Justice Returns (Ben Kincaid series Book 19)

by William Bernhardt

  “Also true.”

  “And yet . . . the defendant did bring his gun to that press conference.”

  “Objection,” I said, bouncing up like a Slinky. “That has not been established.”

  Thrillkill tilted his head. “The defendant’s gun was in his hand moments after the murder.”

  “None of which proves he brought it there.”

  Thrillkill paused, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his face. “Very well, then, let me rephrase. Someone who had access to the defendant’s gun brought it to the press conference. Would you agree that particular person bore malice against Nazir?”

  Fethullah was prepared to answer, but I jumped in anyway. “Objection. Speculative. Argumentative.”

  “Sustained.”

  Thrillkill didn’t blink. “Did other PACT members have access to the defendant’s apartment?”

  Clever man. He was putting Fethullah in a trap. If he said yes, he implicated the organization. If he said no, Oz remained the most likely suspect.

  And of course, Fethullah answered honestly. “I know some people visited him sometimes. But I don’t know that they had access, that is, had their own keys.”

  “Mina Ali lived there, did she not? Or at least slept over on occasion?”

  Something flickered through Fethullah’s eyes, like an involuntary synapse firing somewhere in his brain. “True.”

  Thrillkill saw it, too. “Did their relationship bother you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Thrillkill stared at him a moment before continuing. “You were interested in Mina yourself, weren’t you?” I sensed Thrillkill took a shot in the dark, but he hit pay dirt.

  “We had dated. In the past. She left me and started dating him.”

  “It seems the defendant is quite the playboy.”

  “Motion to strike,” I said. “I don’t see how any of this is relevant.”

  “I would have to agree there,” Judge Santino said. “This is about a murder, not who had a date for the prom. Get back to the matter at hand, Counsel.”

  Thrillkill nodded, nonplussed. “My point is Mina had access to the defendant’s gun. Right?”

  Now Thrillkill offered an even nastier choice. Incriminate Oz or incriminate Mina. But Fethullah managed to avoid the trap. “Since I don’t know where the weapon was kept, I can’t say who had access to it.”

  Thrillkill nodded, resigned. “Thank you. No more questions.”

  Thrillkill surrendered much too quickly. Which left me certain he had something bigger yet to come.

  48

  The next step in my ongoing campaign of client character rehabilitation would be calling Mina’s younger brother, Kir. Mina would probably do as well, but her relationship with Oz impacted her credibility, as did her relationship with JUSTICE IRAQ and Abdullah. Kir wasn’t a member of PACT, but he knew enough about Oz and some of his activities to speak about them without entering the thorny thicket of hearsay. I planned to use him as a warm-up act, then later to call Yasmin al-Tikrit back to the stand, to destroy Thrillkill’s conspiracy theory that she and Oz were conspiring to build a superweapon to use against America.

  I wanted to consult with Christina, but she was back at the office, prepping Yasmin. I had to go it alone.

  “Would you please state your name?”

  “Kir Ali.”

  “Mina Ali is your older sister?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d let Thrillkill ID Abdullah as his older brother. “Are you a member of PACT?”

  “No.”

  Kir was about as nonthreatening as it was possible to be. He was small and short with a slight slouch. He had an accent but also a bit of a lisp, which did not make him seem like a likely “radical Islamic terrorist.” His resemblance to Mina was striking but, if anything, made him seem somewhat androgynous. I could see him joining a boy band, but not a terrorist cell. I had a hard time imagining him getting angry enough to cut in line, much less blowing something up. His Disney Channel demeanor couldn’t help but dispel the image Thrillkill wanted, of this entire clan being a closeted terrorist cell. “How did you come to be in the United States?”

  Kir then began a longish narrative about his immigration, mostly thanks to his sister. To my surprise, Thrillkill let him tell it without an objection, despite the fact that its relevance was tangential at best.

  “What do you do for a living?” I asked.

  “I work for an American organization called HOPE.”

  More alphabet soup. “And what do they do?”

  “Basically, we work with the Bureau of Consular Affairs to help Americans with relatives overseas obtain green cards or visas or citizenship status. Whatever it takes to bring their loved ones to safety. We focus on those in greatest potential danger in their homelands. Having been through the process myself, I know how tangled and bureaucratic immigration can be, and of course it has become even more difficult recently. But people’s lives often hang in the balance.”

  “Have you met with much resistance?”

  “Sadly, in many people’s minds these days, immigration is a dirty word. To some, immigrants are all lazy loafers sneaking across borders so they can get welfare payments. Or they are drug smugglers and thieves and rapists. But that stereotype doesn’t match reality. For refugees, or people living in trouble spots, immigration may be the only way to remain alive. We try to help the people who need it most.”

  “Sounds like worthy work. And not unlike the mission of PACT. How do you know the defendant?”

  “He and my sister Mina have worked together. She introduced us. He became just as useful to me in my work as he was with PACT.”

  “Could you please explain how?”

  “In many cases, even after people overcome the seemingly insurmountable challenges of immigration, they are lost and penniless and unsure how to proceed with their lives. Their family may not be able to join them immediately. Having work visas is not the same as having work. It can be a difficult, friendless time.”

  “I would imagine so.”

  “Oz has worked hard to help, to ease the often-difficult transition period, frequently using his own money to do it. He’s even arranged temporary housing for people.”

  “Do you know where this temporary housing is located?”

  “I know he keeps two apartments to use as temporary housing for new immigrants here in the city.”

  “Specifically . .

  “On South Robinson. Not the best neighborhood, I know. But he’s not a millionaire. He’s just a good-hearted man willing to put his money where his mouth is. I wish there were more like him. He is a hero to many of us.”

  I decided to hammer it in, just in case some juror hadn’t quite twigged onto the truth. “So he’s assisted you with the trafficking . . . of immigrants? Legal immigrants?”

  “Yes. Found more than one of them jobs, too. Legit jobs. He’s good at learning what their skills are and figuring out where they can be applied.”

  “Does your sister approve of your work?”

  “Very much so. In fact, it was her idea, which I readily accepted. I would not be here but for her. I would do anything for my sister.”

  “I’m sorry I have to ask you this, Kir, but . . . to your knowledge, did Omar ever place any of these immigrants in the sex trade?”

  Kir straightened. “Absolutely not. And there’s no chance that could happen without my knowing about it, because I keep careful track of everyone we bring in. Sure, there are lots of prostitutes on Robinson, and everyone knows it, but those aren’t our people.”

  “Thank you.” Deal done. Time to move on. “Now earlier, you called Omar a hero. Could you please explain what you meant by that?” And quickly, before we draw an objection .

  “He fought for the US in the Iraq War. And was interrogated by this government for his troubles. I don’t think I would have survived what he endured. I know he’s suffered, but he hasn’t let it affect his idealism or his beliefs.”

 
“How exactly has he suffered?”

  “Objection. Calls for hearsay,” Thrillkill said.

  “Not necessarily,” I replied. “All depends on the answer, doesn’t it?”

  The judge made a grunting noise. “I’ll caution the witness to limit his answer to his own personal knowledge. But he may answer the question.”

  I set it up again. “What did you mean when you said that Omar has suffered?”

  “I’m talking about his PTSD.”

  “And you know this because . .

  “He told me about it. I drove him to a therapy session one week when his car was out of whack.”

  “If you know, how often does he attend these therapy sessions?”

  “He was going three times a week immediately after he returned, but I believe he’s down to once a week.”

  “Why the decrease in frequency?”

  “I guess he didn’t need it. I have to say he seems perfectly stable to me, not that I’m a psychologist. But I admire him for taking the matter seriously.”

  “Do you know if he takes any medication?”

  “I do, because we’ve discussed it, and because I accompanied him to the pharmacy once. He’s taking Xanax for anxiety—a very low quantity now. And he takes OxyContin for pain.”

  “That’s a narcotic, right? An opioid?”

  “Objection,” Thrillkill said. “The witness is not a pharmacist.”

  “Sustained,” the judge replied. Not that I cared. I just wanted the jury to understand why the drugs were in Oz’s medicine cabinet.

  “Would you say you spent a significant period of time with the defendant?”

  “I would.”

  “How much?”

  “Over the course of the past two years? I doubt if a week went by that I didn’t see him at least three times.”

  “At what time of day?”

  “On weekdays, usually early in the morning. He’d stop by on his way to work to see if he could help anyone. On the weekends, I usually saw him at night.”

  “And at any time did you see any indications of addiction?”

  “Are you kidding? The man doesn’t even drink beer.”

  “Can you recall any time when he did not seem to be in control of his faculties?”

  “No. Never.”

  Granted, this was Oz’s friend, and you would expect him to speak well of a friend. But I hoped this showed the jury there was more than one way to interpret facts. What looks like sex trafficking turns out to be benevolent immigration assistance. What looks like addiction is actually a brave man coping with a serious disorder. What looks like explosives is picnic entertainment. If I got lucky, I might inspire a few of the jurors to wonder if Thrillkill was trying to pull the wool over their eyes.

  “Thank you. That’s all I have.”

  Thrillkill found his way to his feet. “Would you consider yourself a friend of the defendant, sir?”

  “I would. And I’d like to think he feels the same way about me.”

  “You wouldn’t want to see him go to prison, would you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you would agree that the person who killed Agent Nazir should be punished, wouldn’t you?”

  “Objection. The first two questions went to the credibility of the witness. The last was just rhetorical and argumentative.”

  “Sustained.”

  Thrillkill didn’t blink. “The previous witness, Fethullah, indicated that it was common practice for people in your acquaintance to talk about ‘taking out’ Agent Nazir.”

  “Taking him out of the equation, yes.”

  “Was it common for your PACT friends to carry guns?”

  “No.”

  “Was it common for them to apply for open-carry permits?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Do you know of anyone in your group who did that, other than the defendant?”

  “I don’t know of anyone.”

  “Did you go to the press conference where Agent Nazir was killed?”

  “I did.”

  “But you didn’t take a gun, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Indeed,” Thrillkill said, nodding. “Why would you? You had no reason to do so. Because you didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

  I was forming the “O” word when Thrillkill cut me off. “That’s all. No more questions.”

  The judge appeared pleased. “Let’s break for lunch. We’ll start again at one o’clock sharp.”

  I desperately wanted to consult with Christina. Where was she? She should have been back by now.

  I watched the jurors as they rose and trundled off to their prepackaged lunches, probably catered by a local deli. I wanted to see signs of doubt, or curiosity. Anything less than certitude.

  As they left the courtroom, not a one looked at Oz or even glanced his way. They didn’t want to make eye contact. Not even after I’d explained away all the mud Thrillkill slung at Oz. He still made them uncomfortable.

  That was a bad sign.

  49

  Witness Affidavit

  Case No. CJ-49-1886

  I detected the target leaving the law office. For such a small person, she moved with great deliberation and speed. Professional women tend to be in a hurry, but this subject showed a particular degree of determination. No matter. I would follow my instructions and complete my mission.

  The delicacy of the matter, the immensity of the stakes, and the importance of the cause demanded that I act now.

  I followed the target to her residence. Fortunately, my preparations ensured that I would be able to see inside, hear inside, and enter quickly should I be instructed to do so.

  This target, though not primary, had been on my watch list since before the onset of the trial. I did not know why. My brief was not to assess threats. My brief was to eliminate them.

  From the shelter of a neighboring rooftop, I used my phone to receive visual confirmation. She went immediately to her computer. I could not tell what she was doing, though I would later retrieve that information by accessing the mirror I planted on her hard drive. She appeared rushed, urgent. This was not someone casually checking her email. As her fingers skittered across the keyboard, I realized she was entering a message.

  My earpiece pinged.

  “Yes?”

  “Intercept and disrupt communications.”

  “Now?”

  “And quickly.”

  “Including Internet?”

  “Especially Internet.”

  “Understood.”

  This was an escalation I did not anticipate, but that did not mean I was unprepared for it. The step from surveillance to interference is small, but handled clumsily or with inadequate preparation, it can be treacherous.

  I returned to my van and activated a scrambling unit. Some might think this overkill. Negating the electricity would be sufficient to disable Internet access, but she undoubtedly had a smartphone in her pocket, and the only way to disable that would be to jam the cell signal.

  That would only work so long as she stayed in residence. If she was desperate to get a message out, she would surely attempt to leave.

  I had to be prepared to prevent that as well.

  Through the hidden cam, I perceived her mounting frustration. She ran to another desk. I switched to a different camera. She sorted through papers, sifting, finding the ones she needed and tossing them into a briefcase.

  She was going somewhere. If she left, I could not prevent her from sending a message. A simple trip to the corner Starbucks would give her the Wi-Fi she needed.

  “Stop her.”

  The voice in my ear spoke with unmistakable clarity.

  “What measures am I permitted?”

  “All of them. As necessary.”

  “This is a strong-willed woman. I will have to exercise maximum force if I am to prevent her from—”

  “I understand. Why do you hesitate?”

  “I thought perhaps . . . you might want t
o reconsider.”

  “Did you hear my instructions?”

  “I did.”

  “Do I need to send someone else?”

  “I will complete my mission.” I checked my weapon to ensure that it was loaded and ready. I headed toward the door, on an interception course. “It will be done.”

  50

  I couldn’t get Christina on the phone, and it scared me to death. The judge wanted to reconvene, but I’d asked the bailiff to give me a few minutes to line up my next witness. This was the sort of thing judges always made a show of being grumpy about, but ultimately there was little they could do. If a witness wasn’t there, the witness wasn’t there. In time the judge would insist that I call someone else or rest my case, but we weren’t there yet.

  I dialed over and over again, texted, even posted on Facebook. CHRISTINA: WHERE ARE YOU?

  I’d known this woman for years, loved her from the start, depended upon her more times than I cared to count. She’d never let me down. Never once.

  If she wasn’t here, if she wasn’t responding—there was a reason.

  I tried to think of all the silly, innocuous possible reasons for her disappearance.

  I couldn’t think of a single one.

  Eventually, the bailiff tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to come to chambers. Thrillkill was already there. God knows what he and the judge might’ve been chatting about.

  The judge looked relaxed and uncommonly friendly. Was it my imagination, or had he treated himself to a little snort of something for lunch? “We need to proceed, Mr. Kincaid. Can’t keep the jury waiting forever.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I left my witness with my partner. My wife. And now I can’t locate her.”

  The judge frowned. “Christina’s flaked? That seems unlike her.” As if, sure, we expect that sort of thing from you, Kincaid. But Christina? No. “Nonetheless, we have to proceed.”

  “I don’t see the value of this witness anyway,” Thrillkill said, trying to hide his undoubted delight that my case was falling apart. “She’s already testified.”

  “For you. But since my cross was limited to the scope of your direct, I couldn’t get into anything that mattered.”