Exile: a novel (29 page)

David went to them, giving Saeb a swift, sharp glance, returned in kind, then inclined his head toward Munira. The hollow of her eyes was smudged with the soot of sleeplessness. “Is my mother coming?” she asked.

David nodded. “Soon. I’ve arranged for you to see her, after the hearing. At least for a few minutes.”

Silent, Munira tried to absorb the fact that any contact with her mother would be doled out at the sufferance of strangers. Despite his own anxiety, David felt desperately sorry for her; while the legal process was second nature to him, it must be as alien and confusing to Munira as the events for which her mother now stood accused. Remembering her fright at the Blue Angels, her belated shame at having clung to him, David found himself helpless to reassure her in Saeb’s presence. “We’ll talk later,” he told father and daughter, and went to the well of the courtroom.

By the prosecution table, Marnie Sharpe and her red-haired deputy, Paul MacInnis—a dedicated career prosecutor who could no more imagine defending Hana Arif than wearing a tutu to court—huddled with Victor Vallis and a slight, balding man whom David did not recognize. When David approached, Sharpe interrupted their conference with a brisk nod in his direction. “Unbelievable, David. I’d no idea you were such an idealist.”

Her voice carried a tinge of paranoia—that David could only be acting from some concealed motive she had yet to ferret out. When David merely
shrugged, his own nerves too jangled for witticism, Sharpe turned, touching the stranger’s shoulder, and said, “This is Avi Hertz, David. Among other things, Avi’s representing the government of Israel as an observer.”

What the “other things” were, David could only guess. As they shook hands, David asked politely, “Are you from your attorney general’s office?”

“Yes.” Hertz’s somewhat elfin expression was countered by blue-gray eyes as cool as those of an actuary calculating David’s lifespan. “For the moment.”

Shin Bet, David guessed, or perhaps Mossad. “I may have some requests of the Israeli government,” David told him. “Should I bring them to you?”

Hertz’s face showed no surprise, and his tone was neither welcoming nor defensive. “By all means,” he answered. “Ms. Sharpe knows how to reach me.”

Before David could respond, Hertz glanced swiftly toward the raised bench from which Judge Taylor would preside. But instead of the judge, Hana emerged through the rear door to the courtroom, another U.S. marshal at her side.

It was her first appearance in public—at David’s request, the marshal’s office had allowed her to wear a blouse and simple, flowing skirt. She paused, searching out her husband and daughter. Her focus was on Munira, her small smile intended to assure the girl that her mother was unafraid. Only after a glance at Saeb, far more sober and opaque, did she take in the crowded courtroom and, finally, David himself.

The marshals shepherded her to the defense table. When David moved to her side, she did not look at him. “I am sorry,” she murmured.

“For what?”

Head bowed, Hana did not answer.
“All rise,”
the judge’s courtroom deputy called out. The spectators stirred to their feet, and Judge Caitlin Taylor strode briskly to the bench.

Drawn by lot from among fourteen eligible judges, Taylor was new to the court, and David had never appeared before her. Her early reputation was in keeping with her appearance: slender and patrician, Taylor had long brunette hair and a pale, sculpted face accented by wire-rimmed glasses that lent her an air of scholarly precision. A former corporate litigator with a keen mind and a decisive manner, she was nonetheless a mystery. She had little background in criminal cases, and there was little to suggest how she would bear up under worldwide scrutiny—“the judge in the murder trial of Hana Arif,” her obituary might well begin—or how she might react to the complex strategy unfolding in David’s mind.

Taylor’s performance would be a question of character as much as intellect. Notorious cases, David knew well, magnified a judge’s strengths and weaknesses, exposing arrogance, vanity, or indecisiveness, rewarding cool-headedness, prudence, and a steady internal compass. The one thing that David now knew was that Caitlin Taylor intended to take charge from the outset: eschewing the usual procedures—arraignment before a magistrate— the judge had chosen to preside herself.

“You may be seated,” Judge Taylor began in a calm, clear voice. “The matter before us is
The United States of America versus Hana Arif.
Will counsel please enter their appearances.”

Standing, Sharpe did so, introducing Paul MacInnis. When David said simply, “David Wolfe for defendant Hana Arif,” Judge Taylor raised her eyebrows—no stranger to politics, she seemed as puzzled by his presence as Sharpe was, though in a more neutral way.

“Before we proceed,” Sharpe interjected, “may I be heard on the subject of Mr. Wolfe’s role in these proceedings?”

Seemingly as surprised as David, the judge turned back to Sharpe, her expression instantly alert. “You may.”

Sharpe spoke with staccato swiftness, to David a sign of nerves. “When the assassination occurred, your honor, Mr. Wolfe was standing at the corner of Market Street and Fourth. Not only did he witness the suicide bombing at the heart of this case, but he gave a statement to the FBI.” With a brief glance at David, Sharpe continued: “For that reason he may be a percipient witness at any trial, and disqualified from serving as counsel to Ms. Arif.”

As the judge turned to him, David was buffeted by conflicting emotions—the certainty that Sharpe desired to be rid of him; the unwelcome but deeply tempting thought that she might have handed him the exit from his dilemma that he could not bring himself to take; the uncomfortable sensation that his far deeper connection, to Hana herself, might somehow be discovered. He was acutely aware of Hana watching his reaction. “Mr. Wolfe?” the judge prodded. “Do you wish to withdraw? Or, put another way, should you?”

David tried to distill his thoughts. “Your Honor, Ms. Sharpe has at least a hundred other witnesses, an alleged confession by Ibrahim Jefar, and, I suspect, a videotape of the assassination itself. Is she suggesting that she needs my help to prove that Amos Ben-Aron was killed?”

Though her expression did not change, the angle of Judge Taylor’s look toward Sharpe suggested challenge. “Of course not,” Sharpe answered with
asperity. “But this is a case of international importance, with many unanswered questions. Our investigation is ongoing and wide-ranging. No one knows what detail may prove to be important, or who can give it to us.”

Sharpe was perilously close, David thought, to a subject he doubted she wished to touch on but that might well account for Avi Hertz’s presence—the assassin’s apparent foreknowledge that the motorcade would change its route. “What is at issue here,” David responded, “is not the fact of three deaths but who planned them, and whether—in reality—Ms. Arif played any role at all. About this, I have no more personal knowledge than Ms. Sharpe.

“Meanwhile, Ms. Arif is entitled to counsel of her choice. Nothing that the prosecution suggests is sufficient to deprive her of that choice.”

Judge Taylor steepled her fingers, resting their tips against her chin. “I agree,” she said after a moment. “If you decide to list Mr. Wolfe as a witness, Ms. Sharpe, get back to me with reasons transcending ‘barely plausible.’ Until then, I’m allowing him to proceed as counsel.” Turning to Hana she said, “Ms. Arif, do you understand the nature of the charges against you?”

Hana stood straighter. “I do.”

“And do you, indeed, wish Mr. Wolfe to represent you?”

Hana seemed to hesitate. “Yes,” she said more quietly. “I do.”

For a moment, the judge studied her. “All right,” she said to David. “Your client is charged, among other things, with violating 18 USC 1116, murder of a foreign official in the United States. Do you require a reading of the indictment?”

“We do not, Your Honor.”

“Is the defendant prepared to enter a plea?”

“To each count of the indictment,” David answered, “Ms. Arif pleads not guilty.”

There was a stirring behind them, the incipient excitement of the media at a story to come, a trial to report, with its promise of drama and surprises. Feeling his own misgivings, David saw Hana briefly close her eyes.

“Very well,” the judge said calmly. “Do you wish to be heard on the subject of bail, Mr. Wolfe?”

“We do,” David replied. “Until these proceedings end, Mr. Arif ’s husband and daughter have no passports. They are not going anywhere, and Ms. Arif desires to be with them.” David turned, nodding toward Munira. “Ms. Arif ’s daughter is twelve years old. Seeing her mother arrested was traumatic enough; living without her is far worse. Given that Ms. Arif no longer has a passport, and that her family is being detained, there’s no need for the government to separate them.”

“Ms. Sharpe?”

“The assassins,” Sharpe said dryly, “did not require passports to enter the United States. This defendant does not require one to leave it. And her motive to ignore the niceties of our immigration laws is obvious.

“As the indictment spells out, she has been named by Mr. Jefar as the director of a plot to assassinate Amos Ben-Aron planned by the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, of which the incidental victims were two men with families—one American, one Israeli—and the ultimate victim the prospect for peace between Israelis and Palestinians.” Now Sharpe spoke with greater confidence, hitting her stride as she framed her case for the media. “Our century is young yet. But it is fair to say that this is the most notorious murder this nation has suffered since the assassination of President Kennedy, representing a conspiracy the dimensions of which are not yet known. Further, we believe that Ms. Arif holds the key to exposing unknown others—perhaps many others—responsible for this heinous act.

“The United States cannot acquiesce to bail for a defendant with so much potential information to give, and so many reasons to escape— especially where we may seek the death penalty. With all respect, Your Honor, bail would be unprecedented.”

“I agree,” the judge said promptly. “Ms. Arif ’s request for bail is denied.”

Next to him, David saw Hana deflate, her shoulders sagging under the weight of days and nights without Munira, the invocation of a sentence that would separate them forever. Glancing at Munira, David now wished that she had not come. “The court will hold its first pretrial hearing in thirty days,” Taylor continued. “At this time, I will expect the defense to address its need for discovery from the government, and to hear both counsels on the subject of a trial date.”

“Your Honor,” David said, “may I respectfully suggest that the court hold that hearing outside the presence of the media or the public.”

“For what reason?” Taylor asked with obvious surprise. “If there’s any case where the justice system needs to be transparent, this is the one.”

David steeled himself for controversy. “Ordinarily, Your Honor, I’d agree, but my discovery request of the government may well touch on sensitive matters of national security and international relations, including information protected by law. To spell them out in public would not serve anyone’s interests.”

For the first time, Taylor looked wary. “Ms. Sharpe?”

Sharpe shot a look of concern toward Avi Hertz. “For the reasons outlined by the court,” she told the judge, “I’m reluctant to shut the world out.
But I can’t know what tactics Mr. Wolfe may be pursuing, or where he proposes to lead us. Until I do, I can’t respond.”

“Nor can I.” The judged hesitated, consulting her own instincts. “For the moment, Mr. Wolfe,” she directed, “we’ll proceed as you suggest. File your discovery requests under seal seven days prior to the hearing. Ms. Sharpe will respond within three days. I’ll take matters from there.” Looking from Sharpe to David, she finished. “Thank you both. I’ll see you in thirty days.”

As Taylor stood, leaving as quickly as she had entered, the courtroom filled with the sounds of repressed excitement—the crowd rising, reporters speculating to one another, notebooks whispering shut, Sharpe putting away her notes while adopting an expression of studied blankness. In this brief cocoon of privacy, Hana turned to David, with a look of sadness that was somehow intimate. “Thank you,” she said softly.

David tried to smile. “First you’re sorry; now you’re grateful. For what?”

“The same thing, David. You.” Then the marshals came for her, leaving David to ponder this alone.

She regarded him with a gimlet stare. “Because I don’t trust you. Why this death wish, I keep wondering. Are you
that
put out with me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Marnie.”

“Perhaps it’s just a matter of national security.” Sharpe eyed him for another moment, then shrugged. “Anyhow, you’re here at Taylor’s sufferance—at least for now. So let’s try to be civil.” With that, the prosecutor walked away.

Hana was waiting in a small room, guarded by two marshals. Though the room was suffocating in its own way, she and David were sealed off from scrutiny, and from reporters determined to interrogate him before he was prepared to advance his own agenda. “You look worried,” she said.

“It’s nothing much—just a little chat with Sharpe. She wants me gone from this case.”

Hana considered him, and then surprised him by mustering the briefest smile. “You were once a witness to much more than she imagines. Given the rest of this morning, I suppose I should be grateful for the nature of her objection.”

Perhaps, in her misery, Hana was searching for distraction. But David did not reply, or even smile. His disquiet was too deep, both at the impact of their past on his present and at the suspicion, unwelcome but ineradicable, that Hana Arif knew how to pull the strings of his emotions.

Her smile faded. “I’m sorry. Something more is troubling you.”