Directed Verdict

by Randy Singer

  “The one juror that had been impossible to read throughout the trial—the one who just sat stoically and impassively through everything—was juror number six. I concluded that if I had noticed, Mr. Aberijan must have noticed too. So it would be believable if I picked juror number six, so long as he wasn’t actually on the take already. That’s what I guessed. And Ahmed accepted it.”

  She turned directly to juror number six. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said.

  Juror six nodded his head ever so slightly, his expression never changing.

  Strobel rocketed to his feet. “Objection,” he roared. “That is highly improper, and I move for a mistrial.”

  “Objection sustained,” Ichabod said. “Please disregard Ms. Connors’s apology. As for the mistrial, I can see why you would want one, but you’re not entitled to one.”

  Something suddenly dawned on Brad.

  “Ms. Connors, how did you communicate with Mr. Aberijan on these occasions? I am under the impression that he does not understand a word of English.”

  Leslie smiled for the first time since taking the stand. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said. “The man speaks almost perfect English. You’ll hear it yourself on the tape.”

  “What else will we hear on the tape?” Brad asked.

  “Two other things of importance,” Leslie noted calmly. “The first is my reference to a trust document for an account in a Swiss bank. I called this my life insurance policy, but it was really a means to show that Mr. Aberijan was not acting alone. I asked that one hundred million be deposited in a Swiss bank account subject to the terms of a trust agreement that was to be signed by a high-ranking Saudi official other than Mr. Aberijan. The trust document would state that if I died, the executor appointed in my will would investigate my death. If he concluded that I was murdered, the one hundred million would go to Sarah Reed and her children. If he concluded that I died of natural causes, the one hundred million would revert to the nation of Saudi Arabia.”

  “Amazing,” Brad said without thinking. It truly was a brilliant idea. “And was this trust agreement ever signed?” he asked.

  “Yes. It was delivered to me at the last meeting that I had with Mr. Aberijan, which occurred just last night. Mr. O’Malley should be bringing a copy of it to court in a few minutes. He’ll also have a fax showing the balance of the Swiss account with a deposit this morning of one hundred million dollars.”

  Brad allowed a small smile to crease his lips. This girl thinks of everything.

  “And the second item of interest?”

  “After I left the meeting, Mr. Aberijan had possession of the transmitters, and they were, of course, still transmitting. After he left the courtroom, he called another gentleman and ordered this gentleman to find out who the executor of my will was.” She tilted her head sideways as she looked at Brad. Are you ready for this? she asked with her eyes.

  He nodded.

  “You will hear Ahmed Aberijan order the murder of both me and my executor within one day after this jury returns a verdict.”

  A collective gasp filled the courtroom. Reporters, no longer able to contain themselves, scurried for the doors. The remaining spectators all talked at once, and Ichabod had trouble restoring order as she furiously banged her gavel.

  “We need some equipment in here to listen to that tape,” she barked to her bailiff. “Now!”

  * * *

  In the excitement swirling around him, Mack Strobel was largely ignored. All of his years of experience had never prepared him for this. He had rapidly absorbed one shocking revelation after another. And now he was about to listen to his client admit to jury tampering and order two murders, all on tape. Any other lawyer would have been packing his bags. But not Mack Strobel. His expression never changed.

  “This old dog still has one more trick,” he mumbled to himself.

  But it would be hard to argue with a tape.

  47

  NIKKI MORENO HEARD the shot but felt nothing except the exhilaration of her free fall. She had no time to be thankful. In the next instant, she was knifing through the murky depths of the Elizabeth River. The icy water stabbed at her like a million needles and sucked her breath away.

  She descended into the depths for what seemed like an eternity; then she gained the presence of mind to flail her arms and legs to reach the surface. She kicked and pulled, kicked and pulled, but still the water overhead was black. Her breath was gone, but she kicked and climbed some more.

  Finally . . . the surface.

  She sprang out of the waters gasping for breath, constricted by the cold. She quickly looked up, just in time to see Barnes leaning over the concrete abutment. He was joined by Ahmed, whose gun was pointed at her. She filled her lungs and dove under the water.

  The bullet made a short hissing sound as it entered the water. It must have been inches from her head. She had not had a chance to collect much air in her lungs, but she forced herself deeper and began frog kicking toward the concrete pillars under the bridge. If she could just get to the pillars and slide to the side opposite the men, perhaps she would live.

  Her lungs gave out before she felt the pillars. Nikki surfaced quickly, gagging on the salt water, and looked up. Ahmed was almost directly overhead and had anticipated her move. He aimed his gun straight at her head and flashed a wicked smile.

  * * *

  Rasheed and Bella were caught in the snarl of the traffic jam. Like the others, they had tried to sneak forward on the shoulders of the roadway, but they had not had much success. Bella began pounding on the steering wheel in frustration. Rasheed looked at her, peered ahead at the traffic, pointed to himself, then pointed ahead on the bridge. He jumped out of the car and sprinted past the stopped traffic.

  Bella called after him, but Rasheed never turned around. She almost cursed and bit her tongue instead. She said a quick prayer, turned on her flashers, grabbed her pistol from her purse, rolled out of the vehicle, and lumbered after Rasheed.

  * * *

  Rasheed heard the horns blowing as he ran. He heard shouts in the distance between Barnes and the men in the pickup truck. A few seconds later, he heard the smashing of metal and the breaking of glass. He saw the havoc caused by Nikki’s kamikaze maneuver. As he approached the scene, he witnessed Barnes and Ahmed getting out of their car and running toward Nikki. He saw Barnes run ahead and Ahmed crouch. Then he saw Nikki jump.

  When they saw Ahmed fire, gawking motorists ducked in their vehicles or jumped behind them for cover. Ahmed ran to the edge of the bridge and leaned over the concrete wall. Barnes stood next to him, also looking over the edge and searching the waters. As he ran, Rasheed saw Ahmed aim and fire a shot at the water below.

  A few more steps and Rasheed was rounding the back of Nikki’s car, just a few feet from Barnes and Ahmed. The director of the Muttawa raised his gun again and took aim. Rasheed launched himself into a flying tackle, landing his shoulder squarely against Ahmed’s broad back. Rasheed’s body slammed against the bigger man, jarring lose the gun, sending it tumbling toward Nikki in the river below. The blow also jolted Ahmed and hammered his body against the concrete abutment. Both men fell hard, in a pile, onto the pavement with arms, legs, and torsos intertwined.

  * * *

  Ahmed shook Rasheed loose and staggered to his feet. Rasheed got halfway up, still bent at the waist, one hand on his knee. Ahmed stepped toward the smaller man and pounded a vicious forearm into Rasheed’s face, knocking him onto his back. Ahmed spit at Rasheed, then turned around to look back over the edge of the bridge.

  Nikki was nowhere in sight.

  He stared at the water, waiting for her to surface. But there was no sign of her in the water.

  Ahmed turned back to Rasheed, who was lying on his back on the pavement, trying to rise, and shaking his head to clear the dizziness. Ahmed stepped forward, practically frothing at the mouth. A powerful kick squarely on Rasheed’s jaw would snap the man’s neck like a twig.

  Other motorists still kept
their distance. Barnes stood back as well. He knew there was no way to stop the Right Hand of Mohammed.

  “Beg,” Ahmed sneered, as he towered over Rasheed. He repeated the command in Arabic.

  He waited as Rasheed looked up at him. But this time, there was no fear in Rasheed’s eyes. Only contempt.

  “Never,” Rasheed replied softly in Arabic.

  “Beg!” Ahmed screamed, determined to smell the fear before he killed. “Beg like a dog!”

  Rasheed stared back in determined silence.

  Ahmed flexed every muscle and drew back his powerful leg.

  * * *

  “Don’t move!” Bella yelled in a shrill, breathless voice. She was still several feet away, huffing and puffing, but she clutched the small Beretta pistol in her hand and pointed it squarely at Ahmed. In all her excitement, she couldn’t remember if she had correctly released the safety.

  Ahmed relaxed his leg and turned a contemptuous look on Bella. He stared for a second, sizing up the woman, and began to walk slowly toward her. Her hands shook as she tried to remember the shooting lessons she had taken so long ago.

  “One more step and I’ll blow you away!” she screamed. It was meant to sound tough, but it came out more as a squeal than a command.

  Ahmed continued to advance.

  “I mean it!” she yelled.

  He was less than twenty feet away. A few more steps and he could lunge at her.

  She decided to scare him by firing at his feet. Show him that she meant business. She aimed, closed her eyes, and squeezed the trigger.

  She also jerked her arm up at the last second.

  Bella heard the smack of the bullet, the tearing of flesh, the cracking of bone, and a full-throated yell. She opened her eyes to see Ahmed’s right knee buckle. She watched in horror as blood poured through his pant leg and flowed onto the pavement.

  She swung the gun toward Barnes, who took a few giant steps back and never took his eyes off Bella. Then her hands began shaking uncontrollably, and she dropped the gun. She collapsed into a heap and sobbed.

  * * *

  Rasheed was still woozy but had the presence of mind to grab Bella’s gun. He motioned with it for Barnes to stand next to his wounded partner. Then, with the small but lethal Beretta still aimed at the two men, Rasheed slowly circled around them and shuffled over to the edge of the bridge.

  While watching his new prisoners, Rasheed leaned slightly out over the concrete abutment and yelled down to the water below.

  “Everything is fine!” he screamed in Arabic.

  * * *

  In the next second, Nikki poked her head out from behind one of the concrete pillars.

  “Everything is fine!” she yelled back in Arabic as she looked in disbelief at the smiling face of Rasheed above. Her lips were going numb as she shivered in the water, but she could hold on for a while longer. She now had hope.

  And she could hear the beautiful sound of sirens wailing in the distance.

  * * *

  Ichabod and the jurors barely moved as they listened to Ahmed boast on tape, in perfect English, about the juror he “owned.” They heard him discuss the terms of payment for knocking Nancy Shelhorse out of the case and for buying a defense verdict. And they stared at the tape player in disbelief, straining to hear Ahmed, as he ordered the murders of Leslie and her executor. It was hard to make out all the words, but a discriminating listener could clearly hear Ahmed pronounce the death sentences.

  Ichabod had Brad rewind the tape and replay it three times. The recording changed many things for Brad. He could hear the trembling in Leslie’s voice as she tried to act brave in front of Ahmed. He could hear the business-as-usual tone of Ahmed as he ordered the murders. It drove home to him, for the first time, how much Leslie had risked. His thoughts were no longer about himself—why didn’t she tell me? Why did she lie to me? His thoughts turned to her—the danger she was in. The pressure she was under. The brilliance of her plan.

  When he finished playing it the third time, Brad moved the tape into evidence, and Exhibit Number 63 became an official part of the case.

  Leslie explained how she and O’Malley prevented Shelhorse’s testimony. It was O’Malley, she said, who sent the e-mail from Nikki’s computer. And it was O’Malley who deleted a telephone message left by Shelhorse later that day.

  With the jury still intently focused on his witness, Brad directed her attention to the prior night and her meeting with Ahmed. He had Leslie describe the meeting and how she had finally obtained the trust agreement signed by the Saudi minister of public safety. Leslie told the jury about her bizarre encounter with Frederick Barnes outside the Marriott.

  “What happened after Mr. Barnes left?”

  “The valet brought my car around. He slipped me a note when he opened my door.”

  “From whom?”

  “Mr. O’Malley. The note said that listening devices had been placed inside my car and cell phone while I was meeting with Ahmed. The note said to be careful about what I said.” She paused, her lips forming a thin and worried line. The events of last night seemed to pain her the most. “When I talked to Mr. O’Malley later that night on the phone, we both made it seem like we were really going to buy a defense verdict, then leave town.”

  Brad paused for a moment and pondered his next question. Part of him wanted to drag her through last night’s confrontation again, ask her to explain one more time why she lied to him, make her realize how much it had hurt him. But another part of him, the part that saw her nervousness under the mask of cool, the part that noticed the red blotches on her neck, the part that loved her, wanted to spare her any more pain. She had been through enough. She had done it for him, for the case.

  It was no contest.

  “Let me direct your attention away from the events of last night,” Brad resumed, “and to the issue of the trust agreement.”

  He carefully studied Leslie’s reaction, but instead of relief washing over her face as Brad expected, he watched her countenance fall, the blood instantly draining from her face. It was the same look Brad had seen on the first day of trial, when Leslie told him they had drawn Ichabod as their judge.

  * * *

  Leslie happened to be looking toward the back of the courtroom when O’Malley entered. A quick shake of his head told her everything she needed to know. It was O’Malley’s job to get a faxed copy of the Swiss account showing the hundred-million-dollar deposit. His dejected look, one Leslie had never seen on his face before, made it obvious that he had failed.

  All this work down the tubes. The planning. The risk. Jeopardizing my relationship with Brad. All for naught if I can’t prove the money is in the account. What will prevent Strobel from arguing that Ahmed forged the signature and acted alone? The nation of Saudi Arabia will be off the hook.

  God, cut me a break. Just once. For Sarah’s sake.

  O’Malley walked down the aisle, whispered a few words in Brad’s ear, then handed Brad two documents. As she watched, the private investigator glumly took a seat in the front row.

  Brad placed exhibit stickers on the documents, then looked up at Leslie. She expected panic on his face but saw none. Not even a hint of disappointment. Leslie had seen this look before—the moot court tournament. Trust me, he was saying. Gladly, she smiled back.

  “I’d like to hand you two documents marked for identification,” Brad said. “The first is a signed trust agreement; the second is a faxed bank statement showing the balance in a Swiss bank account subject to the trust agreement.”

  Mack Strobel jumped to his feet. Brad’s eyes twinkled. “Objection,” he roared. “How can this witness possibly authenticate these documents that were just now handed to Mr. Carson. He hasn’t even established if she’s seen them before.”

  Brad spread his palms in protest. “That’s because I haven’t had a chance.”

  Judge Baker-Kline looked over her glasses at Leslie. “Didn’t you say Mr. Aberijan gave you the signed trust agreement last night?”


  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And this account balance, have you ever seen that before?”

  Leslie paused and sighed. For effect. “No, Your Honor,” she replied gloomily. “I haven’t.”

  “Then I’ll sustain the objection as to the account balance statement and overrule the objection on the signed trust agreement.”

  “But, Your Honor—,” Brad protested.

  Has he lost his mind? Leslie wondered.

  “Mr. Carson,” Ichabod cut him off, “I’ve ruled.”

  Brad frowned. “Yes, Your Honor. After the introduction of this exhibit, I’ll pass the witness.”

  * * *

  Brad handed the signed trust agreement to the court clerk. He took his seat and placed the bank account statement, showing that not a dime had reached the Swiss trust account, onto the table in front of him. He casually placed a legal pad on top of it.

  Mack Strobel, always the consummate showman, rose slowly and furrowed his brow. He took on a pained expression, as if he had a grave announcement to make about a matter that troubled him greatly.

  “Before I begin my cross-examination, I have a motion to make.” He shuffled some papers, then looked up at Ichabod. “From the outset of the case, I have doubted whether I could fairly represent both Mr. Aberijan personally and the nation of Saudi Arabia without generating a serious conflict of interest. I warned Mr. Aberijan about this at our very first meeting.”

  He paused for effect, and Brad rolled his eyes, hoping one of the jurors was watching.

  “It has now become clear that I can no longer represent both defendants. I therefore request leave of the court to withdraw as counsel of record for Mr. Aberijan because of an unavoidable conflict of interest. From this point on, I can represent only the nation of Saudi Arabia.”

  “I can understand why you would want to withdraw as counsel for Mr. Aberijan,” Ichabod commented. “And since he is not here to object, your motion is granted. But it does not mean that this trial will be delayed even one minute so that he can get a new lawyer. Is that clear, Mr. Strobel?”