Authors: Randy Singer
37
On Saturday morning, Alex threw on a pair of board shorts, a T-shirt, and Chacos and headed to the Belvedere for breakfast. The entire world may have turned against him in the past few days, but breakfast with his grandmother would be a respite from the storm. He needed someone to help him think clearly and navigate his way out of the case in an ethically appropriate manner. His grandmother wasn’t a lawyer, but she had more common sense in her little finger than most people did in their entire bodies.
This morning, Ramona had commandeered one of the coveted booths near the windows. Alex arrived ten minutes late, and she waved him over. Her curly gray hair stuck out from under a visor, and she wore a long, droopy T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The tourists were out in force, and the small coffee shop was overcrowded to the point that the air-conditioning couldn’t keep up. Nothing like sweating a little during breakfast. Alex sat down, and the waitress came over and filled his coffee cup. Just the smell of Saturday morning coffee and sausage on the grill started to relax him.
“I’ve been trying to call the last few days,” Ramona said. “You’re harder to reach than the pope.”
Alex didn’t try to defend himself. He had wanted to talk with his grandmother but hadn’t had the energy to go into it over the phone. He knew they’d have some time to hash things out this morning. “I’ve been a little busy.”
“Well, don’t forget to brush your teeth, get plenty of sleep, and have your devotions.” Ramona smiled, but her matronly humor was lost on Alex. “Oh . . . they
have
gotten under your skin,” she said.
For the next twenty minutes, Alex only picked at his food as he unburdened himself with a detailed version of what had transpired over the last few days. He hated to worry his grandmother, but he needed a sounding board. She was generally aware of the developments in the case but was surprised by Alex’s meeting with Taj Deegan and all the evidence against Khalid Mobassar. When Alex told her about the visit from Bill Fitzsimmons and Harry Dent, she about came out of her seat.
“Well,” Ramona huffed, “they’re not paying you a dime anyway. Those two men better be careful what they ask for, or we’ll make
them
start preaching so we can criticize
their
sermons.”
“I can’t really blame them,” Alex said. “They’re just trying to protect the church.”
“I
do
blame them. And Harry Dent has never thought of anyone or anything other than himself.”
The more Alex talked, the less appetite he had. There were a number of people in line staring at them, waiting for the booth to clear. With the other diners sitting so close by, Alex suggested that they finish their conversation on the boardwalk.
“You hardly touched breakfast,” Ramona said. “Going on a hunger strike isn’t going to make this go away.”
Alex forced a smiled and pushed away the plate of half-eaten scrambled eggs. “They didn’t use enough grease,” he said.
They left the Belvedere and walked the half block to the boardwalk. Ramona was seventy-seven, but she moved at a brisk pace. She wore aviator shades under her visor and sported a cute pair of white sneakers with thick soles. As he walked beside her, Alex thought that he just might have the coolest grandmother in Virginia Beach.
“I saw your client yesterday on FOXNews,” Ramona said, pumping her arms as she walked. “I thought he came across pretty well in that little sermon thing or whatever the Muslims call it.”
“You are in a distinct minority.”
“Well, he doesn’t have to be Martin Luther King Jr. You’ve just got to show that he didn’t order the honor killings.”
Alex sensed his grandmother had already emotionally invested in the case and hesitated to tell her what he was really thinking. “Actually, Grandma, I think it might be my job to find Mr. Mobassar a more experienced criminal defense lawyer.”
Ramona gave him a surprised glance but didn’t slow down. “Why’s that?”
As they walked past other, more leisurely strollers and made their way down the concrete “boardwalk,” Alex explained the situation in more detail. His firm couldn’t survive the negative publicity. His heart wasn’t in criminal defense. When he got to the part about Shannon possibly peeling off and forming her own law practice, his grandmother was audibly grunting her disapproval. “I don’t like it either, Grandma. But it was Shannon’s idea, and I don’t know what else to do if I can’t talk her out of representing this guy.”
“Alex Madison, you know precisely what you can do. You can stay with the case and give this Muslim fellow the best defense he could ever have.”
Alex was a little taken aback by the comment. Since the day he graduated from high school, his grandmother had operated on the philosophy that Alex should live his own life, and she would support him in whatever he decided to do. But this conversation, like the one they’d had about his quitting at the church, was headed in an entirely different direction.
“It’s not that I don’t think I could do a good job with the case,” Alex explained. “It’s just that I’ve got other things to worry about. I’ve got to consider how this will impact the church. I’ve got an entire law practice and a duty to my other clients. I don’t want them to suffer because their firm represents an unpopular defendant. I just don’t think it’s in my best interest or Khalid’s best interest for me to stay on the case. Shannon’s either, for that matter.”
They walked along in silence, his grandmother apparently chewing on those thoughts. “Do you want my opinion or my blessing?” she eventually asked.
He really wanted her blessing, but of course he couldn’t say that. “Your opinion, of course.”
“I think you’re making this too complicated. Your job isn’t to worry about how people might react or the domino effect on other cases. Your job is to do the right thing. If people can’t handle that, it’s their problem, not yours.”
“So, what’s the right thing?”
“You’re a Madison; you’ll figure it out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ramona stopped walking and sighed. This was serious. The woman never let anything break her stride. “Let’s . . . um . . . let’s take a break for a minute.”
She walked to the rail at the edge of the boardwalk and worked on catching her breath. Alex joined her and looked out over the sand at the shimmering ocean. He braced for the lecture he knew was coming.
“Your grandfather was one of the most hated men around when he brought those cases for court-ordered integration of the public schools,” Ramona said. “They kicked us out of social clubs, sent us death threats, and called us the vilest names you can imagine. People who had been our friends for life wouldn’t even speak to us.” Ramona frowned, and Alex could tell the memories still brought a stab of pain.
“Your grandfather wasn’t perfect; I don’t mean that. But the more people turned against him, the more determined he became. Our friends would ask him how he could sleep at night with all of the violence he was causing among schoolchildren, and he would say that he slept like a baby.
“Your dad had that same stubborn streak. John always wanted your dad to follow him into law practice, but your dad had his own ideas.” When Alex glanced at his grandmother, he couldn’t tell what was going on behind the big sunglasses, but the corners of her mouth seemed tight with emotion. “I think your dad went into the ministry in part to spread the gospel and in part to show your granddad that he wasn’t going to let anyone tell him what to do.”
Ramona breathed a big sigh and patted one of Alex’s hands on the railing. “You remember when you first wanted to be a lawyer?” his grandmother asked.
Alex shook his head. “Not really.”
“It was after you read the book
To Kill a Mockingbird
. I don’t think you completely understood the story at the time; you were only twelve or thirteen. But the story really resonated with you.
“I think part of it was the relationship that Scout had with her dad. But I think you also really admired Atticus Finch. He was willing to stand in the gap and represent someone the rest of the world wanted to lynch. Even at a young age, you somehow understood the nobility in that.” Alex’s grandmother glanced at him. “It doesn’t surprise me that Shannon’s willing to represent Khalid Mobassar. What
you’ve
got to decide is whether you’re ready to help her.”
38
By Saturday night, the positive clips from Khalid Mobassar’s Friday khutbah had been replaced by a series of interviews he had done on the Hezbollah television station in Lebanon in 1995. Alex didn’t know which cable network had first discovered the footage, but soon the video was playing on all the news channels.
In the video, a younger Khalid described the pain of losing his son in a retaliatory strike by the Israeli armed forces. The interview was in Arabic, but the words were translated by closed-captioning into English. Khalid said that his son Omar had been working on a humanitarian project but that this distinction apparently meant nothing to the Israelis. He criticized the tactics of the Israeli military that had resulted in the loss of civilian lives. He called on the United States to end its hypocrisy and condemn such actions. Where was the international outrage, he asked.
If the Lebanese government was unwilling to defend the innocent civilians in his country, then the people must turn to Hezbollah, Khalid had said. He promised that his mosque would henceforth have two donation boxes at the front entrance. One would be for the operations and ministry of the mosque; the other would support the humanitarian efforts of Hezbollah.
Alex felt sick to his stomach as he watched the clips and listened to the commentary afterward. The experts pointed out that Hezbollah had started the conflict and then stationed its headquarters and weapons among the neighborhoods and refugee camps in Lebanon. The Israeli military had made every effort to avoid collateral damage. Alex knew that in the years following the interview, Khalid had disavowed his earlier support of Hezbollah and had become an outspoken critic of radical Islam. But these fifteen-year-old clips, taken out of context, could seal Khalid’s doom before the jury was ever impaneled. There was no longer any doubt as to whether Khalid had ties to Hezbollah. And with the discovery of the clips following so closely on the heels of Khalid’s impassioned speech against the violence of radical Islamacists, it made Khalid look like a hypocrite willing to say anything to bolster his case.
Or maybe, in truth, that’s exactly who he was.
What did Alex really know about the motives of Khalid Mobassar? What did Alex really know about his relationships with terrorist organizations?
* * *
That night, Alex waited with Shannon and the Mobassars for Nara to arrive from Lebanon. With Khalid trying to avoid public appearances and Ghaniyah in no shape to drive, some friends of the Mobassars had gone to the airport to pick up their daughter. When Nara arrived, Alex noted the enthusiastic hug she gave her father and her lukewarm embrace of her mother.
“Nara, these are the lawyers I told you about,” Khalid said.
Both Alex and Shannon shook Nara’s hand.
How does anyone look this good after a transatlantic flight?
Alex wondered. He hadn’t expected an imam’s daughter to look like a Lebanese cover girl.
Nara was tall and athletic, just an inch or two shorter than Alex. She had thick, dark hair that was pulled back in a clip, accentuating a high forehead, sharp cheekbones, and alluring brown eyes. She moved with an air of confidence, her posture perfectly erect. Alex noticed a faint whiff of perfume blended with the smell of someone who had been sitting in a cramped airplane for fourteen hours.
Khalid’s bright curiosity reflected in Nara’s eyes, and the imam’s daughter mirrored his lithe build and broad, straight shoulders. But Alex saw none of Ghaniyah’s facial features in her daughter. Perhaps that was one reason he had been so surprised by her appearance.
“Nice to meet you,” Nara said, her diction perfect. “I’m grateful for the help you’ve given my father. He speaks highly of you both.”
After a few minutes of pleasantries, Khalid suggested that Alex and Shannon join him and Nara in the living room. Ghaniyah offered to prepare some coffee and finger foods, but Alex politely declined. After Ghaniyah disappeared, Alex and Shannon spent about thirty minutes bringing Nara up to speed on the legal situation. From the probing nature of her questions, it became immediately obvious that Khalid’s daughter was more than just a pretty face.
When Shannon explained that the next step would be a preliminary hearing the following Friday, Nara was anxious to hear details about the strategy. Whom did they plan on calling as witnesses? What was their theory about how Khalid’s phone was accessed? Did Alex and Shannon have any other suspects?
Because Shannon had been doing most of the talking, Alex chimed in. “We don’t normally ask a lot of questions at a preliminary hearing. The judge only has to find reasonable suspicion that a crime was committed. There’s no sense giving the prosecutors a preview of our case if we’re going to lose the hearing anyway.”
Instead of giving Alex an appreciative look of understanding, Nara frowned. “Do you really think that’s true in this case?”
Alex had seen this mind-set a few times before. Clients held out false hopes of early and miraculous dismissals. His job was to disabuse them of these phantom hopes and prepare them for a long ordeal.
“This case is no different than any other on that count,” Alex said. “The commonwealth doesn’t bring charges unless they think they’ve got enough to make them stick. Both you and your father need to adopt a mind-set that this is going to be a long and frustrating process and that things will get a lot worse before they get better. Eventually, the truth will come out.”
“I’m not a lawyer,” Nara responded, “but I know that my father’s innocent. And even if we don’t win at the preliminary hearing, it seems to me that if we don’t start getting our side of the case out there, my father will never be able to find an unbiased jury pool.”
“I see your point,” Shannon said, though her tone of voice indicated that she wasn’t appreciative of a layperson questioning their legal strategy. “But Alex is still right. There are better ways to get your side out there than to preview your case at the preliminary hearing.”
“Then how do we do that?” Khalid asked. “Because so far it seems that the cable shows only want to run my interview from many years ago from the Hezbollah channel.”
Before Alex could answer, Nara jumped in again. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about this during my flight. My father’s lost two sons in the conflict with the Israelis. Yet he still speaks as a voice of reform and reason for the Muslim faith, opposing the violence of the jihadists. I’ve lost two brothers and have become a spokesperson for women’s rights in the Muslim community.” She spoke with serious intensity now, her eyes lighting up. “Our family’s story needs to be told.”
Nara looked at her father, and Alex could tell that the two had a deep admiration and respect for each other. “I understand why
you
can’t tell that story,” Nara said. “Your words will be twisted and used against you. But
I can
tell our story. And somebody must, because right now the press is painting my father as nothing more than a tool of Hezbollah.”
Shannon made a face. “I’m not a big fan of media interviews that we don’t control. The courtroom has rules and processes designed for fairness. I’d rather try my cases there.”
“By the time we get to court, it may be too late,” Nara quickly responded. To Alex she seemed a little testy from the long flight.
Maybe we should start charging $300 an hour,
Alex thought,
since our client’s daughter is so intent on giving us advice.
Shannon allowed Nara’s statement to go unchallenged, and the tension dissipated a little. “Why don’t you let Alex and me talk about your concerns and see if we can put together a media strategy that doesn’t have an unacceptable layer of risk? We could call you tomorrow with our recommendation.”
Nara didn’t wait for her dad to respond. “We’ll look forward to your recommendation. And then my father and I will decide what’s in his best interest, because he will be the one spending time in jail if we lose.”
Alex watched Shannon bristle at the response, but his partner kept it professional. “Okay,” she said. “What other questions do you have about the process?”
The rest of the meeting went better, although there was enough distrust in the air that Alex didn’t feel right about announcing his plan to withdraw. The relationship between Shannon and Nara had started off pretty rocky. Alex was afraid that if he indicated anything less than full commitment to the case right now, Nara would talk her father into finding other lawyers.
After the meeting, the two law partners huddled up in the driveway of the Mobassar duplex. “We sure didn’t need
her
to ride in here and save the day,” Shannon said.
“I agree,” Alex replied. “But you’ve got to admit, she is smart and camera-friendly.”
“Okay, you think she’s hot,” Shannon said, her voice snide. “But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t get ambushed and end up making a fool of herself on TV. She comes across as a little too arrogant for me.”
Alex didn’t argue. He had enough problems right now without getting in the middle of a power struggle between his law partner and the imam’s strong-willed daughter.