Escape (46 page)

"Yes," she responded. "As God wills."

Toward the end of their stay in camp, they received a visit from the man they were told to call The Sheik. He delivered a brief inspirational speech in which he told them that their sacrifice would "change the world." In such a world, men of color and faith would rule, and whites and Jews would be their slaves.

Abdalla was thrilled to be introduced to The Sheik. But then he felt like someone had punched him in the stomach when the man looked at him with distaste. "What is the matter with your skin?" he asked bluntly.

"It is a disorder of the skin that he cannot help," Imam Jabbar explained. "Ajmaani says that he is the most apt of the jihadis."

That Ajmaani spoke so highly of him to such important people made Abdalla dismiss what The Sheik said. He didn't care what this Arab thought so long as Ajmaani considered him her most apt pupil.

However, Abdalla's jealousy reared its head when he heard that Ajmaani's team would be joined by the great Azahari Mujahid. They'd been told about his achievements while working on the suicide vests that he'd designed.

"Why can't I be in your group?" Abdalla whined when he had a moment alone with Ajmaani one evening. "I want to die with you and Tatay."

This time, instead of offering a smile and reassurance, she struck him. And not a mere slap from a woman, but a powerful backhand that knocked him to the floor.

"There is no more time to coddle you, Abdalla," she hissed. "Do as you are told and do not complain again."

Abdalla nodded and waited until she left the room to get back up. He no longer hoped that one of his virgins would look like Ajmaani.

In mid-August they'd been loaded back on the bus and driven back to Harlem, again arriving late at night. As the men filtered back into the community, they answered questions about where they'd been as vaguely as possible. Some simply shrugged and said they'd been around, just busy. Others said they'd been working out of state. A few said they'd been on a spiritual retreat with other young Muslims.

Many of the congregation thought that wherever they'd been, these young men had grown and matured. They noted that the young men never missed their prayers and seemed content to let others argue about politics, declining even to enter debates over Israel and Palestine. Nor did they speak any longer of jihad.

A
passing fancy,
their families thought with relief. The elders at the mosque nodded in satisfaction; perhaps the late-night meetings studying the Qur'an had been a good thing after all.

Several days before he began his vigil at the dock, Abdalla had gone home to see his parents. They'd been estranged ever since he'd joined the mosque and changed his name, so he wasn't sure what he was hoping for or the reception he would get.

Dinner started off tensely when he refused a glass of red wine, saying it was against the teaching of the Qur'an. His father rolled his eyes, and they hardly spoke during the meal. Afterward, his mother had patted him twice on the head and then gone to bed complaining of a headache even though it was barely six o'clock.

At his father's request, Abdalla had followed him into his study, where the older man sat in his leather chair with a snifter full of cognac while his son sipped at a glass of water. "So," his father began, slapping the arms of his chair as if to start an unpleasant but necessary negotiation. "When do you expect to be done with this nonsense?"

"What do you mean?"

Dr. Rhodes shrugged. "I mean you're getting older and this constant 'finding yourself' is getting tiresome. You spend all of your time with ghetto niggers who don't even belong to the same church you were born into. They're not part of the culture your mother and I raised you in."

"My culture?" Abdalla scowled. "You mean the culture that was crammed down my ancestors' throats after they were tom from Africa in chains and their religion taken from them?"

The doctor scoffed. "Ah yes, the evils of slavery," he snorted. "Well, hate to tell you—and I'm not condoning it—but the end result was that this family isn't running around in the jungle, trying to avoid genocidal warfare, most of it propagated by Muslims, on that dark and benighted continent. We're Christians in this family, and have been for over two hundred years."

"There is no God but God, and Muhammad is his messenger," Abdalla retorted.

Abdalla's father looked at him for a minute and then sighed. "Whatever ... I don't really care what religion you ascribe to—cut the heads off of chickens and paint yourself with their blood for all I care. However, I do think it's time you thought about your future. It's not too late to finish college and get into med school. Who knows? Perhaps you could be the one who cures your affliction."

Somewhere in Abdalla's mind he knew that his father, however insensitive, had meant that in a positive way. But he didn't have to like it. "Allah made me this way," he said, standing up. "And that means I am perfect because Allah does not create imperfection."

Dr. Rhodes furrowed his brow. "So did Allah create cancer?" he asked. "And does that mean cancer is perfect and that I should not try to save people from it? And if God created vitiligo, was it because He wanted to make your life miserable ... to have you spend it as some sort of freak?"

As soon as he said it, Dr. Rhodes regretted it. But there was no opportunity to take it back. His boy blinked back the tears and walked out.

"Wait, son," the father called out. It was too late; his son was gone. Abdalla ran out of the building and took off south on Madison Avenue, wiping at the tears and cursing anyone whose eyes met his. "What are you looking at?" he screamed at one woman who asked if he was all right. "I'm not some helpless freak." He finally ran out of steam when he reached 29
^th
Street. Realizing where he was, he veered left until he found himself standing outside Il Buon Pane.

It was late, well past closing time, but as he looked in the window, he saw Moishe Sobelman emerging from the back wiping flour off of his hands. The old man looked up at the window and squinted, as if trying to see who stood there in the dark outside. He started to smile, but then Abdalla took off running.

He caught a taxi back to the mosque where he had a cot in the basement.
This is where I belong,
he thought as he fell asleep.
This is where God is telling me to be.

Despite the backhand from Ajmaani, she apparently still trusted him more than she trusted the others. He'd been given the honor of picking up Azahari Mujahid from the ship and bringing him back to the mosque.

"The car you drive won't attract attention," Ajmaani assured him. "The license plates are valid and all the lights work. Just follow the traffic laws and don't get pulled over. If you do, wait for the police officer to approach, and if he seems suspicious, detonate your vest of martyrdom."

Abdalla looked over at the cumbersome vest that lay on the seat next to him and then at his watch. It was 6 a.m. The vest was uncomfortable to wear, but he decided that he should put it on now, as the call he was waiting for could come at any moment.

In fact, he'd barely slipped into the vest, fastened it, and then slipped on a sweatshirt when the cell phone rang and he flipped it open to answer.

"Most Gracious, Most Merciful; Master of the Day of Judgment," said an accented male voice.

"Thee do we worship," he replied, "and Thine aid we seek." He closed the cell phone. It was the signal to pick up his passenger.

As he pulled up to the gate, a tall, well-tanned man appeared and let him in. The man pointed him in the right direction, and he drove forward and down the docks until reaching the
Star of Vladivostok,
where the guard signaled for him to stop. He didn't have to wait long before two men hurried down the gangplank and jumped into the backseat.

"Salaam, Assalamu Alikum,"
Abdalla greeted the men.

"Assalamu Alikum Wa Rahmatulah Wa Barakatuh,"
said one. Abdalla assumed he was Azahari Mujahid by the way the other deferred to him.

"Are you the only ones?" Abdalla asked. "I thought there'd be more."

Mujahid met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "How many do you think I need?"

Now that's the face of a stone-cold, killer,
Abdalla thought and asked no further questions.

Crossing the Manhattan Bridge, they'd reached Third Avenue and turned north when a police car suddenly pulled in behind them, lights flashing. Abdalla's hand slipped beneath his sweatshirt and felt for the pager that was attached to his martyr's vest. But as he slowed to pull over, the police car swerved around him and went on.

Still sweating the close call, Abdalla was happy to pull through the security gate at the mosque and drive into the underground parking structure. There they were met by Imam Jabbar and his bodyguards, who led them to one of the basement rooms.

As they entered, Ajmaani stood and said,
"Salaam.
Fight against such of those who have been given the Scripture as believe not in Allah nor the Last Day..."

"And forbid not that which Allah hath forbidden by His messenger, and follow not the Religion of Truth," Mujahid said.

Ajmaani appeared to relax. "Praise be to Allah," she said, "the Cherisher and Sustainer of the worlds."

Mujahid turned to his companion and said something in a language that Abdalla didn't know. Faster than his eye was able to follow it, the second man struck one of Imam Jabbar's bodyguards in the throat. He pulled the man's gun from its shoulder holster before he even hit the ground. In the next instant, he had the gun trained on Ajmaani while the other bodyguards were still fumbling for their weapons.

"That was not the correct response," Mujahid snarled. "We have been betrayed!"

Abdalla didn't know what to do and thought it was all going to end badly. But then Ajmaani held up her hands and smiled. "Please forgive me, Sheik Mujahid. I apologize for the deception, but I am under orders to be extremely careful and test repeatedly to make sure our friends are who they say they are. The response you're looking for is, of course, the completion of the verse from the Qur'an. I should have said, 'Until they pay the tribute readily, being brought low.'"

Mujahid's eyes narrowed. "That was a dangerous game. My friend, Abu Samar, might have shot you."

"Perhaps, but not with that gun. There are no bullets."

Mujahid said something to Samar, who squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked, empty, but still Ajmaani's face had drained of color for a moment. She recovered quickly, however, and glared at where the wounded bodyguard gasped and struggled for air.

"His larynx is crushed," Mujahid said. "It will continue to swell until it cuts off all air. If he is to live, he needs a doctor."

Ajmaani stood, revealing a handgun she'd been hiding beneath the table. She walked over to the injured man and studied his desperate face.
"Inshallah,"
she said and ended the man's torment.

Signaling for the other guards to remove the body, Ajmaani then walked over to look Samar in the eye. "Your friend," she said to Mujahid. "Where is he from?"

"He is Malay," Mujahid replied. "We have been in jihad for many years together."

"Does he speak English?"

"No, only Malay and some Tagalog from living in the Philippines." Ajmaani turned back to Mujahid. "You are looking well," she said. "I understand that you are ill with cancer?"

"Appearances can be deceiving. The pain medication, thanks be to Allah, allows me to continue to do His work, though some days are better than others. However, there isn't much time, so if you are finished with the games, may we proceed?"

"Yes, we must move on. Come with me; I want to show you how we've been preparing for your arrival."

The woman led the others out of the room and down a hallway. She arrived at another room, swung open the steel door that guarded the dark interior, and invited the others to enter ahead of her. As Mujahid and Samar walked in, the recessed lights in the ceiling gradually became brighter, revealing the contents of the room.

An overhead projector sat in the middle of the room facing a screen. On a large table next to the projector was a roll of blueprints, and on shelves lining a wall hundreds of rectangular packages marked "Danger. Explosive. C-4" were piled.

"What do you think?" Ajmaani asked, nodding at the explosives. Mujahid turned to her. "I could attack a fortress with this amount," he replied.

Ajmaani smiled even wider and gave a little bow. "Exactly," she said.

"Ah, Mr. Karp, just the man we wanted to see." Former U.S. Attorney Dennis Hall stood up and motioned for Karp to take the seat next to him. "We prosecutors need to stick together on this," he explained. "Mr. Epstein and I were just debating what I call the insanity of the insanity defense. Would you care to weigh in?"

It was 6:30 on Monday morning, and The Breakfast Club was already at it. There was a definite nip in the September air that hadn't been there just that past week, but they were still sitting outside wearing sweaters, jackets, and caps.

"Afraid I'm going to have to pass," Karp replied. "I still have a trial going on, and the walls have ears. I thought I'd stop by for the pancakes and to listen to better minds than mine. The defense starts its case this morning. So if you don't mind, I'll just be part of the peanut gallery."

"I hardly think that's the case," Bill Florence, the former newspaper editor and Breakfast Club trivia expert, said. '"Peanut gallery' refers to the people sitting in the uppermost, cheapest seats in a theater during the nineteenth century. If they didn't like the show, they threw peanuts at the stage and those seated below them. Today, of course, it refers to people whose opinions are considered unimportant, which is certainly not you."

Hall turned to Epstein. "Where were we? Oh yes ... the insanity defense as it stands now is a farce. It's just an escape mechanism for violent criminal misconduct. In this particular case, it's clear that the defense thinks that a mass murderer, Jessica Campbell, should escape justice because she was suffering from a delusional belief—i.e., a direct pipeline to God—that created irrational motivations—saving her children's souls—which compelled her to act out violently."

"So there's no such thing as 'not guilty due to mental defect'?" Epstein retorted. "Just lock them all up and throw away the key, even if they're completely out of touch with reality."

"Nonsense, nobody's saying that, but how like a defense attorney to immediately jump to an extreme scenario."

"As opposed to simply hanging people for jaywalking," Epstein shot back. "But do go on."

"Thank you, I think I shall. Obviously, we don't want to be incarcerating—or executing, my overly dramatic friend—someone who is truly insane. Doesn't know what planet they're on. Thinks they're shooting giant lizards from Venus, not people ..."

"Believes that God told her to kill her kids..."

"No, because then she's aware that she is committing murder," Hall replied. "But perhaps, if she truly believed God told her that pushing them off the Brooklyn Bridge would turn them into angels and they could then fly to heaven, there'd be a difference. In other words, someone who, based upon a mental disease or defect, did not know or appreciate the nature and consequences of her acts ... or know that those acts were wrong."

"But isn't it obvious that Campbell has some sort of mental defect?" Gilbert asked.

"Something like half of everybody in prison now qualifies as a sociopath," Plaut replied. "The rest are schizophrenic or narcissistic or obsessive-compulsive. If having a mental defect is your criterion for not being responsible for committing crimes, then there's no point trying to lock anybody up. They're all mentally ill."

"What if that defect meant she couldn't control herself?"

"Isn't one of the major purposes of the criminal justice system to incarcerate those violent criminals who cannot control their violent impulses but instead act them out?" Hall countered.

The old men argued on for another half hour and then gave it up just as Karp finished his pancakes and stood to leave. "Oh, I meant to ask you all a question," he said.

The Breakfast Club members stopped talking and glanced at each other like little boys who'd hit a baseball through a neighbor's window and now were going to be brought to task for it. "Go ahead," Gilbert said.

"It's probably not something you can help with. But I thought that given your activities in the senior community, perhaps you might have heard something about a group of older gentlemen running around kidnapping private citizens and making wild accusations."

"It's a big city," Saul Silverstein replied. "Lots of us old geezers roaming the streets. Why do you think we'd know them?"

Karp shrugged. "I don't know. Just a hunch."

"Are the police looking for them?" Gilbert asked.

"Good question. They did commit several major felonies. But I don't think the victim is pressing charges ... for the time being."

"That's good," Father Sunderland noted.

Karp gave him a funny look. "Why, Father, are you condoning this sort of behavior?"

The priest shook his head. "No, that's not what I meant. I was just thinking that perhaps these men would have learned their lesson and won't be repeating it."

"My hope as well. If I could speak to them, I'd warn them that they're treading in dangerous waters. Apparently they passed on valuable information; however, it's time for them to let others handle the situation, unless, of course, they have something else to say of import."

"No, they don't," Gilbert replied. "I mean, I would think they would have said all that needed to be said and will probably just lay low now."

"That's all I needed to hear. Thanks. And if you do happen to run into these nefarious gentlemen, please convey my message."

"We certainly will, Mr. Karp," Hall promised.

Karp looked at his watch. "Oops, 7:15, sorry to eat and run, gentlemen. Thanks for the conversations, they have been ... most illuminating."

As he got out of the taxi across from the Criminal Courts building, Karp heard the roar of a subway train passing beneath the street. He immediately felt guilty. Tonight the new crescent moon would appear in the sky, signaling the start of Ramadan. If Jaxon was right, terrorists were plotting to attack the subway system tomorrow. But they'd all agreed that they couldn't shut down the city's main transportation system without causing mass panic.

Of course, that will be nothing if people die,
he thought. But they didn't know how, where, or when these guys were going to strike.
If they shut the city down this time, and nothing happens, what do they do the next time someone makes a threat?

Karp wondered where Lucy was in all of this. Jaxon had told him that she was working undercover. "She's safe, I have guys who watch her 24/7," he said. "But it wouldn't be good if she stopped by the loft and the bad guys put two and two together. I don't have the manpower to watch the whole Karp-Ciampi clan."

It had been a lonely weekend on Crosby. Marlene and the twins were staying in Queens to spend a little time with her dad; the boys had a long weekend off from school and were hoping Grandpa could be persuaded to go with them to Coney Island. Then on Tuesday, they were all going on a field trip to the New York Stock Exchange. So he was a bachelor until Tuesday night.

The protesters in front of the courthouse hardly acknowledged his arrival.
Monday morning blues, I guess
. Even Treacher seemed worn out. He merely waved from Dirty Warren's stand, where he and the newspaper vendor were playing chess.

Kenny Katz was waiting for him in his office. "I want to make one last pitch to put on our own psychiatrist to counter the crap the jury is going to hear today," he said.

"We don't need 'em," Karp replied. "It's only playing into the defense's hands to make this a showdown between shrinks."

Karp had kept the state psychiatrists, and even the hired gun Katz had located, on the witness list. But that was to keep Lewis guessing. Meanwhile, he stayed with the game plan of playing it straight and simple. Even the small touches of emotion from the Baker Street gang had come off as genuine precisely because he hadn't tried to squeeze it out of them.

"Look, Kenny, first of all, I think prosecutors make a big mistake by trying to 'out-shrink' the shrinks. When you start trying to play psychologist, using their language, you're in their territory, which puts you at a disadvantage."

"Which is why we call someone who speaks the language and can explain their bullshit to the jury," Kenny countered.

"Why give it that much credibility? The defense wants this to be a trial about how crazy Jessica Campbell is. We want this to be a trial about whether she knew what she was doing and was aware that it was wrong. That's all we want to prove, and we don't need a shrink to do it."

Kenny's shoulders sagged, and Karp knew why. The kid had poured his heart and soul into the case—engaged in all the painstaking preparations and pre-trial hearings. Now he thought that Karp might lose the case if the defense's expert witnesses confused the jury; all it would take was one unsure juror and Campbell was off to the funny farm instead of prison.

"You've done a great job with this case," Karp said. "I gave you the ball and you ran with it. But I want you to think long and hard about what I'm saying now. You did it without resorting to fifty-cent words or cheap theatrics; this has been strictly about the evidence, no smoke and mirrors, no confusing the jury with fancy phrases and psychobabble. You've heard me talk about my mentor, Francis Garrahy. Well, he used to constantly remind me that this job isn't just about prosecuting criminals and throwing them in jail. The DAO is supposed to stand for something; it's supposed to stand for the truth, and the truth doesn't need to be embellished or danced around." Karp wondered if he was getting through. He knew this went against everything taught in law school. "I hope you'll see that these parades of expert witnesses are mostly meant to confuse the issue, not illuminate it. Each side calls upon its paid witnesses to reach ironclad, but totally divergent, opinions on the defendant's state of mind. It's at best conjecture."

Psychologists and psychiatrists could not testify "with the degree of scientific certainty that someone like a ballistics expert could," Karp went on. "And this reliance on pseudoscience betrays the purpose of a criminal trial, which is the search for truth guided by the rules of evidence, and the meting out of justice. For Lewis and all those lawyers like her, it's all just a game in which, if they win, criminally violent and unpredictable individuals are exonerated, not because they provided a legitimate defense—like self-defense—but because their hired-gun psychiatrist was more convincing than the state's hired-gun psychiatrist."

Karp looked at his watch. "We're on in ten minutes. Don't look so glum, Sergeant Katz. We're going to win this on the facts and the evidence. Now, are you with me?"

Kenny heaved a sigh. "Yeah, I'm with you. Lock and load, let's go rest our case."

Like the crowd outside the courts building, the spectators inside the courtroom seemed to also be suffering from the Monday malaise. There were even a few empty seats as Karp and Katz entered and made their way to the front.

After the jury was seated, Dermondy looked at the prosecution table. "I believe we are still on the People's case in chief. Please call your next witness."

Karp rose to his feet. "The People, Your Honor, have concluded our presentation."

"What?" Lewis demanded, jumping to her feet. "What about your psychiatric expert?"

Kenny shot Karp a look. It was almost a plea, but the boss shook his head. "Not going to call him."

Lewis's face turned red. "Your Honor, may we approach the bench?"

"Please do. I'm as curious about this turn of events as you are," Dermondy replied.

When the lawyers reached the judge, Lewis angrily insisted that the prosecution was trying to pull a fast one. "This is a case about the mental condition of the defendant," she hissed.

"I beg to differ," Karp said. "This is a murder case. You're claiming the defendant has a mental health excuse..."

"Illness."

"Excuse," Karp repeated. "We're saying she doesn't, so we don't need to confuse the issue with more psychologists and psychiatrists."

"But we read the report by Dr. Drummond, and we're prepared to rebut it with our own witnesses," Lewis complained.

"Now you won't have to do that," Karp replied mildly, enjoying how the coloration of her face kept changing with her emotions. "It will save your client money."
Ooooh, nice shade of purple.

Dermondy shrugged. "Sorry, Miss Lewis, but I can't force the People to call a witness. We're going to have to muddle along with whomever you call to the stand to explain the psychological issues. Are you prepared to call your first witness?"

"No, I'm not," Lewis snapped. "My witnesses are not scheduled to show up until after the noon break. As Mr. Karp so blithely noted, these people are expensive and charge by the hour. We expected this examination and cross to last most of the morning, and then I intended to file several motions to dismiss."

"Well, then, Miss Lewis, I suggest you file the motions, and we'll see what time we have before the noon hour," he said. "In the meantime, I suggest you have an assistant get on the telephone to see if you can get your witnesses here sooner."

When the jury was gone, Lewis made two motions asking that the case be dismissed. The first asserted that the judge had erred at the competency hearing when he had ruled that Jessica Campbell was competent to stand trial. This motion was a routine effort to preserve the record for appeal, and Karp knew Lewis did not expect a favorable ruling. Dermondy noted that she had not offered any new evidence to support her position. The second motion was also routine. She argued that the People had not made out a prima facie case and that therefore there was no reason for the defense to present a case.

"As you know, Your Honor, in an insanity trial the state must prove not only that the defendant killed the victims, which we concede, but also that she was aware of the nature and consequences of what she was doing and that she knew it was wrong," she said. "As I've said all along—to no avail—these witnesses and the manipulated so-called evidence presented by the state does not prove their case, but rather reinforces our contention that Jessica Campbell was legally insane at the time of these unfortunate and tragic deaths. Every point they made had a better explanation as proof of extreme mental illness.