Sharpe hesitated, her expression sour. “There are people in Washington I have to consult, and people in Israel
they
may want to consult. As Mr. Wolfe well knows, this raises complications.”
“Mr. Wolfe,” the judge said with a slight smile, “knows that very well. But that still leaves the question of what to do with Munira Khalid. As I understand your request, Mr. Wolfe, you want me to dispatch federal marshals to collect your client’s daughter before her father knows what’s about to happen to him—which, I must say, is a rather extraordinary thing for me to do. Are you telling me that Khalid might murder his own daughter?”
David paused, considering for a final moment whether to reveal a
more incendiary truth. But he had little choice. “There’s another reason to worry,” he said in the calmest tone he could muster. “It bears on Munira’s safety
and
on Ms. Sharpe’s suspicion that, rather than being framed by Khalid, Hana is in collusion with him. All I can request of the government and the court is to keep this confidential unless it has to come out in open testimony.”
The judge frowned. “Unless I know what it is, I can’t make any promises, and I doubt Ms. Sharpe can either. So you’ll have to trust our judgment, or keep whatever it is to yourself.”
Reluctantly, David nodded. Then he handed Sharpe and Taylor copies of a three-page document. Quickly, Taylor scanned it. “What is this, exactly?”
“A DNA test requested by Saeb Khalid, based on three hair samples he submitted to a lab in Tel Aviv. What it shows is that Khalid is not Munira’s father, and that he knows it.”
Tight-lipped, Sharpe studied the report. “The samples aren’t identified. How do you know that Khalid is sample A?”
“Because there’s one more test,” David answered, and gave both women copies of the DNA analysis performed by Diablo Labs. “This completes the picture.”
Taylor read the report closely. Finishing, she looked up at David, eyebrows raised. “So who is sample D, the father?”
“I am.”
The judge sat back, her face hardening as she stared at David. “You’re not joking, are you?”
“No,” David answered quietly. “I’m not joking.”
“My God,” Sharpe burst out. “You took the case because Arif and you were lovers. You’ve been playing games with the government
and
this court, covering up the truth—”
“Wait a minute,” David snapped. “I don’t owe you an accounting of my personal life, or my reasons for defending Hana. Or Hana’s reasons for asking me to.” Facing the judge, he said. “If I were Hana’s husband, she could hire me to be her lawyer. There’s no ethical rule that bars me from trying to prevent her execution.”
“There might be,” the judge retorted angrily, “if your illegitimate daughter was a potential motive for Khalid to frame his wife. That makes you a witness in your client’s defense, barred from acting as her lawyer.” The judge’s voice rose. “I can’t believe this—you’ve planted a potential mistrial at the heart of Arif ’s defense, knowing you could blow up the whole
damned trial anytime you pleased. To call that unethical is to be polite. Lawyers lose their licenses for less than this.”
David forced himself to maintain a calm he did not feel. “With respect, Your Honor, that’s not the case. I didn’t know Khalid wasn’t Munira’s father until five days ago, nor until two days ago that I
was
her father. There are witnesses in Israel and San Francisco who can confirm that. If I had known any sooner,
you’d
have known. And if I’d have known before the trial, I wouldn’t be Hana’s lawyer.
“But I am. And now you know. This trial is Khalid’s contrivance—an elaborate honor killing, and his revenge on Hana and me.
That’s
his motive—”
“Then you’re a witness,” Sharpe cut in.
“I don’t think so,” David said. “What’s relevant here is that Khalid knows he’s not Munira’s father, not who her father
is
.”
“Your Honor,” Sharpe protested. “Mr. Wolfe witnessed the assassination of Ben-Aron. Now we know he had an affair with the defendant, and that he’s offering their daughter as his lover’s chief defense. How much more entangled with the facts does he have to be? The idea of him cross-examining the man he cuckolded is absolutely grotesque.”
“If entertaining,” the judge said grimly. Turning to David, she said, “How, if I may ask, do you propose to manage
that
?”
“The way I would if Hana and I were strangers to each other. The prosecutor is asserting that I shouldn’t be allowed to do this. But if Hana still wants me as her lawyer—which she does—then the
real
question is whether I’m competent to finish the job. Does my work so far raise any doubts about that?”
Taylor’s face clouded with doubt. After a long silence, she turned to Sharpe. “I’m at least as unhappy about Mr. Wolfe’s disclosure as you are. But do you really want a mistrial? I can’t give you one without stating why, which would only warn Khalid. You’d be better off dismissing the case against his wife.”
Sharpe frowned. “Without an explanation or a clearer basis in fact? I don’t believe the government’s prepared to do that.”
“Then the truth might be better served by letting Mr. Wolfe have at his friend Khalid. I recognize what a mess this is. But isn’t the ultimate point not only whether Arif is guilty but who else was involved in the murder of Amos Ben-Aron?”
Narrow-eyed, Sharpe seemed to contemplate a spot on Taylor’s desk. “No response?” the judge asked. “Then here’s what I’m going to do.
“I’m recessing the trial for twenty-four hours, in order to give the government time to consider whether to appeal my ruling. The ruling is this: I’m going to let Mr. Wolfe remain on the case and call Saeb Khalid as a witness. Khalid may invoke the Fifth Amendment. If so, we’ll deal with that; if not, we all may be enlightened.” Turning to David, the judge continued, “As for Munira Khalid, I will instruct the U.S. Marshal’s Office to place her in protective custody on the grounds that the court has received confidential information regarding her safety. Given her gender, age, and background, the personnel protecting her should be women.”
David felt a rush of relief. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
Taylor regarded him closely. “It occurs to me to wonder, Mr. Wolfe, whether Munira knows that Khalid is not her father. Or that you are.”
The question sobered David at once. “She doesn’t know any of that, Your Honor.”
“Then I hope there’s some better way for her to find out than in the middle of her mother’s trial. I trust you’ve given that some thought.”
“I have. But I can’t predict where my questioning of Khalid may have to go. All I know for sure is that I’m grateful Munira won’t be there to watch.”
“So am I, Mr. Wolfe.” Sternly, Taylor added, “If Ms. Sharpe decides we should proceed, do your best. Because you’re not coming back for any retrial. This will be your one and only shot at Saeb Khalid.”
By the next morning, the government had determined not to appeal Judge Taylor’s ruling; the United States Marshal had sequestered Munira Khalid in an undisclosed hotel room; and an angry Saeb Khalid, served with a subpoena to appear as a witness for his wife, was standing before the judge.
Taylor had cleared the courtroom, ensuring that neither the jury nor the media could hear what would transpire. Aside from Sharpe and David, each standing to one side of Saeb, the only others present were the judge’s deputy, a court reporter, and two security guards from the marshal’s office. If Saeb was frightened, he did not let this show; he addressed Taylor with a clipped and angry precision. “What you call ‘protective custody,’ ” he told her, “is nothing more than kidnapping under the color of law. Tell me how you justify the seizure of my daughter.”
The phrase “my daughter” caused no change in Taylor’s expression. “The court has information,” she answered, “suggesting that Munira’s life may be in danger. That fact, combined with Mr. Wolfe’s indication that he may call her as a witness in her mother’s defense, has caused us to take this temporary measure. If you wish similar protection, you will have it. If you
wish to challenge my order, I’m prepared to have a hearing directly after your testimony concludes, or as soon thereafter as you’ve retained a lawyer. Suffice it to say that I did not take this action lightly, and regret having to do so at all.”
Saeb shot a sideways glance toward David, at once questioning and furious. “I don’t know how Mr. Wolfe has justified this,” he told the judge, “but he did not come to
me
seeking to protect my daughter. How can you usurp the rights of a father on the word of a lawyer? What kind of system is this?”
Taylor’s swift glance at David suggested that they shared a common thought—that whatever Saeb suspected, he did not yet perceive that David, or the court, knew of Munira’s paternity. To Saeb, she answered, “A fair one, I hope.”
Clearly uncertain about how to proceed, Saeb glanced at Sharpe as though seeking her intervention. When Sharpe said nothing, he straightened, standing taller despite his frailty, his eyes alive with the defiance of someone who feels trapped. “I would like for Mr. Wolfe to state the grounds on which he calls me as a witness, and arranges the abduction of my daughter.”
In other words,
David thought,
you want me to reveal the traps you may be facing.
“Mr. Wolfe,” the judge answered, “has represented to the court that he believes your testimony can help him exculpate Ms. Arif. But he isn’t required to spell out in advance his line of examination. If you wish to retain counsel to challenge the subpoena or to advise you about your rights as a prospective witness, I’ll recess the trial to allow you time for that.”
Saeb glanced at David, then rearranged his features for Judge Taylor, adopting the puzzled look of a layperson at the mysteries of law. “Isn’t there a marital privilege? And wouldn’t my testimony violate that?”
The judge regarded him with the same air of patience. “The marital privilege, Dr. Khalid, exists to prevent one spouse from having to testify against the other. But the privilege can be waived by the subject of the testimony—in this case, Ms. Arif. Your wife has waived the privilege, freeing you to testify.” The briefest of smiles crossed Taylor’s face. “Mr. Wolfe assures me that his questions are
not
intended to damage his own client. Nonetheless, if you have questions about the marital privilege, you’re free to consult counsel before Mr. Wolfe attempts to enlist you in his effort to exonerate your wife.”
The last comment, mordant beneath its seeming neutrality, left Saeb without a response. “The other privilege to consider,” the judge continued, “is that which protects a witness from giving testimony that may tend to
incriminate him. Obviously, I can’t anticipate what you might say under oath, or advise you concerning the risks of testifying, if any. But your own lawyer could, and I can fund one at the government’s expense. If you need the advice of counsel before facing off with Mr. Wolfe, please say so.”
Again the judge’s remarks, while legally impeccable, contained a witch’s shaft directed at Saeb’s pride. Any doubt that Taylor wanted Saeb to testify had vanished: she had always wanted the truth, and now she had a chance to get at it. Eyes glinting, Saeb responded, “I need no protection from Mr. Wolfe. And I am more than ready to protect my wife, no matter how peculiar her lawyer’s stratagems may be.”
Sharpe, David saw, had a curious expression—nettled that the trial was slipping out of her control; intrigued by what might be about to happen. Conscious of the record, the judge asked Saeb, “Are you absolutely certain about that?”
Saeb folded his arms. “Of course.”
To one side, the court reporter entered Saeb’s answer. “Very well,” the judge told him. “If at any time during the questioning you wish to consult a lawyer or invoke your privilege against self-incrimination, please advise the court and we’ll adjourn the proceedings at once. Do you understand that, Dr. Khalid?”
A flicker of disquiet crossed Saeb’s face as if, rather than reassuring him, the judge’s warnings felt like a trap, binding him to a confrontation with David Wolfe. “I understand,” Saeb answered with less assurance than before. The court stenographer could record only his words, not his air of ambivalence. And this was enough for Judge Taylor.
“Open the doors,” the judge said to her courtroom deputy, “and bring in the defendant. Then Mr. Wolfe can call Dr. Khalid.”
Saeb turned to David, a bitter smile playing on his lips. Though neither had known it, David thought, this moment had been coming for thirteen years. Staring back at Saeb, he could almost feel his own pulse rate lowering, a deliberate coolness seeping through his brain and body.
A marshal brought in Hana. She stopped, looking from her husband to David. Then she walked to the defense table, eyes straight ahead, as though fearing to deepen the psychic disturbance that seemed to permeate the courtroom. The doors opened, and the waiting crowd pushed into the courtroom. Among them, as David expected and intended, was Avi Hertz, guardian of the interests of the State of Israel.
Stay cool,
David reminded himself. But he felt more than cool; he felt a cold, concealed anger, the visceral need to protect Hana and Munira from the man who sat ten feet away. He could only hope that this emotion served them well.
“I’d like to begin,” David said, “by discussing the prosecution’s evidence against your wife. It includes a piece of paper on which someone typed Hana’s cell phone number, and which bears her fingerprints and those of Iyad Hassan. Are you familiar with the telephone number shown on that piece of paper?”
“Of course,” Saeb said. “It is Hana’s number.”