“I THOUGHT YOU SAID THERE WOULD BE A MISTRIAL!” IMAM Sharif Jabbar groused as he paced around the holding cell adjoining the courtroom, waiting for the “crime scene” to be cleared and court reconvened.
“She was supposed to wait and kill Newbury after Karp put him on the stand in front of the jury,” O’Dowd replied. “Then, if I wasn’t able to cross-examine him, the judge would almost have to have declared a mistrial. And if he didn’t, we’d certainly win an appeal.”
“Appeal? It could take years to win an appeal, and I can’t spend no more time locked up,” Jabbar complained. “Somebody is going to put a screwdriver in my kidney before I get out on an appeal.” He stopped pacing and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe this was all happening to him. “The deal was, I would stick it out for this trial so that those rich white motherfuckers could get their bitch close enough to kill Newbury. Then there’d be a mistrial, and the fucking U.S. government would take over and get my ass out of this damn country.”
Jabbar stopped and glared at his attorney. “Maybe if you hadn’t filed that motion for an ‘opportunity of proof’ hearing, things wouldn’t have got fucked up.”
***
O’Dowd knew that her client had a point, but only in hindsight. She had been surprised when Karp did not oppose her motion for an “offer of proof.” If he had, the judge would have probably rejected it, as he had her previous attempt to keep Newbury off the stage. Then the jury would have been brought in and the old man put on the stand to testify in front of them. He would have been murdered after the lunch break and before she could cross-examine him, and voilà, a mistrial.
But everybody was covering their asses, she thought, including me. She realized that Karp had acceded to her demand to take away one more appellate argument from her, probably so that he’d have his reluctant witness on the record.
On the other hand, O’Dowd had felt she needed to make the motion, and indeed had to defend Jabbar, as she would have regardless, if the Sons of Man planned to assassinate a prosecution witness and cause a mistrial. Just in case what happened happened, she thought.
At an early-morning meeting at O’Dowd’s office in Harlem, Stiefelmaier, or whatever her name was, had explained that she planned to strike immediately following the lunch break by putting poison in the witness stand’s water pitcher. But first, she’d wanted to observe Newbury on the stand to make sure her plan would work.
Of course, the plan also called for Stiefelmaier to dump the poison in the water without being seen. Then Newbury’s death would have been attributed to a heart attack—at least, until toxicology reports came in. Even then, aconite was supposedly difficult to detect unless the medical examiner chemist was looking for it specifically.
But O’Dowd knew that if it was discovered that paralegal Natalie Stiefelmaier had murdered a prosecution witness, all eyes would turn to the defense attorney who had brought her into the courtroom. So O’Dowd had wanted to be able to point out that she had been zealously representing her client, unaware that an assassin had been planted on her team. And that if she’d been involved in the conspiracy to kill Newbury, then why was she doing more than going through the motions? Motions that included demanding an “offer of proof” hearing to keep Newbury off the stand, as well as preserve the record for appeal.
However, two things had gone wrong with the plan. First, Karp had not opposed the hearing, so that they actually got through the questioning of Newbury without the jury present before the lunch break. She had asked Stiefelmaier to wait until the afternoon break, but the assassin had shaken her head. She’d pointed out that the courtroom was cleared of people during lunch—she would need an excuse from O’Dowd to get past the guard herself—but there were often many people who remained during breaks. “It has to be lunch,” the assassin had said. “And besides, what does it really matter to you?”
O’Dowd had known what the killer was getting at. She was being paid far above any legal fees she could have charged to set the stage for Newbury’s murder. The money people didn’t really care what happened to Jabbar. If Newbury’s death caused a mistrial, then that was his reward for helping out, though the defense attorney had a gut feeling that her client would never live to reach Saudi Arabia. It was just a fantasy to keep him in line.
The second problem had occurred when Karp saw Stiefelmaier at the witness stand, “checking” the water. And then she’d been identified leaving the Criminal Courts Building.
Glaring at the defense table, Karp had asked one of his detectives to seize all the water in the courtroom to be tested. “And I’ll put you on notice right now, O’Dowd,” he’d snarled. “There will be an investigation into what role you played in getting your ‘paralegal’ into this courtroom to commit murder. I will get to the bottom of this, and if you’re involved, you’d better have your toothbrush with you the next time I see you, because you’re going away forever.”
O’Dowd had protested that the murder of Newbury was a government conspiracy to make her a scapegoat for the death of a man “whose testimony under oath when cross-examined might have embarrassed, or even condemned, people in high places.” She’d also suggested that Stiefelmaier was a plant sent to her office by the New York DAO who had noticed her advertisement for legal help to assist with Jabbar’s trial.
When word had come back that Stiefelmaier had been apprehended, Karp had looked at O’Dowd and smiled. Then she’d known such a pang of fear that she’d felt suddenly light-headed and had sat down without a word.
The judge had asked Karp if he wanted to wait until the next day to regroup and call someone else to the stand. “No, your honor, Mr. Newbury was our last witness,” he’d replied. “That’s the People’s case. Now we’ll see what other tricks the defense team has up its sleeves.”
O’Dowd had mustered what indignation she could and replied, “I resent Mr. Karp’s implication that I am in any way responsible for the unfortunate circumstances of Mr. Newbury’s death. And I would remind him that his story about seeing this woman near the witness stand after lunch, which, by the way, was witnessed by no one else and might not even be true, is hardly incriminating. If Natalie Stiefelmaier isn’t a plant, then I wonder if this is an elaborate plan to frame an innocent woman and then claim that she’s this mysterious Nadya Malovo.”
“Resent all you want, counselor, the truth will out,” Karp had retorted. “But in this case, it might definitely not set you free.”
Judge Mason had quieted the two attorneys and then brought the jury into the courtroom long enough for Karp to say that the People’s case was concluded. The judge had then announced that there would be another short break, “after which the defense will begin its case.”
In the holding cell now, Jabbar stopped pacing and pointed his finger in O’Dowd’s wide frowning face. “And I thought she was supposed to kill Karp, too!”
“That’s what I was led to believe,” O’Dowd answered. “But it didn’t happen.”
Actually, she was well aware that Karp wasn’t a target yet. There was no poison in the water Kenny Katz nearly drank. The best scenario was to have everyone believe that Newbury died of a heart attack, and it would have been too much of a coincidence for two men to succumb simultaneously.
“I told you there was always the possibility that we’d have to go through the entire trial,” O’Dowd retorted. “The death of Newbury, and even Karp, was no guarantee that the case wouldn’t go forward. That’s why we’ve been fighting this thing as if it was going forward, and we’ll still win it.”
Jabbar licked his lips. He was sweating profusely and gave her a doubtful look. “What makes you so sure?”
“Well, for one thing, Newbury won’t be testifying against you,” O’Dowd pointed out. “And he’s the only person outside of Jojola, an agent provocateur, who can put you together with Nadya Malovo. It will be your word against his.”
“What about my alibi witness?” Jabbar said. “Is she going to hold up?”
O’Dowd nodded. When Jabbar first suggested that a certain young woman from his congregation had been “persuaded” by her father to testify that she was with him that night, O’Dowd had been hesitant. Even if she put off telling Karp that she had an alibi witness—as she eventually had—it was risky to put someone on the stand, as Jabbar had put it, “to tell a greater truth for the good of Allah.”
But she had met with the girl, Alysha Kimbata, and was convinced that the twenty-year-old was frightened enough of her father, an immigrant from Yemen who shared the same radical views as Jabbar, to stick with her story. She would testify that Jabbar had come to her house late that afternoon; they’d had dinner, and then he’d had sex with her.
“I think she’ll be fine,” O’Dowd said. “Karp won’t want to be seen as roughing up a young woman on the stand. He’ll try to discredit what she says, but he won’t be too hard on her.”
While initially frightened by Karp’s threats, O’Dowd was actually relishing the fight now. In fact, the only thing she had not liked about being paid a ridiculous amount of money to help kill Newbury was that if it had caused a mistrial, she would not have the opportunity to beat her despised rival. She’d hated him ever since he’d come back in that second trial against her black nationalist cop killers to win four guilty verdicts, and he’d beaten her again every time they’d met after that. She was convinced that she could at least get a hung jury now.
She truly believed that government in the United States from the federal level down, including the local district attorney, was racist and oppressive. If she or her client or their witnesses lied, or even if a young black woman like Miriam Juma Khalifa was murdered, it was for a good cause. “The sins of the state were worse than any one life is worth,” she mumbled.
“What? The sins of the state?” Jabbar said with a frown.
O’Dowd smiled. “Nothing. Just thinking aloud.” She stood and looked him in the eye. “I think you’re going to have to take the stand.”
Jabbar rolled his eyes. “But won’t Karp get into my past . . . you know, like the armed robbery and manslaughter?”
“You merely say that you are a changed man,” O’Dowd replied. “You never had a chance growing up . . . poor, fatherless, a victim of the state. But you found Allah in prison and turned your life around.”
“I don’t know,” Jabbar said. “People don’t like some of the things I’ve said, like about the World Trade Center.”
“Exactly,” O’Dowd said. “I want him to attack you. Our whole defense is that you’ve been accused of this crime because of your political and religious beliefs. That you are being singled out.”
“All of those jurors aren’t going to believe that,” Jabbar said. “I can tell already that some of them hate me.”
“The white ones, maybe,” O’Dowd countered. “But your brothers of color, the blacks and Hispanics? We don’t need all of the jurors; we just need one who believes that a black Muslim man cannot get a fair trial in this country. A hung jury will work as well as a mistrial.”
O’Dowd could see that her speech was having an effect on Jabbar. The man had an ego all out of proportion to who and what he was, and it was showing in his face now. She wanted this battle against Karp, but she needed Jabbar to testify to have any chance of throwing it back in his face. “And aren’t you the man who persuaded more than a dozen ‘freedom fighters,’ the Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade, to give their lives up for Allah and their race? I would think convincing just one juror that you’re not the criminal here, you’re a victim, would be easy.”
Jabbar tilted his head back and smirked. “Let’s do this thing!”
An hour later, O’Dowd had to hide her sneer behind a hand as she watched Karp rise from his seat to cross-examine her “leading expert on the government conspiracy behind the September 11, 2001, destruction of the World Trade Center and Pentagon.” Braxton Howe, a thin, bearded professor of political science at Columbia University, had written two books on his September 11, 2001, theories, and the district attorney made no attempt to disguise the contempt he felt for the man.
At a previous “offer of proof” hearing without the jury present, Karp had argued that Howe shouldn’t be allowed to take the stand, because whatever he had to say about September 11 was irrelevant and untrustworthy—the two benchmarks for admissibility—in Jabbar’s trial. He’d listened to O’Dowd’s questioning of Howe and told the judge that “whatever the government may or may not have done in the past has nothing to do with the matter before this court. It’s just highly speculative nonsense based on flawed, mindless rhetoric and ideology.”
Mason had disagreed. “The defense is contending that the government engaged in a conspiracy to frame an otherwise innocent defendant. I am going to permit the defense to go forward with this witness and leave it to the jury to decide what weight to give his testimony.”
Now, with the jury present, Karp went on the attack. “Mr. Howe, you just told the jury that you believe that the United States government planned, conspired, and carried out the September 11, 2001, attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Am I correct?”
“Well, yes, that or allowed it to happen,” Howe replied with one bushy eyebrow arched.
“Well, which was it?”
Howe gave a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“Did the government plan and carry out the attacks? Or did the government know about the plans and do nothing to prevent the attacks?”
“I think there is evidence to support either theory,” the professor replied.
“Evidence? Other than speculation and a loose assembly of rumors, innuendos, and disconnected facts, what hard evidence do you have?”
“Well, as I discussed a few minutes ago, there is the manner in which the buildings collapsed and the ease with which the alleged hijackers accomplished their mission—”
“All of which is based on conjecture and guesswork. Am I right?” Karp interrupted.
“It is based on the examination of thousands of documents, witness interviews, and, yes, educated postulations,” Howe retorted as though correcting a student in one of his classrooms.
“And not one scintilla of incontrovertible evidence that would be accepted into a court of law,” Karp shot back.
“The government controls the courts.”
“I see, so Judge Mason and all the other judges and attorneys who are part of the justice system are also part of this enormous and yet incredibly secretive conspiracy.”
“I don’t know if they’re all doing it consciously or subconsciously, but yes, many are going along—”
“Thank you. ‘I don’t know’ is the first factual thing you’ve said today. Isn’t that right?”
O’Dowd rose quickly from her seat. “Objection! Counsel cut off the witness’s answer and is improperly arguing with him.”
“I’m just trying to determine exactly how far his conspiracy theory goes, and it would appear to include every man, woman, and child in the country.”
“Sustained. I get your point, Mr. Karp. I think we all do,” Mason said with the hint of a smile. “But let’s not engage in debate with the witness. Just ask your questions.”
“Yes, your honor,” Karp replied before turning back to Howe. “So whatever theory you’re operating under today, it still amounts to the U.S. government—the police officers, military personnel, airline employees, building janitors, and security personnel, as well as hundreds of passersby who would have had to look the other way for this massive conspiracy to work—being responsible for the murder of 2,993 people, most of them U.S. citizens?”
“That’s correct,” Howe said, lifting his chin defiantly.
“I have one final question, Mr. Howe,” Karp said, letting his anger show as his voice rose. “What bearing does all of this unsubstantiated speculation and pure fantasy have on whether that man”—he turned and pointed at Jabbar—“murdered Miriam Juma Khalifa in the basement of the Al-Aqsa mosque?”
Howe shrugged and frowned at O’Dowd, who he apparently felt was not leaping to her feet often enough to object. “I believe I am here today to testify regarding a government that is capable of committing crimes against those it considers its enemies.”
“Then you show us right here and now the hard, factual proof—beyond whatever divining rod you normally use to separate fact from fiction—that the government participated in any way in the death of Ms. Khalifa,” Karp demanded.
“Well, I understand that there was a federal agent or possibly two who were in the mosque at the same time,” Howe said. “It’s possible they may have had a hand in it.”
“Possible doesn’t cut it here, Mr. Howe,” Karp said. “You’re just theorizing again. Am I right?”
“I guess you could call it a theory.”
“You guess? You seem to do an awful lot of that,” Karp said with disdain. He turned his back purposefully on Howe and looked at the jurors. “I have no further questions for this man.”
It was near the end of the afternoon, and O’Dowd was ready to call it a day. Her expert government conspiracy witness had ended up looking like a nutcase. She just hoped that as Karp stood at the jury rail and began his cross-examination of Alysha Kimbata, the alibi witness would hold up better.
Kimbata was a young, pretty black woman with an oval face, green eyes, and a voice that hardly rose above a whisper. In fact, she had to be told several times when O’Dowd was questioning her to speak up so that the court reporter could hear her.
O’Dowd thought she’d done a good job during direct examination of recalling her rather simple story. The girl did have a habit of looking back at the defense row in the spectator section where her glowering father was allowed to sit, so O’Dowd had addressed it.
“Ms. Kimbata, during the course of your testimony, you have looked frequently toward the gallery where people watching this trial are sitting. Is there a reason?”
Kimbata had nodded and needed to be reminded to speak up. “Yes, my father is there.”
“Are you frightened of him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The young woman had bowed her head and appeared to cry, but then she’d answered. “He is angry because I slept with a man.”
“Because you slept with Imam Jabbar?”
Kimbata had nodded, lifting her head so that her tear-stained cheeks were visible, and then remembered she had to answer aloud. “Yes.”
Then it was Karp’s turn, and O’Dowd had hoped he would go after the young woman the way he had gone after Howe. But his tone was gentle when he asked his first question.
“Ms. Kimbata, what time approximately did Imam Jabbar arrive at your apartment?”
The young woman glanced quickly toward her father and shrugged. “I don’t know exactly.”
“Was the sun still up, or was it down? And Ms. Kimbata, please, either look at me or at the jurors and not the spectators. The truth is not over there,” Karp said.
“I . . . I don’t remember,” she said.
Karp smiled while standing at the jury rail and held up a transcript. “Ms. Kimbata, do you remember being interviewed by Assistant District Attorney Kenny Katz last week?” he said, pointing to the prosecution table. “The gentleman seated next to me in the court?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, do you also recall when Assistant DA Katz spoke with you, he asked questions and you gave answers that were recorded by a stenographer who was present?”
“Yes.”
“Now, I am going to read to you, starting from page three of that transcript, some questions that were asked of you and answers that you gave. Okay? Question: ‘What time did Sharif Jabbar arrive at your apartment?’ Answer: ‘I don’t know exactly. It was late afternoon.’ Question: ‘How do you know that?’ Answer: ‘Because it was still light outside.’ Question: ‘The sun was up?’ Answer: ‘Yes. I remember children playing in the sunlight in the courtyard.’”
Karp put the transcript on the jury rail. “Do you remember being asked those questions and giving those answers?”
“Yes, I remember that now. The sun was up, and the children were playing.”
“And after the imam arrived at your apartment, what did the two of you do first?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you offer him something to drink? Or eat? Did you kiss? Or did you have sex first?”
“Objection!” O’Dowd roared. “Counsel is just trying to embarrass this girl and confuse her with multiple questions.”
“Sustained,” Mason said. “Mr. Karp, one question at a time.”
“Yes, thank you, your honor,” Karp replied. “Ms. Kimbata, when Imam Jabbar arrived at your apartment, did you kiss him?”
The girl looked puzzled and started to look at her father before remembering Karp’s admonition and averting her eyes. “Yes, I kissed him.”
“And did you give him something to drink?”
The girl nodded. “Yes, I gave him tea.”
“And did you offer him something to eat?”
“Yes, we ate something . . . I don’t remember what.”
“And did you then have sex?”
Kimbata blushed and dropped her head again. “Yes. We went to bed until he got up to pray.”
“You went to bed when the sun was still up?” Karp asked.
The young woman nodded. “Yes, I could still hear the children playing outside.”
“And it was light in your apartment from the sun?”
O’Dowd was suddenly conscious of Jabbar leaning toward her. “Stop this!” he whispered urgently.
“Why?” she whispered back. “She’s doing a fine job.”
“Because—” But it was already too late.
“Ms. Kimbata, you are obviously mistaken about all this, aren’t you?”
She tried to look past Karp to her father, then thought a moment and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“No?” Karp said. “You mean that you did not know that it was the afternoon of the first day of Ramadan?”
Kimbata couldn’t help herself. She threw frightened glances at Jabbar and her father, both of whom were watching with a dawning realization that Karp had set a trap and now it was being sprung.
“I’m not sure.”
“You mean the chief imam of your mosque, the man responsible for the spiritual guidance of the mosque and for keeping the holy days, did not realize it was the first day of the holiest month of the Muslim calendar?”
The woman’s lips trembled, and tears poured down from frightened eyes. “He must have forgotten.”
“Indeed, he must have, because there are certain things a good Muslim does not do from sunup to sundown on Ramadan. Isn’t that true?”
The young woman looked as if she’d just been told that she was to be shot at dawn. Finally, she nodded and said, “Yes.”
“Are you supposed to drink anything, including tea, before sunset?”
“No.”
“Are you supposed to eat?”
“No.”
Karp strolled over to the witness stand and, looking up, smiled kindly. “Ms. Kimbata, I know you find this embarrassing, and so I apologize, but are you supposed to have sex before sunset during Ramadan?”
Alysha Kimbata burst into tears. “No. No, you are not.”
Karp reached up onto the rail around the witness stand and moved a box of tissues closer to the weeping girl. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he said gently.
After several minutes, the young woman wiped her nose and finally looked up again. “I’m ready,” she said softly.
“Thank you,” Karp said. “You just testified that Imam Jabbar drank, ate, and had sex before sundown on Ramadan. Is that true?”
The young woman hesitated, then passed a hand over her eyes. “Yes. Yes, it is all true.”
“Are you sure, Ms. Kimbata? A few minutes ago, defense counsel asked why you were looking at your father in the spectator section, and you said you were frightened. And that you were frightened because he was angry that you had slept with Mr. Jabbar.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure, Ms. Kimbata, that you’re not frightened because you’ve been told to lie on the stand to protect Imam Jabbar?”
Kimbata bowed her head and sighed. She glanced over at the gallery and then at the jury. “No, I’m telling the truth.”