her door. She folded the paper, set it aside, and rose from the bed, expecting Nawal and her lunch tray.
But when the door opened, it wasn’t Nawal.
It was Yassir.
His bulk filled the doorway, and his meaty hands gripped the tray in a way that made Emma think he could snap it in two if he wanted. Over his shoulder the gunman peered in nervously. He spoke in Arabic. Yassir responded with a sneer and kicked the door shut with his booted foot.
Before she could think, Emma backed up as far as possible, until she was pressed against the windowpane.
The Trials of Zion Page 14
