The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2)
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“I don’t know. It was some type of video recorder but I don’t know what type yet. So what?”
“Have you figured out who gave the video to the police, Matt?”
“No I haven’t. The video was emailed to the police anonymously.”
As I said that I felt sick. I was glad Dee wasn’t here to see that her jerkoff husband didn’t even question the date and time stamp, or even the chain of evidence of the video.
“Anonymously? Do you find that a bit weird, Matt?”
“Where are you going with this, Al?”
“I was at the mall, wearing exactly what you saw on the tape. But it was two days before the date of the bombing. So, yes, that was me standing next to a green satchel, but it wasn’t on the date of the explosion.”
“Holy shit, do you have an alibi, people who can testify that you weren’t there on the date of the bombing?”
“No, I don’t. I was off from school and spent the entire day in my apartment studying for a night course I’m taking.”
“Talk to me about the thumbprint, Al, as well as the DNA they got from a small amount of blood.”
“I can’t explain that, Matt. There’s got to be an explanation, but I just don’t have one at this point.”
“Our time is almost up, Al. You’ve just opened this case up a bit for me. I’m going to get another appointment with you real soon. I need to confer with some colleagues, especially my wife, who’s a partner at the firm.”
“Diana Blake is no partner, Matt. She’s a paralegal as you well know. She’s also a university professor and writer. I’ve read all of her articles, and a couple of her books.”
“How did you know that she’s a paralegal at the firm?”
“Woody Donovan, your investigator, told me about her when he took my statement. Some things aren’t complicated, Matt. Oh, and I don’t mind you conferring with her, not that it’s my place to mind or not. I feel comfortable knowing that you’re harnessing her brain power on this case. But part of me doesn’t give a shit.”
“What do you mean, you don’t give a shit? It’s my job to keep you off death row, and I’m gonna need your help.”
“Matt, the sentence has been handed down already. Either the feds give me a lethal injection, or the jihadis behead me, at best. Maybe they’ll burn me alive or lower me in a cage and drown me.”
“Al, what the hell are you talking about? Are you saying that radical Islam has it in for you? I thought you were radical Islam. Talk to me about that.”
“I can’t talk about that. It’s the one subject that’s off the table—why the jihadis want me dead.”
“There’s no such thing as a subject that’s off the table, Al. I’m trying to save your life and maybe keep you out of prison.”
“Yeah, whatever. Just don’t forget to bring me an electronic cigarette next time. A pint of gin wouldn’t hurt either.”
Our session came to an end. Getting to know this guy would be a work in progress.
Chapter 4
I got home early, about 5:45 p.m. Diana greeted me at the door with her usual hug and kiss. No matter what life serves me during the day, no matter what crap comes down the chute, seeing Dee makes it all go away.
It’s hard to believe that a few short years ago, Dee and I were a couple of alcoholic drug addicts. Her husband had been killed in a car accident, and that sent her over the edge. Right after law school, I lost my fiancée, Maggie, also in a car accident, and I dived into a life of booze and heroin. Dee and I both went into rehab, although we didn’t know each other at the time. We’ve both been clean and sober since, and part of our lives are dedicated to keeping it that way. It almost seems that fate has brought us together. Actually, we both thank our guardian angels, Maggie for me and Jim Spellman for Diana. Sounds like a sappy story? I don’t care; it’s our story and it’s true. Dee and I have a rare and different relationship.
We met when I represented her in a lawsuit arising out of her husband’s death. It wasn’t love at first sight. It took a couple of days. We got married when we were in the Witness Protection Program (more about that later), and our lives have been as one since.
“So tell me about your interview with Mr. Scumbag, honey.”
“Don’t embarrass me any more than I am already, Dee. You’re right, you’re so right. Whatever I was acting like, it wasn’t a lawyer. Mr. Scumbag, and I promise never to call him that again, is a really charming guy. He’s also a big fan of yours. He says he’s read every article you’ve ever written.”
“Get away. I can’t imagine a radical jihadi liking my writing, which tends toward the conservative viewpoint.”
“Jihadi? Hey, you’re sounding as bad as me. Who said he’s a jihadi?”
“Touché. I’m sorry, Matt. We have to keep each other on our toes. That was stupid of me to pre-judge. So tell me about him.”
“Well, he cusses like a sailor, wants me to bring him electronic cigarettes, and even asked I could sneak in a bottle of gin. Typical Muslim, no?”
“What does he have to say about the case? Anything to help us with his defense.”
I love how Dee talks about “us” referring to his defense. Yes, when Dee and I work together, it’s us. I convinced my father and Bill Randolph to put Dee on the payroll as a part-time researcher and paralegal. That enables me to discuss confidential case matters with her and not run afoul of the attorney-client relationship.
“Get this. Number one, he flatly denies that he had any knowledge or involvement with the bombing. Maybe I need a few more years of experience with people, but I was convinced he was telling me the truth. He even has me questioning the video. He thinks the date stamp was doctored. And here’s the most bizarre thing: He also thinks that radical Islam is out to get him.”
“What? Everybody assumes he’s a radical killer, including me at the beginning of this conversation, and now you’re telling me that they’re out to get him. If the radicals are after Yamani, what does that make him? And why?”
“That’s where it starts to get weird, Dee. Al — oh yeah, he wants me to call him Al — says that he can’t talk about it. He can’t talk about why the forces of radical Islam have it in for him.”
“You need to meet with two people, Matt.”
“Yes. Woody Donovan and Bennie Weinberg (Dee and I often share the same thoughts). There’s suddenly a ton of investigating to do on this case. He’s already interviewed Al, but I want Woody to chase down every possible lead. Nobody’s better than him. And I want to get Bennie in there as soon as possible. And by the way, you need to meet with them too, partner.”
Woody Donovan is the lead full-time investigator with Blake & Randolph. He retired from the Chicago Police Department where he had risen to deputy chief of detectives. Woody is legendary for his investigative talents. He can find clues that other people don’t even notice. We pay him more than his substantial pension from the CPD and he’s worth every penny of it.
Dr. Bennie Weinberg is a dear friend of ours. He recently retired as a full-time psychiatrist and detective with the New York City Police Department, but he’s still on the job as a contract employee. He spends a lot of time on loan to both the FBI and the CIA. Bennie’s nickname is Bennie-the-Bullshit-Detector, because of his rare ability to spot lies on the witness stand. He’s a big hit with prosecutors. Bennie is also the guy who convinced me to get my ass into rehab a few years ago so I could face my alcoholism and growing heroin habit. I don’t think I’m being overdramatic when I say that Bennie saved my life. He was also the best man at our wedding, which was very small because it happened during our sojourn in the Witness Protection Program. Yes, I know, more about that later.
“Hey, hon,” Dee said, “Let’s play a game of catch before dinner.”
I forgot to mention. An every-day passion for the two of us is throwing a baseball around. That’s right, playing catch. Try it.
Chapter 5
Professor Abdullah Faisal had just taken up his position on the facult
y of the University of Michigan. Faisal held a PhD from the University of Cairo, and another one from Princeton. He specialized in teaching Islam to non-believers, and he was assigned to the theology department. Professor Mortimer Caldwell, head of the theology department, could barely contain his glee at securing the teaching services of Faisal. Caldwell had received a commendation the year before from the liberal organization, MoveOn.org. On its website, the American Civil Liberties Union referred to Caldwell as one of the true stars of the American left.
At a departmental meeting, Caldwell stated that Professor Faisal would bring fresh air to the bourgeois conservative thinking on campus. Faisal’s first semester course was entitled, “Just what is a radical? A philosophical inquiry.”
On his first day of class, Faisal stood before the standing-room-only crowd in the auditorium.
“It’s so easy to dismiss cultures and religions that are foreign to your way of thinking,” he said.
He let his words sink in for a few moments.
“But if you have a thinking mind, you know that you are drawn to the truth, and the truth may differ from what you’ve been taught since childhood. The truth may have a greater meaning.”
He lectured until the bell rang. He respectfully waited until the bell stopped ringing, and then he continued with his talk, although another class was scheduled to begin in 10 minutes. “Looking at a watch,” he would often say, “is a typical habit of the infidel. Allah does not keep time.”
That afternoon, as Abdullah Faisal got into his car, he noticed a long metal pipe extending from the floor. “Did I leave that here?” he thought. The pipe was connected by an electrical wire that ran up a pole to a live overhead cable. In the final moments of his life he reached for the pipe and 5,000 volts of electricity surged through his body. He was not discovered until the following morning. The area was taped off as a crime scene. No fingerprints were found in the car, except for Faisal’s.
***
Imam Muhammed Yuri stood before his prayerful followers in a mosque in southern Indiana. Yuri was popular with his flock because his sermons were never boring.
His sermon for the day was entitled, “You have all the friendships you need in Islam—Avoid the infidel.”
“The heathens criticize us for failing to ‘assimilate’ into their culture,” he began, “but assimilation means death, death to your soul, death to your religion. Assimilate means that we are supposed to seek the comfort of the infidels in our daily lives. Nothing could be further from the truth of Allah.”
His sermon went on for an hour. The entire subject of his talk, as stated in the title, was to avoid contact with non-Muslims.
When he finished, Yuri walked two blocks to his house, a comfortable structure provided by the members of his mosque. The house was empty, because his wife and their children were visiting his brother in Illinois. As he walked into the living room, he noticed that some furniture had been moved. He heard a metallic clicking or sliding sound.
As he turned, a man with a silenced pistol shot him three times in the chest. Yuri’s body was discovered the next day by the cleaning staff. After a two-week crime investigation, the police found no evidence—no fingerprints, no spent rounds, nothing.
Chapter 6
Bennie Weinberg agreed to consult with us on the Yamani case. For a consulting assignment Bennie normally charges about $50,000 or more, but he agreed to take on the Yamani case for only $5,000 for two reasons, our friendship and the fact that the case intrigued him. He was also impressed that I was handling the case pro bono.
Bennie’s flight from New York landed at O’Hare at 1:30 p.m. No way could I dispatch a law clerk to pick up my good friend, so I went to the airport myself.
As soon as he saw me he gave me a bear hug. There’s nothing introverted about Bennie.
“Hey, big guy, you look great. Clean and sober becomes you, my friend.”
“Yeah, it does, Ben, thanks to you.”
“How is Diana? Hell, it’s been over a year since I last saw you guys.”
“She’s her wonderful self as usual. Whatever I did to deserve her, I better keep on doing it.”
“So tell me all about this mad bomber case, Matt. Sounds fascinating from what you’ve told me so far.”
“I don’t want to give you any information to cloud your own judgment, Bennie. I want you to draw your own conclusions. I started this case thinking it was just a matter of trying to convince the prosecution not to seek the death penalty, but now I’m thinking he may be innocent—yeah innocent, not just ‘not guilty,’ despite a truckload of evidence against him. But you’re the maven in the truth department and I can’t wait to hear your evaluation. I made the motion and got the court order, so you’re scheduled to see him at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Tonight you’ll have dinner with Diana and me.”
“I accept, especially because you just told me that’s what I’m going to do. Always the Marine captain.”
***
The routine motion to have Ali Yamani interviewed by a psychiatrist was granted without a question. In death penalty cases especially, the court and prosecutors know the defense wants a psychiatrist to hopefully uncover some evidence of insanity.
“Doctor Weinberg, you may see the prisoner now,” the guard said.
***
Although my name is Ben Weinberg, people call me Bennie-the-Bullshit Detector, and I’ve noticed that the older I get the more bullshit I see. The guards led Mr.Yamani into the interrogation room. He was shackled like King Kong in the movies, the scene where he’s on stage and all the light bulbs are flashing, freaking him out. But King Kong was a 50-foot-tall fucking ape. Mr. Yamani was maybe 5’10” with a somewhat slight build. Nevertheless, he had so much high tensile steel wrapped around his wrists and legs, that he couldn’t move more than a foot in a half a minute.
I sat in front of the bulletproof glass. After a lot of clanging and rustling, Mr. Yamani managed to sit down in his chair.
“Hi, you must be the Doctor Weinberg who Matt told me so much about. Matt likes you a lot. He says you’re a good guy.”
I shifted immediately into shrink mode, and started to ask questions. I don’t mind an interviewee asking me questions, but it’s important that I control the conversation.
“And what would make you think that I’m a good guy?”
“Well, if you gave me a pack of cigarettes, I would kneel down and worship you as the One True God. But I guess that ain’t happening, so I’ll be happy to just answer your questions.”
Holy shit, I thought, Matt’s right. This guy is kind of charming. He’s either for real or he’s a skilled con-man, meaning a possible psychopath.
“Mr. Yamani, over the years I’ve worked with countless people who have been attracted to the outer fringes of one of the world’s great religions. Can you give me any idea how you may have found that appealing?”
“Ben, if you don’t mind me calling you by your first name, please call me Al. I’m not a fucking jihadi. I like nothing more than a ham sandwich, and a cigarette, both washed down with a beer. I also like to play around with an occasional babe, since my wife passed away a few years ago. I am not what you’d call, ‘observant.’ I wouldn’t even know what to observe. I look like I rode in on a camel, but the only camel I’ve ever met came out of a pack. My late wife, by the way, was Jewish. I know you’re a detective as well as a shrink, so let me ask you a question, Ben. If you were profiling me, do I look like a fucking nut-case who would bomb a lot of innocent people at a shopping mall?”
If this guy’s lying, he’s excellent. Something about this man rings true to me. He sure as hell talks straight.
“Ali, Al, please let me review some evidence with you. Your thumbprint and DNA were found on the bomb detonator a few hundred feet away from the blast scene. And the killer piece of evidence, if you’ll pardon my choice of language, is a video of you standing next to the satchel that contained the bomb. I have the video with me on my iPad. Would you like to see it?”
“So here’s an easy question, Al. Why should I believe you? You won’t be the first or last westernized Muslim to turn and adopt the inner demons of radical Islam.”
“Ben, I can’t prove that I didn’t do it. I can’t deny that the guy in the video is me. As I explained to Matt Blake, I’m sure the time and date on the video were changed. I can’t explain the thumbprint or the DNA. All I can say is that it wasn’t me. I did not commit those crimes.”
“Okay, Al, then let’s talk theory. If it wasn’t you, then somebody did an Academy Award level frame-up. The only explanation, based on what you say, is that somebody formed an elaborate plot to get you accused, locked up, and maybe executed. Who would do that?”
“Hey, Ben, I’ll give you a few guesses, and the Boy Scouts of America isn’t one of them. Obviously it’s al-Qaeda or ISIS or both.”
“Still doesn’t compute, Al. The jihadis are never shy about taking credit for a bombing. Why didn’t they just round up a couple of their willing suicide martyrs, blow the shit out of the place, and then claim credit? What do they need with you?”
“I can’t answer that, Ben, I simply can’t go there.”
“Do you mean that you can’t go there or you won’t go there?”
“Both.”
“Dr. Weinberg, your time is up” came the announcement. “Please complete your conversation with the prisoner.”
Chapter 7
With everything she crams into her busy life, it amazes me that Diana is such an excellent cook. I suggested that we take Bennie out to a nice local restaurant, but Dee insisted she wanted to host our friend at our place. She made poached salmon, which we both know is one of Bennie’s favorites, with saffron rice and asparagus spears.
Dee loves to cook. She’ll tell anybody who’ll listen that after years of getting wasted on booze, pizza, and gallons of ice cream, she figured she’d explore the secrets of good-tasting food, not just as something to consume in enormous quantities. She’s also a perfectionist, a Martha Stewart-like hostess.