Directed Verdict Read online

  They argued about the evils of smoking and the danger of secondhand smoke. They argued about whether Bella would do Nikki’s typing and answer her phone. They argued about whether miniskirts were appropriate office attire. Bella told Nikki she was so thin she looked sick. Nikki said at least nobody had mistaken her for a beached whale lately. In honor of Nikki’s tattoos, Bella called her “the Dragon Lady.” In turn, Nikki dubbed Bella “Willy,” in honor of the famous orca.

  * * *

  By the time Brad arrived, the two women were almost at blows. “I see you two lovebirds have met,” Brad said. “Bella. My office—now!”

  Brad spent the rest of the morning talking both women out of quitting. By noon he was nursing a splitting headache. As expected, Bella demanded and received a raise, even though she was already probably the highest-paid legal secretary in all of Tidewater.

  Even after the raise, Bella told Brad she just couldn’t understand why she should be making less than the arrogant and inexperienced Nikki Moreno. Especially, Bella claimed, since her mom was in a nursing home and Bella had to single-handedly pay all the bills. Bella had used the same sympathy ploy for the last two years.

  Later that afternoon, Brad heard Bella calling the office-supply company and ordering a brass nameplate for Nikki’s office with “the Dragon Lady” etched in black. When he poked his head into Nikki’s office, he saw her hanging up framed pictures of dolphins and whales that she had picked up on her lunch break at the mall, as if she had always been an ardent fish lover.

  The psychological warfare was well under way.

  * * *

  Sarah plopped down on the worn recliner in the small family room. It was nearly 10:30, and there was still so much to do before she could crawl into bed. Two more loads of laundry, dirty dishes all over the kitchen, lunches to get ready for school tomorrow, bills to pay that should have been sent yesterday—well, actually last week.

  This was not the way she wanted to end her day. Meredith had just copped an attitude and been sent to her room. The walls were thin in this single-story ranch house, and now Sarah could hear the music from Meredith’s CD player infiltrating every nook of living space. Before long, Steven would probably come out of his room and complain he couldn’t sleep. Then there would be another battle with Meredith, who had grown increasingly distant and rebellious since Charles’s death.

  Sarah didn’t know if she could take one more battle. Not tonight.

  She sighed heavily and reached for the worn Bible—Charles’s old Bible—sitting on a small coffee table, right where she had left it two days ago. When Charles was alive, they had devotions together nearly every morning, when they were fresh. Now she struggled to get out of bed in the morning, already running behind, and she would not get to her devotions until the evening. She often couldn’t stay awake for the duration.

  Before she began, she prayed the same little prayer she always did. “Lord, show me something from this Book tonight that is just for me . . . as I live for You.”

  She picked up her reading in the book of Acts. Chapter by chapter. The difficulties that Paul faced and his obedience to his mission in the face of extreme trouble inspired Sarah and made her long for the mission field again. She would go back some day. She loved the Saudi people so much.

  She started relaxing as she read God’s Word, and her eyelids became heavy. Paul had been arrested, for about the third or fourth time, for preaching the gospel, and he was being tried in front of some Roman governor named Felix. As usual, Paul was giving the governor fits, as he defended himself and witnessed about Christ and the Resurrection. Sarah’s mind started to wander, imagining the bandy-legged little Paul, dwarfed by the grandeur of this Roman tribunal, wagging his finger at the great Felix and telling him about the resurrection of the dead. She could see the astonished looks on the faces of the Roman dignitaries as this ornery little Jewish man made his case. Sarah’s eyes were blinking more slowly now, the music from Meredith’s room drifting into the background, and the words on the page in front of her blurring into a sea of black ink.

  And then a tiny phrase jumped off the page. “I appeal to Caesar,” Paul said. The words pierced through the fog of impending sleep and slapped Sarah awake. “I appeal to Caesar,” Paul insisted. And then Festus answered, “You have appealed to Caesar? To Caesar you shall go!”

  She sat up straight in the chair, her eyes wide.

  The words spoke to Sarah, shouted to her from two thousand years ago and half a world away, as if Paul himself were in her family room at that very moment. “I appeal to Caesar.”

  Suddenly, Sarah was energized. She couldn’t read fast enough. Why did Paul appeal to Caesar? Didn’t he just want to get back to the mission field? Didn’t he know that appealing to Caesar could take years away from his work? Why was this man, who rejoiced when he was abused for the sake of Christ, suddenly so insistent about his legal rights?

  She stood up from the chair, gathered a pen and tablet, and cleared herself a place at the kitchen table. She made some quick notes and outlined the history of Paul’s legal troubles and options. She read earlier chapters to put it in context. More notes. More excitement. She was onto something. The answer was here, somewhere.

  Some time and several pages of notes later, she found the answer in the ninth chapter of Acts, right after Paul had been converted from a persecutor of the church to a missionary. She had read it so many times before, but she had never seen it. At least not like this.

  The Lord called Paul a “chosen vessel” and said that Paul would “bear My name before Gentiles, kings, and the children of Israel. For I will show him how many things he must suffer for My name’s sake.”

  There it was! Her answer. God had given Paul a threefold mission. To share with the children of Israel, which Paul did when he preached at Jerusalem. To share with the Gentiles, which Paul did when he planted churches all over Asia Minor. But Paul also had a mission to share with kings. And how did Paul do this? Through the court system! The Sanhedrin, Governor Festus, King Agrippa, and ultimately to the leading ruler himself—Caesar!

  Paul’s plea wasn’t about winning or losing. He wasn’t plotting some kind of legal strategy. In fact, Acts ended with Paul imprisoned in Rome, ready to testify before Caesar. How that trial ended, who knows?

  But Paul fulfilled his mission.

  To the children of Israel, Sarah thought, Paul’s own people. In her case, these would be the Americans. To the Gentiles, foreigners despised by Paul’s people. These would be the Saudis. And the kings, the court officials. They would be the federal court judges, the world’s media, and the leaders of nations as they followed this international case through the eyes of the world’s press.

  A threefold mission.

  “I appeal to Caesar,” Sarah said solemnly.

  Without bothering to check the clock, she picked up the phone and dialed Brad.

  10

  LESLIE FILED THE SUIT PAPERS when Norfolk Federal Court opened for business on Good Friday. The timing was Brad’s idea. The press would be looking for some good religious news on Easter weekend. Brad was more than happy to oblige. The poisoning of the jury pool had begun.

  The suit was a whopper. It spanned an impressive fifty-six pages, encompassing seven separate causes of action and containing enough whereas, heretofore, and hereinabove clauses to choke a horse. Leslie’s masterpiece contained impressive citations of various international human rights laws as well as graphic references to specific acts of torture inflicted on the Reeds that would be good grist for the papers.

  The suit named the nation of Saudi Arabia as a defendant and at least nine separate John Does, references to the unknown individuals who had assaulted Sarah and killed Charles.

  After detailing the heinous conduct of the Saudi officials for more than fifty-five pages, Leslie demanded, in capital letters, the handsome sum of ONE HUNDRED FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS as compensatory and punitive damages.

  The suit requested trial by jury on the counts
against the individuals and trial by judge on the count against Saudi Arabia. Brad insisted they file in Norfolk, home of the famed “rocket docket,” where cases were always tried within six months of filing. Brad also wanted to file in Norfolk because the court had a legacy of gutsy judges who made tough calls on racial-integration cases. Although those judges had since retired, Brad hoped to tap into this legacy of pioneering civil rights decisions.

  While Leslie filed the suit, Nikki hand-delivered courtesy copies to the local newspapers and television stations. Both women returned to the office to help answer the phones. Leslie smiled as she listened to Nikki act surprised at all the media attention.

  By noon, the phones were ringing off the hook. Local network affiliates wanted interviews; the newspaper wanted a comment. Even the Associated Press called with a few clarifying questions. It was heady stuff for Nikki and Bella, but poor Brad was mired in a medical malpractice deposition with a cantankerous defense lawyer paid by the hour who had no intention of finishing early.

  At 12:30 the defense lawyer came up for air, and Brad sprinted out of the room to claim his rightful place in the spotlight. He called the newspaper first and spent the next thirty minutes explaining the case and waxing eloquent about the importance of international religious freedom. His opening statement in this case would start long before the jury ever assembled.

  Brad ran out of time in his lunch hour before he ran out of interview opportunities. He told Leslie he was going to make her a star. He had Bella schedule a press conference for the local television stations for 4 p.m. Leslie would experience media baptism by fire.

  Brad was right. Good Friday was a slow news day. National networks picked up Leslie’s earnest face and lawyerly remarks from the local affiliates. Soon the cable networks picked up the story, and Leslie’s face could be seen both at her apartment in Williamsburg and around the world on CNN.

  Leslie watched her debut with Brad that evening on the local network affiliates. A few friends called to say they thought she came off cool and sophisticated. A professor left a message suggesting next time she should clarify she was only a law student. Brad heaped praise on her and toasted her brilliance.

  Later that night, Leslie took a tape of the newscasts back to her apartment and replayed it several times. She was brutal in her analysis of her own premiere. She promised herself to do better next time.

  * * *

  Frederick Barnes, a short bowling ball of a man who ran a Washington-based “consulting firm,” made a small fortune from his Saudi account alone. Barnes took great pride in representing a stable of unsympathetic clients with deep pockets and a willingness to pay almost any price for services and information that fell just short—in Barnes’s opinion—of espionage or treason. He knew how to navigate the seedy underbelly of Beltway politics in a way that generally pleased his clients and lined his pockets.

  Not all his clients were satisfied customers. Ahmed Aberijan had not been on the phone long before Barnes concluded he would have to find satisfaction in taking Ahmed’s money even as he endured the Saudi’s verbal abuse. One of Ahmed’s men had seen reports on CNN of a lawsuit filed against the nation of Saudi Arabia. The suit alleged that the Muttawa tortured and killed an American missionary. All lies, according to Aberijan.

  Incensed and derisive, Aberijan spent most of the call railing at Barnes as if Barnes himself had filed the lawsuit. When he finished venting, Ahmed outlined several schemes designed to quash the lawsuit in its infancy. Even with Ahmed’s invectives ringing in his ears, Barnes tried to focus on the merits of the plans Ahmed outlined. Barnes had to admit he was impressed with both the complexity and temerity of the plans hatched by this Saudi Arabian hothead on such short notice.

  * * *

  Ahmed hung up and placed a call directly to the office of the crown prince. Prince Asad agreed that the case must be contained. The prince had no desire to dirty his hands in the details of the case. Ahmed would take the point. The official statement from the crown prince would reiterate his confidence in and support of the Muttawa. The crown prince would again express his sorrow that an American citizen had died after an unfortunate but unavoidable arrest. Prince Asad would make no other statement about the case and had no intention of answering questions from anyone.

  Ahmed was instructed to keep the crown prince informed as the case progressed, and Ahmed knew how to read between the lines of that order. His job was to win the case at any cost, and it would be better if the crown prince did not know the details of what that might entail.

  The first phone call between Ahmed and the crown prince on this subject would also be their last.

  * * *

  Within twenty-four hours, Barnes called Ahmed back with his first task accomplished.

  “I found just the lawyer,” Barnes reported. “He knows international law, he’s ruthless, and he’s rumored to play dirty when necessary.”

  “Perfect,” Ahmed replied.

  11

  THE MONDAY OF HER SECOND WEEK at Carson & Associates, Nikki burned up the phone lines talking to friends. As usual, she closed her office door, both to keep Bella from prying into her personal business and as a buttress against the cigarette smoke that wafted in whenever Bella came within spitting distance.

  The phone calls were, of course, done on company time. Nikki believed it critical, for a variety of business reasons, to stay plugged in to the paralegal rumor network.

  “No way!” Nikki exclaimed. She wore a headset and spoke into a small mike hanging on an attached wire, freeing both hands to type an e-mail to another friend. “Who told you that?”

  “I heard it from Jessica, that new paralegal at the Jones firm. She’s good friends with Marisa, who, as you know, has a thing going with a certain unnamed partner at Kilgore & Strobel.”

  “You mean a certain unnamed partner with wavy dark hair, broad shoulders, two BMWs, and a cute little tush?”

  “You didn’t hear that from me.”

  “Hear what?” Nikki laughed.

  Her friend cackled, then started off on another story of romance and intrigue. But this time Nikki wasn’t listening.

  She was already formulating a plan.

  * * *

  By the time he finally touched down in Norfolk, Ahmed was irritable and exhausted. The flight from Riyadh to Norfolk took a full nine hours. Even on board the Saudi government’s luxury jet, he felt cornered and caged. At least he wasn’t flying with the unwashed masses on a cramped commercial airline.

  The unimpressive size of the Norfolk airport surprised Ahmed. He found it hard to believe that the mighty government of Saudi Arabia was being forced to answer groundless legal allegations in a city like this.

  The palpable decadence of the American people threatened to smother him. He could see it in the magazine and bookracks, in the billboards lining the concourse, in the spring dress of the women. In his country, women saved themselves for the pleasure of their husbands. Here the women seemed to strut, to advertise themselves, to dominate the men. Surely it was only a matter of time before Allah judged this pagan culture.

  Ahmed would spend as little time here as possible. And he would hate every minute of it.

  Tidewater was hot, but he could handle hot. The humidity, however, threatened to undo him. Though it was nearly ten in the evening in the first week in May, Ahmed’s short walk caused him to break a sweat. He enjoyed nothing about America. Except, perhaps, the ease with which he might successfully execute his plan.

  * * *

  At five minutes after ten, Nikki’s cell phone rang. The caller identified himself as Johnny, the desk clerk at the Marriott.

  “He’s here,” Johnny whispered. “His name is Ahmed Aberijan, and he has checked in for just one night. As we discussed, I cannot give you his room number.”

  “You’re a sweetheart,” Nikki said, also in hushed tones. “Did he sign the paperwork?”

  “How ’bout that!” Johnny exclaimed. “It seems I forgot to have him sign the rate
sheet.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Nikki hung up the phone and grinned at her luck.

  Eighteen minutes later she entered the spacious lobby of the Marriott and glanced in Johnny’s direction. After she caught his eye, she crossed the lobby to the winding, open staircase on the other end that ascended to the second-floor restaurant and bar. She climbed the stairs and crouched behind the railing, where she could inconspicuously observe the first floor and the check-in desk. She winked at her new friend behind the desk, and he picked up the phone.

  When Johnny finished his call, he gave her a thumbs-up. She crouched down, eyeballed the elevator, and waited.

  A few minutes later, the elevator door opened, and Ahmed stepped out, heading straight for the front desk. Nikki watched an animated discussion between Ahmed and the clerk, voices raised, hands expressing frustration. Finally, Ahmed leaned over and signed the cards with a flourish, threw his pen down on the counter, and turned around. In one quick motion, he glanced around the enormous lobby and then up, looking straight in Nikki’s direction. She ducked, hugging her knees behind the railing.

  Even as she held her breath, not daring to look, she realized how much she loved this element of risk and danger.

  Ahmed would be out of range in a matter of seconds. If he saw her, she was history. If he didn’t, she must work quickly.

  She exhaled quietly and raised her head just over the railing. He had leveled his gaze and was crossing the lobby. She raised herself up a few more inches. He kept walking, unaware of her. There. Keep going. Don’t look up now, buddy. A few more steps and he would be in the crosshairs.

  She focused, aimed, squeezed her finger, and took three shots head-on.

  * * *

  Rasheed Berjein responded quickly to the secret knock. The special sequence and rhythm always made his heart beat faster. His mind raced with expectancy and with dread. It could be another visitor, any one of a number of people he had mustered the courage to tell about this worship service. Or it could be the Muttawa. They had infiltrated the church once. There was no guarantee they would not do so again.