by Randy Singer
“And what was the second signal?” Brad asked.
“The next day after the deposition, I was to go to a pay telephone and call Ms. Moreno. If I was still ready to give up my homeland, my church, my family, and my friends, if I was still ready to seek political safety in the United States and testify in this trial, then I was to tell Ms. Moreno ‘everything is fine’ in Arabic. I taught her that phrase during her first visit because we knew we would have no interpreter. If I was not willing to be involved any further, I was to tell her ‘I must stay’ in Arabic.”
“Did you call Ms. Moreno, and, if so, what did you say?”
“I am here,” Rasheed replied, “and it has not been easy. I called her and told her ‘everything is fine.’”
41
LESLIE LISTENED TO Rasheed’s testimony and, out of the corner of her eye, watched Nikki. Nikki was leaning forward, hanging on every word that came out of the witness’s mouth, looking every inch a supporter of the witness. She did not bear the posture of a woman who had tried to sell out her own trial team.
Leslie leaned to her left, put an arm around the back of Nikki’s chair, and whispered in her ear.
“Who is Chad Hamilton?” she whispered.
“Who wants to know?” Nikki whispered, shaded eyes still on the witness.
“I do,” Leslie said, her mouth close to Nikki’s ear. “Bella found a voice mail message on your office phone where this guy Chad Hamilton offered you one point five million.”
“Bella’s a pig,” Nikki said with conviction, louder than a whisper, still looking straight ahead.
“Nikki, there’s the voice mail message from Chad Hamilton, and there’s also an e-mail message sent from your BlackBerry telling Dr. Shelhorse not to come and testify. And Shelhorse didn’t show.” Nikki took off her sunglasses and gave Leslie a dumbfounded look. “Who is Chad Hamilton?” Leslie asked again.
“Is that why Bella attacked me?” Nikki whispered through gritted teeth. “Does Bella think I’m some kind of spy for Aberijan?”
Leslie nodded her head.
“I barely escaped from Aberijan with my life.” The color was rising on the back of Nikki’s neck, and she shot a wicked glance at Bella.
“So who is Chad Hamilton?” Leslie whispered. It still made no sense.
“He’s the insurance adjuster for the Johnson case,” Nikki said. “Brad doesn’t know it, but I’m negotiating an awesome settlement for Mr. Johnson. Brad and Bella—heck, even the client—told me to settle for $550,000. I ignored ’em. And now it sounds like I’m going to get almost three times that. We’ll make half a million in legal fees.”
This bit of news rocked Leslie back in her chair. “Then who wrote the e-mail message on your computer to Dr. Shelhorse?” Leslie asked.
“Probably Bella,” Nikki said, making no effort to whisper.
“Shhh,” Leslie whispered.
“Probably Bella. Who else is in our office during the day while you and Brad are in court?”
Leslie did not respond. There was so much to process. Most of what Nikki said made perfect sense, except for one small item.
How did Nikki know the e-mail to Shelhorse had been sent while court was in session?
* * *
While the ladies whispered and wondered, Rasheed concluded his testimony. “Please answer any questions Mr. Strobel might have,” Brad said as he returned to his seat.
Strobel shot out of his seat and started firing questions even before he made it to the podium. Everything about his demeanor and tone of voice conveyed one message: he was on the attack.
“So let me get this straight,” he boomed. “Your sworn videotaped testimony was just a bunch of lies. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Rasheed admitted through his translator.
“And not only did you lie in that sworn testimony, but you and Ms. Moreno planned ahead of time that you would lie to this court and this jury. Right?” Strobel was livid, his face dark with anger.
“Yes,” both Rasheed and the translator said meekly.
“And you say that you lied because you were afraid that Mr. Aberijan would harm your wife?”
“Yes, his men were with my wife during my deposition and would have harmed her if I told the truth.”
“But today you’re telling the truth because you have gained political asylum and are no longer afraid of Mr. Aberijan?”
“Yes, this is true.”
“Then why didn’t you seek political asylum before you ever gave your deposition so that you would not have to mislead this judge and jury?”
“I do not know, except that was not the plan.”
“Who came up with this wonderful plan?”
“It was Ms. Moreno’s plan.”
“And did Ms. Moreno tell you that you could get political asylum and get a chance to live in the United States if you were willing to testify for Mrs. Reed?”
“Yes and no. She told me we could get, as you call it . . . political asylum, if I agreed to tell the truth.”
“And did she promise to help you find work in America?”
“Ms. Moreno says she and Mr. Carson will try to help me.”
“Are you glad you gained political asylum and now have a chance to live in America?”
“I look forward with hope to life in this country.”
“In America you get a clean start, but in Saudi Arabia, Mr. Berjein, you were a convicted drug dealer, right?”
“I was forced to plead guilty, but I did not use drugs.”
“Isn’t it true that you did in fact use drugs, that your earlier testimony was true, but that you saw a chance to get a new start in the wealthiest nation on earth—the United States—and all you had to do was give a little false testimony to make it happen?”
“I object,” Brad said. “That’s argumentative and improper.”
“I’ll withdraw the question,” Strobel said before Ichabod could rule.
For a full hour, Strobel attacked the witness. He painted Rasheed as an opportunist, ready to jump at a chance to come to the United States. He reviewed all of Rasheed’s videotaped admissions about his drug use and pointed out that Rasheed knew a lot of details about cocaine for someone who now claimed he had never tried the stuff. It was a crafty cross-examination and a reminder that Strobel was well worth the four hundred dollars per hour that he charged his clients to dismantle witnesses like Rasheed.
But Rasheed survived the onslaught and nearly sprinted from the stand when Ichabod told him he could step down.
“This court will take a ten-minute recess,” Ichabod declared and left the bench.
* * *
Brad and his team breathed a collective sigh of relief as Rasheed rejoined them. Brad shook the man’s hand, patted him on the back, then watched with satisfaction as Rasheed gently embraced Sarah, kissing her on both cheeks. The others gathered around as well, slapping Rasheed’s back or putting an encouraging hand on his shoulder.
As the team gathered around the table, Brad noticed Bella take a tentative step toward Nikki. He tensed, ready to spring between the two women who were now locking eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Bella said, extending her hand. “What I did was stupid.”
Nikki looked at Bella’s hand, hesitated long enough to teach her a lesson, then accepted. “Don’t worry about it,” Nikki replied. Her voice was still sullen.
Brad felt some of the tension in the air dissipate.
“The voice mail from Chad Hamilton was about the Johnson case,” Leslie said helpfully. “He’s an insurance adjuster.”
Brad looked straight at Nikki, who shot Leslie a “button it up” glance. “I thought we settled that case weeks ago,” he said.
Bella, now standing with her arms folded across her chest, looked at Brad and nodded. I told you so, she said with her eyes.
Nikki twisted her lips into a sheepish grin and watched Brad for a hint of a reprieve. “It’s a long story . . .”
“Make it short.”
“Okay .
. . I settled for almost three times the amount you told me to accept several weeks ago.”
“You mean you ignored my instructions—the client’s instructions.”
“Look, if you don’t want the extra money, I’ll keep it.” Nikki sighed and slumped her shoulders, playing the role of the persecuted. “I just knew I could get more money—a lot more money—if they could see us in action.” She looked at Brad, whose expression had not softened. “So I invited Hamilton and his boss to the trial. I arranged it so they were here during the cross-examination of Ahmed Aberijan. They saw all the fireworks: Brad threatened with contempt, the works. They knew we’d do whatever it takes to win a case. I told them our bottom line was one-point-seven million, take it or leave it, by the end of this case. They’ve now offered one-point-five.”
“Talk to the client,” Brad said, but his voice contained no enthusiasm. “If he agrees, take the money.” He looked down, searching for just the right words. “But, Nikki . . .”
“I know.”
“You pull a stunt like this again and deliberately disregard my instructions—you’re fired.”
Nikki snorted. “You’re welcome,” she muttered, just loud enough for the others to hear.
“What about the e-mail to Shelhorse?” Bella asked. It was time to pile on.
Nikki shrugged. “The only thing I know about that is what Leslie told me while Rasheed was testifying. I couldn’t have sent that e-mail from Saudi Arabia even if I wanted to—I couldn’t get any reception for my BlackBerry.”
Bella gave her a raised eyebrow.
“Check it out,” Nikki said, holding the device in her hand. “I didn’t send anything until I hit American soil. Somebody who had access to the office computers—” she looked straight at Bella—“sent the e-mail and made it look like it came from my BlackBerry.”
This spawned a round of furious speculation about the e-mail to Shelhorse. Bella recalled that O’Malley had come by the office about an hour before the e-mail was sent and accompanied Bella to court for a few hours to watch the trial. Someone, she surmised, must have seen Bella and Patrick leave the office, then broken in and sent the e-mail. It was an outside job, no doubt about it.
Everyone but Brad nodded in agreement.
* * *
“All rise,” the bailiff cried. “This court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline presiding.”
In a few minutes everyone had scrambled to their seats, the courtroom was quiet, and the jury was seated in their box.
“I assume that the plaintiff now rests. Is that correct, Mr. Carson?” Ichabod asked.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Strobel was up. “We’d like to call one surrebuttal witness, Your Honor—Mrs. Sarah Reed.”
Brad bolted from his chair and jerked his head toward Strobel. In the commotion of the last few days, he had forgotten all about Strobel’s plans to recall Sarah and force a mistrial by asking her to disclose the name of her informant.
“If Mr. Strobel is recalling Mrs. Reed solely to ask the name of her informant, we would like to renew our objection,” Brad said, addressing the court. “Not only does such a question unfairly require Mrs. Reed to jeopardize the life of this person, which she is not willing to do, but it also serves no useful purpose at this stage of the proceedings. It’s not like Mr. Strobel now has time to subpoena this person and put him on the stand in this case. By waiting until the very last minute of the trial, Mr. Strobel has shown that the only reason he asks this question is to harass my client and force a mistrial.”
“Your Honor,” Strobel drawled, “we waited because we thought the information might come out by some other means and we could spare Mrs. Reed this question. But it did not, and so we are back where we started. The court ruled before that we were entitled to have this question answered. We are simply following through on that ruling now.”
Judge Baker-Kline shook her head. Brad’s heart raced. It was the first time in the trial Ichabod had shown any hint of being swayed by Sarah’s case.
“You had your chance, Mr. Strobel. I would have made Mrs. Reed answer this same question earlier in the trial. But now, having just heard the testimony of Mr. Berjein, I am concerned about the safety of the informant. And I am also concerned about your timing, sir. If you really wanted this question answered, you should not have withdrawn it earlier. The objection is sustained. Mrs. Reed will not take the stand for surrebuttal.”
As usual, Strobel’s poker face did not show a hint of disappointment. “Then the defense rests,” he announced to the jury, standing ramrod straight and looking them directly in the eye.
Brad had never felt better about his case.
“Thank you, Mr. Strobel,” Ichabod said. “We will start closing arguments Monday promptly at 9 a.m. And, Mr. Carson?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I have yet to hear any evidence, not even one shred, that leads me to believe the nation of Saudi Arabia ratified this alleged misconduct. Keep that in mind as you prepare your closing. You may be able to change my mind. But right now, I just don’t see it.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Brad mumbled reflexively, as Ichabod burst the bubble formed by her own prior ruling.
What in the world does she want, Brad wondered, an engraved letter from the crown prince?
The irreverent sound of juror number four’s snickering broke the courtroom’s silence.
* * *
It’s amazing what you can do with a telephoto lens, Frederick Barnes thought. He’d caught the juror dead in the act on his Kodak digital camera. Incontrovertible proof. Earlier today, he’d slipped the photos into a small white envelope with gloved hands.
His gloved hands placed two-sided tape on the outside of the envelope, and he now waited patiently for his chance to make a clean pass of the photos. Barnes was a careful man. He would wait for the perfect opportunity, or he would not do it at all.
The moment came right after the judge dismissed the jury, the moment that juror number four snickered.
Brad Carson had left a copy of Rasheed’s deposition on the podium. One hundred pages of transcribed testimony bound with a soft plastic cover on the front and back. It was better than jumping on the elevator with them and trying to drop the photos in a briefcase. It was so natural. It was perfect.
Barnes slid out of his seat in the first row and walked nonchalantly to the podium. He glanced around, then picked up the deposition and taped the photos inside the back cover. He discreetly removed the latex gloves and stuffed them in his pocket.
He turned toward plaintiff’s counsel table and tapped her on the shoulder.
When she turned, he caught the flash of anger in her eyes. A “how dare you come over here, to our side, and talk to me in open court” look. She seemed to catch herself, and wariness replaced the anger in the beautiful dark eyes.
“Mr. Carson left this deposition and these two exhibits on the podium,” Barnes explained. “I didn’t want them to get mixed up with our stuff as we packed.”
She took the deposition, but her dark eyes never left his.
“Thanks,” Nikki Moreno said.
42
BARNES RESPONDED IMMEDIATELY to the summons on his cell phone. Within minutes he joined Ahmed in his hotel suite. “She wants to meet tonight at nine,” Ahmed said. “She wants to meet in the bar downstairs, corner table, on the pool room level. She gave me the usual nonsense about coming alone.”
“I’ll personally cover you,” Barnes said. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the harbor and stared at the driving rain pelting the glass. A ragged bolt of lightning electrified the sky, and the rumbling from the thunder rattled the two-inch-thick pane. “What’s the plan?” he asked, turning to face Ahmed.
Ahmed sat down on the sofa, grabbed the remote, and clicked off the television. Barnes hated it when Ahmed did this—took his sweet time answering—just to show who was in control. “Do we need juror six, or can we get a mistrial without him?�
� he finally asked.
“I don’t know yet. The plan’s in place to bump Stein. But if the timing’s not right, if Strobel has him dismissed before the jury begins deliberating, then the judge might say that the jury pool was not contaminated. She might just dismiss Stein and still not declare a mistrial. If she does that, then we’ll need the vote of this other juror. Juror six is our insurance policy.”
The Saudi looked up and stared at Barnes, looked right through him, and the silence became almost intolerable. But Barnes never considered breaking it or even moving until he had Ahmed’s implicit permission to do so.
“How sure are we that our friend can deliver juror six?” Ahmed asked.
“She’s delivered everything else.”
Ahmed sneered at the thought. “We have come too far to take any chances now. We may need juror six. You talk to Strobel and make sure he waits until the jury begins deliberations to ask for a mistrial. I’ll meet our friend tonight. When I do, I want you to wire her car . . . and her cell phone if she leaves it behind. I’ll give her the trust agreement she’s demanding, carrying the signature of the minister of public safety. We’ll monitor her after our meeting. If she checks out, she’ll find a hundred million in her little trust account on Monday morning.”
The Muttawa leader slammed the jury consultant’s notebook down on the glass coffee table. He stood and stretched his massive pecs and broad shoulders. He rotated his thick neck and rubbed vigorously at the base of his skull. This was not a man used to having things out of his control.
“We will play this game,” he snarled, “and buy our verdict.” He paused and looked at Barnes through cold gray eyes. “As soon as the jury returns its verdict, she dies.”
“And let a hundred mil pass to Sarah Reed and her family?” Barnes asked incredulously.
Ahmed scoffed. “I said the trust agreement had the signature of the minister of public safety. I did not say the signature was genuine.”
“What good does a forgery do? The money’s still held in trust.”
