Hana sang a few soft words as she organized the contract documents into separate file folders. Sensing someone’s presence, she turned around. In the doorway stood Janet Dean, the assistant she shared with two other associates at the law firm.
“How many times have I told you that you sing like an angel?” Janet asked.
“A lot.” Hana smiled. “And every time I feel embarrassed and encouraged.”
“Was that Arabic or Hebrew? I want to guess. Let me hear a few more words.”
In a slightly louder voice, Hana sang the next line of the song and stopped.
“It’s Hebrew,” Janet said emphatically. “I could tell because you were making that noise in your throat. Even that sounds beautiful when you do it.”
“Arabic,” Hana answered. “But don’t feel bad. There is some similarity between the two languages.”
“I’ll keep guessing if you keep singing,” Janet replied. “In the meantime, take that voice and brain of yours to conference room A for a meeting with Mr. Lowenstein.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting in ten minutes with Mr. Collins and his group.”
“Where you’ll be listening, not participating. Gladys Applewhite says it’s imperative you join Mr. Lowenstein. I’ll take care of Mr. Collins.”
“Okay. Who is going to be in conference room A?”
“You, Mr. Lowenstein, and a lawyer named Jakob Brodsky. I don’t know why Lowenstein demanded you come at the drop of a hat.”
Hana had adjusted to the assistant’s Maine accent but still occasionally stumbled when the cheery woman threw in idiomatic American terms. It took her a moment to figure out what “drop of a hat” meant.
Janet continued, “Gladys says Brodsky wants to associate the firm in some kind of international personal injury case.”
“Personal injury?” Hana asked. “Did a ship sink and injure someone?”
Leon Lowenstein’s admiralty law practice often involved insurance claims for millions of dollars if cargo was lost or a ship damaged.
“Gloria didn’t say,” Janet answered. She lowered her voice. “But it sounds like pirates to me, which would be supercool so long as no one was killed or anything. They’re going to show a video, and Mr. Lowenstein wants you there to see it. You’d better scoot if you don’t want to be late. Don’t worry about Mr. Collins.”
The idea of a lawsuit involving pirates wasn’t far-fetched. Shortly after Hana joined the firm, Mr. Lowenstein settled a claim for damages incurred in a piracy incident off the coast of Somalia. Hana brushed her hands across her dark gray skirt and adjusted her white blouse. Slender and fit, she was five feet six inches tall with long black hair, light brown skin, and dark brown eyes.
The exterior wall of conference room A was a continuous bank of windows that gave a panoramic view of the affluent Buckhead area of north Atlanta. A long glass table sat in the middle of the room.
Stocky and gray-haired, Leon Lowenstein stood in front of a large video screen attached to the wall. Beside him was a tall young man with short, curly black hair who wore a blue suit with snug European styling and a bright yellow tie. Mr. Lowenstein smiled when Hana appeared.
“Thanks for coming on short notice,” he said. “This is Jakob Brodsky, a lawyer with a personal injury practice in Sandy Springs.”
“Call me Jakob,” the younger lawyer said, extending his hand to her.
“Hana Abboud.”
“And you’re Israeli?” Jakob asked with a puzzled glance at Mr. Lowenstein.
“But not Jewish,” Mr. Lowenstein supplied. “Hana can explain.”
“I’m an Arab Israeli who grew up near Nazareth in a town called Reineh and graduated from law school at Hebrew University in Jerusalem.”
“And for the past year and a half she’s worked in the international transaction section of the firm,” Mr. Lowenstein added. “I thought about her after we spoke about your case.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea for her to be here?” Jakob asked.
“Yes,” the older lawyer said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Hana isn’t a Muslim. She has a Christian background.”
This was familiar territory for Hana, but she had no clue why it was relevant to the meeting with Brodsky. She’d spent much of her life unraveling her history for people who immediately jumped to a long list of erroneous assumptions when first meeting her. She faced Jakob Brodsky.
“I’m a Christian who served two years in the national service program in lieu of military duty in the Israel Defense Forces,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. “I’m an Israeli citizen who can vote, pay taxes, and receive benefits available to any other citizen of the country.”
“Okay.” Jakob shrugged and turned to Mr. Lowenstein. “Do I have your agreement that what I’m about to show you is subject to attorney-client privilege?”
“Certainly, but you’ve not been secretive about your involvement in this case,” Mr. Lowenstein responded. “My assistant showed me the request you posted on the trial lawyers forum.”
“I’ve had to cast a wide net looking for help.”
Gladys Applewhite entered the room carrying a tray that held water, a pot of coffee, glasses, and cups. She placed the beverages in the middle of the table.
Jakob held up a flash drive. “The video footage is on here.”
Mr. Lowenstein inserted the drive into a USB port. Hana poured a glass of water. The video contained a date and the names “Gloria and Sadie Neumann” alongside a frozen image that looked vaguely familiar to Hana. The senior lawyer handed the controller to Jakob.
“I’ll run it through once without stopping,” Jakob said. “We can back it up and do sections later. There’s no audio.” He pressed the play button.
“I know that place,” Hana said after less than thirty seconds had passed. “It’s Hurva Square in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem.”
“Correct,” Jakob replied. “The video is from a surveillance camera outside a shop that sells snacks and ice cream. It was recorded in late May four years ago. The shop is located at the southwest corner of the square.”
Jakob had memorized every second of the eleven-minute video, yet it still had the irresistible power to draw him in. The black-and-white images were captured late on a Friday afternoon. People filled the square. Ultra-Orthodox Jewish men with beards and side curls, wearing long black coats and old-fashioned hats, walked quickly through the camera’s line of sight. The religious men wore similar but not identical black garments, and varied black hats identified their rabbinic allegiance. Jakob had seen Haredim in Brooklyn, but his connection with any form of faith was tenuous, and he’d never attended synagogue. During the five years since he’d moved to Georgia from New York, he’d built his practice handling difficult cases other lawyers wouldn’t touch. What got him out of bed in the morning was the chance to tackle a tough legal challenge.
The camera tracked scores of other people who looked no different from those getting off a subway in a major city. Six young Israel Defense Forces soldiers appeared: three men and three women, all with machine guns slung over their shoulders. Jakob looked at the Arab lawyer, whose face didn’t change expression at the sight of the troops. A few seconds later a group of fifteen to twenty teenagers stopped in front of the shop.
“Is that a Nefesh B’Nefesh group?” Hana asked.
“What?” Jakob replied.
“A birthright tour for young Jews to visit Israel.”
“Maybe, I’m not sure.”
Two young Arab men, one in his late teens, the other several years younger, watched the young people. One of the group’s chaperones turned sideways and revealed a handgun in a holster strapped to his waist. Four young people emerged from the shop with ice cream. The entire group moved away. The two young Arab men disappeared, too. Three other figures approached the ice cream shop.
“That’s the Neumann family,” Jakob said. “Ben, Gloria, and three-year-old Sadie. They’re going into the store.”
As the family moved out of sight, a second group of younger ultra-Orthodox men came by with their arms linked together.
“Was this on a Shabbat evening?” Hana asked. “The Haredim look like they’re on their way to the Kotel, the Western Wall.”
“Yes,” Jakob replied, impressed with the lawyer’s obvious familiarity with what they were watching. “The Western Wall is only about a quarter mile away.”
The Neumann family reappeared. Gloria sat down and held an ice cream cone in front of Sadie, who licked it. Her husband walked away.
“Ben is going into a nearby shop to buy a necklace Gloria saw earlier but wouldn’t let him purchase because she said it was too expensive,” Jakob said.
“Stop!” Hana suddenly exclaimed, standing up. “If this is what I think it is, I don’t want to watch it!”
Jakob pressed a button on the controller, and the scene froze with Sadie’s mouth open as she leaned toward the ice cream. He looked at Hana, who continued to stare at the still images on the screen.
“Is this a terrorist attack?” she asked.
“Yes, and you should see it for yourself,” Jakob said in a voice that sounded more callous than he intended. “It’s compelling.”
“I agree with Hana,” Mr. Lowenstein interjected, shaking his head. “It’s one thing to talk about events like this on the phone, but another to witness them so directly.”
“Do you remember this attack?” Jakob asked the Arab lawyer.
“Only that it involved an American tourist. I was living in the UK at the time. There were multiple terrorist incidents in Israel during the few months I was away.”
Hana’s willingness to use the terrorist label caught Jakob’s attention.
Mr. Lowenstein turned to Jakob. “If you’ll excuse us for a few minutes,” he said.
Suspecting that he’d wasted a trip, Jakob stepped forward to retrieve the flash drive.
“Would you leave the flash drive?” Mr. Lowenstein asked.
“I went through a lot to get this,” Jakob replied. “I have copies, of course, but I’m not going to risk—”
“After I talk with Hana, I’ll ask Gladys to bring you back in for a chat.”
Jakob hesitated, then shrugged. “Okay,” he said.
Jakob poured a cup of coffee to take with him. Mr. Lowenstein pressed a button on a conference station in the middle of the table.
“Gladys, please take Mr. Brodsky to conference room D for a few minutes.”