Exile: a novel (66 page)

“I am not,” Emmons said emphatically.

The tone of this answer suggested a partial breakthrough: though an official of the government, Emmons seemed troubled by the holes in its case. “As a member of the Secret Service,” David asked, “are you aware that other Middle Eastern countries are hostile to the State of Israel?”

“Of course.”

“Which of these countries has the capacity in the United States to support a complex operation like this assassination?”

Emmons seemed to stir. “Iran,” he said flatly. “Specifically, Iranian intelligence.”

“And are you aware of any connection between Ms. Arif and Iranian intelligence?”

For longer than the question merited, Emmons contemplated his answer. Again, David felt a curious duality pervade the courtroom: the jury and the media, unaware of what lay behind David’s questions; the witness and the prosecutor, both on edge, fully alert to where David might be heading. Saeb, though expressionless, seemed preternaturally still.

“No,” the witness answered. “Not between the Iranians and the defendant.”

“Thank you,” David said. “I have no further questions.”

6     
I
n David’s dream, a solitary woman shrouded in a black cloak and hood entered a dark alley in a surreal replica of a refugee camp, her movements tentative and fearful, her head turning from side to side. She was separated from David by a barbed-wire fence: all that he could discern was that the woman was of Hana’s size, and that her movements seemed familiar. Though he wished to help her, the shadowy figure, coming closer, filled him with apprehension.

As she passed through the alley, tombstones appeared behind her. David leaned against the wire, its barbs pricking his forehead.

A foot away, the woman reached out with one slender arm, her delicate fingers touching his. “Help me,” she said in perfect English.

“Who are you?”

The woman did not answer. As David strained to see her features in the half-light, she slowly drew back her hood, freeing her long black hair.

The woman was a girl: Munira.

Awaking with a start, David saw the red illuminated numbers of his alarm clock.

His mouth was dry. Already, he felt the dream recede into his subconscious, leaving half-remembered fragments. As with other dreams, he could make no sense of it, except as the eruption of emotions he had been struggling to repress.

David closed his eyes, trying to focus on tomorrow.

The day’s first witness, Dr. Elizabeth Shelton, was the medical examiner for the City and County of San Francisco. Slender, blond, and crisp in manner, Liz Shelton had become, in her late forties, a nationally respected expert.
And, in David’s opinion, her testimony served no purpose except to turn the jurors’ stomachs.

He had said as much to Judge Taylor, offering to stipulate to the deaths. But Sharpe had insisted on her right to prove, by whatever means she thought best, the most rudimentary elements of a murder case—that those murdered were, in fact, dead. And so Hana sat with David, gazing at the table, as Sharpe led Dr. Shelton in painstaking detail through the ways in which the bomb carried by Iyad Hassan had transformed its victims.

This exegesis was illustrated by slides of fragments of body parts, teeth, and bones, projected for the jury on a screen. The cause of death, Shelton told the jurors, was a massive explosion; the charred remains, such as they were, did not allow examiners to distinguish one victim from another, save through dental records and DNA. Eyes shut, Hana would not look at the projections.

All in all, it took Sharpe and Shelton an hour to kill Amos Ben-Aron, an hour longer than this task had taken Iyad Hassan. When it was done and Judge Taylor called a recess, David felt a light hand on his shoulder. “So,” Saeb inquired softly, “do you think Munira should have heard this? Or seen it?”

David merely looked up at him. Saeb gazed at his wife; their eyes met, and then Hana turned away from him, looking at no one.

Approaching the witness, David stopped abruptly, as though struck by a sudden thought. “Tell me, Dr. Shelton, just why is it you’re here?”

Composed, Shelton looked toward Sharpe. “Objection,” the prosecutor called out. “Not only is the question vague and ambiguous, but it calls for a legal conclusion. Obviously the United States called Dr. Shelton to establish cause of death.”

“Is there any doubt,” David asked Judge Taylor, “about how the victims died?”

“I hadn’t thought so,” Taylor said in an arid tone. “But I’m sustaining Ms. Sharpe’s objection. Make whatever point you have some other way.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Facing Shelton, he asked, “As far as you know, Dr. Shelton, does the defense dispute that the cause of death was the explosion Ms. Sharpe screened for the jurors only yesterday?”

Shelton’s lips compressed; David sensed that she had not appreciated being used as Sharpe’s prop, and did not relish becoming David’s. Evenly, she answered, “Not that I know of.”

“Do you know anything at all about whether Hana Arif is in any way responsible for this explosion?”

Shelton folded her hands. “I don’t.”

“Other than what you’ve heard alleged about Iyad Hassan, do you have any personal knowledge whatsoever about
who
might be responsible?”

“No.”

“Then let me ask you again: why
is
it that you’re here?”

“Objection,” Sharpe called out, sounding as annoyed as David had intended. “The
same
objection. This is a waste of time.”

“Your Honor,” David responded calmly, “it strikes me as incautious for Ms. Sharpe to accuse me of wasting time. Since Dr. Shelton took the stand, all of us are an hour and a quarter closer to being dead, and not a minute wiser as to Ms. Arif ’s innocence or guilt. It seems only fair that I make that point.”

“It seems that you have,” Taylor rejoined. “So I’ll ask you both not to consume more time with speeches.”

Glancing at the jury, David saw Ardelle Washington contemplating Marnie Sharpe with a look of seeming displeasure, and sensed that he had made his second, unstated point—that Sharpe was trying to exploit the jurors’ emotions.

“In that case,” he said to Taylor, “I’ll keep this witness no longer.”

During the noon recess, David retreated to his office with Angel Garriques; hastily they gobbled sandwiches while discussing the morning’s events. Responding to Angel’s encouragement, David told him, “I scored what points I could. But I might as well have ‘reasonable doubt’ tattooed on my forehead—our defense is all questions, and no answers.

“The only concrete evidence in the entire case points to Hana’s guilt. Once Sharpe calls Ibrahim Jefar, all that gore will resonate with the jury. Not to mention help Sharpe argue for the death penalty. That’s why she’s doing this.”

The telephone rang. David hesitated, then picked it up.

His caller was Zev Ernheit. “I’m still waiting on the forensics lab,” Ernheit told him without preface. “It’s true that the lab received materials from Saeb Khalid, asking for some tests. But all my sources are willing to say is that his purpose wasn’t discerning fingerprints—Hana’s or anyone else’s.”

“Shit.”

“What they
did
test,” Ernheit continued, “I don’t know. I can’t get the documents.”

David glanced at Angel, who was following David’s end of the conversation with obvious concern. “Keep trying,” he told Ernheit. “I think it may be helpful.”

“If the test isn’t for fingerprints, David, how could it be useful?”

“I’m not sure. But we’re in trouble here. Whatever might help, we need.”

Ernheit was silent. David found himself wondering, yet again, what role the Israeli government was playing in Ernheit’s efforts. “All right,” Ernheit replied at last. “I’ll try.”

In the afternoon, Sharpe called Special Agent Dante Allegria, an explosives expert from the FBI. With his dark, curly hair, open face, and straightforward manner, Allegria reminded David of the sort of contractor who would remodel your kitchen, finish on time, and send you an honest bill. He was also a skilled and experienced witness; as he testified, Allegria spoke directly to the jury, building a rapport. “The assassin,” Allegria told them, “used a plastique explosive known as C-4. It’s the American version of an eastern European plastique, Semtex, which is the explosive of choice for terrorists.”

Sharpe stood to the side, a bit player in Allegria’s tutorial. “Why, in your opinion, would Hassan choose C-4?”

“Objection,” David said without standing. “Lack of foundation. We don’t know
who
chose this explosive, but we’re pretty sure it wasn’t Hassan. According to the indictment, he found it in a container in South San Francisco. All he did was connect the wires.”

“Sustained,” the judge ruled.

“Why,” Sharpe amended with some exasperation, “would
someone
have chosen C-4 to blow up the prime minister’s limousine, and Mr. Ben-Aron with it?”

“Because you need a charge sufficient to destroy armor. Most explosives can’t do that. But even one saddlebag of C-4, attached to a motorcycle, has an excellent chance of achieving what happened here: totally destroying an armored vehicle. The flying metal alone could have killed the people inside.”

Only that wasn’t necessary, Allegria did not need to add. More subtly than Liz Shelton, Allegria had enabled Sharpe to resurrect the carnage. “And how did Hassan ignite the C-4?” Sharpe asked.

“It’s pretty simple,” Allegria said. “The plastique was electronically wired to a toggle switch on the handlebars of both motorcycles. Press the switch, and the C-4 ignites. Technically, all Hassan needed to know was how to wire the C-4 to the switch.”

“Is that technique familiar to you?”

“It is. Al Qaeda’s used it. In the Palestinian territories, so have Hamas
and the Al Aqsa Martyrs Brigade. The only new thing is that this happened in America.”

At the mention of Al Qaeda, David saw, Bob Clair raised his eyebrows—with a single question, Sharpe had managed to conjure something alien and terrifying, the shadow of 9/11, while reminding the jurors that the second such horror, the assassination of Amos Ben-Aron, had introduced suicide bombing to the streets of San Francisco.

“Thank you,” Sharpe said. “That’s all I have.”

Approaching the witness, David stood between Allegria and the jurors, forcing him to focus on David. “Were you able,” David began, “to determine the specific source of the explosive used by Iyad Hassan?”

“We certainly tried,” the witness answered earnestly. “One place we always look at is the military—greedy or disgruntled soldiers, sometimes Al Qaeda sympathizers, who steal explosives and sell them on the black market. But here we just don’t know.”

“So you’ve got no idea whatsoever where
these
particular explosives came from, or who procured them, or even who left them for Hassan to find.”

Allegria shook his head. “I’m afraid not, no.”

“Do you know of any evidence linking Hana Arif to the procurement of those explosives?”

“None.”

“All right. Judging from the technique you describe, would you say that the assassination itself was a professional job?”

Allegria considered this, his deep brown eyes regarding David with a look of thoughtful candor. “What I’d say,” he allowed, “is that Hassan used a technique favored by those who practice terror as a profession, one that was particularly suitable for eliminating a head of state.

“In other bombings where the objective is blowing up a car, terrorists will often detonate the explosives by remote control. But that’s a little less reliable, and may not work on an armored car. In this case, the planners chose the right technique, a suicide bombing; the right plastique, C-4; and the ignition system most likely to do the job.”

David cocked his head. “But those choices also require the bomber to know the specific route of Ben-Aron’s motorcade, true?”

Allegria hesitated. “True.”

“As well as any
change
in route.”

“Yes. This wasn’t a random bombing.”

Having drawn the jurors’ thoughts back to the possibility of a security
leak, David asked, “Given this technique, would you say that Iyad Hassan expected to die?”

For an instant, the witness looked bemused—as, David saw, did Marnie Sharpe.

“Unless he was delusional,” Allegria answered. “Once he pushed the switch, he was gone.”

“But not before?”

“No. Until it’s detonated, C-4 is very stable. You and I could play catch with it.”

“No thanks. From your testimony, I gather C-4 is easy enough to wire.”

“Yes.”

“Indeed, Hassan wired his bike with great success.”

Allegria looked slightly puzzled. “If you mean that Hassan succeeded, obviously so.”

“So why didn’t Ibrahim Jefar’s bike go off?”

For a long moment, Allegria gazed back at David. “I’m not sure,” he answered finally. “When I inspected Jefar’s motorcycle, the wiring was connected to the toggle switch, but not to the C-4 concealed in the saddlebag.”

“Isn’t
that
why Jefar’s plastique failed to explode?” David asked with mild incredulity. “That’s a pretty elementary mistake for Hassan to make.”

Judge Taylor leaned forward, clearly grasping David’s point. For the first time, the witness looked down, considering his response. “It would be,” Allegria answered, “if that’s what happened. Perhaps it was jarred loose in the explosion.”

“But if Jefar pushed the switch before Hassan—which is what the indictment claims—that didn’t happen, did it?”

“I guess not.”

“So isn’t the most likely explanation either that Hassan failed to wire it properly or that Jefar disconnected it?”

The witness spread his hands. “They’re both certainly possible. If it was Hassan, we’ll never know.”

“That’s kind of a problem, isn’t it. But let me ask you this: if you assume Hassan wanted Jefar to live, wouldn’t he do just what I’m suggesting—not complete the wiring?”

“Sure,” Allegria answered, his tone combining perplexity with protest. “But why on earth would he do that?”