Premeditated Murder (31 page)

EL AMIN WAS PERFORMING THE FINAL MAINTENANCE check on the airplane before the mission. Everything else was ready. Even the weather reports were looking favorable.

He had done his research and his tests. The plan was simple. He would take off in the mid to late afternoon of July 4 from the airfield and fly directly to the Esplanade. The park would be swollen with half-naked, drunken infidels, who would have no inkling of the wrath that was about to descend upon them from the sky.

He would make his first approach from the west and north, because that would give him the greatest amount of time to establish the proper altitude. After studying maps and taking careful measurements, he knew the exact moment he should begin dropping grenades.

The first would hit at the pedestrian entrance to the park itself. It would explode a meter or two above the ground, spraying deadly shrapnel in a circle approximately ten meters in diameter. Depending on how dense the crowd was at that point, many dozens would be hit by the grenade. There would be a scene of panic and chaos, blocking the only exit from the Esplanade.

Then El Amin would fly back and forth over the park, raining grenades down on the unsuspecting heads of the infidels. They would stampede toward the blocked exit like frightened cattle and then create an unmissible target of teeming humanity for his final act of martyrdom.

With his plane packed full of fertilizer and ammonia, El Amin would dive into the thick of them, exploding a hand grenade just as the plane hit, igniting the explosives that would create a devastating ocean of flame, terror, and death.

It would have been better if his comrades had survived the attack in the apartment, so that El Amin's actions were not the only ones to pour infidel blood into the ground. But even though he was now acting alone, he was confident that starting next year, foolish Americans would not be the only ones to celebrate the Fourth of July.

TWENTY-THREE

(Court in session at 9:50
A.M.
)

THE COURT:
Before we begin today, Mr. Thompkins, I understand from your attorneys that you intend to testify on your own behalf. I am now advising you that you have an absolute right to take the witness stand if you choose, and you have an absolute right to not take the witness stand if you so choose. The decision is entirely up to you.

     
I am further advising you that your decision as to whether to testify should be made in consultation with your attorneys.

     
If you decide to testify, you will be subject to cross-examination by the Commonwealth, under the rules of evidence.

     
And finally, if you decide not to testify, and if your attorneys request, I will instruct the jury that absolutely no adverse inference, no suggestion negative to you in any way, could be taken by them as a result of your choice not to testify.

     
Do you understand these rights, sir, as I have explained them to you?

THE DEFENDANT:
I do, Your Honor.

THE COURT:
Very well. We'll take a ten-minute recess.

(Trial Volume XII, Page 5)

June 20—Northampton, Massachusetts

YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, AT THE END OF THE second day of the trial, Cal had asked Zack and Terry how they thought things were going.

Zack said, “Pretty much as we expected—not too bad.”

Terry said, “You want to know how you're doing, keep an eye on the earring ladies.”

By some crazy coincidence, two of the female jurors always wore long, and sometimes very elaborate, pierced earrings. And they were also the most expressive people in the whole group.

One of them was a divorced retired health-care administrator, somewhere in her sixties with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. She seemed kind of nervous, but she was quick to smile whenever she interacted with any of the other jurors or the court officers. And she was completely focused on the case, taking meticulous notes throughout, concentrating intently on the witnesses' testimony, reacting freely to whatever they said.

The other earring lady sat to her left. She was about half the age of the first earring lady, but twice her weight. She was single, she worked for one of the telephone companies as an emergency service dispatcher, and she was the only black person on the jury. But Terry said to focus on her because her facial expressions were so obvious that you would have to be blind not to know what she was thinking.

And now, at the end of the third day, using the earring ladies method, Cal couldn't help but feel a little optimistic.

They were both hopelessly in love with Zack.

Cal didn't know how he did it. Zack wasn't that much to look at—he had a nice smile and looked okay in his dull suits. Maybe it was his relaxed manner, or the confidence with which he spoke to the judge and the witnesses. Or maybe it was some female thing Cal would never understand. But right now, Zack had at least those two jurors, maybe more, eating out of his hand.

The white-haired lawyer for the Commonwealth seemed a little bumbling. He tried to come off like the wise, experienced prosecutor, but his questions sounded like he was trying to make himself the most important person in the room at all times, regardless of what he was asking. “And can you please tell Judge Cottonwood and the jury, Ms. Washington, that afternoon of January 14 when you stayed home from work because you were sick, was there anything in particular that happened that you made note of, such that you might conclude that it was unusual, or notable, or otherwise memorable in your mind in terms of being different from a typical, or, let's say, normal afternoon?”

On the other hand, Zack seemed like he was the calm voice of reason, honesty's best friend, making sure that the witnesses were at ease, making sure that they had a chance to describe precisely what they had seen or heard, making sure the jury got a complete picture of everything they needed. So on cross-examination, Mrs. Thelma Washington, who was on the stand solely because she had happened to glance out her window and see the biggest terrorist coming into the apartment building earlier that afternoon, had a chance to tell her story without being interrupted by dumb, ten-minute questions from the district attorney.

And as Mrs. Washington left the witness stand, and the judge instructed the jury not to discuss the case with anyone, the earring ladies both looked at Zack with such gratitude and admiration that Cal actually thought he might have a chance.

June 26—Washington, D.C.

THERE WAS A KNOCK ON THE DOOR, AND THEN the Chief of Staff walked in. “You wanted to see me, Mr. President?”

Matt was very good at spotting liars, which meant that since he hadn't recognized Vernon Browning's falsehoods, the man was a terrific liar.

To be fair, Matt had never really directly confronted Browning about the Cullhane memos; he'd merely asked him to look for them on President Graham's laptop some weeks ago. Technically, the Chief of Staff hadn't lied when he reported back that he hadn't found the memos on the computer. It was true—they weren't there.

The lying part had been earlier, when he'd said he wasn't aware of any memos about judges.

As Matt's commanding officer in the army used to say, that was going to require a discussion.

“Yeah, Vernon, sit down for a second,” Matt said, waving him toward one of couches at the center of the room. Matt was disgusted. He didn't have much respect for liars. But he was still missing some crucial information about what went on under President Graham. And the only way he was going to find it was to get Browning to admit it and to talk about it.

“Listen, I've been keeping something from you,” he continued, taking a seat opposite Browning in an armchair, “and I need to let you know about it so I can get your input.” Don't worry, Vernon old buddy, we're all on the same side here.

The Chief of Staff was the picture of the loyal servant. Sitting forward, actively listening, ready to spring into action at the smallest command of his leader. “Whatever I can do, Mr. President,” he said.

Matt nodded. “Good,” he said. He measured his next words carefully. “I stumbled onto a counterterrorism program that you and President Graham were using, which, for obvious reasons, had to be kept secret.” If the Chief of Staff ever took up poker, he'd be a millionaire. Browning's face was a masterpiece—concern, respect, and a touch of confusion thrown in for added flavor. It was time for that to disappear. Matt raised his voice a little. “I'm talking about the Cullhane memos, and the searches of those Arab Americans.”

And just like that, the facade cracked. Browning had been caught, and he knew it. “Now I'm certain all you were trying to do was get early intel on any terrorist activity that might have been brewing,” Matt said, “but what I don't know”—and now he couldn't keep the anger out of his voice—“is when you were going to tell me about it. Wasn't I entitled to know? How can I possibly be effective in protecting the American people if I don't even know what kinds of operations we've been conducting to ensure that protection?”

Browning really looked contrite. And then he abruptly stood up. “Will you excuse me for a moment, Mr. President, I need to get something to show you.” And he walked through the door that connected their offices and returned with a thick file folder, which he handed to Matt.

It was all there in black and white. It had started during President Graham's administration, but it was still in full swing. For months while Matt was President, the government of the United States was systematically, secretly searching its citizens. It had come to this. Incredible.

“This operation was instituted by President Graham as an ongoing series of searches of various Arab Americans for evidence of terrorism, sort of like a random traffic stop to search for evidence of drunk driving,” Browning explained. “The President wanted to be sure that he did everything possible to avoid another September 11. It was code-named Operation: Iron Vigilance.”

Operation: Iron Vigilance. Good God. “I understand,” Matt said, continuing to leaf through the folder of information. The idea that terrorists could be plotting another September 11 from within American borders was maddening. But that didn't keep images of German storm troopers ransacking Jewish homes from running through Matt's mind. Which were then replaced by images of airliners exploding into the World Trade Center. He began to feel sick.

“So you got together a list of magistrate judges who were vulnerable, and then asked them for search warrants, or to authorize wiretaps, or whatever. And if any judge gave you trouble, you'd just show them the, uh, research you'd done on their own private lives. And since the target was Arab Americans, you focused on getting judges in New York and Michigan—”

“And California.”

“And California,” Matt continued, “because that's where the majority of Arab Americans live.”

“I know it might sound a little heavy-handed, sir—”

“Oh, I understand the reasons behind the program,” Matt interrupted. “But why keep me in the dark?”

“Plausible deniability, sir,” Browning replied with a smug smile. “We wanted to be sure that if the lid ever came off this thing, and it began to go bad politically, you could honestly assert that you had no knowledge of the operation.”

Of course. It wasn't about taking responsibility for one's own actions. It was about winning the next election. “Is that why Charlie Cullhane was involved?” Matt asked.

“Exactly, sir. If word somehow got out, we knew that Charlie would accept the responsibility for writing those memos. If it didn't stop there, I was the next line of defense. Obviously, I would have taken full responsibility, and would never have let it get to President Graham. But after he died, I figured that since the operation was already under way, the most effective way to protect you was to keep you totally out of the loop.” Browning took his own dramatic pause. “Which I know now was a mistake, sir.”

No shit. Matt took a deep breath. Stay cool. “Tell me, Vernon, where are we in this thing? Have we had any success? Some of these searches seem to be focused on, what, more blackmail material?” In a couple of cases, sex videos and toys had been confiscated. Matt's disgust was changing into something like anger. At former President Graham. At Browning. At the terrorists that had started this whole mess.

“That was something that a couple of the agents came up with on their own,” said Browning proudly. “Naturally, there was no immediate intention to use it against anyone. But if a later investigation required some … leverage against these people, that evidence would be available to persuade them to cooperate.”

Matt's head began to ache. So they weren't just blackmailing judges, they were blackmailing anybody. When would it be okay to use this “leverage”? To get whatever information was available at any time, or only when a threat was imminent? “But what about actual terrorism?” he asked. “Has the operation turned up anything to help us prevent some kind of future attack?”