by Randy Singer
“Yes, I would defer,” Rydell said matter-of-factly.
“And if they had different opinions about the absence of this compound in the urine, then you would defer to the opinions of those specialists. Correct?”
“I suppose that would depend on the reasons, but generally, yes.” Rydell obviously saw no harm in conceding the obvious.
Strobel then turned to Ichabod to make his case. “Then, Your Honor, in light of the witness’s own admissions, I would ask that all testimony from this witness, with regard to whether the cocaine in Dr. Reed’s system was snorted, smoked, or injected, should be struck as outside the realm of his expertise.”
“I agree,” Ichabod said as Brad was opening his mouth to respond. Ichabod turned to the jury. She left Brad standing speechless at counsel table, his face showing his disgust.
“You will disregard any and all testimony by Dr. Rydell about whether Dr. Reed had been injected with cocaine. In that regard, you should also ignore all testimony about this compound . . . uh, what’s it called, Doctor?”
“Methylecgonidine, Your Honor,” Rydell pronounced the name of the metabolite slowly and distinctly so that the jury could remember.
“Yes. You will disregard all testimony about that substance. You may not base any aspects of your deliberations on such testimony. For all practical purposes, you must simply eliminate that testimony from your mind and give it no credibility in this case. Now, is that understood?”
The jurors nodded and assured Ichabod they would wipe their thoughts clean of this enticing information. But the genie was out of the bottle and could not be put back. Most all of the jurors appeared to like Rydell. It was obvious. And Brad suspected the questions on the jurors’ minds were no longer about whether Dr. Reed had been injected with cocaine, but how and why. And by whom?
Brad continued to look disgusted as he walked behind the podium to resume his examination of Rydell. He pouted through the next few questions, just to emphasize to the jury how unfair Ichabod had actually been.
Inside, he was smiling.
* * *
Rydell’s testimony would have been the perfect way to end the first week of trial if Ichabod had not decided to weigh in with some preliminary opinions after she dismissed the jury for the day.
“Don’t forget, Mr. Carson, that the jury only decides the case against Mr. Aberijan, but I must decide the case against the nation of Saudi Arabia. And I must say that I’m very disappointed that we’ve completed our first week of testimony and I have yet to hear any evidence that would implicate the nation of Saudi Arabia.”
She paused, sighed, and glanced around the courtroom, as if searching for some shred of evidence that might impress her. She turned back to Brad.
“Even if I had not struck the testimony of Dr. Rydell, the most you would have is a client whose husband had been injected with cocaine. Now let’s assume, although you have put no evidence into the record showing this to be true, that Mr. Aberijan himself injected Dr. Reed with cocaine. Does that mean that the nation of Saudi Arabia has to answer for everything Mr. Aberijan did? I think not.”
The words, the tone, the matter-of-fact dismissal of some of his strongest evidence chiseled away at Brad’s confidence and enthusiasm. Though he knew the rest of his team, including Sarah, would take their cues from him at this critical moment, he still couldn’t help but lower his eyes and sag a little deeper in his chair.
“It seems clear to me that if Mr. Aberijan did any of these terrible things you have accused him of doing, he would have been exceeding his authority as an agent of the nation of Saudi Arabia, and therefore Saudi Arabia would no longer be responsible for his actions. I am therefore assuming you have some direct evidence that the nation of Saudi Arabia, through its official representatives, either authorized beforehand or ratified after the fact the alleged actions of Mr. Aberijan.” She raised her eyebrows to emphasize her point. “Without that evidence, you cannot win this case.”
Brad vehemently disagreed with the court’s reading of the legal standard required to sustain a verdict against Saudi Arabia, but he also knew that five o’clock on a Friday afternoon was no time to start that argument. The eyes of Ichabod, his own team, and the rest of the courtroom were now on him.
He rose from his seat and stood straight, meeting the judge’s steady gaze, and buttoning his top suit-coat buttons.
“We have clear and convincing evidence on just that point, Your Honor,” Brad promised.
And at that very moment, he and everyone else in the courtroom wondered what in the world it could possibly be.
32
BRAD HAD BEEN WAITING for this night for a long time and was determined to make it special. He raced home after court to get out of his navy blue, pin-striped suit and yellow power tie and throw on a comfortable pair of jeans and a golf shirt. He was tired of dressing up and being on display. Tonight would be laid-back and casual. He would relax with a vengeance. He also threw on a pair of penny loafers with no socks. It was the Virginia Beach way.
He had offered Leslie a chance to change at his house, but she had declined. Instead, he would pick her up at the office. She wanted to cram in a few more minutes of work before taking the night off. Brad had never seen anyone obsess over a case like she did.
The rain had stopped, but it was still brisk. Brad grabbed a Windbreaker and the keys to the Viper he kept nestled in the garage. His Cherokee would have to sit this one out. The Jeep was his workhorse, and it was littered with transcripts, trial notes, soda cans, and coffee cups. It was in no shape for a date.
But the Viper was another story. He’d bought it three years ago as his reward for a surprisingly big verdict in a notoriously tough case. Now it was in danger of becoming a collector’s item. It had not been out of his garage for months, because he saved it for those leisurely drives that he never found time to take or those special occasions that somehow never came. But tonight qualified. This night would be special. And Prince Charming intended to show up in his jet-black, albeit dusty, Dodge Viper. Cinderella would love it.
The drive from his house to the office generally took twenty minutes without traffic, with an additional twenty minutes in rush hour. Tonight, anxious to see Leslie and driving the Viper opposite the homeward-bound traffic, he made the trip, portal to portal, in just over fifteen.
Brad parked in the fire lane outside his office building, bounced into the lobby, and waited impatiently for the elevators. Just for good measure, he punched the Up button several times before the elevator finally arrived, an action that only seemed to slow things down. An interminable two minutes later, he stepped off at the fifth floor and entered the office of Carson & Associates.
He found her sitting in the war room, hunched over a deposition transcript, chewing on the top of her pen. She looked up when he entered and broke into a bright smile that accentuated her beautiful white teeth, high cheekbones, and sparkling blue eyes. Leslie was gorgeous. Her auburn hair was pulled back and clipped and fell softly against her white cotton blouse. She had caught the spirit of the night and wore blue jeans and white docksiders sans socks to honor the culture of the beach. Brad stared—awestruck for a moment at her natural beauty, the graceful lines of her face—then caught himself feeling embarrassed to be gawking like a teenager.
“You look great,” he managed when all his glib trial skills failed him. “It’s nice to see you looking so relaxed.”
“Thanks, boss,” she replied with a bounce in her voice. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight.”
“Me too,” Brad said, cursing himself for not being able to think of anything more clever and for not being able to take his eyes off her. “You ready?”
“I’ve been ready.” She came over, took his hand, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “And I’m starving. Where’re we headed?”
Her soft touch electrified him, an invigorating surge that brought every nerve alive. Just holding her hand energized his body and paralyzed his brain. He couldn’t speak
, couldn’t force himself to let go, couldn’t alter the intensity of his gaze into her eyes.
She must have felt it too. Her eyes conveyed a depth of emotion that had never been spoken.
How can someone I’ve been spending so much time with suddenly make me so tongue-tied? Brad wondered. He didn’t want to leave the office; he would just hold her and kiss her on the spot. He wanted to draw her to him and tell her eloquently and passionately everything he felt. She made him complete. She made him alive. She made him dizzy with emotion. Weak-kneed.
But in this defining moment, his greatest asset failed him. The tongue wouldn’t work. He could think of no words to express the depths of his emotions. He was mute. Incapacitated. He would tell her later. For now he would chicken out.
“It’s a surprise,” he said gamely. “You’ll have to trust me.”
He took her hand, led her down to the Viper, and started another tour of his favorite spots in Tidewater.
“Rule number one,” Brad insisted, “is that we do not discuss work tonight.”
Leslie looked at the list of questions she had jotted down on an index card, pursed her lips, then stuffed it into her pocket. “Okay,” she said grudgingly, “but I’ll bet Strobel’s not taking the night off.”
“You’re incorrigible,” Brad complained.
“And you love it,” Leslie teased, reaching over and rubbing the back of his neck.
Indeed he did!
This was not a night to discuss the case. It was a night for wisecracks and laughing, for deep conversations, for building on the explosive chemistry between them. It was a night for holding hands and acting crazy. It was a night to become soul mates.
The couple began with a relaxed dinner at the Boulevard Café, an out-of-the-way place featuring exotic food and indoor-outdoor dining. They chose to sit under the stars and enjoy the cool evening breeze of the perfect autumn night. Much to Brad’s delight, the breeze and nighttime air combined to chill Leslie, causing her to move closer to him after the main course. He wrapped his arm around her and kept her warm while they nursed some hot chocolate.
For dessert Brad took her to a Tidewater icon—Doumar’s Drive-In. This quaint Norfolk restaurant claimed to be the original home of the ice-cream cone and remained the undisputed ice-cream champ in the Tidewater area. Here the couple shared a banana split the old-fashioned way, as waitresses on roller skates delivered dessert to the Viper, though Brad insisted they not hook a tray on the driver’s window. For tonight, and tonight only, Brad would violate one of his hard and fast rules that strictly forbade any eating in his beloved automobile. After all, rules were made to be broken.
From Doumar’s, they went to MacArthur Mall for a movie. Not just any movie, but a romantic chick flick that would require no thinking, only feeling. But as the plot dragged on and the adrenaline wore off, the exhausting week in court caught up with the two of them. Leslie dozed first, then Brad succumbed, and together they slept through the second half of the film.
They laughed as they exited the mall into the parking garage and were greeted again by the cool night air. Brad told himself that he had stalled long enough. It was time to tell Leslie the depth of his feelings toward her, how much she really meant to him. The night had been perfect, and soon it would be time for a perfect ending.
“Do you remember what level we parked on?” he asked. The little things in life had never commanded much of his attention. He clicked the remote lock button on his key chain, listening for the telltale beep from his faithful Viper.
“I could have sworn we were in 3A,” Leslie said, tucked under Brad’s arm.
“Oh well, it’s a beautiful night for a walk,” he muttered.
And walk they did. They scoured all levels of the parking garage, middle to top and back again, before they reached the only reasonable conclusion.
“It’s stolen,” Leslie surmised. “I know we parked on level three. We should call the police.”
“I can’t believe this,” Brad fumed. It would be hard to pour out his feelings without the Viper. The back of a cab just didn’t have the same ambiance. “It’s the only mall in America that charges you to park, and they don’t even patrol the garage? These rent-a-cop guards at the mall are a joke. With all the money they’re making off parking fees, you’d think they could afford—”
It hit him in midsentence. A scenario worse than a stolen car. This couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t be. Not tonight.
Only one person would know. He needed to call her, but he had left his cell phone in the Viper. “Can I borrow your phone?” Brad asked.
A few minutes later he was on the phone with a groggy Bella.
“I’m sure they repossessed it, Brad. I’ve been stalling your banker all week. I made a few payments on the Jeep, but I knew you never used the Viper. Frankly, your banker said he had to do something to make it look like he’s being aggressive. I told him not to touch the Jeep or the house. I guess he took that as a green light to go after the Viper. I’m sorry, Brad. I figured it wouldn’t see the light of day until the case was over.”
“Don’t worry about it, Bella. You’re doing the best you can. We’ll just catch a taxi.”
“No you won’t, Brad Carson. I wouldn’t hear of it. You just sit tight.”
Shrugging off Brad’s protests, Bella showed up at the parking garage ten minutes later. She was wearing her bathrobe.
“Hop in,” Bella said cheerily—and entirely out of character. “I’ll chauffeur you guys to your destinations.”
Brad opened the back door of the Honda Accord and choked slightly on the smell of cigarette smoke. He moved a few empty fast-food bags and their matching cups. Carefully avoiding the stale fries on the floor, he slid over next to the dry cleaning, and Leslie gingerly joined him.
For the next twenty minutes, they listened politely, and sometimes even responded, to Bella’s endless banter about the case and Ichabod. Bella insisted on using the rearview mirror to maintain eye contact as she talked, a habit that only exacerbated her horrid driving skills. After a few minutes of foolishly trying to survive Bella’s chauffeuring without seat belts, Brad and Leslie pulled the begrimed belts from between the seat cushions, dusted off the crumbs, and put them to good use.
They were greatly relieved when Bella pulled next to Leslie’s car in the parking lot at the office.
“Thanks so much, Bella,” Brad said as he and Leslie climbed out of the car. “Leslie can give me a ride home from here.”
“Nonsense,” Bella replied. “She’s got to drive all the way to Williamsburg. I’ll take you home. I’ve got nothing else to do. And, Leslie, you can stay at my place tonight if you want to.”
“Thanks, Bella,” Leslie said without a moment’s hesitation. “But I really do need to get home tonight. I’ve got lots of errands to run first thing in the morning.”
“Suit yourself.” Bella shrugged her shoulders and took out a cigarette. “Brad, this will give us a chance to talk about the financial picture and any personal items you had in that Viper. Besides, I’ve got some news on my mother you’ll love to hear.”
“Okay,” Brad said, looking at Bella and winking. “Just give me a minute.”
He was determined not to let this opportunity pass. He walked Leslie to her car and helped her in. She rolled down her window, and he leaned down to talk out of Bella’s hearing.
“Sorry about the way this ended,” he said. “It wasn’t exactly how I planned it.”
“But it was still perfect,” she said. “Because I got to spend time with you.”
Leslie placed her hand behind Brad’s head and gently pulled him toward her. They closed their eyes and savored the moment, lost in the gentle passion of the kiss, the warm rush of emotion, oblivious to the missing Viper, Bella, or anyone else in the world.
It was, Brad thought, the perfect ending to the perfect night.
* * *
Hanif completed his sermon with a flourish and closed his Bible. He lowered his voice a few notch
es and stopped his pacing. Now was not the time for motivation but for a straightforward family chat.
He looked into the eyes of the upturned faces of the church members. They occupied every inch of the living room and spilled into the kitchen.
“Two things can bring this church down,” he began in an earnest tone, “and both have to do with controlling the tongue. Remember the words of James, ‘The tongue is a little member and boasts great things. See how great a forest a little fire kindles!’
“There are some among us who cannot keep the secrets and confidences of this church. I have reason to believe that in the days ahead the persecution of the church will intensify, and the efforts of the Muttawa to hunt us down and destroy us will increase. If you are not ready to endure for the cause of Christ, then you should leave now.”
Hanif paused and surveyed the room. He saw little fear. His tone remained calm and reassuring. “If you leave, this church will understand, and you will not be held in contempt. We will not speak or think badly of you. The narrow path is not for everyone.”
He waited again. Nobody moved. Most scarcely breathed.
“If you stay, we must demand utmost secrecy in the days ahead and your complete allegiance. Remember, ‘God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.’”
The amens floated upward.
“There is one other matter of the tongue,” Hanif continued. “It has to do with spreading rumors about one another.”
He again paused and looked around, intentionally catching the eyes of the most likely offenders. “One rumor in particular has to do with one of the founders of this church, my brother, Rasheed, and his wife, Mobara. I have heard it rumored that Rasheed sold out this church, gave testimony in the American legal system against the matriarch of the church, Madame Sarah Reed, and then turned his back on the faith.”
He had their attention. The rumors had indeed been flying. And it didn’t help matters that Rasheed and Mobara had been absent for months from the meetings of the very church they had helped establish.
