by Randy Singer
Brad increased his volume and continued over the rising din. “‘. . . Mere dismemberment does not always cause death. Dr. Carhart knew of a physician who removed the arm of a fetus only to have the fetus go on to be born as a living child with one arm.’” The gavel was still banging, Bennett objecting, and Ichabod was repeating the word sustained over and over. “‘At the conclusion of a D and E procedure, no intact fetus remains. In Dr. Carhart’s words, the abortionist is left . . .’”
“That’s enough!” Ichabod screamed. The intensity of it stilled the courtroom. Nobody moved.
“‘. . . with a tray full of pieces,’” Brad said into the silence.
All eyes turned to the seething form of Ichabod, still hunched forward, wild-eyed, her face crimson.
“That comment, Mr. Carson, will earn you contempt of court and a ten-thousand-dollar fine,” she said coldly, straining every muscle to keep control. “I have never, in twenty-six years on the bench, seen such obnoxious behavior.” As she spoke, her voice shook, the anger etched deeply on her face. “In addition,” she continued, “your contempt citation will carry a five-day prison term . . .”
An audible gasp went up from the right side of the courtroom. Brad averted his eyes.
After an exaggerated pause Ichabod continued. “. . . to be suspended on the condition of an apology to this court and good behavior befitting a member of the bar throughout the remainder of this case.”
She glared at Brad. “Does counsel wish to make a statement or comment?”
Brad knew the drill. She was waiting for a humble and contrite Brad Carson to grovel and apologize, and then she would probably consider some leniency. Even Ichabod was not in the habit of sending lawyers to jail. The ball was in his court.
For this moment, Brad was ready. He had done his homework. He had mulled this scenario over in his head during the prior sleepless night. He knew that only one word could have the desired effect and consummate his plan. He weighed his response carefully.
Then he shrugged.
“Whatever” was all he said as he turned to take his seat.
“Get him out of here!” Ichabod barked to the marshals, her voice thick with emotion. “Cuff him and get him out of my sight! You have five days minimum, Mr. Carson. And you will stay behind bars longer than that unless and until you apologize to this court and promise to show this court proper respect in the future. This case is hereby suspended until Mr. Carson can finish serving his time.”
She slammed her gavel.
Two hefty marshals grabbed Brad and placed handcuffs on his wrists. The Reverend Bailey looked aghast at the sight of his lawyer being treated like a criminal.
The church members prayed.
Brad turned and caught Bella’s eye as he was being escorted from the courtroom. He stared at her for a second, and then he winked. These were not the actions of an unbiased judge. Perhaps now the appellate judges in Richmond would understand.
Plan B had worked to perfection.
* * *
Charles Reed had no plan. He simply wanted to die.
He curled on the floor in a fetal position, left arm wrapped tightly around his legs, his broken right wrist dangling at his side. Nausea had overcome him. The thought of more torture, the shooting pain from his wrist, the throbbing of his temple and face—it all seemed to lodge momentarily in his stomach. The vomit was the least of his worries. He made no effort to clean himself.
He had given names. He couldn’t bear the thought of another jolt from the gun. But the names were just the Friday night worshipers, names that Ahmed already knew, and so the ordeal continued. Other names had not yet crossed his lips, but he knew they had broken his will; he was ready to talk.
Instead, he prayed.
Lord, take me home. Let me take these names with me. Take me home before I talk.
It was all so confusing now, so dark. The images morphed into one another with increasing speed. He tried to focus on the kids, on Sarah, on the suffering of his Lord. He remembered the cross, the nails driven into those hands of mercy. And then the nails became a needle. A needle Ahmed drove deep into Charles’s left arm. There was talk of cocaine. Then his arm became Sarah’s, and he saw the needle again. They made him watch. She didn’t even move as they emptied the contents of the needle into her arm.
The images blurred, the pain became distant. And then he felt it. The cold touch of the two metal prongs on the base of his neck. The voice of Ahmed in the background, demanding more names. The involuntary tightening of every muscle as the current began its deadly course. He squeezed his left arm tighter around his legs. He tried to scream.
This time the pain stuck in his chest, as if he had been stabbed. He struggled for air, but the tightness overwhelmed him.
Jesus loves you, he said to his tormentors. But the words clung to his vocal cords and reduced themselves to a gasp.
His last thoughts were of Sarah and the kids. He subconsciously committed them into the hands of his Lord, and then prepared his soul to die. In the distance, he could hear Ahmed barking orders to his men.
* * *
Ahmed looked down at Charles Reed in disgust. The American was ghostly white, his chubby face distorted by pain. He gasped again and went still.
As his victim succumbed, Ahmed felt himself begin to relax. The adrenaline that had been fueling his body slowed, the savage vitality of the torture gone.
“Scrape his knuckles against the wall,” Ahmed ordered. “Make it look like a fight.”
He glanced at Sarah, still motionless on the couch. He saw the lust in his men’s eyes.
“Don’t touch the woman,” he ordered, “except to put another shirt on her. These are American citizens, and every injury will be endlessly investigated.”
Ahmed motioned to one of the officers who had been holding Charles Reed. The officer approached Ahmed and stood in front of him.
“Did the American not try to resist us in his drug-induced state?” Ahmed asked.
The officer nodded in nervous agreement.
“And did he not break his wrist as he lashed out at us?”
“Yes.”
“Then we must have more evidence of a fight,” Ahmed said. And with lightning quickness he drove his powerful fist into the cheekbone of the agent. A gash opened and blood flowed.
The man reeled backward, clutching his face, fear in his eyes. He did not raise his hands in defense.
“You,” Ahmed said, “are Exhibit A.” He rubbed his fist and smiled. “Now call an ambulance.”
He turned to one of his officers and asked for the two lists of names they had compiled. He compared the first list, provided by the informant, with the list that they had coerced from Charles Reed. Reed had coughed up twenty-one names. All but two had been previously divulged by the informant. Their efforts had fallen woefully short of Ahmed’s expectations.
“Deal with the infidels on these lists,” he said as he handed them back to the officer. Such common church members did not merit a personal visit from Ahmed Aberijan.
Even without giving an explicit order, Ahmed knew exactly what would happen. The Muttawa would combine with local authorities to handle the more prominent members of the church. Drugs would mysteriously appear at residences. The church members would be arrested, threatened, then released after they signed detailed confessions. They were the lucky ones.
Islamic radicals from the Wahhabi sect would be dispatched to handle the lesser-known members of Reed’s group. No arrests would be made. If the church members recanted, they would be severely beaten and released. If they did not recant, they would not survive the night. Their gruesome deaths would serve as a graphic warning for anyone inclined to doubt the Great Mohammed.
4
A FEW MINUTES AFTER MIDNIGHT, the U.S. Embassy in Riyadh began making calls. The embassy had been alerted by a friend of the Reeds, the pastor of another church the Reeds had helped start. The pastor and his wife were taking care of Meredith and Steven. Just before midnight
, the couple went to the U.S. Embassy and breathlessly told their story.
Sarah Reed had called earlier in the day and asked them to care for the children. She was worried about a surprise raid from the Muttawa. The pastor began phoning the Reeds’ apartment a few minutes after nine o’clock, but nobody answered. After almost an hour of phone calls, he assumed the worst and headed to the Reeds’ place. The apartment looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. There was blood on the kitchen floor. He had photographs to prove it.
He had already called the Muttawa, but the Muttawa said they were not in the business of giving out confidential information about arrests and pending investigations.
The embassy officials did not fare much better. They confirmed, through the Muttawa, that the Reeds had been arrested. In fact, the Muttawa claimed the Reeds had resisted arrest and were being treated for injuries. Dr. Reed and his wife were not school workers, as they claimed on their visa applications. Instead, they were drug kingpins, and tonight their tawdry enterprise had been quashed. It was a major drug bust for a nation like Saudi Arabia, netting an estimated two million dollars worth of cocaine. The Reeds themselves were high at the time of the arrest, and tests would soon confirm the levels of cocaine in their blood.
The Muttawa wanted to be helpful but could give no further information. No, the embassy officials could not speak to the Reeds until the investigation was complete. No, the Reeds did not have legal counsel and had not requested counsel. No, the Muttawa were not willing to make an “educated guess” about the possibility of bond or how the process would unfold. And so it went, one governmental bureaucracy stalling another, the Muttawa getting the better of the exchange.
The situation escalated throughout the morning. Higher-ups in the embassy contacted higher-ups in the Saudi government. First one department, then another. Officials who were needed to make decisions could not be reached. Those who could be reached had no authority to decide.
Late Saturday morning, the embassy officials finally learned that the Reeds were in the King Faisal Specialist Hospital in Riyadh. Charles Reed was in critical condition. Drug charges had been filed.
The potentially explosive situation had international implications. Both sides were motivated to deal. The Saudis wanted the drug lords deported. The Americans wanted the missionaries safe. And so they agreed, early in the afternoon, that the two Americans would be transferred to a military base hospital thirty miles from Riyadh. American specialists would assume their care. The Reeds would surrender their visas, and the charges would be dropped.
Charles Reed was transferred against the medical advice of his surgeon. He was post-op, and his prognosis was not good. His heart surgery had been complicated by the cocaine racing through his bloodstream, the delay in treatment, and his preexisting heart condition.
Surgery had taken more than three hours. Ventilators, tubes, monitors, and other gadgets kept him breathing and his heart beating. But it would be a stretch to say he was alive. His surgeon’s prognosis was dismal. A transfer would only hasten the inevitable.
The embassy, however, desperately wanted to get Charles under the care of American physicians. They ignored the Saudi surgeon’s advice and authorized the transfer.
* * *
Brad awoke Saturday morning to the smell of coffee. He was groggy and disoriented—that brief moment between being fully asleep and fully awake—and he couldn’t quite make sense of his surroundings. He rubbed and squinted his eyes as the bright sun streamed through the barred windows toward his cot. The warm rays cleared his head. That’s right, he remembered. A federal holding cell. A prisoner of my own government.
Brad beamed at the logic of his plan. Sure, he would have preferred to plot his appeal in a place where he could use the bathroom unchaperoned, but for the pure brilliance of the legal strategy, Brad was sure he had outdone himself. Yesterday his case was going nowhere fast; today he had a serious issue for appeal. It was a long shot, but it was a shot.
It had dawned on him late Thursday night: Quit trying this case against the government in front of the judge; try the case against the judge in front of the government. Put the judge on trial. Aggravate her in such a way that the record would unmistakably reflect her bias. Appeal based on judicial misconduct. Ask the appellate court for a new trial in front of an unbiased judge. Trade what little chance you might have for a trial-court verdict for a much better chance at a successful appeal. Roll your dice with the boys on the Fourth Circuit.
To Brad’s surprise, he was now something of a folk hero among the federal marshals who ran the Norfolk detention center. They confided in him last night that they couldn’t stand the brooding arrogance of Baker-Kline either. She was impossible to please, they said. And the marshals, who were occasionally assigned to her courtroom for the judge’s own protection, were some of her favorite whipping boys. Brad got the distinct impression that his captors dreamed of spouting off to the courtroom despot just as he had.
The night before, Brad had been allowed a private shower. He had his own holding cell—small, dank, and musty, with only one cot and an open toilet sitting against the far wall—but at least it was private. No drug lords as roommates. And now, at 7 a.m. Saturday, his day started with hot coffee.
“Mornin’, Brad.” It was Clarence, one of the marshals who had swapped stories with Brad the prior night. Clarence stood outside the cell holding two Styrofoam cups. “This ain’t the Hilton, but we make some mean coffee.”
“Thanks, man.”
Clarence grunted something, carefully placed the two steaming cups of black coffee on the floor, and went about the business of unlocking Brad’s cell. “You got a visitor, Brad. She’s pushy. If she were visitin’ somebody else, I woulda told her where to go. But I figured you might need to hear from her this mornin’.”
Brad couldn’t resist a grin. He knew who it was.
“But hey, tell her to chill out or next time she’s not gettin’ through. And, if she works for you, put her on a diet.” This said by a man who had obviously devoured more than his share of doughnuts.
“You try telling her that,” Brad said, stretching his back. He was not surprised that Bella had come so early. “Is there some kind of private conference room where we can meet? It won’t take long.”
“Well, technically it ain’t visitin’ hours.” Clarence handed Brad the hot cup. “But I’ll see what I can do.” He turned his back, left the door unlocked, and lumbered slowly down the hall.
Brad took a sip of the scalding coffee. Terrible. Twice as strong as the stuff at his law office, and no cream. As soon as Clarence disappeared, Brad flushed the powerful black liquid down the grungy toilet. He sat gingerly on his stained cot, resisting the urge to simply walk out the door.
* * *
For a lady who stood only five feet two inches, Bella Harper was imposing. The source of her stature was her personality, definitely not her looks. She was a bulldog in every sense of the word.
She packed some serious weight on her short frame. Nobody dared ask how much. Nor did anyone have the guts to ask her age. Bella didn’t celebrate birthdays.
Bella featured a butch cut for her salt-and-pepper hair, precious little makeup, a pack-a-day cigarette habit, and a constant scowl that let people know she was not a woman to be trifled with.
She was also the world’s best legal secretary.
Bella had been with Brad since he hung out his shingle after graduating from William and Mary Law School. Her outward personality aside, she had been a tough-loving mother to Brad, particularly when Brad’s wife divorced him, claiming she could no longer compete with the law for his attention. Bella, however, was fiercely loyal, both to Brad and to her own ailing mother, whom Bella cared for with the attentiveness of a master gardener.
And today Bella was a sight for Brad’s sore eyes. She was booting up her laptop when he entered the room and slouched into the bolted-down chair on the other side of the bolted-down metal table.
“You look like
death on a bad day,” Bella said in her New York accent without looking up.
“Thanks.” He rose from his seat and started pacing on his side of the conference table. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”
Brad was not lying. Bella’s eyes were more bloodshot than normal. Because it was not an official workday, she was not dressed in “professional” attire. Her black stretch pants seemed two sizes too small.
“I’ve called the three largest law firms who have the most federal court experience.” Bella wasted no time. As if Brad had important places to go that day. “None of them will handle this emergency writ of mandamus. They’ve all got the same lame excuses—too busy, schedule conflicts; you know the routine. Everybody’s scared to take on Ichabod.”
This part of the plan had always worried Brad. He knew he couldn’t contact lawyers to represent him before he pulled his little stunt. It would look too calculated. Now he was at the mercy of the local bar as the wagons circled. None of the usual federal court firms would take on a sitting federal court judge. Brad had lots of friends who would do it in a heartbeat, but he wasn’t about to ask. He would not poison those friendships just to get out of the can a few days early.
His pacing intensified. He ran his hand through uncombed hair.
Bella rambled on, “Harris, Clark & Yarbrough; Day & Adams; Kilgore & Strobel. They’re all runnin’ scared. I offered to pay full hourly rate. You could almost hear ’em laugh through the phone. Brad, you’ve already sued half their clients. Representing you would be suicide.”
“Somebody needs to tell them not to take those suits so personally,” Brad muttered.
“Right.”
Bella absentmindedly reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of Camels. As she lit up, the rancid smoke filled the poorly ventilated room. Brad continued pacing in silence, altering his path and cutting Bella a wider berth.
“By the way,” Bella said between puffs, “I had to fire Tina.”
Brad stopped midstride and let out a groan. “C’mon, Bella. We’re already shorthanded. Tina was doing a good job. How many times have we discussed this?”
