Directed Verdict

by Randy Singer

  Brad tried not to look as surprised as he felt. Nikki had been busy. “Sounds great. Leslie, can you spend some time prepping Worthington as well?”

  Leslie nodded and made some more notes.

  “How much are all these wonderful wise men and women costing us?” Bella asked. “I don’t want to be the killjoy, but isn’t three experts a bit much?”

  “Not when the defendants have twelve,” Leslie said.

  “Three experts should be plenty,” Brad said. “Having more than one expert on the same subject only gets confusing.”

  “Confusing and expensive,” Bella said. “How much are these guys charging us?”

  “The usual,” Nikki said. “A couple hundred an hour each.”

  “A few million here, a few million there. Pretty soon you’re talking some real money,” Bella griped.

  “Isn’t it time for you to go get another cigarette?” Nikki asked.

  Brad shot a warning look toward both Nikki and Bella.

  “Brad, I just don’t see how we can possibly get everything done,” Leslie piped in, studying her notes. “Kilgore & Strobel sent deposition notices this morning for Sarah, her kids, all her doctors and counselors, and a number of former church members living in Saudi Arabia. Strobel’s boys have been calling all morning demanding to know who our experts are so they can schedule their depositions. We will want to depose, at a minimum, all of their experts and Aberijan. The way I see it, we’ve got at least thirty days of depositions waiting for us, and you’re the only one who can do them.”

  “Can’t you take some of the depositions under third-year practice rules?”

  “Not unless you or some other lawyer is sitting there with me, which defeats the purpose.”

  “Brad, you can’t even start these depositions for thirty days,” Bella said, ever anxious to be the bearer of bad news. “You’re booked solid on other cases through the end of August.”

  “Look,” Brad said, “we’re into this case, and we’ve got to figure out a way to get it done. Y’all have been great at identifying problems, now how about a little help with some proposed solutions?”

  The entire team silently mulled that one over. After a few seconds of avoiding eye contact with Brad, Leslie swallowed hard and spoke. “I’ll take a semester off from school and work full-time on this case. An opportunity like this only comes along once.”

  Brad caught himself staring at her and thought about how great it would be to have her around more. Still, he forced himself to give an appropriately sensitive response. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” he heard himself say.

  “You didn’t ask, but I’m going to do it anyway. You wanted solutions, that’s my contribution.”

  Careful, big guy. Don’t give her too many opportunities to rethink this, to wiggle away. Having Leslie around full-time would be great for you and equally great for the case.

  “Then let’s at least get you an apartment here in Tidewater for the next several months,” Brad offered.

  Bella’s face registered her disapproval. Brad was glad to be pacing, or he would have been kicked.

  “No thanks,” Leslie said, taking the tension out of the room. “I can do a lot of my work at the law library and stay in Williamsburg.”

  “I’ll clear the decks of my other cases,” Brad offered, inspired by this turn of events. “I can pass some off to my buddies and get continuances on others. It’ll take me thirty days, but I’ll clear the decks and focus entirely on this one.”

  He caught Nikki’s frown out of the corner of his eye. “Every case except Johnson, of course.”

  “And I’ll continue to perform my stellar legal work in the same manner as I have, even though I’m grossly underpaid,” Nikki said. Nobody laughed, but Brad sensed Nikki said it less to draw a laugh than to aggravate Bella.

  “All of this is wonderful,” Bella said gruffly. “Warm and fuzzy and all that. But it still doesn’t solve the problem of covering the depositions. We need another licensed lawyer, a warm body to sit with Leslie.”

  Nikki sat straight up, her eyes suddenly sparkling. “Why didn’t you say so?” she asked. “I know the perfect warm body, and he won’t cost us a dime.” She had Brad’s attention. “We go to the Rock and ask him to sit in on a few depositions with Leslie. In exchange, we offer to make him co-counsel on the Johnson case, which Brad stole from him anyway, and we give him a small split on our fee. We also make him co-counsel on the Reed case and offer him no part of the fee. He’s the one plaintiff’s lawyer in Tidewater who will join us in the case and not charge us a dime just because it’s megafree publicity. The Rock lives for free publicity.”

  Brad hated the idea. But no one offered a better plan.

  By noon they had retained the Rock.

  * * *

  Mack Strobel was at his best when bullying younger members of his firm. On the morning after the motion to dismiss hearing, Mack was in rare form.

  The unsuccessful hearing was, of course, the fault of the brief writers. Their prose failed to persuade Judge Johnson, and even the brilliant oral arguments of Mack himself could not salvage the situation. He ripped into the inept associates and sent them back to the library to work on a new set of briefs for other important pretrial hearings. One young female associate actually left the room in tears. Mack made a mental note to veto her from future high-profile cases.

  The honeymoon was over, Mack announced. They had made the mistake of underestimating this case once. It would not happen again. No more country-club environment and twelve-hour workdays. It was time to buckle down.

  Mack also called another meeting of his brain trust. There had to be a way—there must be—to ensure he did not get stuck with Johnson as a trial judge.

  * * *

  As Rasheed had requested, Hanif came a full hour early for the Friday night worship service. After affectionate greetings, Rasheed silently nodded his head toward the door, and Hanif followed him outside. The brothers walked several feet down the sidewalk before Rasheed started talking.

  “The Muttawa know about us,” Rasheed said. He waited a few seconds to allow the awful news to sink in.

  Hanif did not break stride. “I am not surprised.” He kept his eyes glued to the sidewalk.

  “Our apartment is bugged.”

  No response.

  “A few weeks ago, they came to visit.”

  The quiet padding of Hanif’s shoes against the pavement stopped. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I wanted to so badly, but I needed time to sort it out, decide what to do.” Rasheed’s voice was cracking with emotion. He stared straight ahead and continued talking. “They made Mobara and me promise to disband the church. They made us promise to give videotaped testimony against Sarah Reed. They made us promise . . .” His bottom lip trembled, and his voice trailed off. Instead of continuing, he handed Hanif an envelope.

  The letter inside was addressed to church members.

  The letter said that the Berjeins’ home had been bugged and that the members should not say anything out loud but simply read the letter. The letter explained that, for the sake of the recording devices, Rasheed would declare the church disbanded. The members should act appropriately dismayed but ultimately agree not to meet.

  The letter also gave the location for the next week’s meeting and told the members to never mention this location out loud. Each subsequent week, Rasheed wrote, he would provide a new letter specifying the meeting place for the following week. He instructed the members never to say a word about the chosen location and to destroy the letters after noting the next place of worship. They should not call or otherwise contact the Berjeins.

  The second page of the letter had been the hardest for Rasheed to write. He watched as Hanif read it, disbelief slowly forming on his face.

  “For reasons I cannot explain, I will only be able to meet with you for a few more weeks,” Rasheed had written. “And it is obvious that I can no longer be the pastor of this fellowship. If you will
allow me, I would like to pass that mantle of leadership to my brother, Hanif, whom the Holy Spirit will empower to lead this church through this most difficult hour. Please give him all the love and respect you gave me. Though I will only be with you a few more times, you will forever be in my prayers.”

  Hanif looked up from the letter and into the tear-filled eyes of Rasheed. “I can’t . . . I just can’t . . . ,” Hanif stammered. “I don’t know how . . .”

  “You must,” Rasheed responded emphatically, grabbing his younger brother by both shoulders. “I will teach you. Quietly. Secretly. We will study God’s Word together. The Muttawa promised to leave the others in the church alone, including you, if Mobara and I give testimony in the case against Sarah Reed. That testimony will take place in a couple of weeks. Nobody else in the church must ever know about this.” Rasheed again fell silent, struggling against his rising emotions, taking a few fitful breaths.

  “You can’t do that,” Hanif protested. “It doesn’t matter what they promise.”

  “Leave that to me, Hanif. And trust me completely. I will do what I have to do. God has given me a plan.” Rasheed squeezed his brother’s shoulders. “Your job is to build this church. Nobody else can do that but you.”

  Hanif exhaled deeply, the weight of the responsibility already showing on his face. “Okay,” he said, looking his brother squarely in the eye. “I will try.”

  Then the two men embraced, their strength flowing into each other. Rasheed had never been more proud of his little brother.

  * * *

  Worthington would be magnificent. Even during his prep session, Leslie could tell he would make a great witness. He had credentials, neatly groomed gray hair, and an extensive vocabulary befitting an international law guru. Leslie asked him the toughest questions she could fathom, and he handled them with ease.

  “The Saudis have always given lip service to religious tolerance, but in point of fact their Islamic regime is one of the world’s most oppressive governments,” he explained. “They systematically violate the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Their very own laws require that all Saudis be good Muslims, and the infamous Muttawa brutally enforce strict compliance with these laws. The crown prince of Saudi Arabia is fully apprised of the activities of the Muttawa, and the crown prince himself sanctions their use of the police power to keep the people in line.”

  “What is the basis for that opinion?” Leslie asked.

  Worthington responded with a series of past examples, recalling precise dates, names, and places with an almost photographic memory. After three hours of probing for a chink in his armor, Leslie was satisfied none existed. He seemed too good to be true.

  Unfortunately, he was.

  Just before their time ended, Worthington hinted at the one skeleton in his closet.

  “As I understand it, Leslie, the defense lawyers will be able to ask me only about past felonies and misdemeanors involving moral turpitude, but no others. And they can’t ask about charges, only convictions. Is that right?”

  “Sure,” Leslie replied, her mental red flags suddenly flapping wildly. “Misdemeanors that go to the credibility of a witness, like lying, cheating, or stealing, are fair game. Other misdemeanors are not. Crimes charged are not relevant unless the charge results in a conviction. Why?”

  Worthington’s eyes darted around the room, as if there might be hidden cameras present. He lowered his voice. “Is our conversation covered by the attorney-client privilege?”

  “Sure,” Leslie said. I think, she said to herself. Technically, Worthington was an expert, not a client. But he had piqued her interest. She would tell him what he needed to hear in order to bare his soul.

  “About two years ago, I was arrested and charged with disturbing the peace,” he said in a whisper, staring down at folded hands. “My lawyer cut a deal, and we pleaded no contest. The judge took the case under advisement for six months, with the understanding that if I stayed clean, the charge would be dismissed. I didn’t even jaywalk. At the end of that time, the judge entered a not-guilty finding. It’s all in the court records.”

  “They shouldn’t be able to ask about that incident,” Leslie said, suddenly more curious than ever. “It’s a misdemeanor, and you technically weren’t convicted. We should have no trouble keeping it out. What was it for anyway?” She tried to sound casual, though her voice was noticeably higher.

  “Is that really relevant?” His voice turned the question into a statement. He folded his arms.

  “Just curious.”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Worthington said, forcing a chuckle.

  Leslie smiled politely, determined to find out.

  * * *

  Nikki seemed to know every police officer in Tidewater. Those officers had friends in Alexandria, and friends of those friends included an officer who was part of the misdemeanor investigation of Alfred Lloyd Worthington.

  “The guy is a wife beater,” Nikki reported. “The Mrs. finally had enough and called the cops. But when the case went to court, she no longer wanted to press charges. They’re back together now, the perfect suburban couple.”

  * * *

  Never answer the phone after 5 p.m. This simple rule had spared Bella from a multitude of crises designed to destroy relaxing evenings. Answer the phone after 5 p.m., and you can kiss the evening good-bye.

  Tonight, however, the logistical challenges of the Reed case and the financial challenges of the entire office had so completely distracted her that she did not notice the time until she held the receiver in her hand. 5:06.

  “Carson & Associates, how can I help you?” Bella asked, not sounding the least bit helpful.

  “By dropping the Reed case,” said the muffled voice on the other end. “You tell your boss he’s in over his head. If he doesn’t, he’ll wish he had never met Sarah Reed. And we’ll come after you first.” The caller paused. “You got that?”

  The phone shook in Bella’s hand. She had received plenty of prank calls in her time. This one was different.

  “Are you threatening me?” she asked as bravely as she could.

  “Drop the case and you’ll have nothing to worry about. You’ve got one week.”

  What scared Bella most was the monotone delivery, the lack of emotion.

  Bella was so flustered she couldn’t think of a thing to say. Not that it mattered. The phone went dead.

  She returned the receiver to its cradle with shaking hands. She stared straight ahead, alone in the office, suddenly feeling vulnerable. She would mention the call to Brad first thing in the morning—one more reason to drop this risky case—but she knew what his reaction would be. They had been threatened on other cases. “We can’t let those nuts scare us off,” Brad would say. But this one was different. She couldn’t explain why. But she could feel it.

  This guy meant business. And Bella would have to be prepared.

  For the first time in weeks, she left work before six. Instead of heading to her small apartment in Chesapeake or to the nursing home to visit her mother, she took off in the direction of the strip malls on Military Highway. Shortly before seven, she walked sheepishly into the Military Highway Sports Shop. She headed directly to the sales counter, looked around at the few browsing customers to make sure she was unnoticed, then talked in hushed tones to the clerk.

  “I need to buy a gun. Something small that I can carry in my purse.”

  In response, the clerk ushered Bella into a quagmire of hidden weapons permits and Second Amendment rights. He was more than happy to help her navigate these waters and collect both a consulting fee and a large commission on the fine piece he would eventually sell her.

  Six days, one affidavit, two court hearings, one concealed weapons permit, and two store visits later, Bella was the proud owner of a Berretta 9-millimeter repeat-action handgun, and a new oversize purse that would be its home. She paid the clerk to take her to the shooting range and show her how to use her new equalizer. She was no e
xpert markswoman, but she learned how to load, unload, and most important, unlock the safety.

  If the coward on the phone ever came by the office to make good on his threat, he would first have to get by an armed and dangerous receptionist. For the rest of the Reed case, and maybe beyond, Bella Harper would be packing heat.

  * * *

  It came in the same type of 81⁄2-by-11 manila envelope as before. It was again addressed to Ahmed Aberijan. Like the prior package, the only hint of origin was the Norfolk, Virginia, postmark.

  But this time the envelope contained only one page. The sender had again meticulously cut out letters and numbers from magazines and pasted them on the page to form a message.

  Plaintiff’s expert Worthington has a crippling Achilles heel. Check Alexandria General District Court records and talk to Officer Beecher of the Alexandria police force. $100,000 keeps more coming.

  Wiring instructions to a different bank in the Caymans followed. Ahmed read the letter four times, thanked Allah, then got on the phone to Frederick Barnes.

  “What have you learned about the first letter I received containing the preliminary game plan for Mr. Carson?”

  “The first letter?”

  “Answer my question.”

  “We have been unable to trace it so far. There were no prints or residue on the papers inside the envelope. The true owner of the bank account where we deposited the money is shrouded by a maze of offshore corporations that are not required to do public filings. We hit a dead end.”

  “Frederick, I must know who is sending these letters. I just received another about Carson’s expert witness. We will pay for the information, but I must know who I am paying.”

  “We will need a little time—”

  “We don’t have time!” Ahmed screamed.

  “It’s got to be an inside job,” Barnes said calmly. “Nobody else could know the information or appreciate the significance of it. We can at least narrow it down to the members of Carson’s team. I’ll have them all followed.”