Byron said, “I can have something as close to what you need, Sy, as you are ever likely able to get.”
Simeon held his cigarette the way men in France in the 1950s had: the butt between his forefinger and middle finger, the lit end pointing away from him, the way Sartre held his cigarettes in pictures taken of him. “What?”
“Next week there will be a hearing in a sealed courtroom on a motion I’ve made to dismiss the indictment on the basis of what we lawyers like to call prosecutorial abuse. That’s a nice expression for really nasty behavior by government agents and lawyers. Justin Goldberg surprised the hell out of me when he read my motion and then issued an order saying he would hold a hearing.”
“What kind of hearing? The usual stuff where lawyers get up and argue with each other and there’s no testimony from real persons?”
“Not that kind. Ali Hussein will testify. Just as defendants who contend there has been an illegal search and seizure testify.”
“The problem is I can’t get in there to hear that.”
“I know. But I’ll be asking the questions and Ali will be speaking under oath.”
Simeon exhaled: a billow of smoke refilled the space where the earlier smoke had been suspended in the autumn light from the window. “But it’s still the same problem,” he said. “It’s tough to rely on what you say happened in court. There is too much at stake for me. I need the words from Ali himself. I can’t rely on the good graces of my editors any longer that what I’m writing is based in reality.”
“I’m going to give you a source that’s better even than an interview between you and Ali.”
“What’s that?”
“The actual transcript of the hearing. My questions, Hal Rana’s cross-examination, the judge’s questions, and most important, Ali Hussein’s answers, under oath.”
Simeon Black sipped from the glass of Scotch that had been sitting on his desk for several hours, untouched. He tilted the glass toward Byron, as if saluting him. “How can you do that, Byron?”
“The judge said in that same surprising order that I’m entitled to the videotape and transcript.”
Simeon immediately recognized the risk to Byron Johnson. “Isn’t it a felony for you to give that to me?”
“Sy, let me worry about that. At this point I have men following me, my phones and my emails are intercepted, I’m watched every second when I’m speaking to Ali Hussein. Not to mention, on the other side, a supposed brother who takes too much interest in my client’s religious well-being.”
Simeon took another sip of the warm Scotch. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for more.
Byron smiled. “You don’t know this, Sy, but you’re giving me something I can’t get anywhere else. Protection.”
“You think I can protect you?”
“At this point, Sy, where else can I go? Barack Obama? The Pope? Costa Rica? There’s an old expression I learned in those boring chapel sessions I was forced to attend as an eleven-year-old in cold, cold New England.”
“What’s that? My parents in the Bronx never let me go to chapel.”
“The truth shall set you free.”
24
“STATE YOUR NAME FOR the record.”
He leaned forward slightly, toward a slender, snake-shaped microphone. “Ali Hussein.”
“How old are you?” Byron Johnson asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Why aren’t you sure?”
“I’ve been in prison for a very long time.”
“How long have you been in prison?”
“I don’t know.”
“More than five years?”
“For sure.”
“Do you know what today’s date is?”
“No, not really.” Ali sat back slightly from the microphone, waiting for the next question.
To his left, Byron heard but did not see Hal Rana stand. “Judge?”
“What’s the objection, Mr. Rana?” On the wall behind Justin Goldberg was an immense seal of the United Sates in bronze, the fierce eagle at the center, its talons gripping symbols of power and peace. Goldberg looked annoyed.
“The United Sates will stipulate that Mr. Hussein is forty-three years old.”
“Does that work for you, Mr. Johnson?”
“It does, Judge.”
As Hal Rana sat down, Byron looked steadily at Ali Hussein, in prison clothes, an enigmatic expression on his face (fear, contempt, indifference?), and had one of those moments when he was uncertain whether his client was focused, or even aware of the place and time, or cared about the outcome, or simply so nervous that he was losing all sense of direction. “Mr. Hussein,” Byron said, “how old were you when you were taken into custody?”
“I was thirty-five.”
“Where were you when you were arrested?”
“Bonn, Germany.”
“Why were you in Bonn?”
“To work.”
“What work did you do?”
“I was an accountant.”
“How long had you been in Bonn when you were arrested?”
“Three days.”
“How long were you planning to stay?”
“Two more weeks.”
Byron adjusted his own slender microphone at the podium where he stood. A loud acoustic noise briefly filled the courtroom. Ali Hussein sat at least thirty feet from him, in the witness box well below and to the right of Judge Goldberg. Ali Hussein was now focused. Byron liked the crisp back-and-forth rhythm of the questions and answers he and Ali had now established.
“When were you arrested in Bonn?”
“July 14, 2003.”
“Before you went to Bonn, where were you living?”
“Fort Lee, New Jersey.”
“Are you a United States citizen?”
“No.”
“What is your immigration status?”
Byron had learned that Ali Hussein sometimes said unexpected things. He leaned forward crisply to the microphone.
“Prisoner, Mr. Johnson, prisoner.”
Justin Goldberg glanced at Byron over his half-frame reading glasses. His glance was meant to convey that he expected Byron to control his witness.
“What was your immigration status?”
“Green card.”
“How long had you held it?”
“Five years.”
“Who was your sponsor?”
“Khalid Hussein.”
“Who is he?”
“My brother.”
Byron, uneasy with the thought that his client might be lying, asked, “What does your brother do?”
“He owns a warehouse business in New Jersey.”
“Where were you born?”
“Syria. I was Syrian.”
Byron knew that it would not take long for Justin Goldberg to intervene. And now he did. “Mr. Johnson, it’s not my intention to cut you off, but the purpose of this hearing is to give you the opportunity to show, as you’ve put it in asking for this proceeding, that the government is guilty of gross misconduct-I think you called it criminal abuse-that, you believe, has deprived your client of due process of law justifying dismissal of the indictment. I think I have that right, Mr. Johnson, do I?”
Justin Goldberg-acerbic even though soft-spoken-looked at Byron Johnson, expecting an answer.
Not answering, Byron simply stared at Justin Goldberg.
“Given all that, Mr. Johnson, the defendant’s pedigree doesn’t matter. So let’s cut to the chase, sir.”
Byron’s gaze shifted from the judge to slender Ali Hussein. “Mr. Hussein, how were you arrested?”
“I was driving in a rental car, a Toyota at nine in the morning. I stopped for a light at an intersection. Four men jumped out of a Mercedes SUV stopped next to me. Two of them held up what looked like badges. They pressed them against the side window. Two held guns.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Get out of the car. Show me your hands. Get out of the car.”
“Did you get out of the car?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Terrified, Mr. Johnson. I didn’t know who they were. They were angry. They were fierce.”