The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2) (5 page)

Chapter 11

I walked into our apartment at 6:45 p.m. Dee met me at the door, as usual, with a hug and a kiss.

“Hey, honey, after dinner we can plan for the big condo board meeting tomorrow morning, she said. Dee was being her best sarcastic self. We hated condo board meetings.

“Great,” I said, “you had to remind me.”

***

I like to think of myself as a pitch-in kind of guy. God knows I have a lot of work to do, but I’m not the kind of person who likes to turn down a request. I don’t know what that says about me. Maybe I just like to seek approval. I should ask Bennie about this little proclivity of mine to always say yes. My dumbest “yes” came recently, when I agreed to serve as the president of the condominium board of our building. The delegation of outgoing executive committee people argued that since Dee and I have the biggest and most expensive apartment in the building, one of us should be the natural president. Bullshit. Well, I didn’t say that but I should have. I really didn’t need the aggravation.

I should have read the by-laws before I accepted the position. There’s a bizarre provision that says that any and all board meetings, including executive committee meetings, are open to every member of the Homeowner’s Association (HOA). It’s also required that we hold meetings monthly. Not quarterly or (God, I wish) annually, but monthly. In an association of 50 owners, the same 20 people show up for every meeting, people who I think of as the “Terrible 20.” Dee and I have some good friends in the building, people whom we like to entertain, and whose company we enjoy. We have lots of laughs and good conversations. But they aren’t the people who attend the meetings. Every time I invite one of them, they invariably say, “You’ve got to be kidding.”  The people who show up every month, the Terrible 20, are either retired or living on trust funds. They are people who have entirely too much time on their hands, and they all share something in common: they love to attend meetings. I asked Dee, actually I begged her, to take an open spot on the board as recording secretary.

The meeting was scheduled to start at 9 a.m. Dee and I showed up at 9:01, one minute late. Mrs. Doyle, from Unit 23, dramatically raised her arm and looked at her watch. She then looked at me with a frown.

“Good morning, folks,” I said with my best fake smile. “According to our agenda we don’t have too many items to address, so we should be out of here in about an hour, maybe less.”

“Excuse me Mr. President,” said Mrs. Curran from Unit 19, “please don’t forget the by-laws section 10 subsection 3 (a). It says that any member of the association can raise any issue whether it’s on the agenda or not.”

She insists, as do a few others, on calling me “Mr. President” rather than Matt. It’s a substitute for “Hey Shithead.”

I went through the agenda, which only had three items on it: our new heating system, the window washing service, and snow removal.

“Mr. President,” said Mrs. Cravitch from Unit 32, “during the big blizzard last year, it took the snow removal people until noon before they had the walks cleared.”

“Well, as I recall, Mrs. Cravich, the blizzard was still going strong until 12:30 that day. Our contract gives the company the flexibility to make decisions while snow is still falling.”

“But what if I had to go out?”

“Did you have to go out?”

“No, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

The
principle of the thing
is a phrase that I hear about a dozen times per meeting.

“What about rodents, Mr. President?” said Mr. Jennings of Unit 18. Mr. Jennings, I estimate, was a bit shy of 90.

“Rodents?” I said. “I haven’t heard a thing about rodents.”

“A friend of mine said he saw a rat by Navy Pier a few months ago. That’s not far from here. What does the board intend to do to prevent a rodent infestation.”

The conversation, despite my attempts to reign it in, then revolved around the horrors of rats by the waterfront, although only one had been seen, and that was a rumor. One member discussed at length a documentary she saw on the Discovery Channel. I looked at my watch. My intended stopping point of 10 a.m. had come and gone. The next questions concerned the color of the new carpeting that was installed in the hallways. Some people didn’t like the color, even though samples had been sent to everyone for their opinion prior to the installation. I had an unintentional mental flash back to my service in the Marines. What I could do with a stun grenade this room, I thought. No, stop, you agreed to take this job. Make nice.

At 12:45 Dee made a motion to adjourn. It was the fourth time she made the motion but this time, thank God, it got seconded. “All in favor?” I said.

“Point of order, Mr. President,” said Mrs. Cravitch from Unit 32. “I’m not ready to vote yet.”

“Mrs. Cravitch,” I said politely, “if you check the by-laws, article 4 section 5(b) you’ll see that only board members can vote, although everyone can attend meetings.”

“Move the question,” Dee said, God bless her. The board vote carried. The fucking meeting was over. Until next month.

Chapter 12

The Westfield Mall, known among locals as the South Shore Mall in Bay Shore, Long Island, was more crowded than usual because of a mid-day concert held by the main entrance. The band, Summer Solstice, was popular on Long Island, partially because of their aggressive agent, but mainly because they were talented. Their style could best be described as classic rock, and the fans loved it.

Phil Doolittle, an Army veteran recently separated from the service after two tours in Iraq, was happy that he landed a job with the Johnson Security Agency, a company that specializes in providing security guards to shopping malls. The pay wasn’t bad, the hours were decent, and the company had a reputation for loyalty to its employees.

Although his Army service taught him how to handle weapons, Johnson Security provided a two-week training course on the specifics of guard service in crowded shopping centers. Since the horrific bombing of the Water Tower Place Mall in Chicago a few weeks before, security training for mall guards had taken on a high priority. During his classes, Doolittle heard lectures from FBI agents as well as local cops. A crowded shopping mall can present a tempting “soft target” for a terrorist, and more than half his training concentrated on just that—anticipating a terrorist incident. The balance of his curriculum was about more mundane topics like shoplifting and how to handle the rowdy customer.

As the band played a few rousing tunes, Doolittle noticed something that didn’t seem right. A big part of his job was just that—noticing things. He looked at a satchel under a bench. Part of his work consisted of walking around and keeping his eyes open. He knew the object wasn’t there the last time he walked through that area, about 10 minutes before.

He approached the bag and snapped a picture of it with his iPhone. Then he called the security office to make a report. The bag wasn’t large, about the size of a teenager’s backpack. He didn’t touch the object, as he was trained, but he looked at it and jotted down notes, including the exact time.

In the final moment of his life, Doolittle knelt down to get a closer look.

The bomb exploded at 12:10 p.m., a time of high shopper traffic. The blast immediately wiped out five kiosks that lined the center of the mall, and tore an opening in the new Macy’s Department store. Bodies were flung as far as 100 feet, some thrown against walls before they fell to the floor. The band, Summer Solstice, had just begun another song, the old Beatles favorite,
Helter Skelter.
The bomb blast hurled a large glass counter in the direction of the band. None of the musicians survived.

***

Muhammed Sidduq, age 29, worked for a local public library as a clerk. He sat in his one bedroom apartment in the Elmhurst section of Queens, looking at the screen of his small TV. The news reports were still showing scenes from the massive mall bombing on Long Island three days before. He heard a loud pounding on the door. He had managed to scrape together enough money to pay rent that month, he thought, so it couldn’t be the landlord.

He opened the door and was immediately tackled by a large man wearing an FBI vest. He was handcuffed and taken to a waiting car, then driven to the jail unit at the federal courthouse in Manhattan. When the agent read him his
Miranda
rights after he was apprehended, all Muhammed kept saying was “what the fuck?”

A tall thin woman entered the visitor’s area of the jail unit.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sidduq. My name is Georgina Rice, and I have been assigned as your attorney. In about a half hour you’re going to be arraigned. That means that a judge will tell you what you are being charged with.”

Georgina Rice is a civil defense lawyer. She spends her career representing defendants in civil lawsuits, but as a practical matter, she really represents insurance companies, the people on the hook for the outcome of a civil lawsuit. But, like many attorneys, she had volunteered for the
pro bono
criminal defense program

“Do you know what they’re charging me with?” he asked in perfect English.

“Yes, of course. It’s now common practice for an accused’s attorney to be given the charges before the formal arraignment.”

She read him the charges from the indictment: 312 counts of murder, 52 counts of conspiracy to commit murder, eight counts of conspiracy to commit terrorist acts, and 10 more pages of various other accusations.

She explained the accusations and recommended that he plead not guilty to all charges.

“That means that the government has to prove each of the charges against you beyond a reasonable doubt. I won’t kid you, Mr. Sidduq, these charges are serious, and the prosecution may seek the death penalty.”

“Please call me Mickey. Everybody does.”

“Okay, Mickey. Would you like to comment about what I just said?”

“I have no idea what kind of bullshit they have on me, or think they have, but I can guess. I’m sorry, I apologize. Please pardon my language, Ms. Rice.”

“You can call me Georgina if that makes you comfortable. And don’t worry about the language. I see and hear plenty of bullshit in my line of work.”

“Here’s the most important thing I can tell you, Georgina. I had nothing to do with the bombing of that mall. Nothing at all. I’m not just ‘not guilty,’ I’m innocent, and yes I know the difference.”

“So you’re saying that these charges are trumped up, that somebody is trying to frame you, or simply that it’s a mistake?”

“Yes to your first two statements, but no to the third. This is no mistake. I’m a target, a fucking target. Whoops, there I go again, sorry.”

“We have some time before the arraignment. It’s a busy day at the courthouse. I need to ask you some background information about yourself so I can represent you as best I can. I see that you’re a clerk for a local library as a clerk. Is that your regular occupation?”

“Yes, but I’m also a writer, although I make very little money from my writing. Even though I make a living as a library clerk, I actually have a university degree, from the University of Cairo.”

“Can you share with me some of the things you’ve written about?”

“I mainly write fiction. I tried to find an agent to sell my stuff to a publisher, but I haven’t been successful so far. So I self-publish electronic books for the Kindle. It’s a cheap way to get your work out there.”

“So I can look you up on Amazon and buy your book to read on my Kindle?”

“Yes, please do. I can use some sales.”

“Is there anything in particular that you like to write about?”

“Yeah, Islam, or at least what people call Islam. I’ve written a few novels about what’s happened to the religion in the past 700 years or so. My first book, which I published five years ago is called
A Culture of Death
. I wish I had as many sales as death threats.”

“Death threats? Can you tell me more about that, Mickey?”

“Well, let’s just say that I portray the religion of peace for what it appears to be, the religion of death. I’m not too popular with the jihadi set.”

“Okay, since you’ve led me down this path, I’m going to ask you a flat-out question. Do you think the jihadis, as you call them, have it in for you?”

“You can say that, Georgina. They want me either dead or in prison. And if I go to prison, I may as well be dead.”

“Muhammed, I mean Mickey, I want to change the subject if I may. I’ve just been given a document that discusses the evidence against you. It’s pretty damn overwhelming. It says here that your thumbprint was found on the bomb detonator. It also says that there’s a video of you standing next to the parcel that was later determined to contain the bomb. The time stamp on the video shows that you stood next to the parcel 15 minutes before the explosion. Would you like to comment, Mickey?”

“Georgina, if you were going to set off a fucking bomb, whoops sorry, would you leave a thumbprint on the detonator? Wouldn’t you get rid of the detonator? As far as the video goes, and I haven’t even seen it yet, any video can be doctored to make it look real. I’ve done a lot of research on that subject for my books.”

“We just got the call from the arraignment judge, Ms. Rice,” the security guard said. “Please report to the courtroom. The prisoner will be led up separately.”

The arraignment of Muhammed Sidduq took 25 minutes because of all the charges that the judge had to read. After each count, Mickey said, in a loud, strong voice, “not guilty.”