Randy Singer - Fatal Convictions

Hearing nothing, he stepped back to swing the sword again. Just as he did in his dreams, this time he would swing with all his might. There could be no mercy. The sword would complete its deadly arc, and Mahdi’s honor would be restored.

“Allahu akbar,” he said as the sword sliced through the air.

Following the execution, Hassan did not allow himself the luxury of emotion. There was nothing to celebrate, nothing to mourn. He was only following Allah’s will. There was still much to be done.

The marriage between Ja’dah and Fatih Mahdi could now be expunged. It would be as if she had never existed. The gruesome manner of her death would strike fear into the hearts of other Muslim women who were considering dishonoring their families. At the same time, it would repulse and terrorize Americans, reminding them that there were jihadists among them, here on American soil.

Beheadings were commonplace in parts of the Middle East, an accepted form of capital punishment. But in America, they were regarded as a grotesque novelty, one that would have the media chattering for months. Muslim scholars and moderate imams would condemn the brutality and claim Islam was a religion of peace.

But radicals like Hassan would be energized by it. A personal attack deep in the heart of the enemy’s territory. A clinical strike. One that would frustrate millions because the agents of the Great Satan would never find the responsible party. On the other hand, Hassan would make sure the bodies were found, even though they would never be traced back to him.

Though Ja’dah’s death would be repulsive to Americans, in truth she did not suffer. Hassan hadn’t wanted her to. She was courageous, though misguided. He understood her resolve and commitment, a reflection of his own. She was in many ways a victim. The one who shouldered the greater part of the blame was this man named Martin Burns, an infidel who had lusted after a Muslim woman and led her astray.

For him, death would not come so easily. Ja’dah’s beheading would deter other Muslim women, but Hassan needed something just as strong to deter American men. Martin Burns had to suffer. He needed to die in a way that would play on the fears of Americans, something that would command the attention of even those who gorged themselves on Hollywood horror movies. And Hassan wanted to create some religious symbolism as well. It would be a shame that the irony would be lost on most.

Using Ja’dah’s cell phone, Hassan sent a text message at about 8:30 p.m., timed to coincide with the ending of the Beach Bible worship service. Ja’dah had not programmed Martin Burns’s cell number into her contact list, but Hassan had done his homework. Burns was a real estate broker, and Hassan had called his place of business earlier that week, pretending to be a new client anxious to talk. It had not been hard to get Burns’s cell number. Greed was a handy tool in dealing with Americans.

The text message was simple. We need 2 talk privately. It’s important. Can we meet?

He didn’t sign Ja’dah’s name. The call history on her phone showed several calls to Burns’s number. Burns would recognize the source.

A few seconds later, Ja’dah’s phone rang. Hassan let the call from Burns kick into voice mail. He waited a few seconds and then sent another text. Can’t talk on my cell. Can u meet with me? Please?

This time, Burns sent an immediate reply. Sure. Where are you?

Hassan responded. I needed to get away. Very confused. Can u meet at the parking lot at the far end of Sandbridge-by the Pavilion?

Hassan assumed this might throw Burns a little. He was prepared to meet the man anyplace private, but Sandbridge would make things easier. Hassan also knew that every word of these text messages would eventually be discovered by the authorities and would, in turn, help them narrow their search for the bodies. It would be better if they found the bodies before a great deal of decomposition. Sandbridge? It’s a long story. I’ll tell u when u get here.

Hassan waited. The phone vibrated. On my way.

Hassan smiled. One more text message. This one, the most important of all. Don’t tell anyone, ok? I need this to be just u and me.

The response was exactly what Hassan had expected. Of course.

After a weekend of preparing and delivering a sermon, Alex found it hard to get out of bed on Monday mornings. This week it didn’t help that he was facing a mountain of paperwork to review, pleadings to draft, and phone calls to return. He arrived at the office at 9:30, only to find the doors still locked. It could only mean that Sylvia Brunswick had called in sick.

Again.

Alex unlocked the office, turned on the lights, and started a pot of coffee. As he expected, Sylvia had left a message on his voice mail, groaning as she told him about her incredibly painful migraine. She promised to try and come in tomorrow but said there was nothing she could do about it today.

She couldn’t have picked a worse day to stay home. Alex had pleadings to file, including some answers to requests for admissions that absolutely had to be served that day. He would normally dictate the answers and let Sylvia worry about the details of typing them up and hand-delivering them to the other side. Now, that wasn’t an option.

For the next hour and a half, Alex ignored his phone calls, resisted the urge to look at his e-mails, and typed away on his computer. When he finished and tried to print out the pleading, he discovered that the printer was low on toner. Just like Sylvia not to change the cartridge before she left Friday.

Alex replaced the toner, printed out the document, made some corrections, printed it again, and tried to run off duplicate copies. The copy machine jammed, and Alex spent ten minutes trying to get it back online. Eventually, he conceded defeat and resorted to copying each page on a small copier without an automatic feeder. A five-page pleading. Four copies. Twelve minutes.

He called Shannon’s cell phone as he ran the copies one at a time, placing each page facedown on the glass.

“Sylvia called in sick,” he told Shannon.

“I know. Migraine.”

“Where are you?”

“Our branch office.”

“Which is?”

“In my car on North Landing Road, near the site of the accident. I’m coming out here every morning I can this week, just to see if a truck fitting the description Ghaniyah gave us makes routine deliveries on this route.”

Alex was stacking and stapling documents. The idea of a stakeout sounded like a long shot to him, a needle in a haystack. Even for Shannon, who sweated over every detail of a case, this was a little obsessive.

“So let me get this straight,” Alex said. “You’re sitting out there on North Landing Road, waiting for a white produce truck with a red cab to come along so you can follow it to wherever and question the driver about a hit-and-run accident?”

“I’m not really going to question anyone,” Shannon said without sounding the least bit defensive. “I’m just going to take a few pictures and copy down the license plate.”

Alex’s BlackBerry buzzed with a different call. He didn’t recognize the number and ignored it.

“I’ll show the pictures to Ghaniyah,” Shannon continued. “If that doesn’t trigger anything, I’ll subpoena the manifests from the truck company after we file our John Doe lawsuit. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some deliveries that would place the truck on North Landing Road at the time of Ghaniyah’s accident.”

“To be honest, it seems like a waste of time to me,” said Alex, though he actually hoped she would prove him wrong. “Can’t we hire somebody to do that?”

“One, we don’t have the money. And two, I’m working on other files and making phone calls while I’m out here. I’ll probably bill more than you today.”