Fatal Convictions (18 page)

49

The prosecution’s next witness was a pencil-thin Indian man named Dr. Kumar Santi, a specialist in cell tower and satellite technology. After boring the judge with a long list of qualifications, Dr. Santi explained the concept of cell phone triangulation, based on the location of cell towers relaying signals for a phone at any given time. By plotting successive calls using this technology, it was possible to trace the general movement of a cell phone.

As a result, Santi was able to provide three important opinions. First, when the original messages were sent from Khalid Mobassar’s cell phone on June 2, they were sent from the vicinity of the Islamic Learning Center in Norfolk. Second, the phone that received the messages, which Santi referred to as “John Doe cell phone number one,” was in the Seven Corners area of northern Virginia. Third, the cell phone that sent the one-word “finished” message back to Mobassar’s cell phone shortly after the murders on June 12, called “John Doe cell phone number two,” was in the Sandbridge area. That same cell phone had been purchased earlier in the day in the vicinity of Petersburg, Virginia, and had been carried to Virginia Beach before being brought to Sandbridge.

Dr. Santi also testified that both John Doe cell phones one and two had been purchased using fake identities the police had not been able to trace.

A few times during Santi’s testimony, Alex leaned over and reminded Khalid not to look so glum. “Take notes,” Alex suggested. “Wipe that ‘guilty’ sign off your forehead.”

Alex tried hard to look upbeat himself, but he felt like Deegan had just placed the lid on his client’s coffin and was pulling out her hammer and nails.

When Santi stepped down, Deegan called Special Agent Christopher Long, who played for the court some of Khalid’s phone calls from a few days after the murder, with Khalid’s voice clearly identifiable on the recordings. This was done, Alex knew, because the cell phone had disappeared by the time the police had questioned Khalid. It was a preemptive strike by Deegan—taking away any defense based on the allegation that somebody had stolen Khalid’s phone and sent the messages ordering the killings.

Special Agent Long was followed by a local banker who had access to the Islamic Learning Center accounts. She testified to the irregularities in the mosque’s deposits and the $20,000 that had been wired to a bank in Beirut, authorized online by someone using Khalid’s password. Another path of bread crumbs that led to Khalid’s door.

Following the lunch break, the prosecution called Fatih Mahdi to the stand, and a murmur of anticipation floated through the spectators. Mahdi stepped forward looking swarthy and somber, his eyes on the judge as he stood in the well of the courtroom. Mahdi was a short man with broad shoulders and a thick waist. He had receding black hair and wore the white cloth hat and long white robe of an orthodox Muslim.

“Do you swear or affirm to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” Judge McElroy asked.

“I affirm,” Mahdi replied.

He took the stand and stared at Khalid. Alex’s client returned the stare without flinching.

It quickly became obvious that Mahdi did not want to be there. He answered Deegan’s questions with short sentences that he spit back at her, a perpetual scowl lining his face.

“At some point, did you become aware that your wife, Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi, was attending Beach Bible Church?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“I followed her.”

“Why did you follow her?”

Mahdi sighed. “Because I had suspicions.”

“Based on what?”

“Changes in her behavior and the fact that she was making excuses to be out alone every Saturday night.”

For thirty minutes, Taj Deegan asked carefully scripted questions, and Mahdi gave his grudging answers. Mahdi testified that he had secretly followed his wife to Beach Bible Church and watched her meet up with Martin Burns. Later that night, Mahdi had confronted his wife and learned that she had converted to Christianity. Not knowing what else to do, Mahdi had turned to Khalid Mobassar for counsel. Mobassar was the
only
person Mahdi had talked to about his wife’s conversion.

“What did Mr. Mobassar say?” Taj Deegan asked.

Mahdi glanced at Khalid and turned back to Deegan. “He worried about what this might do to the reputation of my family and the mosque. He said he would like to meet with Ja’dah. He urged me not to tell anyone else.” Mahdi stopped, his face tight with tension. He started to speak but paused to gather himself. “Khalid said to leave it to him—that he would take care of it.”

Khalid leaned over and whispered in Alex’s ear. “That’s a lie.”

“What did you take that to mean?” Deegan asked.

Mahdi thought about this. “At the time, I thought it meant that he would talk to Ja’dah . . . help her see the error of her ways. Ja’dah was young and impetuous. I never thought it would mean . . .” Mahdi stopped again and looked accusatorily at Khalid. “In retrospect, it appears that I was wrong.”

Taj Deegan sat down sharply. “No further questions.”

50

Though the result of the hearing was already a foregone conclusion, Taj Deegan ended her case by calling Detective Terri Brown to the stand. Most of Brown’s testimony was a regurgitation of facts already known to Alex. She detailed the results of her investigation and stated that the police were still exploring the funding for the Islamic Learning Center to see if there were any ties with Hezbollah. But she had found one piece of interesting information on Khalid’s work computer.

Alex sat up a little straighter, bracing himself for the worst.

“Please tell the court what you discovered,” Deegan said.

Brown looked at Judge McElroy. “We found a Google search on March 29 for Sandbridge rental properties.”

“Was one of the results pulled up during this search the listing for 112 Kingfisher Drive?”

Alex held his breath. That was the address of the property that had been rented for cash the week of Ja’dah Mahdi’s murder. The CSI teams had found trace amounts of Ja’dah’s blood on the premises.

“Yes,” Detective Brown replied. “The third property listed was 112 Kingfisher Drive.”

* * *

After the commonwealth rested its case, Judge McElroy ordered a ten-minute recess.

Nara elbowed into the huddle at counsel table. “Put me on the stand,” she said to Alex.

“We’ve been through this,” Alex replied, his patience wearing thin. “We’re saving our case for trial. The commonwealth has already put on enough evidence to win this hearing.”

“I know that,” Nara snapped. “But after that last bit of testimony, every potential juror in Virginia Beach is going to assume that my father ordered this horrible crime.”

With good reason,
Alex thought.
How else do you explain it?

“We’ll make our case at trial,” Alex insisted.

Nara blew out a breath of frustration. She softened her tone. “My father could go to prison for life, Alex.”

“I know that.”

“We’ve got to make him seem human.” She was pleading now, rather than demanding. “I can do that. I can talk about my brothers, my dad’s efforts to reform the faith, how he always gave me permission to ask questions. Mahdi lied about his meeting with my father. My father would have
never
said that.”

“We can’t.” Alex’s tone was apologetic, but he wasn’t open to persuasion. “I’m sorry.”

Khalid took a half step forward, his voice hushed. “Alex is calling the shots here,” he said to Nara, putting his hand gently on her arm. “Fatih did lie. But we have to trust our lawyers to expose those lies at the proper time.”

Nara started to say something but apparently thought better of it. Her dark eyes glowered at Alex, her lips pursed in frustration. “Your call,” she said to Alex. “But I’ll be sitting right here in the front row if you need me.”

Don’t hold your breath.

“Thanks,” Alex said.

* * *

When court reconvened, Alex told Judge McElroy that the defense did not intend to call any witnesses. As soon as Alex sat down, McElroy issued his ruling.

“The court finds probable cause for both counts of conspiracy to commit murder,” he said. “My clerk will be calling counsel to coordinate a trial date.”

After court was adjourned and Alex started packing his bags, Nara moved close enough so only he could hear.

“Are we ever going to fight back?” she asked.

Alex didn’t need this. There were lots of people gunning for him already. Why couldn’t his own client’s daughter trust him?

“At trial,” he said. Nara stared at him, and Alex stopped packing. He glanced up at her. “Let me do my job.”

“And let me help,” Nara replied.

Alex fought the urge to lash out at her. She undoubtedly meant well. “Now’s not the time to have this discussion,” he said.

* * *

That night, Alex went for a long walk on the Virginia Beach boardwalk, losing himself in a mass of summer tourists. The adrenaline from the hearing had long ago seeped out of his body, leaving him spent and emotionally raw.

What if Khalid
is
guilty?
Criminal defense lawyers weren’t supposed to ask those questions, but how could he help it? Taj Deegan had two text messages from Khalid’s phone ordering the deaths. There was a one-word confirmation back from the killer. Prior to the killings, Khalid had used his computer to search for the rental property in Sandbridge where Ja’dah’s beheading had occurred.

After the hearing, Khalid had assured Alex that he didn’t know anything about the Google search. Was he lying? Just because Khalid was a committed reformer didn’t mean he was innocent. If everything kept pointing back to Khalid, how could Alex keep defending him?

Somebody
had ordered the beheading of Ja’dah Mahdi and this other young woman in California as well as the slow and painful murder of Martin Burns. Whoever it was deserved to die.

How did I get myself into this mess?
Alex wondered. Things had seemed so much more black and white when he was reading law under his grandfather’s supervision.

51

Alex had one suit that fit perfectly—a black pin-striped suit that he liked to wear with a red power tie and a light blue shirt. It was his most traditional outfit. Old school. He normally reserved that suit for his rare appearances in federal court.

On Sunday morning, he donned the suit and slipped on a pair of black loafers. He’d once owned a pair of wingtips, but they were so uncomfortable that he’d tossed them two weeks after purchasing them. He preferred the loafer look—casual enough for the beach, dressy enough for a lawyer. His hair was still fairly short from when he had buzzed it a few weeks ago, and he was beginning to like the clean and streamlined look.

He couldn’t find the thin black belt he had worn to court on Friday, but he found a thick one that barely fit through the belt loops and looked a little funny because the buckle was too big. Oh well. He could button his suit coat in church, and no one would notice. As a final concession to the importance of the occasion, Alex had even slipped on a pair of black dress socks. Many Sundays he would go without socks, and the old folks would tease him about it. But today, there was too much on the line. His congregation needed to know he was taking this seriously.

They might vote him out of a job today, but at least he would look good leaving. He checked his reflection in the mirror one last time, stuffed his notes into his thin Bible, and smiled at the thought of the Scripture passage he had chosen for the morning’s sermon.

The most controversial story in the New Testament. At least nobody would accuse him of going down without a fight.

* * *

On Easter Sundays, South Norfolk Community Church attendance might crack a hundred. But most weeks, Alex preached to a smattering of about seventy people in a sanctuary designed to hold three hundred. Most of the people would sit near the back, especially the third row from the back, where the hearing-aid plugs were located. The hard-of-hearing parishioners liked the aids because they could turn them up—or down—depending on the contents of the sermon.

When Alex stood to preach, he looked out over a full crowd of nearly two hundred. Many were either curiosity seekers, members of the press, or members of South Norfolk who hadn’t attended in years but had been dragged to church by friends to help stack the vote. Like most small evangelical churches, the only way that somebody got eliminated from the rolls at South Norfolk was by their own death, and even then the odds were about fifty-fifty.

At the request of the ever-hungry media, Alex had authorized television crews to set up tripods along the back wall—though only after a lengthy conference call with the deacons on Saturday. Harry Dent had been adamantly opposed to the idea but had a hard time countering Alex’s argument that this might be God’s way of broadcasting the worship service to the entire world.

“It just feels like somebody’s asking to come into my house and broadcast a family feud,” Dent argued.

“Then let’s show them a family lovefest instead,” Alex countered.

Dent cast the lone dissenting vote on the camera issue.

Before beginning his message, Alex took a deep breath to calm his nerves. His eyes landed for a split second on Nara Mobassar, seated on the aisle in the second-to-last row. She looked more stunning than ever and gave Alex a subtle nod.
What’s she doing here?

“Our text this morning is a passage of Scripture that many people say should not even be in the Bible,” Alex began. In preparing this message, Alex had decided not to ignore the elephant in the room. “Naturally, since this might be my last sermon, I went straight to the most controversial passage I could find. Would everyone turn to the Gospel of John, chapter eight?”

Alex heard the rustle of Bibles among the congregants while the reporters looked clueless. Nara stayed locked on to what he was saying.

“My Bible, like most modern translations, contains a note just above this chapter that states, ‘The earliest manuscripts and many other ancient witnesses do not have John 7:53–8:11.’ I’ll bet many of you didn’t even know that there was this chunk of Scripture, right in the middle of the Gospel of John, that many scholars believe doesn’t even belong in the Bible.”

A few parishioners gave Alex a quizzical look—he was right. Nara’s expression didn’t change. Alex knew that Muslims believed the Bible had been corrupted during its copying and translation. If anything, she was probably thinking,
Why should I be surprised?

“While Jesus was teaching at the Temple,” Alex explained, “the religious leaders brought a woman before him who had been caught in adultery. They said to Jesus, ‘Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of adultery. The Law of Moses commands us to stone her. Now, what do you say?’

“Most of you probably already know Christ’s response. He wrote in the dirt with his finger a couple of times and told the religious leaders that whoever was without sin should cast the first stone. One by one, the leaders dropped their stones and left. When only Jesus and the woman remained, he looked at her and asked where all her accusers were—‘Hasn’t anyone condemned you?’ And she said, ‘No one, sir.’ Jesus responded to her with these words: ‘Then neither do I condemn you. Go now and leave your life of sin.’”

Harry Dent was squirming. Bill Fitzsimmons, located one row behind Harry, looked down at his Bible and frowned. He probably thought it wasn’t fair for Alex to use this passage today. It wasn’t hard to figure out who the religious leaders were in the analogy.

“So I want to ask two questions about this passage,” Alex said, stepping out from behind the pulpit. He wanted no barriers between him and his congregation. “What did Jesus write in the dirt? And should this passage even be in the Bible?”

Alex walked down from the platform and into the center aisle. Even with two hundred in attendance, the first few rows were empty.

“Keep in mind that this woman was caught
in the very act
of adultery. There was no question about her guilt or innocence.” Alex paused and surveyed the congregation. The loudest complainers had been questioning all week about Alex representing someone he
knew
was guilty. “And Jesus didn’t offer a substantive defense. Instead, he knelt down and wrote something in the dirt.”

Alex knelt now and pretended to write on the floor. He spoke in soft tones. “What did he write? We don’t know. Perhaps . . .” Alex looked up at his congregation. “Perhaps he wrote a list of sins the religious leaders had committed—maybe even the names of women they had slept with. Perhaps he was sending a message to the leaders that if they stoned this woman, their sins would be exposed as well.” Alex couldn’t help taking a quick glance at Harry. The man’s neck was turning crimson.

“Perhaps this is a reminder to all of us that we should be slow to judge and that every sin—even our own sin—is an affront to a holy God.”

Alex stood and walked a few rows deeper into the congregation. Nobody was scribbling pictures on the bulletin today. If his entire ministry hadn’t been on the line, this might have been fun.

“Or perhaps what he wrote in the dirt was the Roman statute that made it illegal for anyone but Rome to impose capital punishment. That’s why the Jewish leaders had to get the sanction of Pontius Pilate before they could crucify Christ. But whatever he wrote in the dirt was not what we would call a substantive defense. Though none of us like to think of it this way, Jesus defended this woman on a technicality.”

Ramona could not have looked more proud. Her posture, as always, was impeccable. On the other side of the sanctuary, Nara slowly nodded her approval.

“As to my second question—‘Does this passage even belong in Scripture?’—we have to determine whether this passage was added by the early church leaders or whether it was contained in the original manuscript of John and for some reason removed by the early church. As you all know, we don’t have the original manuscript. And so we must judge based on what we know about the early church and based on the thousands of ancient copies that we do have.”

Alex was starting to lose them a little. Nobody had ever accused his congregation of getting mired down in theological details. “You should know that this story
is
contained in a fifth-century Greek manuscript, one of our oldest copies, and in the original Latin Vulgate. The story is also referenced in several writings of the early church fathers in the third and fourth centuries.

“We know that the early church was adamant about the sin of adultery. In fact, when an early Christian literary work called
The Shepherd of Hermas
suggested that persons who committed major sins such as adultery could be forgiven only one time, it was roundly criticized by church leaders for being
too lenient
. Tertullian called it ‘The Shepherd of Adulterers.’ Given this judgmental attitude of early church leaders, it’s hard to believe that those leaders added this story rather than deleted it.

“And if that’s the case, we ought to pay careful attention to a story that is so poignant that the early church fathers couldn’t quite embrace its radical message of mercy and forgiveness. Maybe they had forgotten that Christ’s entire message was based on God’s willingness to forgive our sins, not just one time, but for
all
time. There is no better picture of such forgiveness than this story.”

Alex hesitated before he dove into the next part. He didn’t want to make the sermon all about him, but he knew his own future was the issue foremost on everyone’s mind.

“At the end of today’s service, you’ll have a chance to vote on whether I should remain as your pastor. Many of you are upset with me because I’ve chosen to defend a man of another faith who I believe is innocent. Many of you have already decided that he is guilty.”

Alex was getting some hard looks. He had gone from preaching to meddling. “But even if you want to assume that this man is guilty, does that mean I shouldn’t represent him? Did Christ make you prove your innocence before he died for your sins? If this story about the woman caught in adultery stands for anything, it stands for the proposition that we are never more like Jesus than when we’re defending those persons who have been rejected by everyone else. This is a story about grace. A story about forgiveness. And if you decide to fire me as your pastor, then I would urge you to do what the early church leaders seem to have done. . . .”

Alex spoke softly now, though he knew his words were landing with nuclear force. One thing that South Norfolk Community Church believed was that you didn’t mess with Scripture. So Alex reached into the back of a pew and pulled out the nearest Bible that the church had placed there next to the hymnals. “If you decide to vote against me, have somebody take a pair of scissors, open each Bible to John chapter eight, and cut that chapter out. And along with it, some other teachings on grace in the New Testament.”

Harry Dent was actually shaking his head from side to side, the equivalent in church of a declaration of war. Ramona had a thin but pleased smile on her lips.

Alex hoped that his message today had given her some good ammunition for the business meeting that would take place after the service. An hour from now, he would know whether it was enough.