Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1) (14 page)

Steinman picked up some papers and placed them on top of the pile on the left side of his cluttered desk. “Do you know that you can go to jail just for giving advice to certain groups to help them file legal petitions?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, the law states that you’re guilty of a crime for providing material support to groups the government decides are terrorist groups. Material support could include whatever the government says it includes. That includes a lawyer who helps them file a legal petition. The Justice Department has argued in court that even filing an amicus brief in support of a group that’s on the terrorist list is a crime. Presumably, even the accountant who keeps their books can be charged with a criminal act, which is something I am sure you can appreciate as an accounting professor.”

Paige perked up when he heard that. Attacking accountants was something he wasn’t aware of.

Steinman leaned back in his chair. “Just being placed on the list can lead to bankruptcy. How can a nonprofit organization raise any funds if the government can arrest anyone who contributes to them and can confiscate all their assets, including their bank account? How are you supposed to pay your mortgage or feed your family?”

“That’s a good point. I didn’t realize the government could do that.”

“Yes, but that’s not the end of the story. If you tell a member of the press what they did, or even if you just post it on a website, the government can threaten to arrest you or any journalist who reports the story if they believe that disclosing the information would be beneficial to terrorists. They call it giving aid and comfort to the enemy. It could also tip them off that the government is conducting an investigation that they want to keep secret. Once the word gets out that the government is seizing assets of some organization, all the other organizations engaged in similar activities or that have even loose ties to that organization will have time to hide their assets before the government can seize them as well.”

Steinman let out a sigh. “I remember reading a case about a seventy-eight-year-old librarian who refused to recognize the authority of two government agents who came into the library demanding to see certain records about one of their patrons. She was prohibited from telling anyone else in the library about their demand. She told one of her assistants anyway. The government prosecuted both her and her assistant as felons for violating the Patriot Act. The only reason they withdrew their complaint was because the judge hearing the case was about to declare the Patriot Act unconstitutional and they didn’t want to have to defend the Act at the appellate level.”

As Steinman finished his story, Paige glanced at the bookshelves to his right. He noticed a photo of Steinman with some scruffy looking Arabs. It was an outdoor shot, probably taken somewhere in the Middle East, judging from the bazaar-type booths in the background.

Steinman noticed his interest in the photo. “That was taken in the Arab section of Jerusalem a few years ago.”

“I didn’t think you hung out with Arabs. They are Arabs, aren’t they?”

“Very observant. Yes, they are Arabs, Palestinians, actually. Some Israelis say there’s no such thing as Palestinians, so I thought I’d take a photo with them just to prove them wrong.”

“For the last few years I’ve been trying to raise money to help them. Are you familiar with the term
collective punishment
?”

“No, I’m not, but I suppose I could guess what it means from the label.”

“I’ll save you the trouble of guessing. It’s a practice the Israelis have been engaging in for years. When they identify someone they regard as a terrorist, they punish the family as well as the actual terrorist. One of the things they do is destroy their homes. But they’re quite humane about it.” His lips pursed into a sarcastic smile as he said it. “They have a group of soldiers appear at the front door of the alleged terrorist’s home, knock politely, then announce to whoever answers that they have two hours to remove their possessions. Then they push over the house with bulldozers. It usually doesn’t take long to do it, since most Palestinian homes are poorly constructed.”

“Now that you mention it, I recall seeing something about that practice on television. But I didn’t see it on American television. I think I saw it on a hotel TV in Europe or Asia.”

“Yes, you’re more likely to hear about it in Europe or Asia or the Middle East than you are in America. Amnesty International and the United Nations have condemned the practice of collective punishment. It’s against the Geneva Convention. It’s considered a war crime. But the Israelis don’t care. They just list it as one of their weapons in the fight against terrorism.

“Well, some Israelis do care. A lot of them want the practice to stop. Some of them petitioned Caterpillar to quit selling their bulldozers to the Israeli military because they use them to plow over Palestinian homes and orchards. Caterpillar actually stopped the sales for a while.

“I’ve gotten in trouble for my views on the Palestinian issue, but I’m not the only Jew who doesn’t like what the Israelis are doing to the Palestinians. A lot of other Jews feel the same way, but whenever one of us says anything negative about Israel we’re accused of being anti-Semitic. The Israeli lobby goes ballistic whenever anyone accuses Israel of being an Apartheid state.”

Paige adjusted himself in his seat. The metal chair was getting uncomfortable. “I suppose I can understand that. I feel the same way when someone calls the United States a racist country. I’m about as pro-American as you can get in most ways, but I don’t approve of some of the things the American government has done over the years.”

“Yes, I feel the same way about Israel. I am a strong supporter of Israel. I just don’t like some of the things they’re doing. But let me get back to my story. There are a few other points I want to make.”

Paige shifted in his chair again. He was interested in what Steinman had to say, but his butt was getting a little numb from sitting in Steinman’s metal chair.

“One way I’ve been helping the Palestinians is by raising money so that the families of those alleged terrorists won’t be homeless. There are three organizations I know of that raise funds for this purpose, but two of them have gone out of business because the Department of Homeland Security added their names to the terrorist list. As soon as that happens, no one wants to contribute. They were even 501(c) organizations, which means contributions are tax deductible. Anyone who contributes to those organizations can be arrested and put in jail for aiding terrorists, so the contributions have dried up. The last I heard, the organizations and their leaders were being audited by the IRS.”

“That seems a little severe, don’t you think? I suppose the Vatican could be placed on that list, since it also helps Palestinian refugees.”

“Yes, it probably could, but I suspect the Department of Homeland Security wouldn’t put the Vatican on the list of terrorist organizations because of the political fallout. They would have 80 million American Catholics upset with them and they would look even more ridiculous than they already do.

“Then there’s the whole issue about building Jewish settlements on Palestinian land. Some Israelis say there’s no such thing as Palestinian land because God gave the land to the Jews, but whenever I ask to see the deed, no one can produce it. When the president criticized the practice, Debbie Waterstein said he shouldn’t interfere in Israeli zoning issues. What a ditz.”

Paige smiled at that remark. He hadn’t expected Steinman to criticize one of his own, a person whose political philosophy was basically the same as his. He was pleasantly surprised at Steinman’s ability to think for himself rather than merely parrot the party line.

The more Steinman said, the more Paige became convinced that he must do all he could not to allow the feds to kill him. Even though Steinman was wrong on many of the issues, he was right on the most important issue, the trashing of the Constitution by the feds.

“Well, enough of my ranting and raving. Let’s go to lunch. I’ll drive, since I’m familiar with the area. What kind of food are you in the mood for?”

“Since it’s Friday, I’d like a meat dish. It’s a long story. I’ll give you the details at the restaurant.”

Steinman smiled at Paige’s remark. “I can guess, but I’ll let you give me the details. I know just the place.”

Steinman drove through the arches at the main FIU gate, turned right on Southwest 8
^th
Street, then made a left onto Southwest 107
^th
Avenue. It put them in the Sweetwater section of Miami, one of the relatively poor parts of town. Paige noticed that a lot of the store signs were in Spanish. One of them quoted shoe prices. Paige, being the accountant that he is, calculated that someone earning the minimum wage would only have to work about thirty minutes to buy a pair of shoes in that store. He wondered what they must be made of or how long they’d last.

After a few minutes, Steinman turned right into one of the shopping centers. He turned his head toward Paige as he pulled into a parking space.

“This is a Nicaraguan place — Los Ranchos Restaurant, over there. It’s a steak house. I’ve been here several times, usually as part of a group. The food is pretty good and the prices aren’t bad. All the staff speaks Spanish as a first language but they can understand enough English to serve whatever’s on the bilingual menu. A few years ago it won the Gourmet Diners Society’s Golden Fork Award. The
Miami Herald
said it had the best steak in town, which may or may not be true, since Miami has a lot of good steak restaurants.” Paige seemed pleased with the summary, and with Steinman’s choice.

Steinman opened the door for Paige. The place smelled of fried meat, much like a Cuban restaurant. As they walked into the main room, Paige noticed a smaller room off to the right. On the walls it had a variety of artsy placards and enlarged versions of newspaper articles that had been written about the restaurant over the years. The white tablecloths gave the main room a nice touch.

One of the waiters led them to a table against the wall and took their drink orders. The menu had a fair selection of dishes, some of which Paige had never heard of. Luckily, the menu also provided brief descriptions in English.

Before the drinks arrived, a second waiter placed two small plates of garlic bread and a tray of condiments on the table. Paige picked up a piece of the bread and sampled it. It was thin, crunchy and tasty. He figured it must be some kind of Nicaraguan or Cuban bread.

Steinman placed the white cloth napkin on his lap. “I’m curious to know your views on the various issues. I don’t have many conversations with accountants. I just assume they’re all a bunch of knee-jerk right-wingers.”

Paige chuckled. Steinman was only half wrong. He’d met some accounting professors over the years who were liberal Democrats. Socialist types tended to gravitate toward universities, perhaps because they didn’t like the competition that existed outside the university’s protected walls.

Paige took a sip of water and placed the glass on the table. “I suppose it would be fair to say that we agree on some issues and disagree on others.” Actually, there was so little truth in that statement that it bordered on being misleading. Paige disagreed with Steinman on practically all the economic issues and on many of the social issues. The one issue they agreed on was their belief that freedom of speech and press, and even freedom of association, were in danger because of the federal government, not to mention freedom from unreasonable search and seizure and the right to a trial by jury, which the government had denied on several occasions.

“I’d like to think of myself as more than just an accounting professor. I have law degrees from Cleveland State University and Manchester Metropolitan University. I also have a PhD in politics from Sunderland University.”

“Ah, that is unusual for an accounting professor. Most of the ones I’ve met are party-line conservatives who are totally uninformed about politics and philosophy. All they know about politics is what they hear on television.”

Paige felt a sudden urge to strangle Steinman, but resisted the temptation. “Yes, I’ve met a few accountants like that.” He had met some accountants over the years who fit that description, but he met even more accountants who were usually right on the issues, at least the economic issues, even though they hadn’t had much formal training in the field. They applied common sense to the issues rather than Marxist theory.

“Why did you get all those extra degrees that had nothing to do with accounting?”

“I did them as part of my self-improvement program. I have this inner urge to keep busy and be productive. Going to Gannon University for my undergraduate degree is what started me down that path. They forced me to take a lot of liberal arts courses. I became interested and wound up getting minors in political science, philosophy, and history. After I graduated, I wanted to pursue all of those disciplines but didn’t have the time. Years later, when my schedule eased up a bit, I decided to pursue them systematically.”

“You like history? Me too. Did you ever think about getting a PhD in it?”

“Actually, I do have a PhD in history. Nineteenth century British and American economic history, to be precise. I got it from The Union Institute and University in Cincinnati. I did it as an external student living in New Jersey.”

“That’s amazing. I’m beginning to think you’re crazy.”

“You’re not the first one I’ve heard that from.”

A waitress came over to take their order. Mid to late forties, medium height. Slender but shapely, with brown skin and medium length black hair that had a few gray strands in it. Attractive for her age. The two features about her that caught Paige’s eye were her high cheek bones, which served to emphasize the loveliness of her jet black eyes, and the fact that she had her belt pulled tightly around her waist, which made it appear that she had practically no waist beyond that required to connect the top and bottom portions of her body. Her shoes made noise as she walked. You could hear the click, click, click from thirty feet away.