Exile: a novel (40 page)

David accepted the rebuke in silence, hoping to cool the judge’s anger before it tainted the proceedings. “My order,” Taylor continued, “does not allow you to perform the dance of the seven veils on CNN—a tease here, a feint there, a tantalizing hint of the delights to come.” The judge’s voice became more even. “I appreciate the problem of adverse publicity. So I’m not going to bar you from expressing skepticism about this case—based on the public record. But if you so much as allude to a document subject to my order, you’ll be back here to explain why you shouldn’t occupy a cell down the hall from Ms. Arif.” Judge Taylor stared at David for another moment. “All right. Let’s hear about your motion to compel the prosecution to request information from the government of Israel.”

David paused to organize his thoughts. “With apologies, Your Honor, I’ll start where I left off: with Ms. Sharpe’s reliance on her only witness’s polygraph examination to prosecute a woman who passed a polygraph examination of her own—”

“Yes,” the judge interrupted. “What about that, Ms. Sharpe?”

Sharpe looked momentarily startled. “The examination of Ibrahim Jefar was as much to determine whether he would
take
it as
pass
it.”

“And if he’d
failed
it, Counselor?”

Sharpe composed herself. “We would have assessed that result in light of the corroborating evidence suggesting that he was truthful. Once he agreed to take this test, and passed, we had an added degree of comfort.”

“Did Ms. Arif ’s results make you a little less comfortable? Or are some polygraphs more equal than others?”

“In the eyes of the law,” Sharpe responded, “they’re equally inadmissible. Which means that we’re thrown back on the evidence regarding Ms. Arif. All of which—Mr. Jefar’s statement and the physical evidence that corroborates it—points to her guilt.”

Taylor arched her eyebrows. “All the evidence
available,
you mean?” Turning to David, she asked, “Isn’t that your point here, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Exactly. So far, Israel has withheld information that may help Ms. Arif establish that she was framed as part of a conspiracy that may reach within Ben-Aron’s security detail. The United States cannot maintain this prosecution while refusing to ask for evidence that may discredit it.”

“Tease this out for me,” Taylor said. “Suppose that an Israeli abetted an assassination carried out by Palestinians. Would that, in itself, make Ms. Arif any less guilty than the late Iyad Hassan?”

“Let me answer with a not-so-hypothetical scenario,” David said. “Whoever leaked the route called either Hassan or, more likely, Hassan’s handler. Suppose, as I do, that this second person is
not
Hana Arif?

“Right now, the only
real
witness against Hana is a dead man. But a breach in security would mean that someone in Israel may know far more than Ibrahim Jefar about my client’s innocence or guilt—or, at least, may know who does. How can we have a fair trial without trying to unravel this?”

The judge turned to Sharpe. “What’s your answer, Ms. Sharpe?”

“ ‘Unravel this,’ ” Sharpe echoed. “How? By asking us to arrange depositions of every member of Ben-Aron’s security detail, at whatever cost to the national security of another sovereign nation? Israel would never permit it.”

“It
was
Israel’s prime minister who died, Ms. Sharpe. The Israeli government
is
counting on the United States to prosecute those responsible. And the United States cannot do that without providing Mr. Wolfe whatever he’s entitled to.”

“Which is whatever the United States possesses, Your Honor—not whatever Israel may have.”

“Which Israel can decide to produce—or not.” The judge’s tone became impatient. “You’re mounting a prosecution based on hearsay from Jefar, against a defendant who passed a lie detector test—and whom you nonetheless propose, if successful, to execute. You can’t control what the Israelis do. But there’s nothing to keep you from presenting them with a choice: give the United States any information in its possession relevant to Ms. Arif ’s defense or put at risk this entire prosecution.”

Sharpe’s body, as stiff as her expression, betrayed her resistance to what she saw as David’s trap. “Your Honor,” she protested, “this court must be aware—as Mr. Wolfe most certainly is—of the Jonathan Pollard case. Pollard was an American Jew turned citizen of Israel who was convicted of stealing secrets from our government. When the United States prosecuted Pollard, Israel refused to identify his handlers at the request of the defense. That’s the precise response Mr. Wolfe is expecting here.” Sharpe adopted a more even tone. “Despite that, the United States was allowed to prosecute Mr. Pollard. If, as the defense anticipates, the Israelis decline our request on behalf of Ms. Arif, it should not affect our ability to prosecute.”

“According to whom?” Taylor rejoined. “I’m in this job for life.
Whatever the fate of Ms. Arif, what matters to me is whether I can sleep at night. So here’s my order.

“First, the United States will request that the Israelis provide it with any information that tends to exculpate Ms. Arif or is otherwise relevant to her defense. Including,” Taylor added emphatically, “Mr. Wolfe’s assertion that she was framed.

“Second, if that information warrants depositions of Israeli government personnel, Mr. Wolfe may file a further motion seeking such depositions, setting forth the identity of the deponents and the specific grounds for deposing them.”

Startled by his success, David glanced at Sharpe, who appeared too stunned to conceal her dismay. “Third,” the judge continued, “I will defer setting a trial date to give the Israeli government time to produce, and Mr. Wolfe time to investigate, any information relevant to the defense.” Facing Sharpe, the judge concluded, “Should Israel refuse, this court will consider issues far more fundamental than when this trial might begin. Please convey that by whatever means our government deems appropriate.”

Sharpe, it was apparent, could not even muster the formulaic thanks.

“Is there something you don’t grasp, Ms. Sharpe?”

“No, Your Honor. Thank you.”

Nodding, Taylor turned to David. “Your papers suggest that you’re traveling to Israel. Regardless of its government’s response to my order, I suggest you take your trip sooner rather than later.” Her tone was cool. “I don’t want you coming back to me having done little more than file this motion, which, in all likelihood, you expect will get you nothing except what you really want: grounds for a motion to dismiss. That might suggest a certain cynicism—or even provoke it. Rather like your interview on CNN.”

It was a warning, if David needed one, that his own road would be hard, its end uncertain. “Thank you, Your Honor. I’ll take that advice to heart.”

“So you’re going to Israel,” Hana said gently. “The homeland you have never seen.”

“Yes. And also the West Bank.”

Hana nodded, and then gave him a piece of writing paper. “These are the names you wanted, friends and colleagues who know me well.” Her smile, though ironic, seemed almost melancholy. “Carefully culled, of course, to eliminate all those who think me capable of murder.”

David did not know what to say. Hana rested a graceful finger on the
last name she had written. “In the Galilee, there is my cousin Sausan. I’ve met her only once. But she is a young woman of interesting contradictions, a Muslim whose mother was a Christian and whose grandmother was a Jew—no doubt why she finds herself unmarried, running a school in Israel. She’s also very smart and very pretty.”

David smiled. “Is that why I should meet her?”

“If you think so.” Hana’s face was sober now. “But I have another reason for asking. Sausan can show you my parents’ village, I think, even the home where they lived. Her father will know where it is.”

David was surprised. But the depth of her expression suggested how important this was. “You want me to visit for you?”

“Yes. And for my parents.” She spoke more hurriedly, her eyes averted. “I have written how to find them at the camp. This would be yet another favor, David, a side trip to Lebanon. But I have no real way to reassure them, and they have little way to know what has happened to their village. Perhaps you can do both.”

David hesitated: some part of him resisted meeting the man and woman so influential in Hana’s refusal to marry him, and who, if they knew him as her lover rather than her lawyer, would no doubt turn him away. “I know,” Hana said in a softer voice, “this is deeper into my life than you wish to go. Or than, before, I ever wished you to go. But our journey has become much more complex than I imagined. And so I ask.”

After a moment, David nodded. Putting the paper in his pocket, he stood.

“David?” Looking up at him, Hana hesitated. “This will be a good trip, I hope. Not just for me, but you. But whatever happens, please come back safe.”

For an instant, their eyes met, and then she looked away. “I’ll try,” David said, and left. When, by instinct, he turned back toward the witness room, Hana was gazing at him through the clouded window.

David went home and packed for Israel.

P A R T

His seat in business class reclined into a bed. Adjusting his pillow, he glanced around him at his fellow passengers, predominantly middle-aged Israeli businessmen or Hasidic Jews, the women in sober clothes, the men with side curls and black hats and coats. The men tended to be pale, either portly or too thin; in David’s estimate, they could have used a few hours in the gym or, at least, in unfiltered sunlight. He felt no more connection with these fellow Jews than if they had all been Muslims.

Closing his eyes, David fell asleep.

Toward dawn, when he awakened, Hasidic men draped in prayer shawls were drifting toward a small corner of the compartment, apparently to seek the first light of morning. They held prayer books; a leather strap was wound around their arms, a small leather box strapped to their fore-heads. The box, David discovered in a guidebook, held a parchment inscribed with a portion of the Torah; the purpose of the strap was to bind the body, mind, and heart, the better that the men should act for good, not evil. A worthy goal, David supposed.

From between the seats in front of him, a Hasidic boy of perhaps seven, dressed like his father but with a child’s bright-eyed curiosity, peered at David as if at some foreign creature. But when David smiled, the boy grinned back at him, delighted to make contact. At once David thought of Munira, swathed in black, reading the Koran under her father’s watchful eye. That any culture imposed a belief system on its children, other than free inquiry and free choice, remained alien to him, he realized, despite the harsh lesson he had learned from Hana.

An hour later, they landed. David had come to Israel at last.