Exile: a novel (64 page)

“You look like you need a hug,” Hana said with a trace of a smile. “But it’s become my role to free you, not love you. At least until the trial’s over.”

Confronted with his own words, David could only smile, even as he wondered what she meant.

The lines were clear enough: Sharpe wanted jurors who deferred to the government, believed strongly in the death penalty, and would accept the prosecution’s story without probing for its flaws. David searched for those who were skeptical of established authority, concerned with wrongful executions, and willing to consider alternative explanations for the same event. For David, this divide was complicated by the presence on the jury panel of several Jewish retirees whose seeming tendency toward open-mindedness might be countered by outrage at Ben-Aron’s murder and a passion for Israel’s survival.

Reluctantly, David used his last peremptory challenge to disqualify a retired Jewish executive who spent several hours each week perusing Web sites that praised Israel and excoriated Palestinians; Sharpe used her last such challenge on a disabled former teacher, also Jewish, who had protested the NSA’s program of domestic surveillance. One crucial factor favored Sharpe: seeking the death penalty entitled her to disqualify any potential juror who might be reluctant to vote for an execution. It was, to David, a sophisticated form of jury stacking; seven prospective jurors, six of whom David wanted, were disqualified for expressing qualms about the death penalty.

The process took eight days. The twelve finalists included five women—all, to David’s satisfaction, mothers and grandmothers. The obvious leaders seemed to be Bob Clair, a former insurance executive, and Ardelle Washington, a fortyish librarian who struck David as the most
forceful of the jury’s four minority members—two African-Americans, one Hispanic, and a Cambodian who had recently earned his Ph.D. in anthropology. Clair and Washington were, perhaps, most important: David and Ellen Castle, who assisted in assessing the jurors, agreed that one of them would likely become the foreman and, as such, would help shape the deliberations. It was not unlike a lethal variant of computer dating in which the stakes were not a wasted evening but Hana’s life.

“You need her daughter here,” Castle said to David.

“I know.”

“
I
will be there,” Saeb said tersely. “That is enough. This trial is no place for Munira.”

Since his return, David had barely seen Saeb. Now, sitting across from him in the sterile apartment he shared with Munira, David was struck by the precision of Saeb’s movements; the intentness with which he watched David’s expressions; the contrast between his eyes, so vividly alive, and a frailty that seemed even more acute. It was true, David thought: this man could die soon. But probably not before his obstinacy—or, worse, his design—helped the government kill his wife.

David struggled to control his tone. “They could
execute
her, Saeb. Her defense is as much emotional as factual—‘Why would a woman who loves her daughter risk abandoning her forever?’ But the jury has to
see
their interactions. Those are things I can’t put into words.”

“Munira is twelve years old,” Saeb countered.

“And likely to have a dead mother. She doesn’t need you to work so hard.”

Saeb tensed, then inquired softly, “What, exactly, do you mean?”

“That this is about Hana, not you. The jurors don’t know or care about your paternal prerogatives.”

“So for them, Munira must play a Muslim Barbie?” Glancing toward the hallway, Saeb spoke in a tone too quiet to be overheard. “Attending her mother’s arraignment was traumatic. Munira is more than a courtroom prop.”

“And more than your property. Her mother needs this.”

“Her mother is in prison,” Saeb’s voice became still softer. “You seem to know so much about my wife. Tell me, does Hana wish Munira to choose between a mother and father? Or does she simply not care how this affects her daughter?”

David stared at him. “Over the years,” he said at last, “I’ve thought
many things about you. But I never imagined this. Why have you stayed married to a woman you’re so willing to let die?”

Saeb’s fleeting smile was not a smile at all. “We’re very close to the crux of things, aren’t we?”

David’s nerves felt raw. “Exactly what does
that
mean?”

“In this context, David? That you forget your place. You’re only a lawyer. I am Hana’s husband, and so have the rights of a father.” Saeb sat back, studying David with the supercilious air of a man humoring a favor seeker. “I will discuss this with my wife. In the meanwhile, the jurors will see me at the trial. Perhaps you can assure them that Hana would never risk separation from her husband by killing Ben-Aron.”

This last remark was delivered in a tone so emotionless that David could not decipher it. “I’d at least like to see Munira,” he said at length, “if only to find out how she’s doing.”

“This is not necessary,” Saeb said dismissively. “
I
take her to see her mother; I tell Hana how she is. Perhaps were Munira not sleeping . . .”

Saeb finished the sentence with a shrug. David was left to wonder whether Munira was behind the bedroom door from beneath which came a shaft of light. “It’s only eight o’clock,” he objected. “It’s not too late to wake her.”

“Perhaps,” Saeb replied. “But no doubt you are already tired, and still have much to do. Opening statements begin tomorrow.”

David left. He had seldom felt so impotent, or so filled with anger.

The first morning of a murder trial crackles with anticipation. But David had experienced nothing like this—the courtroom crowded with media from around the globe; the building ringed with trailers sent by TV networks from CNN to Al Jazeera; pro-Israeli and pro-Palestinian demonstrators, separated by police, who shouted insults at one another. Settled in the jury box, twelve apprehensive citizens awaited the two women who were missing: the judge and the defendant.

Hana arrived first, escorted by two marshals. She wore a flowing skirt and rose-colored blouse and looked as composed as she could manage; she glanced at the jury with muted anxiety, then at her husband, positioned behind the defendant’s table. Taking the chair beside David, she asked, “No Munira?”

David shook his head. Briefly closing her eyes, Hana murmured, “Perhaps it is for the best.”

Glancing toward the jury box, David saw Ardelle Washington look
from Hana to Saeb. But Hana could not do what David wished: fabricate a smile for her husband. Restive, David scanned the courtroom and saw Angel Garriques, stationed next to Saeb; Marnie Sharpe, so intent on her own thoughts that she seemed divorced from her surroundings; and Avi Hertz, whom David had not seen since the murder of Barak Lev. And then the courtroom deputy called, “All rise,” and Judge Caitlin Taylor assumed the bench, her black robe as crisp as her manner.

“Ms. Sharpe,” she inquired. “Are you ready for the United States?”

Sharpe began stiffly. Charm was not her métier; logic was. She seemed rational and meticulous, a person who would wear well with most jurors.

“This is a simple case,” she assured them. “We are seeking to do justice for the murder of a world leader who strove to bring peace where there is no peace. But, in the end, this is a case of murder; you must judge the defendant by the same standards as the countless other cases of murder being tried across America. The only difference is her motive: to kill the hope of peace.”

Inclining her head toward Hana, Sharpe’s tone hardened. “To accomplish this, two men drove motorcycles filled with explosives into the limousine that carried Amos Ben-Aron. Iyad Hassan died instantly; by a grotesque twist of fate, Ibrahim Jefar lived to name the woman who directed this heinous act. The woman you see before you: Hana Arif.

“How does Jefar know that?” Sharpe asked rhetorically. “Because Iyad Hassan told him. According to Hassan, Arif recruited him at Birzeit University, where she taught; directed his lethal activities in San Francisco; and, on that last fatal day, instructed him to carry out this terrible crime.” Her voice lowered. “The first suicide bombing in America, a crime so deadly and indiscriminate that it claimed not only the life of its target but an Israeli and an American—both husbands and fathers—charged with his protection.”

Beside him, David saw Hana watching as Sharpe looked from juror to juror. “Amos Ben-Aron,” she said quietly, “could be identified only by his dental work. But a peculiar feature of a suicide bombing is that the bombers expect the same fate—obliteration. This is what the explosion on Fourth Street did to Iyad Hassan, and what Ibrahim Jefar believed it would do to him.”

Several jurors looked bewildered and appalled, as though straining to imagine the state of mind that would embrace such horror. “Jefar’s accusation against Ms. Arif,” Sharpe told them, “is supported by
other
evidence possessed by Iyad Hassan—a piece of paper with Ms. Arif ’s fingerprints
and cell phone number; a call to that same cell phone recorded on Hassan’s cell phone. But that Jefar meant to sacrifice his life is of critical importance. He came here to die, not to lie.”

On his notepad, David scribbled “suicide = credibility.” Seeing this, Hana drew a breath. “Mr. Wolfe,” Sharpe continued, “will try to summon a shadowy conspiracy involving unknown persons. These conspirators may well exist. In fact, it may be true that of all the people in this courtroom, only Hana Arif knows who they are.”

This was a clever thrust, David thought, meant to compel him to put Hana on the stand. “Lacking better alternatives,” Sharpe added with a touch of scorn, “Mr. Wolfe is forced to argue that these unknown conspirators framed Ms. Arif for unknown reasons. Consider what this theory requires you to believe: that on the instructions of some shadowy mastermind, Iyad Hassan, who expected to die, lied to Ibrahim Jefar, who expected to die. Why? Mr. Wolfe does not know. Who was this mastermind? Mr. Wolfe cannot tell you.”

Sharpe, David recognized, was now daring him to name Saeb Khalid as a suspect. But David had no evidence; to accuse Saeb might only condemn his wife, and risk David’s own credibility. Glancing at Saeb, David saw that he was as impassive as before. “The reason for this reticence is simple,” Sharpe went on. “Mr. Wolfe’s supposed mastermind does not exist.

“When all the speculation is done, you must rely on the evidence before you. And the evidence, we will show, can lead to only one conclusion.” Pointing across the courtroom at Hana, Sharpe spoke firmly, “Hana Arif plotted the murder of Amos Ben-Aron. Now her work is done, and yours begins: to bring justice to three murdered men, and, by doing so, to redeem the honor of our country.”

The opening was simple, David thought, and as effective as he had feared. His touchstone jurors, Bob Clair and Ardelle Washington, gazed at Sharpe with a somber respect.

Standing, David briefly placed a hand on Hana’s shoulder.

He took his time before speaking. In part, this was a tactic, drawing the jury to him. But it also enabled David to rearrange his argument while reining in his own emotions; touching Hana, intended as another piece of courtroom theater, felt like more.

His gaze swept the jury, lighting on Ardelle Washington. “A terrible crime occurred,” he told her. “Two men are clearly responsible, and one of them survives—Ibrahim Jefar. But to avoid the ultimate price, he gave the government another name: Hana Arif.

“In one sense, Ms. Sharpe is correct: an ordinary feature of many murder prosecutions is a snitch. And Jefar is an ordinary snitch—unreliable, self-serving, and guilty of a loathsome crime. Except that he is even less impressive.”

With this beginning, David saw, he had the jury’s attention. “Ms. Sharpe seeks to impress you with Jefar’s willingness to die. Then why did he accuse Ms. Arif in order to live? It can’t be some problem in their relationship. As Mr. Jefar will tell you, he never met or spoke to Ms. Arif. All that he claims to know is what a dead man told him.

“How convenient. You can never hear from her supposed accuser, Iyad Hassan, or even look him in the eye. But that’s just the beginning of the hall of mirrors the government calls its case. To kill Ben-Aron, Hassan and Jefar needed motorcycles, explosives, uniforms, cell phones, false ID, and cash, all provided to them in America. Yet not one scrap of evidence connects Hana Arif to any of these things.”

At the corner of David’s vision, Saeb gazed down in thought. “How strange,” David continued. “How bizarre that a plot that required numerous cell phone calls would yield a record of only one. How peculiar that this law professor would hand an incriminating piece of paper to an assassin. How incredible that this supposed orchestrator of a complex crime would be so unsophisticated. How perplexing that the Al Aqsa Martyrs, Ibrahim Jefar’s resistance group, would hand over this assassination to a woman with whom Ms. Sharpe can show no prior connection.” Turning to Hana, he invited the jury to appraise her. “And how unbelievable that this responsible wife and mother, so devoted to her twelve-year-old daughter, would risk her life in such a dangerous plot.”

As David had instructed, Hana gazed back at the jurors, hoping to establish some human connection. “Yet
this,
” David told them abruptly, “is as good as the prosecution’s case will
ever
get: a snitch who knows nothing about whether the defendant is innocent or guilty, and two pieces of ‘evidence’ that make no sense. Ms. Sharpe’s case is so flimsy not because she hasn’t tried but because it’s all that those who framed Hana Arif could manage to concoct. Yet their plan has one overwhelming virtue: if the woman they framed knows nothing, then we will never know who really planned the murder of Amos Ben-Aron.

“How perfect,” David said with real sarcasm. “Ms. Sharpe blames Ms. Arif for the silence of the innocent and her lawyer for not being able to identify the guilty. But only the guilty can speak to this crime. And where it matters most, Ms. Sharpe herself is silent—silent about the questions she hopes you will not ask; silent about the answers she cannot give you.