Directed Verdict Read online

  The Berjeins had been overjoyed to reunite with Kareem and to learn that he had struggled with the same feelings of guilt and conviction. The tiny church of three rededicated themselves to the cause of Christ and the study of His Word. Over time, forgiveness replaced guilt, and courage began to take the place of fear.

  The Berjeins became so emboldened that on this night they had invited another couple from school, close personal friends and spiritual seekers. When Rasheed heard the special knock at a few minutes past ten and welcomed his friends to the meeting, he was expecting nothing short of a miracle.

  But now that the guests were there, Rasheed didn’t really know where to start. He looked at Mobara with rising panic in his eyes and asked her to share a little about her own spiritual journey. Mobara smiled warmly and launched right in, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Before long, she was fully engaged, passionately telling of her own feelings and faith. She talked about her life as a devoted Muslim, as an ardent follower of Mohammed and the teachings of the Koran. She talked about how much she had learned from her time as a Muslim and what great respect she had for other devout Muslims. But she also shared about an emptiness, a longing for something more than the discipline and sacrifice of the Islamic faith. She longed for peace; she longed for joy; she longed for assurance of eternal life. In a word, Mobara said, she longed for a Savior.

  Without realizing it had happened, Rasheed found himself entranced, on the edge of his seat, as if he were hearing his wife’s story for the first time. He loved to watch Mobara’s ever-changing expressions as she took her listeners through a gauntlet of emotions, every feature on her face going all-out to accentuate her words. And then Mobara seemed to notice this as well—that she had become the center of attention—and she suddenly seemed self-conscious about it. Perhaps only Rasheed, who knew his wife so well, noticed the slight change in her countenance. And he was not at all surprised when she turned to him and flawlessly asked him to tell how they had found the answers to all their spiritual searching, to all of their many questions, in the Bible.

  Rasheed swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and suddenly realized how thick his tongue had become. He said a quick prayer, licked his parched lips, and opened his Bible. He began sharing some stories that were not found in the Koran. He started with some of the great teachings of Christ, common ground for Muslims and Christians. As he talked, with his guests listening politely and Mobara nodding her agreement, he grew bolder. He felt a power not his own, an eloquence he did not know he possessed.

  Oh, he still stammered around some, and he couldn’t remember half the Bible passages he wanted to explain, but he was now ready to hit the issues head-on. He explained how Christ had suffered and died on a cross. How Christ had paid the price for sins. He knew this was a major sticking point for Muslims; it had been his own greatest obstacle.

  “I couldn’t believe that a God of love would actually let His own Son die on a cross,” Rasheed admitted, looking at his guests. He saw the same question register in their eyes. “If God is all powerful, why did He allow this to happen?” A long pause. “But then I realized that the very love of God required this—that He loved us so much He was willing to pay any price, including the death of His own Son, to provide us with a way to be brought back into relationship with Him.”

  He couldn’t tell if he was getting through, but there was no stopping Rasheed now. He talked about Christ’s resurrection and the historical evidence for this miracle. He said that new life in Christ was available to everyone—Jew and Muslim, male and female—that God was the Father of all.

  “In the Christian faith,” Rasheed explained earnestly, “salvation does not come from sacrificial living, faithfulness in prayer, or following a certain set of rules. Christ obeyed all the rules, kept the entire Law, something we could never do. And He did it for us.

  “Salvation comes through faith in Jesus Christ.”

  It was time to put the choice squarely to his friends, Rasheed could feel it. And he knew that these words were not his own, that somehow the Holy Spirit prompted them. “Christ cannot be regarded as just another good man, or even another great prophet in a long line of prophets culminating with Mohammed. Christ claimed to be God and wants to be Lord of your life. We must either accept Him on those terms or reject Him as a liar or a lunatic.”

  Rasheed put down the Bible he had been holding in both hands and looked squarely at his guests. “Does that make sense to you?” he asked.

  There was a long and uncomfortable silence as his question hung in the air. His guests looked down, quietly studying the floor, and Rasheed had no idea what to do. He had blown it. He had gotten so excited that he had overwhelmed them. He had not communicated clearly. He had turned them off. Here he was, a trained teacher, and for some reason he couldn’t explain the most basic thing in the world—the simple gospel of Jesus Christ.

  And then the woman looked up. Rasheed saw the tears welling in her eyes. Her husband reached over, gently taking her hand. He nodded his head ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. He was saying it all made sense!

  “It does?” Rasheed asked, more surprised than anybody else in the room.

  The man just nodded his head again. “What do we do now?” he asked softly.

  Startled, enthused, bewildered, and excited, Rasheed looked at Mobara. She smiled and turned to the guests. “Rasheed will lead you in a prayer,” she suggested. “A prayer that can change everything.”

  Hesitantly at first, then with great enthusiasm, Rasheed led the couple in a prayer that ended their separation from God and started their relationship with Christ. They talked for an hour afterward.

  That night the small church grew by two. That night Rasheed became a pastor.

  They ended, as always, in another prayer. And their prayer ended, as always, with the petition that God would help them to remain faithful to Christ, “no matter the cost.” They did not have the option of the cheap and easy Christianity of the West. Their faith, with its great reward, would also demand great sacrifice.

  * * *

  Brad didn’t spend one minute talking about the Reed case on the way to the Lynnhaven Mariner. A master storyteller, Brad entertained Leslie with improbable tales of quirky lawyers, convoluted cases, and irascible clients. After they arrived, he made the long wait longer by insisting they hold out for a table on the dock overlooking the bay, and Leslie surprised herself by not minding any of it. At one point she laughed and realized her anxiety about this bad-news meeting had faded.

  Brad didn’t get down to business until their lunches sat before them.

  “So, Counsel, do we have a case for Sarah Reed? Don’t pull any punches.”

  Leslie hesitated for just a second. “It doesn’t look good, Brad. I wouldn’t say impossible, but the next thing to it.” Her eyes met his. He stared at her intently, and she felt her throat constrict. “I’ve got a complete memo in my car, but I can give you the nutshell.” Was that her voice? Was she going hoarse?

  “Go for it.” He continued staring.

  She took a quick drink of water and collected herself. “Sarah would have a potential cause of action against both the individuals who tortured her as well as the government of Saudi Arabia for the actions of government officials. There are different laws and procedures for each. With regard to the individual police officers, there is a cause of action under the Torture Victim Protection Act.

  “That part of the case is pretty straightforward,” Leslie continued. “We would have to prove that Sarah and her husband were tortured by official representatives of the Saudi government. We could recover against those persons who performed the torture and against any higher-ups who authorized, tolerated, or willingly ignored these acts.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Brad quipped. “Where do I sign up?”

  Leslie risked looking Brad in the eye again. “As you know better than anyone, the issue is not whether you can get a verdict, but whether you can collect against the defendants.
Even if you can pinpoint the police officers who were involved, they probably don’t have a dime to their names. And you can’t even try to collect against them unless they have property in the United States or enter the country personally.”

  “What about Prince Asad?” Brad asked. “There’s no one I would rather sue . . . with the possible exception of Bill Gates.”

  “There is no indication that the prince either authorized or sanctioned this conduct,” Leslie said in her best professional mode, trying hard to burst Brad’s bubble. “The real issue is whether you could win a judgment against the government of Saudi Arabia for the actions of their agents.”

  “I’m pretty sure the Saudis have the bucks to satisfy any billion-dollar verdict we might get.” Brad shooed away the waiter who was coming to refill their drinks. “So what’s the answer?”

  “I think it’s a loser, Brad.” Leslie knew it was not good news, and she liked him too well to sugarcoat it. “Foreign countries and their agencies have enjoyed immunity from suit in American courts since 1812 with only a few minor exceptions. And none of them apply here.” She stopped abruptly. Brad was leaning forward, chin propped on both hands, looking directly at her. She found it hard to read his eyes. “Is this boring you?”

  “Not at all,” he said, then smiled. “I was just thinking how much I could use someone like you to help research some of the issues I’m constantly running up against. You sound like an encyclopedia.”

  “Thanks. I think.” She couldn’t help but blush. She felt like a schoolgirl with a wicked crush. I don’t even know this guy!

  She cleared her head of these distracting emotions—purposefully, clinically, she willed herself to disregard them—and continued with her rehearsed synopsis of sovereign immunity law. “In 1976 Congress codified the issue of sovereign immunity with the Foreign Sovereign Immunity Act. That law basically provides that foreign governments cannot be sued in U.S. courts unless one of five exceptions applies.”

  Brad’s eyes lit up. “Loopholes are my specialty.” He smiled playfully.

  Leslie maintained her game face. “Maybe so, but I doubt any of these exceptions would apply. The Reeds are not the first U.S. citizens to be tortured by another country. Let me put it this way: if the Nazi holocaust victims could not successfully sue under this act in New York City, it’s hard to think we could do it here in the conservative federal courts of Norfolk, Virginia.”

  Brad fell silent and stared pensively at the ships motoring slowly by on the Lynnhaven. Leslie thought she perceived a slight sag in his shoulders.

  Brad turned from the horizon and picked at his food. “If you had to file suit on the Reed case, if you had no choice but to file suit, what approach would you take?”

  Leslie furrowed her brow and took her turn staring at the river. “I would argue the implicit waiver clause—that when other nations torture U.S. citizens in violation of jus cogens norms, they waive their immunity from suit. This theory has never been squarely addressed by the U.S. Supreme Court. I would stress the fact that Charles and Sarah Reed were U.S. citizens tortured for religious reasons and that our courts have a special role to play when the fundamental rights of U.S. citizens are involved.”

  Brad thought about this for a moment. “Oh, you mean the Strobel argument.”

  Leslie winced. “Yeah, I guess so. But I’d prefer not to call it that.”

  “Call it anything you want, as long as it works.”

  “I didn’t say it would work. Only that it was our best argument.”

  “What are our chances?” Brad asked. He sat up straighter, taking a big bite of a crab-cake sandwich. “I’m ready.”

  “What?”

  He chewed for a minute, then swallowed hard. He chased the sandwich with a gulp of tea. “I said . . . I’m ready. I just want to know what our chances are.”

  Leslie put down her fork. This was not going as she had planned. “Nearly impossible. Didn’t you hear me? Brad, every effort by every lawyer to haul a foreign government into court based on human rights violations for the past hundred years has been unsuccessful. And there are lots of cases with facts every bit as horrible as yours.”

  She said it with an edge. And either the tone or the bluntness of the assessment caused a long silence between the two. Leslie became uncomfortable and resumed working on her meal. Brad gazed down the river some more.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke. “There’s got to be a first time,” he mumbled.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Leslie, with every new breakthrough for justice, there’s got to be a first time. How do you think we got our civil rights laws? Some lawyers were sitting around, just like we are today, knowing they had justice on their side, but not the law. That didn’t stop them, because they knew the law was meant to serve justice, not the other way around. I know this may sound corny, but it’s true. Ninety-nine percent of the lawyers in the world see the law as it is, but the few really great ones see the law as it ought to be.”

  Brad spoke as if the law were a sacred thing. He leaned forward, his voice reverent, barely above a whisper, and suddenly Leslie saw Bill leaning toward her, his voice coming out of the past full of captivating idealism. She gasped before she could stop herself.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Leslie felt her cheeks grow hot. “Nothing,” she murmured. “You were saying?”

  Brad now focused on the horizon and continued in the same passionate tone. “Most lawyers think the laws are written in law books, but a few lawyers understand that the fundamental laws of justice are carved deep in the human spirit, that the law books just try to capture those transcendent laws that are already there. And when the laws on the books don’t match what justice requires, you change the laws on the books, not the definition of justice.

  “You wait your whole career for a case like this. There’s got to be a first time, Leslie. And I think this case just might be it.”

  Brad finished his impromptu speech, and more silence followed. He fixed his gaze on Leslie, beseeching her with his steel blue eyes. It was, without a doubt, one of the most intense looks she had ever experienced—one of the most intense feelings she had ever felt.

  She couldn’t look away.

  Get a grip, Connors, she told herself. It’s just a case. It’s not a crusade, and it won’t bring world peace. He’s just another guy.

  Yeah, right.

  “If I decide to go tilting after these windmills,” Brad was asking, “will you join me? I could really use your help on the research. And I’ll pay twenty bucks an hour.”

  Leslie had predicted this scenario. She had practiced saying no the entire trip from Williamsburg to Virginia Beach. She had finals coming up and the trip to England. It was not a good time.

  “Thanks for the offer, Brad. But I just can’t . . . I don’t have time.” She looked down at her food; it had not moved. “I promised myself I would study abroad this summer, then slow down some my third year and enjoy law school. I just . . . I don’t know . . .”

  Her voice trailed off, and she knew she had left the door open, cracked ever so slightly. It was not part of the plan.

  Brad apparently sensed it too. “Law school will always be there. England can wait. But this case—” He paused. “A case like this comes around once, maybe twice, in a lifetime. Don’t you see it? The moot court argument. Sarah Reed just walking into my office on another matter. It’s destiny, Leslie. You can’t say no to destiny.”

  Brad was playing hardball, but Leslie had steeled herself. Sure, she would like nothing more than to work on a potentially groundbreaking case. But she had already decided. She had other plans. Plans that had been two years in the making. Plans that would cause less pain than working on a case for another widow—a case that would remind her every step of the way of the devastating loss of her own husband. And she couldn’t throw out her plans just because some irresistible man across a lunch table asked her to.

  Could she?


  “Okay,” she said, stunned by her own words. “But I’m worth at least fifty an hour.”

  Brad smiled broadly, white teeth flashing, and lifted his tea glass for a toast.

  “Deal,” he said. “You can start Monday.”

  Leslie touched his glass gingerly with her own, convinced she had just made a huge mistake.

  * * *

  The driver of the large rig had been at it for twenty-two straight hours. His logs would say differently, of course, so that his company would not be cited for violating FTC regulations. The money was good, but he was getting too old for this. He would dump his load at the depot on Military Highway, then push on through to a rest area outside Richmond.

  It was warm for an April night, so he kept his windows down. The fresh air would help keep him awake, keep the heavy eyelids open, and might even help him shake off those brews he had thrown down at the truck stop in Suffolk. He was pretty sure he had stopped after two or three, nothing he couldn’t handle, nothing he hadn’t handled before.

  Blasts from a car horn stunned him awake. He jerked his head up just in time to see the driver of the car, wide-eyed, looking out the driver’s side window in horror at the truck careening toward him . . . felt a jolt, heard the surreal sound of shattering glass and smashing metal and the sickening thud of a car under the truck chassis.

  * * *

  Nikki Moreno heard it on her police scanner. A bad accident, possible fatality, at the intersection of Military Highway and Battlefield Boulevard—less than four blocks away. With any luck, she could beat the police to the scene.

  She wasn’t dressed for this. It was Friday night, and she had gone straight from the beach to the parties. She was wearing shorts, a bikini top, and sandals. It would have to do.

  She reached under the seat and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. She made a mental note to replenish her stock. You never knew when opportunity might knock.