Authors: Randy Singer
13
On the way to work Monday morning, Alex’s own words kept echoing in his head.
The greatest danger is the belief that all is well when all may not be well.
He could apply that principle to so many areas of his life right now. His carefree and relaxed exterior covered deep fissures about to be exposed. One was his church and the fact that his congregation was slowly dwindling. He attributed the malaise to a stubborn refusal to change with the surrounding community, but he knew that some, including a few deacons, thought it had more to do with the inadequacies of Alex as a part-time pastor.
Another involved Alex’s own feelings that he didn’t really belong in the role of pastor. He had stepped into this position two years ago as an interim solution when the church was without a pastor. He had never intended to stay this long and couldn’t help feeling like the good folks at South Norfolk Community Church deserved more than he could offer. Maybe he should step away. But could he really leave the church without a pastor again so soon?
Then there was the law practice. Financially, the firm was taking on water. Most months they had negative cash flow, bumping their line of credit a little higher. They needed a big personal-injury case to set things right. Alex had already cut non-personnel expenses to the bone.
Madison and Associates was located less than a mile from Alex’s condo and less than two miles from the oceanfront. The firm occupied half of a gray vinyl-sided building in a small office park on Laskin Road. The building had a seventies look, as did the office furniture. The view from Alex’s office, the one previously used by his grandfather, overlooked the parking lot. John Patrick Madison had not been a big fan of expensive office space in the Town Center area of Virginia Beach. As a result, he could offer lower hourly rates than most of his contemporaries.
He posted those rates for all to see in the firm’s waiting area. In the seven years that Alex worked there, he could never remember the rate changing. And Alex still had the same sign up, two years after his grandfather’s death.
We charge $200 per hour.
$250 if you call more than once a week.
$300 if you want to advise us on how to do our job.
By the time Alex pulled into the small office lot on Monday morning, the firm’s other two employees’ cars were already there. Inside, Sylvia Brunswick, the firm’s receptionist/legal assistant/den mother, sat hunched over her computer and didn’t bother looking up. She was only forty-five or so, but her spine had permanently curved, and she had periodic attacks of various ailments that routinely kept her out of the office, mostly on Fridays and Mondays. She was rail thin, with a grating voice that reminded Alex of Olive Oyl’s.
Alex’s grandfather had hired Sylvia about five years before he died and never had the heart to fire her. So far, Alex hadn’t mustered the nerve to do so either, though he had promised himself more than once that she wouldn’t make it to the end of the week. Every payday, Alex swallowed hard while signing Sylvia’s check and thinking about her health insurance, payroll taxes, and sick leave benefits.
“What’s up?” Alex asked, walking quickly past Sylvia and heading down the hall toward his office. Sylvia immediately started reciting a list of things Alex needed to get done. Fingernails on a chalkboard, but he managed to block it out.
If Sylvia was excess baggage, Alex’s partner was the little engine that could. Not surprisingly, she was already in her office, talking on the phone. She had probably billed at least two solid hours already.
Alex first met the legal dynamo that was Shannon Reese nearly seven years before, during their first semester of law school when they ended up in the same study group for Torts. The group was an unwieldy alliance of hard-charging 1Ls, each trying to outsmart the others while harboring secret fears about failing.
The self-appointed leaders of the group didn’t take Alex seriously because he dressed like a surfer and failed to complete his outlines on time. Shannon couldn’t get a word in edgewise because she looked even less like a lawyer than Alex. She was short, athletic, and cute, a former gymnast who pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail, spoke with a voice that seemed like it was stuck in puberty, and radiated a high-energy enthusiasm for the law that was decidedly uncool. She had that fresh gymnast’s look—complete with a perky and innocent face—that masked an iron will and an ultracompetitive drive. Her success in gymnastics had been built on athleticism and power, not graceful elegance, and she brought that same intensity to her legal studies.
Three weeks before finals, Alex and Shannon peeled off and formed their own two-person study group. Shannon ultimately received the book award for the best grade in Torts and a smattering of other As and B-pluses. Alex was entirely happy to have earned straight Bs. The next semester, the pair declined a number of invitations to join other groups.
Even after Alex dropped out of school that summer, he and Shannon stayed in touch. Alex talked his grandfather into hiring Shannon as a clerk for the summer following her second year, and she eventually signed on to work full-time after graduation. Alex and Shannon studied for the bar together, and when the results were announced, the number of licensed lawyers at Madison and Associates tripled.
Alex’s grandfather had loved Shannon’s work ethic, and Alex’s grandmother was hardly subtle in her attempts to get the two young lawyers to become more than friends. But Shannon had other plans. She bounced around between boyfriends before landing with a gymnastics coach at the University of Georgia who was intense, possessive, and controlling. After three years of dating, and while they were engaged, Shannon caught him fooling around with a coed.
Alex helped her pick up the pieces. But just when he was ready to ask her out, Shannon swore off relationships and said she wanted to concentrate on her law career. With the pressure off, their friendship had blossomed during the past two years to the point where Alex couldn’t imagine practicing law without her.
He poured a cup of coffee and checked his voice messages. When he heard the voice of Khalid Mobassar calling about his wife’s case, Alex perked up. He called the imam back and set up a meeting. Then he pumped his fist and strutted down to his partner’s office. He plopped down in one of Shannon’s client chairs, holding two yellow stickies in his right hand with information about his cherished new case.
He watched Shannon edit a document on her computer, her face knit in concentration, as she refused to acknowledge his presence.
“Got a minute?” he asked.
“Not really, Alex; I’ve got to finish this brief.”
“Fine.” Alex shrugged, making no effort to rise. “Then you’re probably not interested in this huge new personal-injury case I just landed.”
Shannon paused and looked up, her face a cross between annoyance and curiosity. She’d heard it all before. “That’s correct,” she said. “Your huge, can’t-lose, once-in-a-lifetime, pay-all-the-bills case is just going to have to wait until I get this brief done on a garden-variety motion to compel in a case where the client is paying us real money.”
Pronouncement over, Shannon returned to her screen and resumed typing.
“Brain injury,” Alex said.
Shannon checked a document next to her computer, turned the page.
“Clear liability.”
She typed a few more sentences.
“Insurance coverage of $100,000. Unless we can find the truck that caused the accident; then maybe half a million.”
When even this didn’t slow Shannon down, Alex reached over and picked up the calculator from her desk. “Let’s just say the jury goes crazy and gives us two million. . . . We divide that by three. . . . Oh, not good—$666,666. Mm. Too many sixes.”
Though Alex wasn’t superstitious, there was no sense playing around with the mark of the beast. He punched in a few more numbers. “That’s better. If we go for 35 percent, we net $700,000. And seven’s the perfect number.”
Shannon sighed loudly, a big show, then stopped typing and looked at Alex. She was cute when she tried to act perturbed. “Three minutes,” she said.
Alex took ten to tell her about the case. He recounted how Ghaniyah Mobassar had been minding her own business when a tractor trailer essentially ran her off North Landing Road and into a tree.
“We can sue John Doe and probably recover a hundred grand under uninsured motorist coverage,” Alex said. “So right there, that’s $33,000. But if we can find that truck driver, he’s probably covered for a couple million.”
“Do you have an accident report?” Shannon asked.
“Not yet. I’m getting that this afternoon.”
“Is the brain damage showing up on an MRI or CT scan?”
How did Shannon always manage to drill right into the weak spots? “No. But there’s no question she suffered traumatic brain injury. She was knocked unconscious and suffered short-term memory loss. Lots of damage to the passenger side of the car. She hit the tree almost head-on.”
Shannon remained visibly skeptical, but she was no longer stealing glances at her brief. “How’d we get the call?”
“Apparently Mr. Mobassar saw my press conference after Aisha Hajjar’s case,” Alex said.
Shannon’s facial expression changed from skepticism to mild surprise. “That’s cool,” she said. And then, just to be sure that Alex didn’t get a big head, added, “And he doesn’t mind that his prospective new lawyer lost that case?”
Alex reached over and put the stickies on her desk. “Not when he meets the real brains behind the operation. Can you meet with us at three?”
“Today?”
“It could be a great case,” Alex said, his tone changing. He would beg if he had to. Whine a little, if that’s what it took. Alex could bring the work in the door, but Shannon was the one who knew how to get it done.
She sighed and frowned, checking Outlook. Alex suspected she was just trying to torture him a little.
“I might be able to sneak it in. What time will we be back?”
“Five at the latest,” Alex promised. “It sounds pretty straightforward.”
“Right.”
14
Alex got delayed at an afternoon appointment and called Shannon to let her know he was running late. She was, of course, already there. “No problem,” she said in a cheery voice. But Alex and Shannon had been partners long enough that he could sense a sliver of ice in the tone.
He pulled into the driveway fifteen minutes late, blocking a few other vehicles, and grabbed his suit coat from the passenger seat. The Mobassars lived in a modest duplex a few blocks off Shore Drive, one of several identical duplexes squished together like soldiers lining the streets. Cars jammed every square inch of curb and driveway space. The places looked like they had been built in the eighties, with brick facades, overgrown shrubs, and a few small shade trees in the front yards.
Frankly, Alex had expected a more ornate home for the imam of a mosque that had cost thirteen million to build.
Shannon answered the door next to Khalid, and Ghaniyah stood just behind them. Alex shook hands with his new clients and felt Shannon discreetly step on his toes. Looking down, he noticed her bare feet and the shoe trees next to the door. After introductions, he slid off his loafers and placed them on one of the trees.
Maybe I should have worn socks.
“Khalid was just showing me around his study,” Shannon said. “Ghaniyah is fixing a few things to snack on.”
Though he wasn’t one for small talk, Alex dutifully followed Khalid and Shannon back into Khalid’s office. It surprised him a little that Khalid seemed so comfortable around Shannon, given what Alex thought he knew about the way Muslims treated women.
The study featured oak paneling on one wall and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering the others. The space was cramped, but the bookshelves were neatly arranged. Arabic artifacts were sprinkled among the hard-covered texts. There was a lone book on the top shelf.
“The Qur’an,” Shannon said, following Alex’s eyes. “They keep it up there as a sign of respect.”
Alex thought about the various places he typically left his Bible around the condo. Right now, it was probably lying on the floor next to his bed.
“I was just asking Mr. Mobassar about this shelf,” Shannon said, pointing to an eye-level space that contained, among other books, an English version of the Qur’an. Each of the books on the shelf had an ancient look, a soft leather cover, and gold embroidering on the spine.
“These are all versions of the Qur’an,” Khalid explained. “But they are not in Arabic; therefore they are considered merely commentary on the text and not the holy text itself.” He looked from Alex to Shannon and slipped briefly into lecture mode. “We believe that the Qur’an was spoken directly from the angel Gabriel to the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, in the Arabic language. For this reason, Muslims believe that the language of heaven is Arabic and our holy text should only be read in that language.”
Alex nodded.
“What are the other languages?” Shannon asked.
Khalid went to the shelf and put his finger on the spine of each book in turn. “French. English. Turkish. German. Spanish. Mandarin. Russian.”
“And you speak all those languages?” Shannon asked.
Khalid flushed a little. “Yes, but it is not so impressive. Most Lebanese grow up speaking Arabic, French, and English. Many European languages have the same origins.” He paused. “Mandarin was hard. But not as hard as our native tongue. Some say that Arabic is the language of heaven because it takes an eternity to learn it.”
“Your English is excellent,” Shannon said.
“As I said, I have spoken English from my youth.”
Alex knew what Shannon was doing, and he studied the shelves a little more intently. Client assessment was the key in deciding whether or not to take a case. You could learn a lot about a person by spending some time around their favorite books.
And for a Muslim cleric, Khalid’s choice of books surprised Alex.
“You seem to be a fan of Thomas Jefferson and Martin Luther,” Alex said.
“I am somewhat of a disciple of both,” Khalid responded. “They believed in the common man. They were reformers, as am I. Jefferson’s ideas regarding equality and the virtue of the common man would make him popular among my people. But Luther . . . not so much.”
“Why is that?” Shannon asked.
“My home country has always been the world’s greatest laboratory for democracy,” Khalid began, then cut himself short. “Are you sure you want to hear all this? Some people are bored by my lectures in civics.”
“Absolutely,” Shannon answered with her gymnast’s enthusiasm.
“Sure,” Alex said, though he was starting to worry about whether they were being rude to Ghaniyah.
“Most Americans would be surprised to know that a majority of Muslims—including in the Middle East—believe democracy, not theocracy, is the best way to govern their country,” Khalid said. “A study done by the Pew Global Attitudes Project found this to be true in Muslim countries like Pakistan, Kuwait, Indonesia, and of course, Lebanon. In my country, there are many different religious sects and nationalities—we are the melting pot of the Middle East. But the big division is between Christians and Muslims. By law, our parliament is divided fifty-fifty between Christians and Muslims. Our president must be a Maronite Christian, the prime minister a Sunni Muslim, and the speaker of the parliament a Shi’a Muslim. While this sounds nice in theory, the effect is to blunt the voice of the growing number of Shi’a Muslims. I would like to see more of the one-man-one-vote style of democracy that Thomas Jefferson helped champion in this country.”
Alex processed this for a second. “But wouldn’t that disrupt a fragile political alliance?”
“That is, of course, the argument. But every country with ethnic or religious minorities has wrestled with the same problem. The strongest solve it by protecting minorities through a legal system, not through a quota system in the representative branch.”
“Makes sense,” Shannon said, though Alex wasn’t so sure. The Lebanese had a nasty habit of killing each other for political advantage. Some countries weren’t ready for representative democracy.
“Where does Martin Luther fit in?” Alex asked.
Khalid’s tone turned reverential. “I identify with Luther more than any other historical figure. Reformers live in turmoil. They become marginalized by those they love. Their ideas terrorize the powers that be.”
Khalid’s hands started gesturing more as he warmed to his topic. “Before Luther, the Christian Mass was in Latin, the Holy Book inaccessible to the average person. The Christian faith became whatever the pope and priests wanted it to become because only they could understand the Scriptures and the ceremonies, and they told the people what to believe.
“Luther and the reformers changed that, both inside and outside the Catholic church. The Scriptures were translated into the language of the common person. This made it possible for the Christian God to communicate directly with every person of faith. Soon, Christians started believing that they could speak directly to God without the priests as intermediaries. This is very simplified, I know. But the point is, the masses were empowered, and the stranglehold of religious leaders was broken.”
Khalid lowered his voice, as if he wasn’t quite ready to announce to the world where his thinking was taking him. “The Muslim faith has yet to experience such a reformation. In the more fundamental Islamic countries, the mullahs and imams control
everything
. Sharia law becomes whatever the clerics want it to be.
“I am working on my own modest little proposal to challenge that thinking. I am certainly no Martin Luther. But still, his life is an inspiration.”
Khalid looked past Alex’s shoulder, checking the doorway. “Sorry,” Khalid offered. “You discovered my weaknesses—politics and religion.” He lowered his voice. “Ghaniyah has a hard time performing tasks in sequence right now. Perhaps if you could move into the living room, I could help her in the kitchen and join you momentarily. Then we can discuss what really brings you here.”
When Khalid walked past him, Alex caught Shannon’s eye. Her little nod confirmed what Alex was thinking.
The jury’s going to like this guy.