Authors: Randy Singer
56
The problem with any high-profile case was that sooner or later all the excitement and attention degenerated into hard work. Alex and Shannon spent the two months after the preliminary hearing interviewing witnesses, reviewing documents, and working on a motion to suppress key parts of the prosecution’s evidence.
In addition, Alex obtained court approval to take the videotaped
de bene esse
deposition of Hamza Walid in Beirut, Lebanon, that could be used at the trial. Alex arranged the deposition through a Beirut lawyer named Nijad Abadi. Though Abadi would not let Alex speak with Walid directly, Abadi did say that he thought the deposition would be worth Alex’s time. He also insisted that Alex not take the deposition until just before trial, in case the parties worked out a plea bargain that might make the deposition unnecessary. Alex hoped Walid would be able to provide the missing details linking Fatih Mahdi with both the Islamic Brotherhood and Hezbollah.
Shannon spent large chunks of her time trying to move Ghaniyah’s personal-injury case forward despite the strident opposition of two defense attorneys, one hired to represent Country-Fresh, Inc., the company that owned the produce truck identified by Shannon, and a second hired to represent the driver.
The company’s lawyer, a cranky, old-school practitioner named Mack Strobel, was a plaintiff lawyer’s worst nightmare. Mack never agreed to anything. He fought every motion and defended every deposition tooth and nail. He was especially condescending and combative with young lawyers and saved his greatest disdain for young women. The first time Shannon met him, during a court hearing over one of the many objections Mack had filed to her discovery requests, he treated her as if she had just graduated from elementary school. Even when she won the hearing, it didn’t seem to put a dent in his superiority complex.
The other defense lawyer, a young buck named Kayden Dendy, was the antithesis of Strobel. Kayden landed the case because he and the truck driver were in the same motorcycle club. At the first deposition, Kayden showed up about ten minutes late, riding a hopped-up Harley with bagger exhaust pipes that Shannon could hear from inside the building. When he strolled into the conference room wearing his leather jacket, Mack Strobel couldn’t resist a snide comment.
“Is this a deposition or a biker’s convention?” Strobel asked.
Dendy stared at Strobel, a dumbfounded look on his face. Then he formed his mouth into a small circle. “Oh . . . I get it! You’re making a joke!” He gave a fake chuckle. “A good one, too, Mack. And they said you didn’t have a sense of humor. That you were just some nasty old coot.”
“Sit down and shut up,” Mack Strobel said. “You’ve already kept us waiting ten minutes.”
Just for spite, Dendy stood for the first half hour of the deposition.
About the only thing that Mack Strobel and Kayden Dendy had in common was a shared belief that Shannon didn’t have a case. They denied that a Country-Fresh truck had anything to do with the accident even after Shannon deposed the truck driver and was able to place him on North Landing Road at the time of Ghaniyah’s accident. They denied that Ghaniyah was seriously hurt, emphasizing the lack of “verifiable damage” on the MRI or CT scan. And they turned every deposition into a battle of wills.
The most contentious deposition was the day Ghaniyah’s neuropsychiatrist testified. Based on his evaluation, he had little doubt that Ghaniyah had suffered diffuse axonal injury to the orbital frontal cortex and the anterior temporal lobes, causing noticeable changes in her social behavior, emotional status, decision-making skills, and executive functions. Strobel and the expert battled back and forth for hours, throwing around terms that were largely unfamiliar to Shannon. When he concluded, Mack Strobel had a self-satisfied grin on his face, as if he had just Perry Masoned the witness and forced a tearful admission on the stand.
Dendy followed up with a cross-examination that was more down-to-earth. He emphasized that Ghaniyah’s symptoms were all subjective and that the imaging tests designed to show structural damage didn’t reveal any. “Isn’t this pretty much the same as a football player who suffers a mild concussion?” Dendy asked.
“It’s more serious than that,” the doctor said. “I’m seeing more long-term effects.”
“Based on what Mrs. Mobassar tells you, right?”
“In part. But also based on my own clinical evaluation.”
“Which, again, is based on how well Mrs. Mobassar does on the questions you ask her.”
“Of course. That’s the way all neuropsychological exams work.”
Following the expert’s deposition, Strobel subpoenaed all of Ghaniyah’s medical records, even those that had nothing to do with her traumatic brain injury. He also tried to get the Mobassars’ financial records, on the theory that maybe they were in so much financial difficulty that Ghaniyah was faking the accident. At the hearing on this issue, which Shannon won, she was indignant beyond words.
“Fake the injury?” she had asked, looking first at Strobel and then back to the judge. “Is he seriously claiming that Ghaniyah Mobassar ran her car into a tree so that she could fake a traumatic brain injury? That’s like putting a loaded revolver in your mouth and pulling the trigger to
fake
a suicide.”
“She’s got a good point,” Kayden Dendy mumbled.
The judge sent Strobel away empty-handed. At least somebody in the case was using a little common sense.
* * *
While Shannon battled the lawyers on the civil case, Alex dug in on the criminal matter. He studied the financial records of the Islamic Learning Center, attempting to decipher if there was any connection with Hezbollah. He questioned members of the mosque about Fatih Mahdi: What were his views on the role of women? What kind of temper did he have? What kind of marital problems with Ja’dah? What about his first wife?
Alex found himself craving his opportunities to work on the case with Nara. One hot Friday afternoon they sat in a conference room, reviewing documents and chatting about things unrelated to the case.
“You’re a surfer, right?” Nara asked.
Alex looked up from the document he was reading. “Yeah.”
“Ever do any stand-up paddleboarding?”
Alex was surprised she even knew about paddleboarding. “I’ve tried it a few times.”
“I used to do it in Beirut,” Nara said matter-of-factly. “The Mediterranean waves aren’t huge—so they’re perfect for paddleboarding. One day, I went paddleboarding in the morning and snow skiing in the mountains that same afternoon.”
Alex didn’t quite know what to make of this. He had grown to appreciate Nara and had even learned to relish their occasional—okay, make that frequent—disagreements. Iron sharpens iron, and all that. But he had never seen her without makeup and her hair done just right, dressed for the office. She seemed like the furthest thing from a surfer he could possibly imagine.
“I could get my hands on a couple of paddleboards,” Alex suggested. He owned a surfboard, not a paddleboard. But he could rent them if he had to.
Nara perked up at the suggestion. “That might be fun. I’m starting to feel pretty cooped up with my parents.”
They scheduled a time to meet the next day. And Alex started formulating a plan. Paddleboarding in the early afternoon. After that, maybe he’d rent a couple of Jet Skis so they could ride together and have dinner at Chick’s.
Khalid’s case had been wearing on Alex, his nerves becoming increasingly frazzled as he thought about everything he needed to get done. But that day, he left the conference room feeling ten pounds lighter.
Paddleboarding with the imam’s daughter. Go figure.
57
Saturday was warmer than normal for late August with a high predicted to hit the upper nineties. There was a slight southeast breeze, and the air seemed humid enough to wade through. The waves were mostly wind swells, a mediocre day for surfing but a perfect day for paddleboarding. Early in the afternoon, Alex rented two boards from the Freedom Surf Shop and tied them into the back of his truck. Three o’clock couldn’t come fast enough.
He and Nara had planned to meet on the beach at 65th Street, a location far enough north that there would be relatively few tourists. It was an area popular with surfers, partly because the lifeguards didn’t patrol that far north. Though Alex couldn’t remember the last time he had been anyplace early, it was only 2:30 when he threw on a pair of board shorts and a tank top and headed out.
He predicted that the paddleboarding would go pretty quickly. Nara would have difficulty staying up in the choppy surf of the Atlantic. He would give her a few lessons. She would get frustrated. Then he would suggest they hop on the Jet Skis and head to Chick’s.
Alex arrived early and staked out a place where nobody else was swimming or surfing. He decided to take a quick swim before Nara arrived, body surfed a few waves to the beach, and then walked along the wet sand. He kept an eye peeled toward the footpaths over the sand dunes that led to the streets, walking up and down the beach until about three fifteen before he started getting nervous. He went a little farther in each direction in case Nara had gotten confused about the exact spot of their rendezvous.
By 3:25 he was sure he had been stiffed. She would probably have some lame excuse on Monday morning and ask him to reschedule. He would tell her that they really needed to focus on getting the case ready for trial. If she begged him, he
might
acquiesce to one more attempt to meet up at the beach.
When 3:30 rolled around, he was ready to leave. He checked his watch and decided to give her five more minutes. Exactly three minutes later, he finally saw her. She came over the sand dunes carrying her towel and sandals, wearing a two-piece bathing suit, shorts, and designer sunglasses. She shook her long, dark hair away from her face and gave Alex a big smile, stepping quickly across the hot sand.
The wait was worth every minute.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “My mom’s having a bad day, and I couldn’t leave until almost three. I tried to call your cell phone.”
Alex hadn’t brought his cell phone, but he was no longer worried about starting a few minutes late. Nara looked like she had been born for the beach. Her skin was naturally bronze, and she was tall and lithe with muscular legs that Alex assumed came from skiing. He had not imagined that the daughter of a Muslim imam would look so much at home on the sands of Virginia Beach.
Nara expressed her surprise at how beautiful and secluded this part of Virginia Beach was. They chatted for a few minutes, and then Alex launched into his paddleboard-for-dummies lecture. Nara smiled as he rambled on and finally interrupted. “Let’s just give it a try,” she said. “I’ve done it a few times in Lebanon.”
She took off her sunglasses and shorts, picked up the paddleboard and graphite paddle, and headed toward the water. The paddleboard itself was nearly eight feet long, and Alex was a little surprised at how easily she handled the thing. He expected her to watch him navigate the waves a few times, and then he could help her get out beyond the breakers. Instead, Nara led the way. On that point, Alex was not surprised.
She waded out until the water was thigh-deep, slapped her paddleboard down, and crawled on top of it. The water was cold, but Nara didn’t flinch. She paddled on her knees until she had navigated just beyond the first line of breakers and then stood like a pro, her balance impeccable. She played around in the breakers until she found the one she wanted, pivoted her paddleboard, and dug in on the front face. Alex noticed the slight definition in her biceps and deltoids as she skimmed across the face of the wave, even cutting back to extend the ride.
The girl must work out.
After a ride that took her almost to shore, she cut out, using the paddle as a brace while she pivoted toward the next set of waves.
“Not quite Beirut,” she yelled over her shoulder, “but these aren’t bad!”
“You sure you don’t need that lecture?” Alex called out.
He had been standing in the water—at first because he wanted to help her when she crashed and burned, and then because it was a good vantage point from which to watch. He suddenly realized that he was supposed to be surfing with her, not just playing the role of a gawking teenager. He quickly headed out himself.
Though Alex was at home on surfboards, he didn’t paddleboard much and at first felt a little shaky. There was a different rhythm to the sport, standing and paddling as he looked for the perfect wave. His timing on his first ride was a little off, and he bailed when it fizzled behind him.
“You need to be more patient!” Nara called. “Don’t get out in front of it.”
As if he needed coaching from a Beirut girl. Alex grunted and pivoted his board around. This time, less shaky and more determined.
For nearly an hour, they played in the waves. Nara had the slight advantage because she was lighter than Alex and thus her paddleboard had more buoyancy. But Alex was stronger—though not as much as he’d thought he would be—and could pick up speed faster. He was also a little more reckless.
Showing off, he decided to drop in on a wave Nara was already riding. He cut in right next to her, forcing her to lean hard away from him, her edge nearly hitting his board. Unfortunately for Alex, the break on the wave caught the back of his board, throwing him off balance and causing a spectacular wipeout—elbows, knees, and paddleboard tumbling in the surf. He scrambled to his feet, the board tugging at his ankle strap and his paddle several feet away.
Nara had a huge grin on her face. “You okay?” she asked.
“Next time we’re using surfboards,” Alex yelled.
They left the beach at four thirty, paddleboards under their arms. Alex couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun. Nara had on her sunglasses, the sun glistening off the moisture on her skin, her dark hair tangled and probably full of sand. Just another surfer girl at the beach.
“Where’d you learn how to paddleboard?” Alex asked.
“First time out,” said Nara.
“Right.”
When they reached the truck, Alex sprung the second part of his plan. “If you’re hungry, we could rent a couple of Jet Skis and go down the Lynnhaven to a place called Chick’s,” he suggested. “Best seafood at the beach.” He didn’t tell Nara that he had already made reservations.
“You mean like a date?” Nara asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Alex hated this part. “More like a ride on Jet Skis and dinner at Chick’s. Some might call that a date.”
“I’d love to,” Nara said. Her face fell. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She had the look of genuine disappointment. “I think we need to be a little more careful.”
Alex wanted to argue the point, but he knew Nara was right. The two of them had been brought together by a case with relentless media scrutiny. Alex’s first job was to defend Nara’s father. He was not being paid to entertain his client’s daughter. And that was a shame. Under different circumstances, he could definitely see something developing between himself and Nara. After all, how many women this beautiful and this smart also knew how to surf?
* * *
He had been staring at the two surfers all afternoon through his telephoto lens. He must have taken more than a hundred shots, but none of them was exactly what he needed. It wasn’t until this final moment, just before they parted ways, that Nara stepped in and did exactly what the photographer had been urging her to do under his breath all afternoon.
She gave Alex a quick hug.
In real time, it looked rather harmless, the soft embrace of friends. But through the still lens of his camera, and after framing the picture from the waist up, it would look like something entirely different. Except for Nara’s bathing suit top, it was bare skin against bare skin. It could be interpreted a hundred different ways. It was not exactly a passionate kiss, but it wasn’t a sterile handshake either.
He squeezed off three quick shots and checked the digital images on his camera.
Perfect. The paparazzi couldn’t have done it better.