Directed Verdict

by Randy Singer

He had spent the night trying to sort out his feelings. He stared at the ceiling and watched infomercials on television. He was on the raw emotional edge all night—too tired to get out of bed and work on his closing but too heartbroken to sleep.

  O’Malley had confirmed Leslie’s story, but Brad still had his suspicions. Is O’Malley in on this too?

  It was all impossible to believe.

  He shuffled to the kitchen, fixed coffee, and set up shop at the kitchen table. He scribbled some notes, reviewed a few trial court transcripts, and thought some more about Leslie. The night’s events had drained all his energy and destroyed his enthusiasm for the case. The whole thing was like a hall of mirrors. Who’s working for whom?

  Brad resisted the urge to crawl back into bed, pull the sheets over his head, and let the world turn without him. Despite his misgivings, today he would be on center stage in the wild and unpredictable drama of the Reed case, and the whole world would be watching.

  * * *

  It seemed that the whole world had indeed shown up and set up camp outside the courthouse on Granby Street. The prior night’s storm had left a brisk and sunny fall day in its wake. The weathercasters predicted a high of nearly sixty under clear skies. And the protesters, attention seekers, rabble-rousers, and hangers-on were taking full advantage of the good weather and the armada of reporters in order to shine a national spotlight on their favorite cause.

  Just as the man in the yellow chicken suit predicted, the scene outside the courthouse resembled a cross between a sidewalk bazaar, a political rally, and a church picnic. There were T-shirts, coffee cups, and other trinkets for sale, all containing cute slogans commemorating the latest trial of the century. If you were a supporter of Sarah Reed, you could get a shirt that read, “Pray for the Persecuted” or a shirt listing the great martyrs of the faith, including the name of Charles Reed. If you supported the defendants, there were shirts reading, “Reed Versus Aberijan: The Witch Hunt Continues” or “The Inquisition: It Isn’t Just for Europeans Anymore.”

  Since the man in the chicken suit was a natural enemy of fundamentalist Christians, he had favored the defendants at the start of the trial. But as the days wore on, his allegiance had gradually shifted to Sarah Reed. He was impressed by the simplicity of Sarah and her trial team. In the early days of trial, they walked through the protesters, carrying their own briefcases and exhibits, while the defense team showed up in limos and didn’t get their hands dirty.

  The man in the chicken suit had witnessed Brad dump his box of documents on the courthouse steps and handle it graciously. The man had also witnessed in horror the attack on Brad and Nikki and their close escape. As the days passed, he had grown tired of the smug looks on the faces of Ahmed, Mack Strobel, and the others on the defense team as they exited their fancy vehicles surrounded by security guards. It was no single thing, but all of these events taken together, at least in the mind of the chicken man, created this unnatural alliance between this protester and the team representing Sarah Reed. If the opportunity arose on this last day of trial, he would prove his new allegiance.

  * * *

  At precisely 8:55, having traveled directly from home, Brad entered the packed courtroom. He was wearing his closing argument suit, a black Armani number with a subtle windowpane pattern, custom-made for Brad—at a cost of more than seven hundred bucks—after a big verdict a few years back. The suit only saw the light of day for closing arguments, and in the last two years, the suit had only lost twice.

  Both those losses, of course, occurred before Brad purchased the lucky Bruno Magli shoes and monogrammed shirt with gold cufflinks—fourteen karat—as well as the iridescent silk tie that mesmerized juries with its dark hues of purple, navy blue, and mauve that subtly changed colors as it reflected light. The combination of suit, shirt, shoes, and tie had proven unbeatable. In every other case, when he had put on these threads, he felt empowered—ready to argue the stars down.

  But this morning, the clothes could not make the man. The suit hung on him like a scarecrow’s would. His lean body had shed nearly ten pounds during the hectic weeks of the trial. His chiseled face looked drawn and gaunt. Dark circles surrounded his eyes. He looked, in the words of Bella, “like death on a bad day.”

  He walked down the aisle feeling tired, confused, and alone. His head was here—his argument might even be compelling—but he had left his heart by the side of the road last night. Betrayal did that to a person. He could muster no passion. He was on automatic, and Sarah’s case would rise or fall on the mechanical closing argument of a lawyer who felt like a robot.

  To Brad’s relief, Leslie was not seated at counsel table. He glanced quickly around the courtroom—there was no sign of her anywhere. But Nikki, Bella, and Sarah were all huddled together as he approached, anxiety etched on their faces.

  “Where have you been?” Sarah asked.

  “We’ve got to talk for a moment,” Brad said.

  “I know,” Sarah responded. She pulled Brad aside, away from Nikki and Bella.

  For the next few minutes, she talked and Brad listened. She first apologized for what she was about to do, then reminded Brad that she held the trump card. Either Brad would carry out the strategies she was suggesting or she would ask him to step down as counsel and she would do it herself. She was dead serious and unwavering. She was a different Sarah from the one Brad had grown to admire.

  First, she demanded that Brad argue for the chance to present one more witness based on newly discovered evidence. In fact, Sarah had a typed copy of the argument she wanted Brad to make, and he was to deliver it word for word. He just stared at her, not even looking down at the paper, as if she had lost her mind. Second, she wanted Brad to inform the court that Leslie had agreed to withdraw as co-counsel effective immediately. This one Brad had no trouble accepting. Third, if the court accepted Brad’s argument and allowed him to call a final witness, Sarah would provide a written proffer of the testimony that had been drafted by assistant district attorney Angela Bennett. Sarah turned and nodded toward a woman seated in the second row. Bennett rose and started walking toward them.

  Brad had heard enough. “Sarah, this is crazy. There’re things you don’t know . . .”

  “All rise,” the court clerk commanded as Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline stormed onto the bench.

  “Do it,” Sarah whispered. “Please.”

  Brad looked at the paper in his hand, then at Sarah’s pleading eyes. By now Bennett was next to them, and she shoved another paper into Brad’s hands.

  “Read it,” she said.

  “Counsel,” Ichabod said sharply, “you might want to take your seat.”

  Brad hustled to his seat and quickly skimmed Sarah’s instructions.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Ichabod said to the crowded courtroom. “Before we bring the jury in for closing arguments, are there any matters that merit our attention?”

  “I have one,” Strobel announced.

  Brad rose, still uncertain as to whether he should do this. He was only halfway through the written argument he was supposed to deliver. A glance at Sarah convinced him, and he declared, “I have one as well.”

  Ichabod blew out a quick and irritated breath. “Then let’s start with counsel for plaintiff. But let me tell you gentlemen right now, I’m not inclined to delay these closing arguments for one minute. We’ve got a jury waiting. So this better be good.”

  Brad walked slowly, tentatively, to the podium, carrying Sarah’s typed document with him. He placed it on the podium, stared at the paper, then looked over his shoulder one last time at Sarah. She waved her hand in small, discreet circles, egging him on. He shook his head in resignation.

  “First, Your Honor, I need to inform the court that Ms. Leslie Connors has withdrawn as co-counsel of record, effective immediately.”

  Ichabod let out a sigh. “On what grounds?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, Judge.”

  Judge Baker-Kline made a perturbed face. “O
kay, what else.”

  Brad began reading the argument in front of him, his voice flat and emotionless. “Your Honor, during our case I promised the court that we would present compelling evidence implicating Saudi Arabia in the conduct of Mr. Aberijan and the Muttawa. I realize that this is the eleventh hour. But this weekend, we became aware of new evidence that this court must hear before deciding this case, if the court is truly interested in a search for truth. We ask for leave of the court to call one additional witness and present approximately one hour of testimony from that witness.”

  The lines on Ichabod’s face deepened in disapproval. The gallery, who had come to hear the drama of the closing arguments, began to murmur its disapproval.

  Nevertheless, Brad continued. “Knowing that this is an extraordinary request, and that the testimony would have to be extraordinary in nature to merit this court’s indulgence, we have a one-page summary of the testimony we would like to submit to the court as a proffer.” Brad held up Angela Bennett’s proffer. He had been able to skim only the first few lines.

  Ichabod sat there, chin on her hand, sending every signal possible that she was not the least bit impressed with this melodramatic last-minute request. “No way, Counsel. I told you last week that we would start closing arguments this morning. Now you want to try some type of desperate ‘Hail Mary’ maneuver?” She leaned forward on the bench and practically spit the words out. “Not in my court, Counsel.”

  Brad’s heart wasn’t in this request, but Ichabod’s cavalier dismissal angered him. She had treated him with such utter disdain through the whole trial, and he was at the end of his emotional rope. Doesn’t this request at least merit some consideration? What would it hurt to take five minutes and read the proffer? His competitive juices were engaged, and he couldn’t resist taking a few swings on the way down.

  “Does the court intend to dismiss my request without even reviewing the proffer?” Brad asked. “Is keeping to the court’s sacred schedule more important than a witness who can shed light on the search for truth?”

  “Counsel, you’re treading on very thin ice here,” Ichabod replied impatiently. “I have ruled.”

  He glanced again over his shoulder, this time locking eyes with Bennett, seated in the first row, immediately behind the counsel table. She nodded her head ever so slightly, and Brad turned to face the judge.

  “I don’t understand why the court insists on punishing my client because of a personality conflict between the court and me,” he said fuming. “I don’t understand why the court, after a three-week trial, will not take five minutes to read a summary of what might be the most important evidence in the case. Is the court interested in truth, or is the court interested in revenge?”

  Strobel was on his feet now, looking perplexed and agitated. “I object. The plaintiff rested her case on Saturday. This is highly irregular and highly improper. I’ve been practicing law for thirty-eight years and have never seen such an unethical and desperate move by—”

  “Don’t lecture me on ethics,” Brad shot back.

  “Counsel, I don’t interrupt you when you’re talking—” Strobel countered.

  “That’s because I don’t make hypocritical accusations—”

  “Order!” Ichabod barked as she banged her gavel. The courtroom fell silent. Brad stared straight ahead. Strobel stared at Brad. “You two sound like children,” she lectured. “And I’m tired of these outbursts in my court!”

  “I apologize, Your Honor,” Brad said.

  “As do I,” Strobel echoed.

  * * *

  Judge Cynthia Baker-Kline paused. She wanted to slap Brad Carson down for making such a scene. She wanted to rip up his one-page proffer into tiny little pieces without even reading it. She wanted to hold him in contempt. She wanted to make him suffer.

  But she was no fool. She remembered the last time he was about to lose a case in her court. She remembered how he had goaded her into losing her temper and sending him to jail. She remembered the embarrassing appeal he planned to file based on her alleged bias and failure to maintain decorum. Even though she had forced Carson’s client to accept a plea bargain, he had tarnished her reputation in the process. She would not allow it to happen again.

  If everything went according to plan, she was on her way to the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals. She could not let an arrogant con man like Brad Carson stand in her way.

  It was time for a little reverse psychology.

  She was sure the testimony he wanted to present was of minimal importance. He was probably banking on the fact that she would not consider the proffer. Then he could argue judicial bias on appeal.

  Not this time, she decided. I refuse to throw you into that briar patch.

  “Counsel,” she said in measured tones, “present Mr. Strobel with your one-page proffer and hand the original to the court. We will stand in recess for five minutes while I consider whether I should allow this witness to testify.” She banged her gavel, accepted the one-page summary of the proposed testimony, and left the bench.

  * * *

  The courtroom broke into bedlam as soon as Judge Baker-Kline made her exit. Dozens of reporters surrounded Brad and fired questions about the proffered testimony. Sarah bowed her head to say a word of thanks.

  Strobel and his legal team huddled around the document. After a few minutes, Strobel slid the photographs and evidence gathered on juror number four into his briefcase.

  Just a brief glance at the document convinced Strobel that he would no longer be needing those photos. The trial of the century had just taken a sudden and irrevocable turn.

  * * *

  Things were not going at all according to the perfectly laid plans of Frederick Barnes. All the hours of research and planning, of painstaking investigative work, of operatives following precise orders and carrying out detailed stings and counterstings—all for naught. Barnes felt sick.

  He glanced at the document handed to Strobel and had the sinking feeling that the photos of juror four would never see the light of day. It was such a pity; it would have been the perfect plan.

  What fun, what sheer genius it would have been to dupe the street-savvy paralegal who had already caused so much trouble. But now Barnes’s cleverly planned fireworks would never explode. With this proffered testimony, everything had changed. Juror four was the least of their worries.

  There was only one thing left to do.

  * * *

  In the turmoil, only Nikki noticed that Ahmed Aberijan leaned over the rail separating defense counsel from the gallery and said a few words into the ear of the short and stocky investigator who had handed her the deposition at the close of court Saturday. Ahmed then joined the man as the pair headed for the back door of the courtroom.

  Nikki glanced over Brad’s shoulder as he looked through the proffer. She let out a soft, low whistle and said to nobody in particular, “No wonder he left.”

  She grabbed Bella, whispered a few things in her ear, then ran out the back doors of the courtroom to follow Ahmed. Bella in turn found Rasheed Berjein in the second row of the spectator section. She pulled on his arm, and he followed Bella out of the courtroom, just a few seconds behind Nikki.

  * * *

  In the downstairs lobby, Frederick Barnes and Ahmed Aberijan impatiently waited to retrieve their firearms from the marshals who manned the metal detectors. As was their daily habit, the marshals had taken the guns, tagged them, and placed them in a locker to be reclaimed at the end of the day.

  But now, as Ahmed and Barnes tried to leave the court building, the marshals were busy checking a long line of persons entering the court through the metal detectors. So the two men waited. And waited. And waited.

  Nikki stepped off the elevator and made herself inconspicuous on the other side of the lobby, keeping a close eye on Barnes and Ahmed.

  “Gentlemen,” an exasperated Barnes said, “we are severely pressed for time. Here are our tags. You’ve got our weapons in your lockers, and we need them as
we leave.”

  “Sir,” one of the harried marshals said, “we’ll be with you as soon as we can. Can’t you see we’ve got a lot of people to process?”

  “I don’t care how many people are lined up to get into this place,” Barnes said. “We’re entitled to get out.” He gritted his teeth. “Now, get us our guns.”

  “That attitude just earned you an extra five minutes,” the marshal replied. “We give the orders, not you.”

  Barnes looked at Ahmed and shook his head in disgust. “You wait here for the guns,” Barnes said. “I’ll get the car and bring it out front.”

  Barnes left the courthouse, cut through the protesters, and headed north on Granby Street to where he had parked. Nikki exited a few seconds later, cut through the protesters, and headed south on Granby Street two blocks to get her car. She looked over her shoulder and saw the stocky man break into a jog. Nikki kicked off her heels and broke into a run of her own.

  The timing was perfect. Ahmed received his Glock from the marshal just as Barnes pulled in front of the courthouse in his black Lincoln Continental. The marshal refused to turn loose Barnes’s Smith and Wesson unless Barnes himself presented the claim slip. Ahmed gave the marshal some severe grief in nearly flawless English, then decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. Barnes could get his weapon later.

  The police cleared a path through the demonstrators as Ahmed exited the courthouse and entered the backseat of the Lincoln. His presence on Granby Street created quite a furor, as some of the protesters broke out in cheers and others hurled insults.

  As Ahmed climbed into the vehicle, the man in the yellow chicken suit saw his chance for glory. He ditched his sign, slipped through the police lines, jumped up onto the hood of the Continental, and started shouting incoherently. In his mind’s eye, it was a heroic move akin to Boris Yeltsin’s mounting the Russian tank during the Moscow coup.

  To the police, he was just another fruitcake who needed to be arrested.

  Barnes blew his horn furiously, but the chicken kept jumping around on the hood. The police mounted the fenders, grabbed the man by the feathers, and pulled him, sliding, onto the pavement. They cuffed him, read him his rights, and dragged him kicking and screaming into a nearby squad car. They finally cleared a lane, and the Continental sped south on Granby, free at last from the circus in front of the courthouse.