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

Chapter 3

Two armed guards led Ali Yamani into the interview room at the federal Metropolitan Correctional Center in Chicago. He was heavily shackled, and both wrists were connected to a chain that ran around his waist. His ankles were shrouded in metal, allowing him to take no more than a one-foot step at a time. He sat in front of the glass partition, and I spoke into the microphone. This jailhouse was modern, with a microphone replacing the old mouthpiece in the middle of the bulletproof window. It enabled a more natural way for people to speak, especially people wrapped in chains.

I had only met him for about a half-hour before this meeting, just prior to the arraignment.

“Good morning, Mr. Yamani,” I said. Dee would be proud of me that I didn’t call him Mr. Scumbag.

Yamani was a handsome man, 25 years old, and 5’10” according to the file. He has a slight build, bulked up only by the chains that enveloped him. He was born in Saudi Arabia, but immigrated to the United States with his parents when he was five years old. Yamani spoke with no accent, except for a few Chicago phrases. He’s a new high school teacher with the Chicago school system, having just started the job six months before the arrest. He makes a modest income at $35,000 a year. As I mentioned before, he lives from paycheck to paycheck and has no savings. He was put on unpaid leave after his arrest. Shit, if I billed him my normal hourly rate he’d be destitute even if I got him out of jail.

“You’re aware of the charges against you from the arraignment. Before I ask any questions, do you have anything you’d like to ask me?”

“Do you mind if I call you Matt, Mr. Blake?”

With criminal clients I usually prefer to be a bit formal. Hell, I never expect to pal around with criminals or invite one of them over for a barbecue. There I go again. I had to remind myself, because of Dee’s scolding, that he’s an
alleged
criminal.

“Sure, if you find it easier calling me Matt. How shall I address you? Ali? Mr. Yamani?”

“Call me Al. I don’t suppose you’d have a cigarette, Matt.”

“No, and if I did, they wouldn’t let you smoke it here anyway.”

“I see a lot of people around here toking on those, what-do-you-call-them, e-cigs. Would I be stepping over the line of propriety if I asked you to bring me one the next time I see you. Just add it to my bill.”

“The line of propriety?” This guy doesn’t talk the way I’d expect from a jihadi killer (I mean
alleged
jihadi killer).

“Sure. I’ll be happy to bring you one of those e-cig things. If you don’t mind me saying, Al, I didn’t think that smoking was permitted by the Muslim faith.”

“Well, let me worry about the Muslim faith, Matt. I know you have a few questions, so shoot.”

“The charges against you are as simple as they are complicated. You’re accused of detonating a bomb at the Water Tower Place Mall, killing 61 people and wounding 105. Your thumbprint was found on the detonator, as well as a good DNA blood sample from an apparent cut on your finger. There is also a video of you standing next to a satchel. The detectives later determined that the satchel contained the bomb. I saw the video myself, and the person I saw was you. So before I go ahead with any specific questions, I’m going to ask an open-ended question: How can I defend you?”

“I didn’t fucking do it, Matt. I know that sounds like typical bullshit from a criminal defendant, but it’s the truth. I did
not
detonate that bomb. I knew nothing about the bomb, and nothing about anything that’s happened since. I wasn’t even at the mall that day, and here I am in jail. I know you don’t believe me, and I don’t expect you to. But I’m not just ‘not guilty,’ I’m innocent. Yes, I know the difference. I watch
Law and Order
. If you don’t mind me saying, they explain it better than you did at the arraignment.”

I laughed at his gentle wisecrack. I couldn’t believe it, but I was starting to like this guy. I could have been sitting there talking to a neighbor; but he’s not a neighbor, he’s an alleged mass murderer with an overwhelming ton of evidence against him. What was going on? Am I such a poor judge of human nature that I was fed a story that I was starting to buy? And how can I buy the story? So far all he said is that he “didn’t fucking do it.” That’s not exactly exculpatory evidence.

“Al, I have a copy of the video on my iPad, and I’m going to show it to you.”

I hit play, and we both saw Ali (Al), standing next to the bomb satchel.

“Over to you, Al. Did you just see what I saw?”

“Yes, I saw it. I also noted that there was a time and date stamp. What was the video taken with?”

I looked through my notes of the information I had demanded from the prosecutor.

“I don’t know. It was some type of video recorder but I don’t know what type yet. So what?”

“Have you figured out who gave the video to the police, Matt?”

“No I haven’t. The video was emailed to the police anonymously.”

As I said that I felt sick. I was glad Dee wasn’t here to see that her jerkoff husband didn’t even question the date and time stamp, or even the chain of evidence of the video.

“Anonymously? Do you find that a bit weird, Matt?”

“Where are you going with this, Al?”

“I
was
at the mall, wearing exactly what you saw on the tape. But it was
two days
before the date of the bombing. So, yes, that was me standing next to a green satchel, but it wasn’t on the date of the explosion.”

“Holy shit, do you have an alibi, people who can testify that you weren’t there on the date of the bombing?”

“No, I don’t. I was off from school and spent the entire day in my apartment studying for a night course I’m taking.”

“Talk to me about the thumbprint, Al, as well as the DNA they got from a small amount of blood.”

“I can’t explain that, Matt. There’s got to be an explanation, but I just don’t have one at this point.”

“Our time is almost up, Al. You’ve just opened this case up a bit for me. I’m going to get another appointment with you real soon. I need to confer with some colleagues, especially my wife, who’s a partner at the firm.”

“Diana Blake is no partner, Matt. She’s a paralegal as you well know. She’s also a university professor and writer. I’ve read all of her articles, and a couple of her books.”

“How did you know that she’s a paralegal at the firm?”

“Woody Donovan, your investigator, told me about her when he took my statement. Some things aren’t complicated, Matt. Oh, and I don’t mind you conferring with her, not that it’s my place to mind or not. I feel comfortable knowing that you’re harnessing her brain power on this case. But part of me doesn’t give a shit.”

“What do you mean, you don’t give a shit? It’s my job to keep you off death row, and I’m gonna need your help.”

“Matt, the sentence has been handed down already. Either the feds give me a lethal injection, or the jihadis behead me, at best. Maybe they’ll burn me alive or lower me in a cage and drown me.”

“Al, what the hell are you talking about? Are you saying that radical Islam has it in for you? I thought
you
were radical Islam. Talk to me about that.”

“I can’t talk about that. It’s the one subject that’s off the table—why the jihadis want me dead.”

“There’s no such thing as a subject that’s off the table, Al. I’m trying to save your life and maybe keep you out of prison.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just don’t forget to bring me an electronic cigarette next time. A pint of gin wouldn’t hurt either.”

Our session came to an end. Getting to know this guy would be a work in progress.

Chapter 4

I got home early, about 5:45 p.m. Diana greeted me at the door with her usual hug and kiss. No matter what life serves me during the day, no matter what crap comes down the chute, seeing Dee makes it all go away.

It’s hard to believe that a few short years ago, Dee and I were a couple of alcoholic drug addicts. Her husband had been killed in a car accident, and that sent her over the edge. Right after law school, I lost my fiancée, Maggie, also in a car accident, and I dived into a life of booze and heroin. Dee and I both went into rehab, although we didn’t know each other at the time. We’ve both been clean and sober since, and part of our lives are dedicated to keeping it that way. It almost seems that fate has brought us together. Actually, we both thank our guardian angels, Maggie for me and Jim Spellman for Diana. Sounds like a sappy story? I don’t care; it’s our story and it’s true. Dee and I have a rare and different relationship.

We met when I represented her in a lawsuit arising out of her husband’s death. It wasn’t love at first sight. It took a couple of days. We got married when we were in the Witness Protection Program (more about that later), and our lives have been as one since.

“So tell me about your interview with Mr. Scumbag, honey.”

“Don’t embarrass me any more than I am already, Dee. You’re right, you’re so right. Whatever I was acting like, it wasn’t a lawyer. Mr. Scumbag, and I promise never to call him that again, is a really charming guy. He’s also a big fan of yours. He says he’s read every article you’ve ever written.”

“Get away. I can’t imagine a radical jihadi liking my writing, which tends toward the conservative viewpoint.”

“Jihadi? Hey, you’re sounding as bad as me. Who said he’s a jihadi?”

“Touché. I’m sorry, Matt. We have to keep each other on our toes. That was stupid of me to pre-judge. So tell me about him.”

“Well, he cusses like a sailor, wants me to bring him electronic cigarettes, and even asked I could sneak in a bottle of gin. Typical Muslim, no?”

“What does he have to say about the case? Anything to help us with his defense.”

I love how Dee talks about “us” referring to his defense. Yes, when Dee and I work together, it’s us. I convinced my father and Bill Randolph to put Dee on the payroll as a part-time researcher and paralegal. That enables me to discuss confidential case matters with her and not run afoul of the attorney-client relationship.

“Get this. Number one, he flatly denies that he had any knowledge or involvement with the bombing. Maybe I need a few more years of experience with people, but I was convinced he was telling me the truth. He even has me questioning the video. He thinks the date stamp was doctored. And here’s the most bizarre thing: He also thinks that radical Islam is out to get
him
.”

“What? Everybody assumes he’s a radical killer, including me at the beginning of this conversation, and now you’re telling me that they’re out to get
him
. If the radicals are after Yamani, what does that make him? And why?”

“That’s where it starts to get weird, Dee. Al — oh yeah, he wants me to call him Al — says that he can’t talk about it. He can’t talk about why the forces of radical Islam have it in for him.”

“You need to meet with two people, Matt.”

“Yes. Woody Donovan and Bennie Weinberg (Dee and I often share the same thoughts). There’s suddenly a ton of investigating to do on this case. He’s already interviewed Al, but I want Woody to chase down every possible lead. Nobody’s better than him. And I want to get Bennie in there as soon as possible. And by the way,
you
need to meet with them too, partner.”

Woody Donovan is the lead full-time investigator with Blake & Randolph. He retired from the Chicago Police Department where he had risen to deputy chief of detectives. Woody is legendary for his investigative talents. He can find clues that other people don’t even notice. We pay him more than his substantial pension from the CPD and he’s worth every penny of it.

Dr. Bennie Weinberg is a dear friend of ours. He recently retired as a full-time psychiatrist and detective with the New York City Police Department, but he’s still on the job as a contract employee. He spends a lot of time on loan to both the FBI and the CIA. Bennie’s nickname is Bennie-the-Bullshit-Detector, because of his rare ability to spot lies on the witness stand. He’s a big hit with prosecutors. Bennie is also the guy who convinced me to get my ass into rehab a few years ago so I could face my alcoholism and growing heroin habit. I don’t think I’m being overdramatic when I say that Bennie saved my life. He was also the best man at our wedding, which was very small because it happened during our sojourn in the Witness Protection Program. Yes, I know, more about that later.

“Hey, hon,” Dee said, “Let’s play a game of catch before dinner.”

I forgot to mention. An every-day passion for the two of us is throwing a baseball around. That’s right, playing catch. Try it.

Chapter 5

Professor Abdullah Faisal had just taken up his position on the faculty of the University of Michigan. Faisal held a PhD from the University of Cairo, and another one from Princeton. He specialized in teaching Islam to non-believers, and he was assigned to the theology department. Professor Mortimer Caldwell, head of the theology department, could barely contain his glee at securing the teaching services of Faisal. Caldwell had received a commendation the year before from the liberal organization,
MoveOn.org
. On its website, the American Civil Liberties Union referred to Caldwell as one of the true stars of the American left.

At a departmental meeting, Caldwell stated that Professor Faisal would bring fresh air to the bourgeois conservative thinking on campus. Faisal’s first semester course was entitled, “Just what is a radical? A philosophical inquiry.”

On his first day of class, Faisal stood before the standing-room-only crowd in the auditorium.

“It’s so easy to dismiss cultures and religions that are foreign to your way of thinking,” he said.

He let his words sink in for a few moments.

“But if you have a thinking mind, you know that you are drawn to the truth, and the truth may differ from what you’ve been taught since childhood. The truth may have a greater meaning.”

He lectured until the bell rang. He respectfully waited until the bell stopped ringing, and then he continued with his talk, although another class was scheduled to begin in 10 minutes. “Looking at a watch,” he would often say, “is a typical habit of the infidel. Allah does not keep time.”

That afternoon, as Abdullah Faisal got into his car, he noticed a long metal pipe extending from the floor. “Did I leave that here?” he thought. The pipe was connected by an electrical wire that ran up a pole to a live overhead cable. In the final moments of his life he reached for the pipe and 5,000 volts of electricity surged through his body. He was not discovered until the following morning. The area was taped off as a crime scene. No fingerprints were found in the car, except for Faisal’s.

***

Imam Muhammed Yuri stood before his prayerful followers in a mosque in southern Indiana. Yuri was popular with his flock because his sermons were never boring.

His sermon for the day was entitled, “You have all the friendships you need in Islam—Avoid the infidel.”

“The heathens criticize us for failing to ‘assimilate’ into their culture,” he began, “but assimilation means death, death to your soul, death to your religion. Assimilate means that we are supposed to seek the comfort of the infidels in our daily lives. Nothing could be further from the truth of Allah.”

His sermon went on for an hour. The entire subject of his talk, as stated in the title, was to avoid contact with non-Muslims.

When he finished, Yuri walked two blocks to his house, a comfortable structure provided by the members of his mosque. The house was empty, because his wife and their children were visiting his brother in Illinois. As he walked into the living room, he noticed that some furniture had been moved. He heard a metallic clicking or sliding sound.

As he turned, a man with a silenced pistol shot him three times in the chest. Yuri’s body was discovered the next day by the cleaning staff. After a two-week crime investigation, the police found no evidence—no fingerprints, no spent rounds, nothing.