The Tenth Song (24 page)

There was a dark pink suit. Ashes of roses the color was called in a novel she’d read years ago. She held it up against her chest. It was very plain except for a brooch, but still, it looked expensive—no doubt because it was. Would the judge look at her and think: rich bitch, clothed in ill-gotten gains? She put it aside. Finally, she came across an old brown skirt with a matching blouse and vest, the kind of thing she wore to teach on cold winter days. She held it against her. Was it too obvious an attempt to dress down? Would it look like a pretense? Most of all, would it wound her husband, signaling her belief that she
found it necessary to hide the truth of who they were, as if that in itself was incriminating?

She went back to the pink suit, slipping it off its hanger. She stepped into the skirt, then added a simple white shell with short sleeves. She put her arms through the jacket, then buttoned it as she carefully scrutinized herself in the mirror. The brooch—a glittering crystal eye-catcher worn above her heart—would definitely have to go, she thought, unpinning it and placing it on her night table. The jacket still looked expensive. I can always slip it off in court, she told herself, giving up.

In the kitchen, Adam was sitting at the counter drinking his coffee. This amazed her. How could anyone own a stomach that allowed one all that caffeine in such distressing circumstances? She made herself a cup of pale yellow chamomile tea and chewed halfheartedly on a dry whole-wheat biscuit. Even so, she hoped she wouldn’t have to ask the taxi driver to pull over to a gas station restroom on their way to court.

She envied people with iron digestive systems. People who needed prunes. Ever since she had been a child, she never knew when her bowels would turn to water. Everything affected them. A test at school, a new spice, getting up early and having to leave the house and be on the road. Soon, she was afraid to go anywhere unless she knew exactly where a bathroom would be. Long car rides through unfamiliar places were torture. A doctor once diagnosed her with IBS, or irritable bowel syndrome. She got little yellow pills, and they actually did seem to work.

But more than once she had recognized in her fears a wider significance: She was afraid of being humiliated publicly. Soiling oneself was simply the most obvious manifestation of that. Why she cared so much what others would think of her, she could not immediately diagnose. But she had some ideas. It had something to do with her parents, that horrible mess her mother called housekeeping. The chronic sense of shame at things over which she had no control or responsibility.

Her mother, Esther, had been born in 1933 in Jerusalem, the child of young parents who wound up there after fleeing German anti-Semitism when that was still possible. But the raw new country had not suited the sophisticated
Europeans, and as soon as they got the coveted entry permits, they had journeyed to the U.S., leaving the struggling Jewish Promised Land behind.

Thirteen-year-old Esther had never actually learned to be comfortable with the English language—her third language after German and Hebrew. And having spent her formative years among simple, hardscrabble pioneers, she was equally unhappy with what she always considered American snobbery and materialism.

She didn’t know what to do with material things. She was an unorganized woman who never liked taking care of a home. A hoarder, she would keep things well past their prime, stocking new clothes, furniture, and knickknacks beside the old until the closets were overflowing, the bedrooms like a warehouse. Abigail was embarrassed to bring friends home. It was the beginning of a lifelong sense of inferiority. And a chronic case of IBS.

Her father, Joseph, was born in 1922 in Chicago. A printer with no ambition, he seemed fascinated by his opinionated foreign wife, and only too happy to indulge her. Often, he cleaned up after her, creating some order out of the chaos. But her father had died young, and her mother had mourned him until her dying day, forty years later. After his death, things in the house had gone from bad to worse, until finally they put Esther into a nursing home and locked up the house. The first and only time the house was clean was when Abigail had gone there after the funeral, bringing mops, brushes, and detergent, and many, many garbage bags.

She looked around at her own clean, orderly home. I’ve made my own life, she thought proudly. Still, the terror of disclosure hung over her head. It probably always would no matter how much she invested in her home, or how beautiful it was. She would always feel that
ping
of alarm when company came over, afraid things were not good enough. She shook her head, musing at the insanity of human beings. No judge looking at their expensive lifestyle from the outside would ever be able to grasp that.

“I’ll make us some sandwiches,” she told him, taking off her jacket and putting on an apron. “Goodness knows how long we will be there.”

He said nothing, reading the paper, bringing the cup methodically to his lips. Only the sound of the clattering saucer made her look up, realizing that he had placed the cup in the wrong spot, almost sending it flying. His hand shook.

She put down her knife and walked toward him, wiping her hands on her apron. She slipped her arms around his neck. They stood there, unmoving, until the doorbell rang. It was their car service, waiting to drive them to court.

They arrived before their lawyers.

“For the money we are paying them, they should be sitting here waiting for us,” she fumed.

“Shush. They are good people. They are doing the best job possible. Be grateful, can’t you?”

“We’ll soon see about that,” she hissed. “If they had done the best job possible, why would we be in court at all?”

“If you are going to be unreasonable and childish, maybe you should go home,” Adam said through gritted teeth.

She felt wounded and chastised. She had wanted it to be them against the world, but that was not what he wanted. He had invited the lawyers—who were bleeding them dry—into their inner circle, preferring them to her. Of course, he was right. For what had she to offer in his defense but her childish love and useless faith, both worthless in the eyes of the law?

They waited outside the huge doors of the courtroom, realizing that inside another trial was still in progress. When someone left, she peeked inside. She saw lawyers standing at attention, interrupting each other, and a judge angrily banging his gavel. Her heart sank: He will already be in a bad mood, annoyed by the previous case, when it is our turn. Bad luck! But maybe he wasn’t the same judge at all, not
their
judge? She tried hard to conjure up his face from the first time in court, but could recall nothing more than a halo of salt-and-pepper hair hovering above black robes.

The prosecuting attorney arrived together with four assistants and cartloads of papers. Marvin came in, with two assistants, also carrying a cartload of documents. The doors opened wide, and they went inside.

It was part theater, part waiting room for open-heart surgery, she thought, her heart beating erratically as she found her seat. She looked over at the other side. There was a hush in the courtroom as the doors opened and A. J. Hurling strode in. He was impressive, with a face both large and majestic, a model for
something to be carved into a mountainside. His body too was on a grand scale at well over three hundred pounds. But with the advantage of his height and expensively made custom suits, he exuded more Henry VIII than obese trailer trash on line at the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Adam tensed physically, his eyes lowering in shame. Without meaning to, had he brought this honorable man into contact with something ugly, something shameful? Hurling did not look in his direction, inclining his head toward the man next to him.

“Who is Hurling talking to?” Abigail whispered.

“It’s James Williams Jr.”

“The attorney that represented O.J.?”

He nodded.

The attorney was a legend. And he was here to protect his client’s rights even though it wasn’t A. J. Hurling who was on trial.

“Hurling has no reason to blame you for anything. You didn’t know! It wasn’t your fault!”

“Abby, be reasonable.” He cradled his face in his hands.

Abigail stared at Hurling, trying to catch his attention. She didn’t understand why she needed to make eye contact with this man. Maybe just to see what was going on inside him; to understand just how much of an enemy he was going to be. Or perhaps simply to nod in shamed acknowledgment of their shared connection to this ordeal. But he continued to stare straight ahead. She had almost given up when suddenly, without warning, he turned his head in their direction, looking at Adam. She had been prepared for almost anything: anger, vengefulness, betrayal… anything but what she’d glimpsed: indifference.

She found that shocking on many levels. First, it made no sense, except if there was a piece missing, something they didn’t understand, hadn’t thought of. And second, it was contrary to human nature. If he thought for a moment Adam was guilty, Hurling should have been furious.

“All rise!” the bailiff demanded as the judge entered, a faceless man in black robes who held their lives in his white hands.

A wave of sound washed through the silent room as people jumped to their feet.

“Docket 5890-89. The United States versus Adam Samuels.”

The words cut through her like an ax. The United States! The country they and their forebears had looked at as the fulfilled promise of all their dreams! Now, they were pitted against each other, enemies. She could see Adam’s eyes well with tears. Now it begins, Abigail thought, the longest, most treacherous ordeal of their lives, putting at stake all they owned, or could ever own, all they were or could be.

There was some procedural bickering between the lawyers and the judge that she didn’t understand; then the prosecutor said he wanted to read the indictment out loud before the judge took Adam’s plea.

Their lawyer, Marvin, jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, this is most unusual. We have all read the indictment carefully; there is no reason to waste the court’s time…”

But the prosecutor didn’t budge. “It is our belief that the public should be reminded at every opportunity of the seriousness of activities such as those Mr. Samuels stands accused of. With the court’s indulgence, we would like to use this courtroom as a public forum to emphasize the despicable nature of this particular crime.”

The judge waved a dismissive hand. “Just make it quick. Sit down,” he told Marvin. “I’ve made my decision.”

“ ‘That Adam Samuels did knowingly, intentionally, and willfully conspire and agree to commit offenses against the United States.’ ”

She saw her husband tremble.

“ ‘That he knowingly and willfully violated and evaded and attempted to violate and evade regulations issued under executive orders of the International Emergency Economic Powers Act, Title 50, and U.S. Code 1701 an offense under Title 18 U.S. Code Section 1956 a 2 A. And that said offenses included Boston, Massachusetts, and Amman, Jordan, and Iraq. That his intent was to promote the carrying out of specified and unlawful activity to organize, equip, and promote groups designated as terrorists and enemy aliens of the United States of America, including Hamas, Hezbollah, and Al-Qaeda, in excess of $150 million.’ ”

There was a collective intake of breath, or perhaps it was simply her own lungs she heard urgently gasping for air. She saw her husband slump, as if,
balloonlike, he had been physically pierced by the enormity and hurtfulness of the charges brought against him. Unthinkable, unthinkable, that Adam should “knowingly and willingly” have done any of these things.

What followed she barely heard. Dates and amounts of monetary transfers to Gregory Van’s Organza Group, Ltd., in London. Dates and transfers of money from the Organza Group to the Jordan Islamic Bank, payable to Zimbal Trading Corporation. Transfers and canceled checks from Zimbal to Aba Musa Rantisi, Mohammed El Bargouti, and Halib baba Faheed, high-ranking members of outlawed terror organizations, including Hamas, Al-Qaeda, and the Islamic Martyrs Brigade.

But it was only toward the end, when they read out what they wanted if Adam was convicted, that she was made to finally grasp the enormity of what they were up against, and what they stood to lose.

“ ‘Present Forfeiture. If the defendant is convicted he shall forfeit to the U.S. the following property: all right, title, and interest in any and all property involved in each of the offenses. Any and all property traceable to such property of a sum not less than $150 million representing the total amount of funds involved. All funds on deposit with Organza and the Jordan Islamic Bank. The defendant shall substitute property up to the value of the amount described if any portion of the amount cannot be located upon exercise of due diligence, or has been transferred, sold, or deposited with a third party, or placed beyond the jurisdiction of the court or has been substantially diminished in value or has been commingled with other property that cannot be divided without difficulty…’ ”

She heard nothing more. One hundred and fifty million dollars! And they wanted Adam to repay it! Every penny. They would lose everything. Not only their own home, but Shoshana and Matthew’s, because Adam had given them money for their down payment. Not only their own savings accounts, but those set aside for the children and grandchildren. The more she thought about it, the more her horror grew. From a life of luxury to a life of bankruptcy and penniless want.

“In addition, each count carries a penalty of not less than ten years in federal penitentiary.”

Each count, that is, each monetary transfer. And there had been dozens.

She began to understand now about the lawyers. Only they stood between her and Adam and the braying vicious pack waiting to be let loose to tear them to pieces.
Everything
was at stake.

Finally, the judge turned to Adam for the first time. “Are you ready to enter a plea?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I am not guilty.”

“Duly noted.”

The prosecutor stood up. “Your Honor, the State requests that Mr. Samuels be taken into immediate custody until the end of the proceedings against him.”