The Tenth Song (25 page)

“Your Honor!” Marvin jumped up, earning Abigail’s unending gratitude. “My client has been out on bail for over four months and has done nothing in violation. We ask that this arrangement be continued.”

The prosecutor rose to his feet. “Your Honor, the situation has changed. The defendant’s daughter has already fled the country.”

“Your Honor! Kayla Samuels is not accused of anything! She is perfectly free to travel. She is taking a trip abroad. A child on vacation cannot be accused of having ‘fled the country.’ Besides, Mr. Samuels has a wife, two other children, and grandchildren, all of whom presently reside in the United States. He has close ties to the community. He has no priors. He has surrendered his passport.”

The prosecutor was furious. “Your Honor, this is no vacation. Kayla Samuels left with no warning in the middle of a semester in her final year at Harvard Law School! Furthermore, in the days of computers, the State believes Mr. Samuels needs to be under constant supervision to see that he does not continue his illegal money-transferring activities.”

“Leaving Harvard Law in the middle of the semester is not a crime, except if you are the one paying the tuition,” the judge said with deadpan humor. “Can you present any evidence of illegal activity conducted by Mr. Samuels over the past four months?” he asked the prosecutor.

“No, Your Honor, but…”

“Well then…” He waved his arm dismissively. “If the situation changes, I will consider changing my ruling. But until then, bail will continue.”

Adam took her hand as they walked out of the courtroom. The flashing lights of television cameras and photographers blinded them. She did not
bother to cover her face, walking stoically forward. She had forgotten, she realized, to take off her jacket. But what did it matter? The reporters, once their most formidable enemies, seemed like mosquitoes to her now. For what could they actually do? Put you in jail? Steal your home? Your life’s savings? No, only the court could do that. The U.S. government, her own government, her own justice system.

Marvin motioned silently for them to follow him. They walked down the corridor into a private office. “Close the door behind you,” he told Adam. “They have to prove ‘knowingly, intentionally, and willfully.’ ”

She winced. “Can they?”

“Look, the feds would not have put themselves on the line like this if they didn’t think they could prove it. A prosecutor generally does not want to arrest somebody that he can’t establish is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Arresting someone starts the ‘speedy trial clock’ which means that if you arrest a defendant, you have to be prepared to take him to trial soon. I don’t know any prosecutors who authorize arrests on white-collar-type cases in the hopes that evidence will materialize to enable them to prove their case. They believe they have a case against you, Adam, and a good one.”

Their hearts sank. “How can they prove something that isn’t true! What if that prosecutor is just trying to make a name for himself?” Abigail demanded.

“Look, there is always theoretically the possibility of a ‘rogue’ prosecutor, who wants an indictment or an arrest to make himself look good. But in my experience, that possibility could not arise in a situation such as this. Sensitive cases like these have oversight from a variety of different stakeholders, including FBI headquarters overseeing the local FBI field office, and Department of Justice headquarters overseeing the local U.S. Attorney’s Office. This is all in addition to the oversight performed by the management chain in the local U.S. Attorney’s Office… No U.S. Attorney wants his Assistant to bring a case that will blow up in their faces, causing them embarrassment and humiliation if the government loses…”

“What you are saying? That they have proof? A witness? Do you have any idea who they are going to bring?” Adam asked.

“So far, I know about one. Christopher Dorset, the person Adam says introduced him to Van. Attorney Dorset is claiming the opposite. They have an affidavit
from him that says Adam not only introduced
him
to Van, but also asked
him
if he wanted to help bring in additional investors. He claims Adam explained the whole operation to him, how the transfers were made and to whom. He says Adam offered him huge fees to bring in other clients.”

“He’s lying!” Adam shouted.

“That’s what we have to prove, Adam. I won’t sugarcoat it. It won’t be easy. Dorset, Hurling. They are all very high-profile.”

“And I’m just a stupid, gullible little accountant from Boston. But what about Gregory Van, the fund operator who made the actual money transfers? Surely, if anyone knows the truth, it’s him!”

“Interpol is still looking for him, but it’s by no means certain he’ll ever be found. He could be holed up indefinitely in Saudi Arabia or Syria or Iran. And another thing—this case has become a political football. The State Department is anxious to show the British government that British help in Afghanistan and Iraq is appreciated. In turn, we have to cooperate fully in prosecuting any terror funders from our side.”

Adam’s face went white. “What is it you’re trying to tell me, Marvin?”

“Look, I know you both don’t want to hear this again, but as your lawyer, it’s my duty to tell you that it would be in your best interest to plea-bargain. They have a strong case. A trial is much too risky for you. As I keep telling you, it’s not really Adam they want. They have bigger fish to fry. They’ll be lenient.”

Abigail saw the blood rush to Adam’s face. “Let me get this straight, Marvin. You want me to admit I knowingly transferred a client’s money to fund terrorism? Admit that I introduced Gregory Van to Christopher Dorset, when the opposite is true? Admit that all the horrible lies they have been spreading all over the world about me have some kernel of truth in them?!”

“I understand how you feel, but we can’t afford to be emotional about this, Adam. Look at what you’re facing if you lose! You’ll be behind bars for life! And financially, your family will be wiped out forever. If we plea-bargain, maybe we could get them to satisfy themselves with a few years in jail or even to waive any prison time at all—although I’ll be honest, that doesn’t look likely. And financially, perhaps we could get them to agree to limit fines to just the amount you got in fees for doing these transactions, not the principal.”

“
We
can’t afford to be emotional, Marvin? There is no
we
here. Just
me
. And if I plead guilty,
my
family,
my
life, will be destroyed, not yours.”

“Yes, of course.” Marvin looked uncomfortable. “Certainly, it’s up to you. But if you lose, the penalties will be staggering.”

Adam grasped his lawyer’s shoulder. “Which is why, Marvin, we have to win. I don’t care what it costs. I’m innocent, Marvin, I swear to you. Please believe me.”

“I do, Adam. Of course I do. But as your lawyer, it’s my ethical responsibility to explain to you—to both of you—what you are up against. Do you understand?”

“Yes. We understand. Thank you,” Adam said.

Abigail didn’t contradict him, but her mind was in turmoil. Adam was innocent. She believed that with all her heart. But it was equally true that his decisions and actions, however innocent the intention, had gotten them entangled in this horrible nightmare. His endless ambition, she thought bitterly.

She tried to bury that knowledge. She had to support him, to take care of him, to protect him. She slipped her hand through his, squeezing it hard. This was her role in life. What other choice did she have?

17

On the ride home, they held hands in the back of the taxi, engulfed by a thick, exhausted silence. It was like coming back from a funeral, Abigail thought, except that there would be no friends and family bringing plates of food with sympathetic smiles, no condolence calls as they sat in stupefied grief, overwhelmed by loss. There would be only their beautiful silent house to welcome them in its comforting arms.

No one had shoveled the walk, she realized in shock, remembering that all these things were now their responsibility since their housekeeper and gardeners had been let go.

“Hold on to me,” Adam said. They clutched each other, slipping and sliding over the treacherously icy stone walkway. Broken branches littered the fallen snow, and the paint on the banister was peeling.

They tried not to see.

Adam reached up to the mailbox. Bills, catalogues, more bills, then something else.

“It’s a letter. From Israel.”

It had been three weeks since they’d heard anything.

They didn’t bother taking off their coats, hurrying into the living room, tearing open the envelope. Adam carefully unfolded the sheets of yellow, lined paper.
The edges were roughly torn, as if hurriedly snatched from a notebook. The words too seemed hasty, scrawled and crowded together as if it had all spilled out in a rush. Nothing about it reminded him of their meticulous daughter.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I am sitting here writing by the light of a single candle so as not to waken my room (tent?)mates. Believe it or not, outside, the desert air is fragrant with the scent of flowers. This place is a little miracle, full of fertility and growth where you’d least expect it.

We haven’t found anything of importance to the world yet. But everything we find is precious to us: vegetable and fruit pits and bits of metals. They are the clues left behind by the ancient people of Israel who built this place, revealing what they ate, and how they lived.

I have to say, I am not crazy about archaeology. It tells you too much about houses, tools, food, plants, and climate, and too little about who people were, what they thought or believed. It is just a job I’m doing really, unskilled labor I undertook for a roof over my head and all the chicken cutlets and tiny cut-up tomatoes and cucumbers I can eat. Truthfully, I would have left here long ago if not for Rav Natan…

“Rav?” Abigail repeated softly with horror, already imagining her daughter forced into uncontrolled childbearing to a black-coated-Talmud-scholar wannabe, living on handouts in poverty-stricken superstitious ignorance…

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Abigail. This is Kayla, our Kayla, we are talking about.” Adam raised his voice, as if to shout down his own fears.

Rav Natan, and of course, Daniel. But before I go into any details, I want to apologize to you both. I realize now just how much I’ve hurt you by abandoning you in your hour of need. It was a great
avera…

“
Daniel? Avera?
” Abigail grabbed the letter shaking her head. “My God!”

“Let me just finish this, will you?” Adam said through clenched teeth.

He was pretty much at his limit, she saw, frightened.

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

A great sin. The beginning of all spiritual growth starts with gratitude toward those who gave you life. First God, then your parents. But please try to understand that I did these things not out of, God forbid, disrespect, but simply to save myself. I felt as if I were drowning and had no choice but to swim to shore. The way I chose to do this was, I admit, reckless and inconsiderate and no doubt caused you much pain. I’m sorry for that, truly. But I hope you will be happy for me when I tell you that I have found a safe shore, a solid piece of earth. Sometimes, it even feels as if it’s for the first time, as if all my life I have been floating in some amniotic sac, waiting to emerge into responsibility and clarity. What a foolish, selfish, indulgent life I’ve lived until now! If not for everything that has happened, I would have probably stayed that way, never having a shot at a real life.

I am newly born, really.

Adam put down the letter and wiped his forehead. Abigail helped him slide his arms out of his coat, then took off her own, folding them beside her on the couch.

The people around me are going through the same metamorphosis. They are all special people from such different backgrounds. I know—Mom and Dad—you’d like them. Together, we are learning so much about life and God and the universe, and where we all fit in, our role in the world as human beings. We’re a colony of caterpillars turning into butterflies!

Abigail shook her head slowly from side to side. A sudden sharp pain cut through her elbow, radiating up her arm. She massaged it secretly, not wanting Adam to notice.

I’m so sorry that you and Dad are suffering, but for myself, I am grateful for this intervention by the universe. Yes, it was devastating and embarrassing—all the newspaper stories, the way people looked at me in the offices where I was supposed to interview for the high-paying jobs that were my due. I remember learning that everything that happens to us is somehow for the best, but until now I found that hard to believe. Now I know this is really true. I see the fog I have lived in all my life lifting, the way it lifts over the mountaintops just as the sun breaks through.

Rav Natan teaches that all our lives are a song we sing to God. No matter how low we fall, that song goes on simply because we are alive. Life itself is the song. And no man’s song is like another’s.

Anyhow, I just wanted you to know that I am alive and singing.

And now the hard part, the part you are probably guessing and dreading, although you shouldn’t be. You should be happy for me, your daughter, who has finally found joy in her life.

Well, there is no easy way to tell this, so I’ll just blurt it out:

I am not coming back. My song is here. There was no song in my old life, only silence, because I was living someone else’s life. I could never get her tune right, her lyrics were never natural in my mouth. For so long, I thought misery was just inevitable, part of the road to eventual happiness and success. Now I understand that I was on a bad road. And as the Ladino proverb says: “A bad road cannot lead to a good place.”