Misdemeanor Trials

IN THE BEGINNING....

Raintree drove to the Tehran post office, walked inside, and opened his post office box.  He rarely received any mail, but this time he was expecting a special postcard.  He could see the postcard through the small window.  It was the only thing in his box, a simple card from Ankara, Turkey, from a person named Takreet, with a note that he was having a great time on his vacation.  Raintree chuckled at how mundane the agency had become.

He drove home, went to his storage closet, and grabbed the large plastic container labeled “developer”.  He poured some liquid in a baking dish and returned the developer to the closet.  He took the postcard and carefully peeled off the picture of Ankara.  Beneath it was a white glossy surface.  He put the postcard into the liquid and almost immediately an image appeared.  It was a head-shot of a man with long black hair, a neatly trimmed black beard.  He appeared to be Middle Eastern.  At least now Raintree would be able recognize the person he was supposed to pick up at the airport.  It was John Trader.   

CHAPTERS

CHAPTER 1               AZAD

CHAPTER 2               INAUGURATION

CHAPTER 3               JOHN

CHAPTER 4               THE DOCTOR

CHAPTER 5               NICE TIE

CHAPTER 6               WOUNDS

CHAPTER 7               CRAWFORD

CHAPTER 8               VANESSA

CHAPTER 9               PROBATION

CHAPTER 10             TOSCA

CHAPTER 11             CLOSING

CHAPTER 12             MARTY

CHAPTER 13             MAUREEN

CHAPTER 14             JAX

CHAPTER 15             HOT CAR

CHAPTER 16             RANSOM

CHAPTER 17             THE DONOR

CHAPTER 18             THE WARRANT

CHAPTER 19             OMID

CHAPTER 20             DANIELLE

CHAPTER 21             THE CONVERSATION

CHAPTER 22             O’REILLY

CHAPTER 23             THE MORGUE

CHAPTER 24             INTERVENTION

CHAPTER 25             EYE IN THE SKY

CHAPTER 26             THE FEDS

CHAPTER 27             THE LINEUP

CHAPTER 28             VAIL

CHAPTER 29             SARAH

CHAPTER 30             MIKEE

CHAPTER 31             SIGN ON

CHAPTER 32             CUSTODY

CHAPTER 33             MIKE’S CRABOUSE

CHAPTER 34             AND THEN SHE DIED

CHAPTER 35             THE MAKEOVER

CHAPTER 36             SPOOKS

CHAPTER 37             LET US PRAY

CHAPTER 38             MAC

CHAPTER 39             THE MOSQUE

CHAPTER 40             THE GOOD DOCTOR

CHAPTER 41             AFTERMATH

CHAPTER 42            IN PARTS

CHAPTER 43             THE BETRAYED

CHAPTER 44             THE POTION

CHAPTER 45             THE CONSPIRACY

CHAPTER 46             THE OUTFIT

CHAPTER 47             DHL

CHAPTER 48             NAMAK

CHAPTER 49             DRONE QUEEN

CHAPTER 50             RUMBLING

CHAPTER 51             OFF BALANCE

CHAPTER 52             BASE CAMP

CHAPTER 53             WELCOME HOME

CHAPTER 54             FINAL DISCUSSIONS

CHAPTER 55             CATCHING UP

CHAPTER 56             THE O’REILLY FACTOR

CHAPTER 57             THE TEXT

© 2015 Copyright All rights reserved

PROLOGUE

This is a true story, revealed for the first time in the pages of this book.  The story lay festering on the underbelly of distantly related news stories over the last ten years.  Rumors, scant facts, a few discussions among journalists at night, over cocktails, but there was no lead.  There was no one person who would become deep throat, or provide documents or admissions that would give life to the underlying story.  Two years ago, while I was working on a biography of President Barrack Obama, I received a phone call from Michael Brand, who at the time was a columnist for the Washington Post.  My own biography of President Obama was developing from third person interviews, discussions with politicians, and public documents.  I was denied access to the President, and members of his family.  Despite those denials, I felt that a scholarly and thoroughly investigated approach to his life was necessary as a contemporary comment on history that might otherwise become diluted with the passage of time.  I had never met Michael Brand, but I was well aware of who he was.  Over the phone, he said he had some important political connections he could introduce to me, and that he had a story, backed up by credible facts.  He said his information was new, and should be revealed to the nation.  At the time I thought Brand may have been familiar with my work, and would be able to provide some fresh information.  I asked him to give me the concept of whatever it was that he was trying to tell me.  He said he would rather meet me face to face.  Over the years I have learned it is a poor use of time to follow naked promises of information, unrealistic access to important persons, or offers of credibility with thinly supported documentation.  I told him if he wanted to talk to me, he could come to my offices.  Several days later we met in my office in Boulder, Colorado.  Brand sat in the sofa across from my desk.  He was north of fifty, a bit scruffy, salt and pepper hair that curled at the sideburns and looked like it had not been combed in some time.  He looked older than the flattering picture of him that appeared in his column in the daily newspaper.  Over the next several hours I listened quietly, jotting a few notes for later questions.  He mentioned names, told me dates of events and meetings, and referred to chronicles that supported his story.  At the end, there were a few moments of silence.  I asked why he was telling me this.  He said that a respected non-fiction writer, who was credible, and willing to investigate, was needed to tell the story so that others would know, and believe the truth.  I asked why he didn't investigate the story himself.  He said he was clearly known as an opinionated columnist with views that would automatically generate skepticism.  He then told me, that if I agreed to do the story, I would have access to the involved persons who would be completely cooperative and candid.  I would also have access to the official papers that supported the events, and I would be able to visit the places where they took place.  Over the next two years I did have access.  I interviewed President Obama and President Bush and our current President.  I spent five days with Dick Cheney in Wyoming.  Cheney had an uncanny grasp of the facts and history.  He often would digress and place his views in historical context and deliver an understanding of his view of events.  I spent a half hour with Vice President Joe Biden.  I had extensive interviews with the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency Porter Goss, and Leon Panetta, and John Brennan, and the current Director Michael Ronson.  I also spoke at length with Deputy Director of the CIA John McLaughlin and George Tenet.  I interviewed Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs Jeffrey Feltman, David Welch, and William Burns.  Each referred me to an assistant or a Bureau Chief who came to our one-on-one interviews with documentation, and they were prepared.  I had access to local police reports, and the whereabouts of minor players.  Some were dead, others in prison, and others still active in agencies of government.  All the agency representatives appeared to be candid, but each one limited the information they gave me to the story at hand.  Some were more open and relaxed; others were hesitant, but cooperative.  The documents appear real and were in many cases verified by unrelated facts.  I abandoned for a while the biography I was working on.  The only condition that was placed on me by Brand was to be objective and truthful.  Throughout that intensive investigation, which included arduous journeys to places I have never been or heard of, meeting the schedules of persons who really had very little time for me, I always had the help and support of my wife, Belinda, and my children.  I would like to especially thank my assistant, Morton Billings, who checked facts, made phone calls, and spent hours helping me edit and rewrite my manuscripts to make the story clear to any reader.  I would like to thank my editor, William Chicot, who read and reread the manuscript.  He was surprised and amazed at the complexity of the story, and often remarked, “How come we didn't know this?!”
This
is that story.

CHAPTER ONE

AZAD

“This means round breasts.  (Qur’an 78:33)  They meant by this that the breasts of these girls will be fully rounded and not sagging, because they will be virgins, equal in age.”

---Tafsir Ibn Kathir

My name is Azad Kaleem Madani.  I was born in Iran but came to the United States with my family when I was four years old.  My family lives in Fremont, California.  My friends call me Mike.  Most of them think I am Italian.  I was recently walking down the street in the Tenderloin of San Francisco.  I was wearing an armed suicide vest that I put on that morning at the Mosque, and was on my way to the Embarcadero BART transit station where I was told I would be transported to heaven and be rewarded with 72 virgins.  The Koran says: "Verily, for the righteous, there will be a paradise; gardens and grape yards; and young full-breasted maidens of equal age; and a full cup of wine".  The
hadith
says: "The least reward for the people of Heaven is 80,000 servants and 72 wives, over which stands a dome of pearls, aquamarine and ruby." I guess the Imams put all this together and said there will be 72 virgins with big breasts.  Sounds like a Playboy ad, or something from the marketing department of the publishers of the Koran.  Anyway, as I walked I wondered, “Why am I doing this?” My family and my father are devout Shia Muslims.  I was raised in a community and household that attended the Mosque, and daily we said our prayers as required by the Koran.  My father told me that someday the religious leaders would come to me to make the sacrifice for Islam.  It always seemed to be some vague idea that I never focused on.  But every six months or so, as I was growing up, one or two Imams from Iran, or some other country in the Middle East, would visit me and sit and talk with me and my father.  Sometimes my younger brothers would join us.  They told us of the wars in the Middle East, and the need to convert the nations of the world to the wonderful religion of Islam.  They spoke of the great sacrifices the brothers of Islam were making in the Middle East and other parts of the world and the need for the family to honor the commands of the Koran.  When I was 14 my father told me about the Haj, and he took me to Mecca.  We went to the Mosque, and there I saw thousands of men in white dresses at prayer.  I spoke a bit of Farsi from listening to my parents so I understood some of the discussions that my father had with others who attended the Mosque.  We only stayed a few days and returned to Fremont.  What left an impression on me was that the place was hot, smelly, and dirty, and there were no flushing toilets.  I got a terrible stomach ache, with vomiting and diarrhea.  No wonder foreign worshipers were required to make only one pilgrimage in their life.  I vowed to myself that I was never going back.  I was looking forward to returning home the minute we arrived in Mecca, but my father had explained to me that he wanted to show me the heart of Islam and how important it was.  I never took much note of these religious events.  It was just part of my family and religious upbringing.  Outside of home I was just another kid at school.  I played basketball in High School and ran track.  I was a good student and didn't do anything out of the ordinary.  Except, in my senior year I did get drunk with a couple of my buddies.  Lucky for me my parents never found out.  After High School I applied to and was accepted at U.C. Berkeley.  I stayed at the International House where my roommate was a guy from Nigeria.  I was an engineering major.  He was into women's studies or something like that.  I never did get it quite straight.  Sometimes the guys at the International House would chew the fat about stuff political and worldly.  I was not on the cutting edge of world events, but most of the foreign students who joined the conversations exhibited some animosity towards America.  It bothered me a little because I was an American.  This was my country.  I did not know anything but America, but I really liked things that were American.  I knew the president’s name was Hussein, which means “handsome and beautiful”, which I thought was pretty neat.  His friends called him Barry, just like my friends called me Mike.  During my junior year I stayed away from the conversations since they were very negative.  I was getting good grades and the basketball team was winning.  Life was going really well. 

Last January when I was visiting home over the Martin Luther King three day weekend, two Imams visited my father and the three of them spoke for a long time alone in my living room.  The next day they came back to my house and told me it was my time to make a sacrifice for Allah.  They said there was a great plan for this year where Islam would make a mark around the world, and teach the infidel that there was only one God, and that was Allah.  In college I was fairly knowledgeable about Islam and in the back of my mind I kind of knew it was the only religion that requires its followers to kill those who do not believe in Allah, and to take revenge in the name of Allah.  But I didn't think it applied to me.  That was for the other Muslims who were constantly fighting in several countries in the Middle East.  In the Koran, holy vengeance and retaliation are commanded for Muslims.  The Koran had been pounded into my head where it says, “Oh ye who believe! Retaliation is prescribed for you.  He who transgresseth after this will have a painful doom.  We shall take vengeance, called Muntaquimun, upon the sinners.” Muntaquimun is often watered down in translation by using the word punishment or retribution instead of retaliation.  But as a kid, I listened, memorized portions of the Koran, and I took it about as literally as Christians take the Garden of Eden with the snakes and so forth.  I figured their call to me would be the Islam counterpart to a Billy Graham Crusade.  I didn't say that.  Talking about Crusades was not well received in this group.  I told the visitors I was ready.  I had no idea what they had in mind, but I figured this was the time and I had to make my contribution.  My dad probably went through the same thing when he was young and now it was my turn.  They said they would be back in March.  My thoughts in March turned to Basketball playoffs, and I never gave their promise of a return visit a second thought. 

I was home during Spring break when they returned.  They told me that the next day the effort across the United States would forever mark the glory of Islam.  I was a bit surprised on Wednesday morning when they arrived.  I was taken to the Mosque, where the two Imams and my father showed me the vest.  I became nervous and began to perspire a bit.  This vest could kill me.  The Imams told me that many others would be carrying out their duty throughout the country that day, and that we would meet together in heaven and celebrate our victory.  They told me that I was to travel to San Francisco and go to the Embarcadero BART station.  At twelve noon I was to push the button attached to the vest.  Something inside of me could not resist their instructions, and I could hardly speak.  I only nodded my head.  My father seemed to join them in what was a really serious idea.  I wanted to ask my Dad what was going on, but I could not form the words.  They put the vest on me and then a bulky jacket over the vest.  They drove me to the bus station in order to avoid the security at the BART station.  I got off the bus at Van Ness and started the walk alone to the Embarcadero.  “What am I doing here?” I am an American and about as American as you can get.  Suicide vests are for people who have nowhere to go and nothing to do.  People who have no prospects, who have no future, create one for themselves in a fanciful heaven where there are 72 virgins.  I wondered what the Muslim girls get when they die.  And who needs 72 virgins? My girlfriend is a hot Latin chick.  She will do anything.  72 virgins? Too much training, too much trouble.  I decided to take the vest off and dump it in the next garbage can, but I had no idea how to remove it.  Then I realized I could go to the Federal Building and ask for help from the FBI.  I took the short walk over to the Federal Building and the first problem was the metal detectors and the security guards.  I walked up to a security guard and told him I needed to see someone from the FBI and I needed to meet them outside.  I could tell they became a bit more alert, and they asked why I needed to speak to the FBI.  I told them I had some information about a plan to attack cities by Muslim extremists.  They told me to wait a moment and made a phone call.  A few minutes later one of the guards told me to enter through the metal detector and they would take me to the FBI office.  I told them I wanted to meet someone outside.  The guard told me that if I did not come through the metal detector they would have to escort me.  I saw the guard rest his hand on his holstered gun.  I said I could not go through the metal detectors because I was part of the large plan to attack people in several cities, and I did not want to go through with it, and I needed help.  I opened my jacket and showed them the vest.  I heard one of the guards say, “Oh shit.” He told me to wait right there, and he made another phone call.  He hung up and told me someone from the FBI would be down in a moment.  A guy in a blue suit came to the entrance a few minutes later.

“I am from the FBI.  What shall I call you?”

“Mike”.

“Are you wearing a suicide vest?”

“Yes”.

“Is part of your plan to blow up your vest at the Federal Building?”

“No.  I want to take it off.  I don't want to go through with it.  I need some help, quickly.  I don't want to die.”

“Before we try to remove your vest, we are going to have to evacuate the building or take you to a vacant area in the Bomb Containment area.  Will you help us?”

“Yes, I will cooperate, but I don't think we have the time.  There is some sort of a countdown LED on the vest, since I think there was supposed to be a coordinated attack all over the country at the same time.  I just don't know.  Can someone here help me? I don't want to die.”

The FBI person looked at the guard and said, “Call Brian Westerfield on the 10
th
floor, extension 2145.  Tell him I have an armed suicide vest, and to meet me in the basement interview room right now with any bomb deactivation tools he has.” He then turned to me and said, “Westerfield can deactivate the device.  You will follow me outside the building.  We are going to enter the basement from a side door.  Brian will meet us and we will get you out of that vest.  Follow me.  Where else is this coordinated effort happening?”

“New York, Miami, Chicago, St. Paul, New Orleans, Seattle, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Las Vegas, and Cleveland.  I have no idea why they chose Cleveland.”

We walked around the building and he had a key that opened a big steel door.  There were steps leading down and I followed him.  We got to a room that had no windows and cement walls.  There was a single metal table and several metal chairs.  The FBI person told me to sit, and a few minutes later another person came in.

“Brian, this is the fellow wearing the vest.  He is cooperative.  He believes there is a countdown device and deactivation is necessary right now.  He's all yours.”

The FBI agent left the room and the hasps of steel on the metal door, and the metal click of the lock on the door confirmed that we were sealed in in the room.

“My name is Brian Westerfield.  I'm from the bomb squad and I have seen vests before and I am confident we can deactivate it.  Can you take off your jacket?” I stood up and took off my jacket. 

“Turn around.” I turned around.  He said, “There is a small LED countdown device on the right shoulder.  It shows there are about twenty minutes before it reaches zero.  We have plenty of time, so take a deep breath while I try to figure out how this vest was put together.” He began to walk around, touching certain parts of the vest, following the wires.  He said, “This does not look like a very sophisticated setup, but we won't take any chances.  Where are you from?”

“Fremont.”

“What’s your name?” asked Westerfield.

“Mike.”

“Your full name,” said Westerfield

“Mike Madani.”

“Been in this country very long?” asked Westerfield.

“All my life.  I don't know how I got caught up in this.  I'm a Muslim, but I am totally locally produced.  I am an American.  I think I have been primed all my life and when they came to me with this vest, I think I was steamrollered into it.”

“What made you come here?”

“I changed my mind.  One thing about America is it clears your mind.  It may take a while.  It sure took some time with me.  You start to think in practical terms and can decide what is in your own best interest.  Offing myself and going to meet 72 virgins are fanciful notions.  I would be suffering their PMS every day of the year.  I just want to go see my girlfriend, crack a beer and watch the playoffs.  I don't care about jihad.”

The phone in the room rang.  Brian picked up the phone and muttered a few “yeahs” and “Okays” and hung up.  He turned to me.

“Seems your story is credible.  We received reports about explosions in New York, Miami, St.  Paul and other places.  All about the same time.  We'll get you out of this.”

Westerfield told me to sit down.  He opened his small bag that had some tools and removed a wire cutter.  He put on some glasses that had a magnifying attachment and he came toward me.  He sat down opposite to me, lowered the magnifying glass and bent his head toward the vest.  “This is a rather simple blasting device.  There are three wires, red, black and green.  I am going to cut the red wire that supplies power to the blasting cap.  This should cut off any power to the blasting cap.  After that we can cut the cable securing the vest so that we can remove the vest.  Are you ready?”

I told him, “Yes.” I was confident and relieved that this would all be over soon.  Brian took the cutter and unbundled the red, black and green wires.  The cutters surrounded the red wire and he cut it.  I could see the whole thing happening.  The explosion from the front of my vest sent the hundreds of marble sized ball bearings towards Brian.  The balls hit Brian and forced his body against the table, ripping through him, shredding his chest like cheese.  I watched from just over my own head as my neck was severed from my body and sent to the ceiling of the room.  The vest and my body were torn into such small pieces I could not see anything that resembled me.  I did not feel anything.  The room’s walls were sprayed with blood and small pieces of flesh.  The force of the explosion bounced off of the wall and once again hit Brian’s body and my body so that there was nothing left of either of us but hamburger.  The explosion stopped.  There was no sound.  And you can tell my brethren, there are no 72 virgins.  There is only black.