The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2) (3 page)

Chapter 6

Bennie Weinberg agreed to consult with us on the
Yamani
case. For a consulting assignment Bennie normally charges about $50,000 or more, but he agreed to take on the
Yamani
case for only $5,000 for two reasons, our friendship and the fact that the case intrigued him. He was also impressed that I was handling the case
pro bono
.

Bennie’s flight from New York landed at O’Hare at 1:30 p.m. No way could I dispatch a law clerk to pick up my good friend, so I went to the airport myself.

As soon as he saw me he gave me a bear hug. There’s nothing introverted about Bennie.

“Hey, big guy, you look great. Clean and sober becomes you, my friend.”

“Yeah, it does, Ben, thanks to you.”

“How is Diana? Hell, it’s been over a year since I last saw you guys.”

“She’s her wonderful self as usual. Whatever I did to deserve her, I better keep on doing it.”

“So tell me all about this mad bomber case, Matt. Sounds fascinating from what you’ve told me so far.”

“I don’t want to give you any information to cloud your own judgment, Bennie. I want you to draw your own conclusions. I started this case thinking it was just a matter of trying to convince the prosecution not to seek the death penalty, but now I’m thinking he may be innocent—yeah innocent, not just ‘not guilty,’ despite a truckload of evidence against him. But you’re the maven in the truth department and I can’t wait to hear your evaluation. I made the motion and got the court order, so you’re scheduled to see him at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Tonight you’ll have dinner with Diana and me.”

“I accept, especially because you just told me that’s what I’m going to do. Always the Marine captain.”

***

The routine motion to have Ali Yamani interviewed by a psychiatrist was granted without a question. In death penalty cases especially, the court and prosecutors know the defense wants a psychiatrist to hopefully uncover some evidence of insanity.

“Doctor Weinberg, you may see the prisoner now,” the guard said.

***

Although my name is Ben Weinberg, people call me Bennie-the-Bullshit Detector, and I’ve noticed that the older I get the more bullshit I see. The guards led Mr.Yamani into the interrogation room. He was shackled like King Kong in the movies, the scene where he’s on stage and all the light bulbs are flashing, freaking him out. But King Kong was a 50-foot-tall fucking ape. Mr. Yamani was maybe 5’10” with a somewhat slight build. Nevertheless, he had so much high tensile steel wrapped around his wrists and legs, that he couldn’t move more than a foot in a half a minute.

I sat in front of the bulletproof glass. After a lot of clanging and rustling, Mr. Yamani managed to sit down in his chair.

“Hi, you must be the Doctor Weinberg who Matt told me so much about. Matt likes you a lot. He says you’re a good guy.”

I shifted immediately into shrink mode, and started to ask questions. I don’t mind an interviewee asking
me
questions, but it’s important that I control the conversation.

“And what would make you think that I’m a good guy?”

“Well, if you gave me a pack of cigarettes, I would kneel down and worship you as the One True God. But I guess that ain’t happening, so I’ll be happy to just answer your questions.”

Holy shit, I thought, Matt’s right. This guy is kind of charming. He’s either for real or he’s a skilled con-man, meaning a possible psychopath.

“Mr. Yamani, over the years I’ve worked with countless people who have been attracted to the outer fringes of one of the world’s great religions. Can you give me any idea how you may have found that appealing?”

“Ben, if you don’t mind me calling you by your first name, please call me Al. I’m not a fucking jihadi. I like nothing more than a ham sandwich, and a cigarette, both washed down with a beer. I also like to play around with an occasional babe, since my wife passed away a few years ago. I am not what you’d call, ‘observant.’ I wouldn’t even know what to observe. I look like I rode in on a camel, but the only camel I’ve ever met came out of a pack. My late wife, by the way, was Jewish. I know you’re a detective as well as a shrink, so let me ask you a question, Ben. If you were profiling me, do I look like a fucking nut-case who would bomb a lot of innocent people at a shopping mall?”

If this guy’s lying, he’s excellent. Something about this man rings true to me. He sure as hell talks straight.

“Ali, Al, please let me review some evidence with you. Your thumbprint and DNA were found on the bomb detonator a few hundred feet away from the blast scene. And the killer piece of evidence, if you’ll pardon my choice of language, is a video of you standing next to the satchel that contained the bomb. I have the video with me on my iPad. Would you like to see it?”

“That won’t be necessary, Ben. Matt Blake already showed it to me.”

“So here’s an easy question, Al. Why should I believe you? You won’t be the first or last westernized Muslim to turn and adopt the inner demons of radical Islam.”

“Ben, I can’t prove that I didn’t do it. I can’t deny that the guy in the video is me. As I explained to Matt Blake, I’m sure the time and date on the video were changed. I can’t explain the thumbprint or the DNA. All I can say is that it wasn’t me. I did not commit those crimes.”

“Okay, Al, then let’s talk theory. If it wasn’t you, then somebody did an Academy Award level frame-up. The only explanation, based on what you say, is that somebody formed an elaborate plot to get you accused, locked up, and maybe executed. Who would do that?”

“Hey, Ben, I’ll give you a few guesses, and the Boy Scouts of America isn’t one of them. Obviously it’s al-Qaeda or ISIS or both.”

“Still doesn’t compute, Al. The jihadis are never shy about taking credit for a bombing. Why didn’t they just round up a couple of their willing suicide martyrs, blow the shit out of the place, and then claim credit? What do they need with you?”

“I can’t answer that, Ben, I simply can’t go there.”

“Do you mean that you can’t go there or you won’t go there?”

“Both.”

“Dr. Weinberg, your time is up” came the announcement. “Please complete your conversation with the prisoner.”

Chapter 7

With everything she crams into her busy life, it amazes me that Diana is such an excellent cook. I suggested that we take Bennie out to a nice local restaurant, but Dee insisted she wanted to host our friend at our place. She made poached salmon, which we both know is one of Bennie’s favorites, with saffron rice and asparagus spears.

Dee loves to cook. She’ll tell anybody who’ll listen that after years of getting wasted on booze, pizza, and gallons of ice cream, she figured she’d explore the secrets of good-tasting food, not just as something to consume in enormous quantities. She’s also a perfectionist, a Martha Stewart-like hostess.

I pinched her firm little ass while helping her set the table. “Hey, later, baby. We have a distinguished guest coming.”

“Agreed, later.”

The doorbell rang. It was Bennie. This was the first time he had been to our apartment.

“Holy shit, this place is beautiful,” said Bennie as he walked in with a bouquet of flowers. “I can’t believe the view of Lake Michigan,” he said as he walked over to the living room window. This is even better than that place the FBI found for you when you were in the Witness Protection Program. Do you still carry a gun, Diana?”

“Let’s change the conversation to a more pleasant subject,” I said. “but to answer your question, Dee still carries a gun, like me.”

Dee served seafood salad as a starter. It was delicious.

“How about some white wine, Ben? I believe you like pinot grigio, yes?” Diana said.

“Sure, but let me ask you two a question. Since you’ve both been clean and sober and riding the wagon for a few years, does it bother you to serve alcohol to somebody?”

“Not at all, Ben. I just swig from a bottle of vodka I keep under the sink.”

We cracked up. Dee loves to make fun of her past substance abuse.

“As you know, my wife Maggie is a college professor at NYU,” Bennie said. “I never thought you academic types could be such great cooks, but you both are. And I’ve got the waistline to prove it.”

“I love that your wife’s name is Maggie, Ben, the same name as Matt’s late fiancée, his guardian angel. Somehow it makes our friendship with you even more special.”

A tear ran down Bennie’s face. Gotta love this guy. He’s totally in touch with his emotions and isn’t afraid to let them show.

***

“So, Ben, tell us what we’re dying to hear. How did your interview go with the guy Matt calls Mr. Scumbag?”

“Hey, I told you I’d never call him that again. Stop picking on me.”

Dee leaned over and kissed me.

“Ali Yamani, or Al as he insists on being called,” Bennie said, “is one of the straightest shooters I’ve met in a long time. I ran him through my full patented bullshit detector test, every one of 12 observations I use to pick up lies. He’s either a truth-teller or the most talented psychopath I’ve ever met. He’s comfortable in his skin, well about as comfortable as a man can be with all the chains and shackles. I didn’t detect one evasion, one exaggeration, or even a slight attempt at making an excuse. The guy told me the truth. Now, as you guys well know, it’s not my job to evaluate the truth, but only to size up the speaker to see if
he
believes the story is true. The guy is clear as crystal. No bullshit whatsoever.”

“That was exactly my experience of him,” I said. “I’m just glad to hear it from the nation’s top lie detector.”

“But what about the 12-foot gorilla in the room in the room?” Diana said, “The gorilla that wears a big bandanna that says ‘evidence’? So the guy is a straight-shooting truth teller. Great. What about his prints, his DNA, and not to mention the video showing him next to the bomb?”

“You’re one hell of a perceptive lady, kiddo.” Bennie said. “You’ve led us right to the heart of the matter. Yes, I specifically asked him about that when I confronted him with the overwhelming evidence.”

“I did too,” I said. “And this is what freaks me out. Go ahead, Bennie.”

“He didn’t deny that the evidence exists. He didn’t try to shuck and jive away from it. He simply insists that he did not detonate the bomb, nor did he know anything about it. But here’s the weird part. Weird? Hell, it’s almost spooky. When I asked him why someone or some group would try to frame him, he clammed up. He actually told me that he wouldn’t talk about it. He simply told me not to go there. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to address the question of why somebody would want to frame him.”

“That’s exactly what happened when I interviewed him. He knows something, something that may get him off. And he’s not willing to talk about it.”

“He may not want to talk about the big
WHY
,” Diana said, “but does that mean he’s not willing to participate in his own defense? If we turn bloodhound Woody Donovan loose, he’ll find a lot of inconsistencies. So what if Yamani won’t give us his opinion about motive, do we really need that?”

“Dee nailed it, as usual,” I said. “In terms of reasonable doubt, who cares
why
he may have been framed? If we can establish that he
was
framed, why he was framed is irrelevant, although it would be useful to get it in front of the jury.”

“There’s a terrific medical forensic expert at the Pritzker School of Medicine at the University of Chicago, Max Moon. We need to get him aboard.”

“Max Moon?” both Dee and I blurted. “Max fucking Moon?”

“Hey, okay. Weird name but big brain. I want to talk to him about the fingerprints, the DNA, and the video. I’ve worked with Max on cases before. He’s a good guy. He would normally get a zillion dollars to consult on a case like this, but just let me talk to him. He owes me some favors. And, like me, when his antenna goes up, it’s like a hard-on that won’t go away. Sorry Diana.”

Dee laughed and flipped a teaspoonful of ice water at Bennie.

“Guys,” Bennie said, “this is going to be more fun than the
Spellman
case.”

Dee and I just looked at each other.

Chapter 8

Okay, here’s where I tell you about Diana and me in the Witness Protection Program. The case of
Diana Spellman vs. Harold Morgan and Gulf Oil Company
was the strangest lawsuit I’d ever worked on. Some of the memories of the case are great—I met my wonderful wife. And some of the memories I’d just as soon forget—like the two of us almost getting killed in a gun battle.

Diana’s late husband, Jim Spellman, was a talented investigated journalist. His research led him toward a conspiracy, a gigantic conspiracy, one that involved not only a secretive group of al-Qaeda leaders, but also some people at the top of the US government and corporate America. Jim Spellman was killed in a sideswipe collision, and that’s what the case was all about, a wrongful death lawsuit brought by Blake & Randolph on behalf of Diana. What seemed like a simple case personal injury case, turned out to be amazingly complex, involving the FBI and the CIA. At the center of it all was Diana herself. She was Jim Spellman’s informal editor as well as his wife. She held the key to the massive conspiracy. She was also a target for murder.

It didn’t take the FBI long to figure out that Diana was not only a key to the investigation, but a murder target as well. Three gunmen shot up our engagement party at a fancy restaurant in Chicago. Dee and I were stuck in a traffic jam and never made it to the event. That’s why we’re alive. The feds convinced Dee and I to move to New York and enter the Witness Protection Program.

Dee and I fell in love after two meetings, crazy in love. I had lost my fiancée, Maggie, after I graduated from law school, and Diana lost her Jim, both in car accidents. We often say that fate brought us together. We had gone through similar traumas in our lives, as well as a romance with booze and drugs. That was before we met. We both went through rehab, and have been clean and sober since. We help each other and support each other. That’s because we love each other.

We quietly married in the Witness Protection Program at our secret undisclosed location in New York City. You can’t make this shit up.

Our lives came close to being snuffed out at a beautiful vacation house in East Hampton, Long Island. The place was owned by our FBI handler, Rick Bellamy, who invited us for a relaxing weekend, a different venue from our Witness Protection Program “home” in New York City. Dee and I survived a wild gunfight at that lovely home. We were attacked by gunmen who wanted to kill her.

I’m a former Marine officer. Well a Marine is never a
former
Marine. I saw more combat in Iraq than I want to remember. When the bullets started flying in East Hampton, I did what any Marine would do—I let my training take over. But Dee, although she knew how to use a gun, was introduced to combat as an untrained civilian. She actually killed three of our attackers. She saved my life. Before that incident, I loved Dee for what she was, a beautiful, intelligent woman. What I learned in that shootout was that Dee is also a woman of raw courage. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

After the Long Island gun battle, Dee and I graduated from the Witness Protection Program and returned to Chicago. That was over three years ago, and I still feel about Dee like the day we first met. I’m still crazy in love with her. She’s my wife, my lover, my unofficial law partner, and my best friend. And she’s also my baseball catch partner. 

And, thank God, she doesn’t put up with my bullshit. My client Al Yamani should thank God for that too.