The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2) (4 page)

Chapter 9

For early November it was a frigid day, even in Chicago. The temperature was 32 degrees and a fierce wind off the Lake made it feel more like 15. Dee and I walked to the Blake & Randolph building on La Salle Street. I find it unbelievable that for her substantial salary at Northwestern, Dee only has to teach four classes a week. And they’re all on just two days. Besides her limited teaching schedule and a few hours of office time, Dee isn’t required to be present at the university, giving her plenty of time for writing, or for her other passion, working on cases with me.

Woody Donovan and Bennie walked into the conference room at 10 a.m. Dee and I were already there. As the attorney in charge of the case it was my job to conduct the meeting. I think I’m a pretty smart guy, but I don’t kid myself. I was not the smartest person in the room, especially because Diana was there.

“Woody,” I said, “please tell us about your meeting with our client yesterday. Bennie and I have filled you in on what he told us. I just want to know if he gave you anything new.”

“Well, this case is all about a bombing,” Woody said, “so for openers today, I’m going to drop a bomb on the table. Al told me all about the same stuff he told you guys, except for one gigantic thing. I asked Al if he had recently seen a doctor or had a physical. I was looking for anything that could explain his thumbprint and the DNA.”

I suddenly felt horrible. I don’t think of myself as being dumb. Actually I think I’m kind of smart. Hell, I graduated from one of the best law schools in the country. But I’m listening to Woody tell us about a question I should have asked. The evidence against Al included a thumbprint and DNA from a small amount of blood. Whether he’d seen a doctor recently is an obvious question, but I didn’t ask it.

“So get this, folks,” Woody said, “our client told me he had a routine physical that’s required from the Chicago School System. He got a call from a woman—no, he can’t remember her name—asking him to appear at a clinic on South Michigan Avenue for a routine school physical. Al didn’t think anything about it, but he did think it was strange because he already had a physical
before
he was hired a few months earlier. When he asked the woman why they wanted another physical she told him it was just routine. I asked him where his first exam was held, and he told me it was done at the nurse’s office in the central school administrative building—six months before this second physical. Then I asked him about the
clinic
where he was told to report. He said it looked strange for a medical clinic, with a couple of posters on the walls, and one handwritten sign on the door that said, ‘Clinic.’

He couldn’t remember the address, but remembered that the building was between a Taco Bell on one side and an Arby’s on the other, and that it was near West 35
th
Street. So I went to the neighborhood and spotted the building that supposedly houses a medical clinic, figuring I’d snoop around a bit. Folks—
there is no fucking clinic there
. The building now houses a check cashing place. Remember, Al just had his physical at that location just a few weeks ago. So I go into the check cashing place and they told me they had just set up shop, two weeks before. I asked if they knew what was there before them, and they said the real estate broker told them it had been vacant for two years. I called the real estate broker. She confirmed that the place had been empty for two years. So now I’m really starting to get my mojo on. When I got back to the office I called the Chicago School System administrative headquarters. They said there is no such thing as a required annual physical, only the pre-hire one. Then I asked if they ever did physicals at an outside clinic, and they said absolutely not. Any physical would be held in the admin building. So here’s the bottom line, folks. Somebody called Al and convinced him that he had to go to this clinic and that it was just a routine exam. So what’s Al supposed to think? He had just recently landed his teaching job.

I went to the jail to see Al. I have a lot of contacts at the lockup so I got in easily. I asked Al more about the physical. They drew blood, naturally, something you’d expect at a physical, but get this, they also fingerprinted him, including thumbprints. Al thought it was a bit strange, but he didn’t bother to ask questions. So four fucking days before the bombing, our guy is set up for a phony physical, where he gives blood and fingerprints.”

“Holy shit,” I said. “Woody, did Al give you the name of the doctor or nurse?”

“No. He said it wasn’t important to him, so he didn’t even notice. Sounds logical to me. Do any of you guys remember the name of the last person who gave you a physical, unless it was your regular doctor? But besides that, assuming this health clinic was a con job, do you think the doctor and nurse would have their real names on their badges?”

“Did he give you a physical description?” Dee asked.

“All he remembered was that they were both short, especially the nurse. He said she was less than five feet. He did recall that she wore a Muslim-type scarf over her head, and that she spoke with a Middle Eastern accent. Oh, this is important, he did notice that she was missing the first digit on her right ring finger. He said the doctor was about five-two or three, and that he had a red beard and red hair. He also spoke with a Middle Eastern accent.”

“Can anybody say the words ‘reasonable doubt’?” I asked. I was still feeling guilty for not asking this stuff myself, but I was happy that Woody picked up where I dropped the ball. Woody is more than worth every nickel we pay him.

“Woody,” I said, “Bennie and I are convinced the guy’s telling the truth. What’s your take, especially in light of this bomb you just dropped?”

“I’m convinced he’s telling the truth, too,” Woody said. “He’s a solid a guy, one of the most straightforward people I’ve interviewed in a long time. This phony health clinic stuff nailed it for me.”

“This obviously changes everything,” Diana said. “If we can find this fake doctor and nurse and get a few witnesses under oath, Al becomes a free man.”

I looked at Diana and noticed that she was furiously scribbling notes, in a structured outline as is her habit.

“Hey, Professor Dee,” I said, “Why don’t you go over to the board and help us understand what we’ve just heard.”

Diana walked up to the white board and wrote across the top:

“The Shit that Doesn’t Fit.”

“I think that’s the perfect title for your notes, Diana,” Bennie said, “if not the perfect title for this case.”

“First of all,” Dee said, “let’s take a look at some superficial stuff that’s hanging out there.”

“Guys,” I said. “You’re about to hear notes from a lecture that Diana gave me on diligently representing a client.”

Dee walked over and mussed my hair. “Hey, Matt, I was just reminding you about something you already knew.”

“If Al was the bad guy,” Diana said, “we have to look at a few preliminary questions.  First, why didn’t he wear latex gloves to avoid leaving his thumbprint or DNA on the detonator? This only puts an exclamation point to what Woody just told us about the fictitious health clinic.

Second, why didn’t he stash the detonator, rather than leave it out in the open to be discovered as evidence?

Third, why didn’t he wear a simple disguise? A mall is a public place where photos and videos are taken all the time.

And lastly, why did they use a guy like Al, rather than one of the countless willing suicide bombers out there?”

“So let’s ask the
big
question,” I said. “Why would somebody hatch an elaborate plot to frame Al?”

“Let’s get the rest of the evidence down first, hon,” Diana said as she wrote. “Now what about the famous video? It’s definitely Al standing there next to the green parcel. The time and date stamp show that it was five minutes before the explosion.”

“It’s easy to fake that evidence,” Woody said. “All you have to do is reset the date and time on the menu in the video device. I have our forensic doctor friend, Max Moon, examining the video to see if he can figure out what brand camera it was taken with.”

“So let’s get clear on this,” Diana said. “Even though the date and time stamp on the video shows the time and date of the bombing, by simply changing the settings, the date could have been
before
the actual event.”

I called a 20-minute break. We all needed time to digest the enormous amount of detailed information we just heard. We also needed time to adjust to what we all started to believe—our client may be completely innocent. We also needed to pee.

***

Everybody filed back into the conference room after our break.

I walked up to the board containing Diana’s work.

“
The shit that doesn’t fit
,” I said. “Diana’s title is perfect. But there’s one big question, one big piece of shit that still doesn’t fit.
WHY
would somebody or some group pull this off? Jihadis are good at bombings, suicide or not. It’s like a walk in the park for them. Why the hell go through an elaborate hoax to frame a simple school teacher? Is there something about Al Yamani that led them to hatch this crazy plot?”

“Matt,” Bennie said, “you, Woody, and I all asked our client the same thing. Basically who has it in for him, and why? As we all know, Al wouldn’t say anything about that. For some weird reason, the jihadis have spent a lot of time and money creating an Agatha Christie story. There’s got to be something about Al Yamani that’s eluding us, and he’s not helping.”

“Hey guys,” Diana said, “remember, we already concluded that we can put up a defense for Al even if we don’t know who’s trying to screw him. After all the angles we’ve gone through today, I’m going out on a limb to say that we’re close to establishing reasonable doubt. Hell, we may even be able to establish the disappearance of that doctor and nurse as evidence of a plot to frame our client. But I’m no lawyer. What do you think, Matt?”

“Dee, the only difference between you and a lawyer is a piece of paper. Your legal analysis is right on, as usual. Yes, the air is heavy with reasonable doubt. But I have another concern. What if we’re able to get Al off the hook and set him free? Then what?”

Of course I didn’t know it as I spoke, but all of us would soon find out that our case had gotten even more complex.

Chapter 10

Youseff Ahmadi called through his megaphone to the trainees as they completed a 5K run. The camp, in a desolate area of northern Iraq, covered 44 acres of desert wasteland. The facility was covered with various types of harsh training apparatus, including walls for scaling, overhead horizontal ladders for strength training and coordination drills, and of course, firing ranges. The 350 students exercised and went through their combat lessons under Ahmadi’s watchful eyes.

Ahmadi himself had attended a similar facility 20 years earlier when he was 15 years old. The purpose of the camp was not just physical and mental conditioning. The main goal was to train young men to kill for their faith. Ahmadi had one goal in life, to train martyrs, murderers willing to die for the Islamic State. He was a rising leader of the Islamic State, also known as ISIS, for the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria, as well as ISIL, the Islamic State in the Levant, the Levant being a region including Iraq, Syria, Eastern Libya, and the Sinai Peninsula of Egypt. Ever since he was a child, Ahmadi dedicated his life toward the goal of the Islamic State to establish a caliphate, a nation state based on the sacred laws of Sharia. He married when he was 16 years old, and currently had three wives. His first wife was 12 years old when they met. She died at the age of 15. Ahmadi beat her to death with a club after he saw her walking down a street, alone, and without her head or face covered. He had 14 children from three wives, ages two to 18. Their education consisted of one lesson plan, to memorize the Quran.

The sweating, panting men assembled when Ahmadi summoned them with his megaphone. As they approached the assembly spot, they each grabbed a weapon from a stockpile. Ahmadi assembled them for a photograph, and he wanted each of them to be armed for the picture. Two of the men fell, overcome by the heat and thirst. Ahmadi made it clear that no water would be dispensed until after the photograph. The two stricken men were dragged away. One of them died of heat stroke. When Ahmadi shouted the instruction, each of the men raised his weapon in a display of martial enthusiasm.

Jamal Boudri, Ahmadi’s assistant, stood about 200 feet from the assembly area. As the men raised their weapons, Boudri stepped behind a small building and pressed a detonator button on an instrument in his left hand. Five bombs simultaneously exploded, killing all of the 350 men as well as Ahmadi. Boudri, the only living human being in the camp, casually walked over to a Toyota Land Cruiser and drove away. He inserted a Frank Sinatra album into the CD player. As the Toyota bounced along the dirt road, Sinatra crooned, “I did it
my way
.”

***

Muhammed Aleppi, the imam of a mosque in Dearborn, Michigan, stepped up to his pulpit. Aleppi was wildly popular with the worshippers for his inflammatory sermons. Well known to local law enforcement, including the FBI, Aleppi was careful to limit his rhetoric to the mosque itself. He appeared on so many “watch lists,” that he was almost a celebrity among cops.

Aleppi, age 45, was born and raised in Dearborn. His parents, both from Yemen, had raised him as a Muslim, but they weren’t devout practitioners. Their faith, like that of so many worshippers of all religions, could best be described as lukewarm. But when Aleppi was 12 years old, he met a man, an imam or religious leader, who convinced him that Islam was the way, the only way in life. At the man’s urging, he began his years-long task of memorizing the Quran.

He began his sermon with the words, “Heaven does not await the brother who sits on his hands. Allah wants to embrace only those who are willing to die to snuff out the infidel.”

He looked out over the crowd of over 400 worshippers and smiled when he saw the effect of his words—400 small Qurans waved in front of him.

“Are you willing to live among the heathens?” “No!” came the loud response from the crowd.

“Are you willing to accept the ways of the infidel?” “No!” they shouted.

“Are you willing to die for Allah?” “Yes!” rang out the voices of 400 men.

“Are you…” He stopped and coughed. Every man present began to cough along with him. Within 30 seconds, Aleppi and the 400 worshippers were dead.

The forensic team from the Dearborn Police Department, wearing gas masks, determined that the inhabitants of the mosque died of Sarin gas poisoning. After a six-month investigation they found no suspects.

Tyrone Wagner, the Chief of Police for the Dearborn Police Department, stood before an array of microphones for a press conference. “We’ve seen acts of violence before, but this incident still has us puzzled. After such a terrible act, we normally hear from some person or group, claiming responsibility. We have heard nothing. At this point, we don’t have any strong leads pointing to a perpetrator or perpetrators.”

***

“This is Shepard Smith for Fox News ladies and gentlemen. It’s been three months since the horrible Sarin gas attack on that mosque in Dearborn, Michigan. It’s been three months of the authorities chasing one dead lead after another. No one has stepped forward to claim responsibility for the murders, which is quite strange in itself. It’s common, in a mass murder such as this one, that some deranged person or group of people will come forward and take grisly credit for the murders. But there has been no such claim. Authorities, not to mention the press, are all scratching their heads over this one. Was it an in-house act of revenge for something? Was it an attack by a rival sect of the often-splintered religion? At this point, nobody knows.”