by Randy Singer
“I suppose so.”
“Then is it fair to say you lied on a visa application to gain admittance into a country so that you could then teach others how to break the law and convert to Christianity?” Mack stared hard at Sarah, waving the visa application with his right hand.
Sarah bit her lip.
“I wouldn’t phrase it that way,” she said at last.
“Then how would you phrase it?” Mack loved it when witnesses fought with him. It only served to highlight his points.
“I don’t know,” Sarah admitted. “I guess I would say that we didn’t reveal certain things on the visa application because we knew it would disqualify us from entering the country.”
“I see,” Mack said. “It’s okay to withhold information from the authorities if you deem it to be appropriate . . . information like using marijuana and cocaine, Mrs. Reed?”
“No, we never used marijuana or cocaine,” Sarah answered emphatically.
Mack would come back to that point later. But he only had a few more minutes on this day. He wanted to make them count.
“Do you remember testifying on direct examination about the night the Muttawa came to your apartment?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To your knowledge, had Mr. Aberijan or anyone else from the Muttawa ever been inside your apartment prior to that night?”
“No, sir.”
“And yet you watched them with your own eyes as they found small plastic bags of cocaine in places like the cushions of your couch. Correct?”
“Yes, it all happened very fast. But yes, that’s true.”
“And isn’t it also true that they had to cut those cushions open to get at the bags of cocaine?” Mack continued.
“Yes.”
“So it’s not like they could have just dropped them in there the same night and pretended they found them a few seconds later.”
“I guess that would have been hard.”
“Mrs. Reed, are you telling the jury today that you have no idea how those plastic bags of cocaine came to be, among other places, sewn into the lining of the cushions of your own couch?” Mack sounded incredulous.
Juror four raised his eyebrows.
“Objection, argumentative,” Leslie called out.
“Overruled,” Ichabod snapped.
“That’s what I’m saying,” Sarah answered.
She might be speaking the truth. Mack didn’t know. He was more interested in the fire forming in Sarah’s eyes. She was growing weary of being misinterpreted, misquoted, and misled. He could tell that she was ready to take the bait and do what Leslie and Brad had undoubtedly warned her against.
She was ready to pick a fight with Mack Strobel.
“Why would I leave plastic bags of cocaine just sitting around the house when I knew the Muttawa were coming?” she asked. “Why do you think we called off the worship service that night? We knew they were coming. How dumb do you think I am?” Her face was flushed, her voice rising in frustration.
He fought back a smile. “Mrs. Reed,” Mack responded evenly, “you may very well have thought that hiding the cocaine in the couch cushions would keep the religious police from ever finding it. But it’s not for me to testify. I ask the questions.”
“I object and ask that Mr. Strobel’s speculation be struck from the record.” Leslie was on her feet again.
“Sit down,” Ichabod barked.
“Does that mean my objection was sustained or overruled?” Leslie was still standing.
“It means you sit down and I’ll tell you.”
With a huff, Leslie sat.
“Overruled,” Ichabod said.
“May I proceed, Your Honor?” Mack asked politely. He was amused by this turn of events and ready to turn the hostility of the witness to even greater advantage.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Reed, did you just testify that you knew the Muttawa were coming?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know?”
“We had a source.”
The answer was just what Mack wanted, just what he would have scripted. He turned and looked at Bard Carson and Leslie Connors, as if accusing them of hiding some critical piece of evidence.
Brad’s head was in his hands. Leslie dropped her pen and stared at the witness like she didn’t recognize the woman who had just spoken.
Mack turned back to the witness, twisting every muscle on his face to register surprise. “You had a source?” he asked.
The witness had opened the door. The name of the source was now relevant. There could be no more argument against it.
“Who was your source? Who told you the Muttawa were coming?” Mack pressed.
“I can’t answer that question,” Sarah said softly.
“Can’t or won’t?” Mack bellowed.
“Won’t,” Sarah confirmed.
“You will in my courtroom,” Ichabod said, hunkering forward as she glared down at the witness. “You have testified that you knew the Muttawa were coming because you had a source. You testified that it would be ridiculous for you to knowingly have cocaine in your apartment since you knew the Muttawa were coming. The issue of a source is therefore relevant. For that reason, I am ordering you to answer the question.”
“I won’t,” Sarah whispered, looking at the floor. “It might endanger his life.”
“Mrs. Reed, this court is not asking you to think about whether you will tell me the name of the person, apparently a male, that you yourself made relevant. This court is ordering you to do it. You should have thought about these issues of confidentiality before you filed suit and certainly before you made his name relevant. You cannot use him to bolster your credibility and then hide him behind this cloak of anonymity”
Sarah simply sat on the stand, her lip trembling, slowly shaking her head from side to side.
“Bailiff, please dismiss the jury,” Ichabod ordered.
The jury shuffled out in silence. Several jury members glanced over their shoulder at Sarah on the way out. Their sympathetic looks worried Mack.
“Mr. Carson,” Ichabod said, “this has been a long and emotional day for everyone.” Ichabod appeared to be working hard to maintain her composure. “I know your client is exhausted and not thinking clearly. We will reconvene tomorrow morning, and Mr. Strobel will again ask his question. You will have Mrs. Reed prepared to answer, or I will entertain a motion to dismiss her case.”
Brad silently nodded his head.
Mack returned to his seat and found a note waiting from Ahmed’s translator.
Good work, it said. Whatever it takes, get me that name.
29
SHE HAD TO GET TO THE OFFICE ahead of the others. Ahmed’s note radically changed her plans. The first order of business was to retrieve the listening devices from the phones. The small magnetic radio transmitters, no larger than a quarter, were attached to the bottom of each office phone. It would take only a few minutes to retrieve all three, but to do so she had to arrive at the office first. Alone.
She left federal court slightly ahead of the others, hustled to her car, and drove like a wild woman down the interstate. She hit the inevitable backup a few miles outside Norfolk on Interstate 44 and was actually grateful. By weaving in and out of traffic, even using the HOV lane, she gained valuable time on the others.
She parked in the handicapped spot immediately in front of the building and took the elevator to the fifth floor. She took a hard right off the elevator and got out her key as she approached the suite. She slipped into the reception area. The lights were on, just as the team had left them that morning. She walked across the reception area and took a left toward Brad’s office.
She turned the corner into the semidark hallway and gasped, stopping short. She was inches away from and face-to-face with Patrick O’Malley.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare ya, but we got trouble here.”
He held out his palm. In it were the three transmitters.
“I
know,” she said, still out of breath. “That’s why Brad sent me ahead of the others. There’s a few things he wanted me to talk to you about. Step in here for a second.” She pointed to the war room, and the two of them stepped inside and closed the door.
* * *
Sarah stared out the window of Brad’s car as though he were taking her for a date with the firing squad. She thought of Saudi Arabia and the struggling church she was trying to protect.
“We’re dead in the water,” she finally said.
“Ichabod won’t dismiss the case,” Brad said confidently. “We’d have her reversed in a heartbeat on appeal. And she knows it. She could possibly fine you. She could have the jury assume there is no snitch. She could even jail you. But she can’t just dismiss the case.”
“Oh, that’s better!” Sarah groaned. “Jail.”
“She’s bluffing,” Brad promised. “That’s why she said she would consider dismissing the case. Don’t let her distract us with a bluff. We need to prepare like the case is going forward tomorrow . . . because it is.”
Sarah felt little consolation from Brad’s assurances. The prospect of facing hours of cross-examination from Strobel tomorrow was nerve-racking enough. But now she also had to face an irate judge who had the power to throw her in jail for something Sarah couldn’t control. She had a splitting headache. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the headrest, unwilling to go back to the office and into the war room to endure more hours of preparation. After all, it hadn’t done much good today.
“What do I say when Strobel asks again?” She tried to rub the tension out of her neck. How did she get herself into this mess?
“The same thing you did today,” Brad responded. “Just tell the court that you respectfully refuse to answer on the grounds that it will endanger the life of an innocent man. The jury will love you for it. Leslie and I’ll take over from there.”
“Yeah,” Sarah said, eyes still closed. “And the judge will chew me up and spit me out.”
* * *
“That’s a no-brainer,” Win said, slouched in a chair in front of Teddy’s massive oak desk. “We start off tomorrow by asking Sarah Reed again for the name of her informant. She refuses. Ichabod dismisses the case. Carson appeals. If we’re lucky, he wins the appeal and gets a new trial. We bill a couple more million and win it fair and square next time around. Everybody’s happy—except Carson, and he doesn’t deserve to be happy.”
Teddy sat straighter in his high-back leather chair. “I hope you’re not serious,” he said sternly. “Our obligation is to do what’s right for the client, not to figure out a way to bill this file until we all retire.”
Mack knew Win was serious. But he also knew Win wouldn’t argue. Poor naive Teddy. The times had passed him by.
But this time, Mack was thankful for Teddy’s outdated ethical standards.
“That’s part of my problem,” Mack explained. “As ironic as it sounds, what’s best for the client in this situation is probably not a dismissal this early in the case on a technicality. Carson would appeal, and our research guys tell me he would probably win. I think it serves the client better if we let Ichabod hear the whole case, then recall Reed and ask her this question at the end of the case. That way Ichabod can say she’s dismissing the case both because the case has no merit and because the plaintiff refused to answer a relevant question.
“We’ll have a much better chance of sustaining the ruling on appeal. And frankly, Win, I don’t want to have to try this case again, even for all the billable hours in the world. Reed makes a good witness, and Carson’s a tough advocate. At my age, you don’t retry cases like this one.”
“But you’ve already asked Reed the question,” Win protested. “The cat’s out of the bag. How do you get Ichabod to wait?”
“It’s my question. I’ll just withdraw it and ask the judge for permission to recall the witness at the end of trial.”
“I like it,” Teddy affirmed.
“I still say take the win and hope for the best on appeal,” Mackenzie said stubbornly. He was probably counting on a controversial victory to land him an appearance on Larry King Live.
“There’s another problem.” Mack turned and looked hard into Teddy’s eyes. “I think Sarah Reed is right to withhold the name. I hate to even say it, but I think my client would order the informant killed in a second.”
“Since when did you start having fits of conscience?” Win asked. “You can’t start thinking that way, Mack. You owe your client zealous representation. You start believing the other side, and you might as well throw in the towel.”
Mack walked over to where Winsted Aaron Mackenzie IV was sitting and towered over him.
“Listen, you little prima donna,” Mack said slowly, each word crawling across his lips. “I don’t need you telling me how to try this case. I’ll chew Reed up tomorrow and spit her out without that ridiculous question. Aberijan and Saudi Arabia are getting zealous representation like they would get nowhere else. But that doesn’t mean you put an innocent man’s head on the guillotine.”
Win’s eyes widened as he looked up at his irate partner. He spread his palms and shrugged his shoulders.
“Gentlemen,” Teddy said loudly. Strobel stepped away from Mackenzie. “I agree with Mack. Our firm will not be used as a stool pigeon so some autocrat from Saudi Arabia can get the name of an informant and wipe him out. On the other hand, I think Mack is worrying about nothing. Mrs. Reed has already shown her stubborn unwillingness to give up any names.”
Teddy leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, lost in thought. He made a small humming noise from deep in his throat. Mack knew it was the noise Teddy made when he was racking his brain. He also knew that what followed this little humming display was usually pretty profound. After more than a minute, Teddy looked up.
“If Mack withdraws the question tomorrow and then calls Mrs. Reed back to the stand at the end of the case and asks her the same question, two things will happen. Both of them good. First, we’ll have a better chance to defend this case on appeal. Second, if the informant ever was in danger, and his name is not revealed until the end of the trial, then he will have between now and the end of the trial to find a way to dodge the Muttawa. Mack, I am asking you, in my capacity as senior partner of this firm, to withdraw the question tomorrow.”
“That’s what I plan on doing,” Mack agreed. “I just want you to be ready for an onslaught of bellyaching from our client.”
“Let him complain,” Teddy said. “Just make sure he pays the bills.”
“What are your chances with the jury?” Win asked. The question signaled he would not challenge Teddy’s decision.
“I’d say about fifty-fifty,” Mack responded. He leaned back against the window. “It’s still too early to tell. But one thing I do know. Sarah Reed makes quite a witness, and she wowed some jurors. It won’t be easy.”
“Then get a mistrial,” Win advised. “Have your snoops follow the jurors for the next few days. They’ll find enough for seven mistrials. I guarantee you that several of those jurors have been watching news of the trial or talking to each other about what the outcome should be.”
Mack gazed across the room as if he were only half-listening. But he was thinking that Win might have a point.
“If Ichabod dismisses the jury, then she’ll declare a mistrial on the case against Ahmed only, since that’s the only count on which the plaintiff gets a jury trial,” Win explained in his annoyingly patronizing tone. “Ichabod will then decide the case involving Saudi Arabia, presumably in our favor, and grant a mistrial on the case against Ahmed because of jury misconduct.”
He’s right, Mack thought. The prima donna is onto something.
“Plaintiff will not even ask for another trial against Ahmed since there’s no real money in suing Ahmed,” Win continued. “Ahmed is just window dressing. Get a mistrial based on jury misconduct, and your problems will disappear.”
Mack snorted, as if dismis
sing the plan without saying a word. Then he turned and strode purposefully out of the office and straight down the hall. He would make a call to Barnes. Win was right; the jury was undoubtedly cheating. They always did in big cases, and Barnes was just the man to catch them at it.
“You’re welcome,” Winsted Aaron Mackenzie III muttered to himself a few seconds after Mack left the room. The comment struck Teddy as funny, and he let out a rumble of laughter that Mackenzie had not heard in years.
* * *
“I can’t believe you’re doing this for me,” Bella gushed, driving like a madwoman down 464 on her way to Chesapeake Estates.
Riding in the passenger seat, Sarah put her considerable faith to the test, as she watched Bella take up the better part of two lanes. Hailing from Brooklyn, Bella couldn’t talk without using her hands, even while she drove. Nor could she really connect with someone while talking unless she looked them straight in the eyes. Hailing from the South, Sarah believed it would be rude to tell Bella to keep her eyes on the road.
“Thanks for stopping for pizza with me,” Bella continued. “I couldn’t take another night of Chinese at the firm. I know you weren’t hungry, but, girl, you’ve got to start eating something. Winning this case won’t mean much if our client dies of starvation.” She swerved into the exit lane at the last possible second.
“To be honest, Bella, I just want to get through tomorrow, you know what I mean?” Sarah referred as much to Bella’s driving as she did to her second day of testimony.
“Yeah,” Bella grunted. “That’s the way I’ve been living since I put my mom into this home a year and a half ago—one day to the next. I just want to get through tomorrow too.”
“Have you ever talked to your mom about spiritual things?” Sarah asked gently.
“Not really. At least not for a long time. When I was a little girl, she used to take me to church and stuff. But she always kept religious things to herself. After my dad left, she quit goin’. Divorce was pretty rare back then, and you know how church folks can make you feel uncomfortable. I don’t really remember goin’ to church after dad left, except for funerals and weddings.”
