Surfing the Panther

So what you’re saying is that you have no sympathy for the victim?”

“As I explained previously, I can’t discuss a pending case,” said Madriani.

“Well, then, let’s go back to the hypothetical,” said Cooper, flashing a smile at him. “I just tried to get you to tip your hand about that big case you’re trying in LA. Give the locals here some pointers. The situation we’ve been given to discuss today has a few similar issues. I’d like to know what you gain by being so vicious about a dead woman.”

“There’s no lack of sympathy, not on my part.”

Cooper ignored his denial. “Why is it so many litigators show no empathy for the female victim? In our hypo, she was a woman excelling in a male‑dominated vocation. Or maybe you saw her as someone who was socially undesirable – a parasite, perhaps?”

“Your choice of words, not mine,” said Madriani. He didn’t like being cross‑examined. Alexandra Cooper made him feel like a witness on the stand.

“But you agree with that assessment, don’t you? You like blaming the victim.” She knew she had him over a barrel and was pressing hard.

Paul Madriani, a criminal defense lawyer, knew that he’d be making a mistake if he allowed her to mention the case he currently had on trial in LA. Like stepping on the trigger of a land mine. He tried to figure some way to ease off and keep her focused on this exercise.

“Let’s just say that a jury is not likely to view the activities of your hypothetical victim as rising to the level of a holy calling. Can we just agree on that? Fair game?”

“The hypothetical deceased ran a top‑tier advertising agency, Paul – a start‑up she created with her own guts and brain.”

“She started up more male body parts than one could count, Alex. I’ll give you that,” Madriani said. “She also ran an escort service out of her Park Avenue offices.”

Some laughter from the audience, but none from Alex Cooper whose gaze at the moment consisted of two slits, both directed like lasers at Madriani’s Adam’s apple. To Cooper, a thirty‑eight‑year‑old career prosecutor, head of a pioneering sex crimes unit in New York City, these were fighting words.

“So you think she deserved to die, Paul?”

“As I said earlier, you have to admit that the woman’s death may well have had to do with some of the lowlifes she encountered in the sex trade and nothing to do with my hypothetical client’s business strategies.”

“We have a question from the audience.” The moderator tried to break up the gender brawl with some Q & A.

“What you’re saying,” said Cooper, not quite ready to give up the fight, “is that a woman operating a legitimate portion of her company, perhaps more aggressively than her male competitors, deserves to be sexually assaulted, then bludgeoned–”

“That is not what I said.”

“She deserved the end she got, is that it? Is that the takeaway for the young lawyers here in the audience?”

Cooper and Madriani found themselves pitted against each other as speakers on a criminal‑law panel of the New York State Bar Association, debating tactics in capital cases. In today’s session, they were using the example of a businesswoman in both legitimate and illegitimate realms, who’d been brutally sexually assaulted in her Manhattan office. As the defense attorney, Madriani was representing the hypothetical accused – a rival businessman – and his argument was that the deceased had many more unsavory enemies in her secondary “career” who may have killed her. In other words, he was casting aspersions on the dead victim’s character in order to create reasonable doubt for his client. And Alexandra Cooper wasn’t having any of it. Madriani had committed to the engagement months earlier, long before he had a trial date in a similarly high‑profile case– People v. Mustaffa –which was supposed to be off‑limits for the panel’s discussion since this matter was now pending, though Cooper was doing her best to rile him on it. He had taken the weekend off to fly to New York, and was now beginning to rue the day.

“Is that your pathetic attempt at a defense?” Cooper asked, before he could answer her last question.

“That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“Then perhaps you should explain yourself,” said Cooper.

“Paul Madriani never needs to explain himself,” the moderator said. “He’s a master in the well of the courtroom. In fact, Alex, since we’re almost out of time, I suggest you take our visiting dignitary down to the bar and buy the first round. Isn’t that your tradition during jury deliberations?”

“It was nothing personal, Alex,” Madriani added. “It has nothing to do with the victim’s gender.”

Alex was used to having the last word. She tried to interject another comment, but could see that some of the attendees were closing their notebooks, hoping to snag an introduction to the two lawyers before they could escape the conference ballroom.

Madriani was having none of it. “What I mean is that you don’t have the most sympathetic victim in this kind of a situation.”

“Really? You think anyone deserves to die in such a horrific way? Would it be better for you if it was a male victim who had his genitals mutilated?”

“No!” he said. “Well, maybe!”

Laughter from the audience. Right now Madriani was beginning to sense what that might feel like. Cooper offered up a smile, the gender card dropped on the table by a skilled prosecutor, showing him how it’s done. “Can I ask you a question, Ms. Cooper?”

“Be my guest,” said Alex.

“I take it you’re not on special assignment here, undercover so to speak, with the LA District Attorney’s Office, are you?” Lawyers in the audience laughed again.

Cooper just smiled. “Touché! I tried to get you off‑mark, Paul, but I couldn’t budge you. Better to have met you here than in the courtroom. And thanks for coming to do this.”

Litigators started moving to the podium in the front of the room. Paul leaned over to Alex as she stuffed her notes into a folder. “The hotel bar in fifteen?”

“No.”

“Don’t be a bad sport.”

“I’m just being a good hostess, Paul. Lose your acolytes and I’ll take you to the best bar in Manhattan. Best steaks, too, knowing how you like to devour red meat.”

Madriani smiled and nodded to accept the invitation.

“I made a seven o’clock reservation at Patroon. It’s a few blocks away. I’ll meet you in the lobby and we can walk over.”

Alex recognized the first man – four or five years with the Legal Aid Society doing defense work – who had lined up in front of Madriani’s place at the table.

“Mr. Madriani,” he said, introducing himself and reaching up to shake hands. “You’re off the record now. I’m just curious to know how you plan to walk the tightrope in your trial, in the Mustaffa case. I’ve got something like that coming up in the fall.”

“Like what?”

“You know. The victim in your case. Carla Spinova.”

Madriani glanced at Cooper as if to say, You started this.

Anyone who saw the news on television knew that Spinova was part of the international paparazzi.

“The victim here probed people’s secrets with her camera. She rooted through their trash for a living, a provocative career to say the least. A good lawyer has got to use that against the prosecution, don’t you think?” said Paul.

“Oh, really?” Alex asked, resisting the wiser choice of walking away from the discussion. “According to the medical examiner, if I recall correctly, Spinova’s vagina was ripped in four places by a weapon with a sharp serrated edge.”

“Stick to the hypothetical,” Madriani said. “I’m in front of a judge in LA who’d sooner drop the hammer on me for violating a gag order than parse words after reading my comments in the newspaper.”

“Either way,” Cooper said, “a woman who lived on the margins is dead, and you’re the one representing her killer.”

“If there was a global ranking for those who invaded other people’s privacy with a camera, Carla Spinova surely would have been seeded no lower than one or two on that list,” Madriani said, lowering his head so that only Alex and the young man in front of him could hear him. “It’s not like there’s a shortage of potential suspects, people who harbored a great deal of ill will toward her. Other dudes who might have done it.”

“So you’re not just blaming the victim. You’re throwing up some red herrings?”

Madriani nodded and thanked the lawyer for his question, then turned to Alex. “I’m ready for that cocktail, before I get myself in trouble talking about Mustaffa.”

“You deserve it. And if I were prosecuting your case, Paul, I’d make do with the photographs from the ME’s postmortem and take my chances with your high‑profile client,” Cooper said.

Ibid Mustaffa was indeed Madriani’s client, and at the moment the skilled attorney figured that God might be on his side. He only had a thousand or so prosecutors in the LA County DA’s Office to worry about. The fates had saved him from Alexandra Cooper.

* * *

On their way out, Madriani greeted a few acquaintances and answered some generic questions about trial strategy. The last straggler asked whether his Southern California firm was hiring. Madriani laughed and waved the young woman off. “Try me again in a year.”

Cooper was waiting near the exit. Before Madriani could reach her, he was intercepted by a man who’d been seated in the rear of the audience.

“Excuse me, Mr. Madriani, but I was wondering whether you think the victim’s death might have had anything to do with her recent trip to North Africa?”

The man spoke with a slight British accent, as if he might have been schooled in the UK, but was not born there. He wore a white linen suit and held a Panama hat in one hand, something out of a Bogart movie– Casablanca –a throwback to the forties. And the victim he was referencing was not the hypothetical ad maven/madam of the mock trial.

“I’m sure you heard me say I’m not here to comment on Mr. Mustaffa’s case.” Madriani knew about Carla Spinova’s trip. He and his investigators had checked it out and found nothing significant to tie it to her death.

“But you know she was killed on the eve of her return to Africa,” the man said, running a hand around the brim of his hat.

“And your point is?” said the lawyer.

“Whether that could have anything to do with her murder.”

“Not that we’re aware of,” Madriani said, assuming the man with whom he was speaking was also a lawyer. “Unless you know something I don’t.”

The man shrugged a shoulder and sat down in the near‑empty room.

Madriani felt an ice‑cold finger on the back of his neck. He turned around to face Alex Cooper.

“I’m getting thirsty, Paul.”

“I hear you.”

“I see why you’re so formidable in the courtroom. And I hope I didn’t come down too heavily, but they told me they wanted the program to have a little heat.”

“Heat is one thing. Hell is another.”

She laughed.

“Just make sure the judge in Mustaffa doesn’t get a transcript.”

“Not to worry. I can always call the DA out there if he puts up a stink. He’s a good friend, and I’m the one who tried to make you go rogue. It’s the least I can do after taking advantage like that.”

They headed down the escalator and walked out onto Lexington Avenue, with Alex leading the way to the upscale eatery on Forty‑sixth Street.

“Thanks.”

“Of course,” she countered with a grin, “it would help if I knew what you were up to as well.”

“Damn. Are you always on the meter, Alex?”

“Totally off the record. It will all be on the airwaves after you open on Monday. What’s the story?”

Paul Madriani was too smart to tip his hand to a prosecutor – a smart one – whom he’d just met hours ago.

“Ibid Mustaffa’s a taxi driver in West Los Angeles. Out of work. And Carla Spinova was a Russian émigré who carved notches in her camera case by taking titillating pictures of notables, often in scant attire and at times in compromising situations. She was raped and murdered. That’s the People’s case.”

“And that’s the part I know, Paul. Everyone does.”

Spinova had invaded the private grounds of numerous palaces and royal abodes in the UK so many times that security forces were beginning to think she had a complete set of the Beefeaters’ keys. She was known as the woman who always got her shot. That was, until the night she got her throat slit.

“That’s all I’ve got to say about it, Alex.”

“So we’re reduced to war stories for the entirety of an elegant dinner? I’ll be a total bore.”

“I’ll take my chances with that,” Madriani said. “I’ve got all the excitement I need once I hit the ground in LA this week.”

* * *

The maître d’ greeted Alex warmly and took her leather folio as she introduced him to Paul Madriani.

“The usual, Ms. Cooper?” Stephane asked, guiding her to a table at the front of the smartly decorated room.

“Double‑down on the Dewar’s. It’s been a long day.”

“And for you, Mr. Madriani?”

“I’d like a vodka martini, straight up.”

“Certainly.” Stephane handed them each a menu, which they put aside, making small talk about each other’s personal life and backstory till the cocktails arrived.

“Cheers, Paul. The committee asked me to thank you again for taking the time to do the panel. You put on a good show.”

“A pleasure to work with you. Hypothetically, that is,” Madriani said. “What do you recommend for dinner?”

Before Alex could answer, a shadow descended on the table, and they both looked up. The man in the white linen suit – the one who had asked Madriani the question about Carla Spinova’s trip to North Africa – hovered in front of them. He held a satchel under one arm, his hat in the other hand.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, but if I might have a moment.” He was looking at Madriani. “I apologize for following you over here, but it’s rather important.”

“Perhaps I should leave,” said Alex. Her prosecutorial instincts were on high alert because of the man’s unexpected intrusion at the chic restaurant.

“No. No,” said the man. “Don’t get up.”

“Draw up a chair,” said Madriani, who was intrigued by the man’s persistence. “Join us.”

The man did so and sat down. “My name is Samir Rashid. Those who know me call me Sam.” He handed each of them a business card. It bore the emblem of the United Nations, UNESCO printed in embossed type across the face. His name, address, and phone number were in small bold type across the bottom.

“What can I do for you?” said Madriani.

“Perhaps it’s what I can do for you,” said Rashid. “You are lead counsel for Mr. Ibid Mustaffa?”

Madriani nodded. “Yes.”

“I believe I have valuable information that will prove, beyond any question or doubt, reasonable or otherwise, that your client did not murder Carla Spinova.”

“I think I should leave,” said Cooper.

“No. No,” said Rashid. He placed his hand on her wrist as if to insist that she stay. “What I have to say is in no way privileged. You are a prosecutor here in New York, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should hear me out as well. I don’t have much time right now as I have an engagement I must keep, but I will tell you this: Carla Spinova went to North Africa to take pictures that she thought would earn her a considerable amount of money. Instead that trip got her killed.”

“Go on,” said Madriani.

“On September 11, 2012, the U.S. consulate in Benghazi was attacked and burned. The U.S. ambassador and other Americans were killed.”

“Yes.” Paul remembered the tragedy well, as it made headlines with widespread political accusations that were still ongoing.

“For nearly three weeks following those events, the consulate building – what was still standing – was left unguarded and largely open,” said Rashid. “There is also information that confidential and classified documents remained in the rubble. I have it on good authority that Spinova traveled to Benghazi to obtain photographs of the building and its charred interior. She found something when she was there, a document that would have given her what you call a juicy story, which she intended to sell to the news media with her photographs. But before she could do so she was murdered, and not by your client.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Madriani.

“Trust me. I don’t have much time to talk right now, but perhaps we can meet tonight at my office at the UN Plaza.”

“It’s Saturday. The UN building is closed,” said Alex. Her initial skepticism was butting up against details about the horrific tragedy in Benghazi, and the fact that the Spinova murder might have had international consequences rather than simply prurient ones.

“I will make arrangements for you to get in. Can you meet me there, say, nine o’clock?”

Madriani had a plane back to LA the following morning but his evening was free after this dinner, and to say that his curiosity was piqued was an understatement. “I’ll be there, just as soon as we’ve finished our meal.”

“And you, madam?” Rashid looked at Alex.

“I don’t have a stake in the Mustaffa case,” she said. “And I’m not sure that Mr. Madriani would want me…”

“You are a public prosecutor. You made a big deal in our discussion an hour ago about the court system not being a game, Alex. That’s your mantra, I think,” Madriani said. “You have a stake in doing justice, do you not?”

She nodded.

“Then please. You’ve been very outspoken about criticizing prosecutors who won’t consider exculpatory evidence right up till the time of a verdict.”

Alex hesitated as Madriani pressed the invitation. “Okay. Okay, I’ll go with you.”

Rashid gave them instructions to an underground parking facility at the UN building. He pulled a parking pass from his leather folio and gave it to Alex. “You have a car? Put this on your dash, it will get you past the guard.” He got up, bade them farewell. “Until tonight.”

* * *

Nine o’clock behind the UN building, Alex and Paul walked toward the monolithic tower, home of the United Nations Secretariat. Before they had gone fifty yards, a figure stepped out of the shadows and raised his arm waving toward them. He was still wearing the wrinkled white linen suit from earlier in the day.

“I trust you had no difficulty parking?” said Rashid.

“None,” said Alex. “You keep long hours.”

“No rest for the weary,” he replied. He led them toward a side entrance to the main building. Before they got there Rashid hailed a janitor who had the door open and was just going inside. “Can you hold the door for us? Thank you.” Rashid slid his keys back into his pocket and led the way toward a service elevator at the back of the building. He turned, smiled, and said: “I cheat. I’m not supposed to use it but it’s so much closer to my office than the main elevators.”

Two minutes later they were in his office, a spacious corner room on the seventh floor with large windows on two sides, overlooking the East River. Rashid’s nameplate was on the desk, a university diploma on the wall and a photograph – Rashid with his family, wife and, Paul counted them, five children. Two of them appeared to be adults.

Rashid took the chair behind the desk. “Please have a seat.” He gestured toward the two chairs across from him. “Unless, of course, you’d rather sit on the couch.”

“This is fine,” said Madriani. Paul was anxious to cut to the chase. He wanted to know what Rashid had and whether, in fact, it might have any impact on his case. And he didn’t have much time.

For the defense, the Mustaffa trial was going nowhere fast. Police had evidence that Mustaffa’s taxi was in the area of the murder scene the night that Spinova was killed. GPS data from the car’s tracking system placed the vehicle close to the vicinity where the body was found. But what was most damaging was the eyewitness testimony of the State’s principal witness. Madriani was still trying to figure out how to deal with it. He knew something bad was coming from documents he received during discovery. Perhaps the man would equivocate, but Paul doubted it. And the testimony could prove to be a killer depending on precisely what the witness said he saw.

“Can I offer you anything to drink? Coke? Water?”

Both lawyers shook their heads.

“Then let’s not waste time. As I told you, Spinova went to Libya about two weeks after the Benghazi raid on the consulate. But the story begins before that. Late January 2011, the so‑called Arab Spring. There were deadly riots all over Egypt. People were dying in the central square in Cairo. You may have seen pictures,” said Rashid. “Camels trampling some, others being shot.”

Madriani and Alex nodded.

“Much of this, including fires, buildings torched, took place within a stone’s throw of the Museum of Cairo. Have either of you ever been there?”

“I have,” said Alex.

“Then you are familiar with some of the artifacts on display. In particular, I am talking about Howard Carter’s collection, the treasures from the tomb of Tutankhamen.”

“Yes,” said Alex.

“What does any of this have to do with Spinova’s murder?” asked Paul.

“Bear with me,” said Rashid. “On the night of January 29, 2011, under cover of the riots and fires raging outside the museum, thieves broke in and stole items from the Tut collection. What they couldn’t carry off, they vandalized. Included among the objects that were taken was a priceless gold figurine of the boy king standing on the back of a panther carved from black ebony. It was one of the premier items recovered by Carter from the tomb in 1922.”

“Of course,” Alex said. “It’s a spectacular piece.”

“There is no way to put a dollar value on the object other than to say that it is priceless. The thieves damaged the base of the statue, the ebony panther. They broke off the gold figurine and took it. We have reason to believe it is still missing.”

“Yes, but what does this have to do with Spinova?” said Paul.

“I’m getting to that. When Spinova went to the burned‑out consulate building in Benghazi, she was intending to take pictures and perhaps write an article about what she saw there. She was hoping to be one of the first to visit the site with a camera and she assumed that she could benefit financially from the information. However, this all changed after she climbed through one of the open windows of the building because of something she found.”

“What was that?” Alex asked. She was all in now.

“A document,” Rashid said. “It was a classified memorandum from your CIA referencing items stolen from the museum in Cairo.”

“Did you know any of this, Paul?”

Madriani shook his head from side to side.

“Go on.” By now Alex Cooper was all ears.

Madriani had taken out a small notepad from his suit coat pocket and appropriated a corner of the desk to jot down notes.

“The document in question, we are told, reveals the names, the identities, of the thieves involved, including the mastermind behind it. Also, an inventory of what was taken, as well as what was damaged, which the museum has been loath to offer up and which we believe is considerable.”

“What exactly is your role in all of this?” asked Alex.

“We are part of UNESCO,” said Rashid. “The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. Specifically my office is charged with enforcing the Convention for the Fight Against the Illicit Trafficking in Cultural Property. It is why we are so concerned about the contents of this memorandum, the one that Spinova found at the consulate and which her killer presumably was after. You see, there is a far more sinister element to all of this.” He paused and looked meaningfully at them.

“According to our sources, the items stolen, and in particular the gold figurine of the boy king, the figure of Tut code‑named Surfing the Panther in the memorandum, were transported to Libya shortly after the theft.”

Madriani stopped writing when he heard about the gold statue and its code name.

“They were placed in the care of an artisan whose job it was to craft a number of identical replicas,” Rashid said. “The people at the Museum of Cairo would tell you that the damaged figurine was left behind by the looters. Of course, they had to say this. They even show pictures of it being restored. To say otherwise, given the political upheaval at the time, the change in government… well, heads would have rolled, quite literally, of those who were in charge of the museum.

“You see, the gold content of the figurine is minimal. It is its historic provenance that gives it vast monetary value. It is too recognizable to be sold to a legitimate museum, but private collectors would pay a fortune to obtain it for their own personal gratification. Because a buyer could not advertise its possession, the thieves would be free to make multiple copies and sell them to unwary but corrupt collectors at exorbitant prices, each one believing that they had the original item. Those buyers would never be able to disclose the fact that they paid tens of millions of dollars, perhaps more, for false replicas. They would be defrauded without recourse.”

“Makes good sense,” Madriani said.

“But here is the important part. It is the reason U.S. intelligence got involved in the first place. They uncovered the identity of one of the potential buyers who was bargaining for the original figurine. He was willing to pay a huge sum to acquire it.”

“Who is that?” said Alex.

“According to our information, the former supreme leader of North Korea, Kim Jong‑il,” Rashid said. “The reason for the memorandum, and again we have not seen the document, but we have sources who tell us that Kim and the mastermind behind the theft had, as you say, struck a deal, an agreed‑upon sum for delivery of the figurine. The price, if our information is correct, was half a billion dollars, U.S.”

Madriani whistled as he looked up. “We’re in the wrong business. Still, that’s a considerable inducement for murder. Kill Spinova to keep her from taking her story and the CIA memo to the media.”

“Precisely,” said Rashid.

“How do you know all of this?” Madriani needed evidence.

“It is my job,” said Rashid.

“Perhaps you can obtain a copy of the memorandum, the CIA memo, from the State Department?” said Alex.

Rashid shook his head. “They will not share information with us. Not on this. I suspect it is because of the national security implications surrounding the North Korean involvement. We are aware that the United States is engaged in highly sensitive negotiations with Kim’s son and successor Kim Jong‑un, baby Kim, over nuclear weapons in North Korea. They are not going to jeopardize those negotiations over something like this.”

Madriani looked up from his notes. This was dynamite that could turn the tide in his defense of Mustaffa. The problem was there was no way to ignite it. He needed proof, solid evidence. Otherwise there was no way the trial judge would allow him to even mention it in front of the jury.

* * *

Nine thirty Monday morning and the intercom buzzed on Alex Cooper’s desk. The office outside her door at One Hogan Place in Manhattan, the headquarters for the New York District Attorney’s Office, hummed with activity.

The voice on the intercom was Cooper’s secretary. “Call for you on line one. A Mr. Rashid from UNESCO. Do you want me to take a message, tell him you’re busy?”

“No. I’ll talk.” Alex picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Ms. Cooper. I hope I did not catch you at a bad time.”

“Mr. Rashid. I have a meeting in twenty minutes but I can spare a moment.”

“I was wondering if you could tell me whether Mr. Madriani is still in town?”

“No, he left yesterday morning. Why do you ask?”

“Because I called his office in San Diego. They said he was out of the area, unavailable for several days. That he could not be reached. I didn’t want to leave a message. What I have to tell him is highly confidential.”

“He was supposed to give his opening statement today.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. Is there any way you can reach him?”

“I don’t know. Is it urgent?”

“If he wants to save his client it is vital.”

“What is it?” Alex Cooper already knew more than she should have.

It took Alex almost two hours to track Madriani down through his office in Coronado and from there to his cell phone in LA where she left a message. Just after three East Coast time, noon in LA, he called her back during a break in the trial.

“I hope it’s important,” said Madriani.

“Pressed for time, are you?”

“Just a couple of sharks from the DA’s office working their way up my leg from the ankle to the knee. Nothing to worry about.”

“Rashid has been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday,” said Alex. “He says the DA’s office is about to lower the boom on your client.”

“I thought they already had,” said Paul.

“A witness by the name of Terry Mirza. Do you know the name?” asked Alex.

“I do,” said Paul. “But how does Rashid know–?”

“Be quiet and listen. You don’t have much time. Rashid claims this guy Mirza saw your man dump Spinova’s body in an alley in West LA the night of the murder.”

Mirza’s name was on the state’s witness list but the information had not been released to the press or made public. Even Paul did not yet know the precise details of Mirza’s testimony, only that he was a percipient witness to the body dump, only sketchy notes from police reports that the cops had left intentionally vague. They had closeted Mirza away since before the trial to keep him out of the clutches of Paul’s investigators, not that Mirza would have talked to any of them.

“Why are you telling me this, Alex?”

“Because I trust you. I trust your reputation. And there are two ways to go at this. I happen to believe that a DA’s job is to do justice.”

“What two ways do you have in mind?”

“Like I said, the DA out there is a good friend of mine. I’ll call him. Maybe he’ll listen to me. Take a hard look at what we give him about Cairo. Let him know he may be sitting on exculpatory evidence.”

“I hope your second idea makes more sense. He’s been stonewalling me on this.”

“Look, Paul. I can’t go rogue here, much as I might like to. But one of my best friends just left the office. Jenny Corcoran. She’s waiting for a background check for an appointment she just got at Justice in DC. She’s a pit bull in the courtroom. She might work with you on this.”

“And you’re telling me I can–?”

“Trust her? Completely. You have my word.”

“So what will you say to the DA?” Paul asked.

“According to Rashid, this guy Mirza is going to tell the jury that he saw your man pull a large plastic bundle from the backseat of his cab in an alley off Lankershim Boulevard the night Spinova was killed. Presumably the reason there was no blood in the backseat of your man’s cab is because she was killed somewhere else and dumped there.”

“That’s their theory,” said Paul. “Lemme get this straight, Mirza can positively identify Mustaffa as the man driving the cab and dumping the body?”

“Rock solid, according to Rashid,” said Alex.

“You’re sure? I need to know how confident he is, whether I can shake him on cross.”

Mirza had ID’d Mustaffa from a photo array. Paul already knew that. He was hoping beyond hope that he could get the witness to equivocate on the identification, just a slight crack in the wall. After all, presumably, he was a disinterested witness with no stake in the case. Was he absolutely, positively one thousand percent certain it was Mustaffa that he saw? No one was ever one thousand percent sure of anything. “It might have been him, I can’t be entirely sure.” This was all Paul needed. Something he could play with and stretch like a rubber band in front of the jury on closing, and hope that it snapped.

“According to Rashid, Mirza will positively identify your client at the scene, and he won’t be burdened by any doubts.”

Paul’s heart climbed into his throat. “Don’t tell me that Mirza has photographs of the body being dumped. And how does Rashid know all of this?”

“No, there are no photos,” said Alex. “Rashid says Mirza will be lying through his teeth.”

“What?”

“Listen carefully. Do you have a notepad? Here’re the details on what Rashid told me. We’re both going to have to move quickly.”

* * *

The Criminal Courts building on Temple Street in downtown Los Angeles had an ominous feel for Madriani ever since the start of the Mustaffa case. Even the courtroom was foreboding, Department 123 on the thirteenth floor. Had Madriani been superstitious, the only thing worse might have been the number of the Beast–666.

Bad news, too, that the DA had been off‑put by Alex Cooper’s attempt to intervene in one of his biggest cases. But Alex had surprised Madriani by taking the week off from her own job and flying out to be at the trial, sitting discreetly in the rear of the courtroom – one spectator among many – after her friend Jenny Corcoran confirmed that her presence might help Madriani get at the truth.

This morning, on direct examination, the testimony of Terry Mirza was presented to the jury as if it were written, produced, and directed for a Broadway production with an audience of twelve. It came on smooth as silk as the nine women and three men in the jury box took notes and listened intently. There was not the slightest equivocation as Mirza identified the defendant, Ibid Mustaffa, as the man he saw in the alley that night, the one who dragged the plastic‑shrouded and bloodied body of Carla Spinova from the backseat of his yellow cab.

Mirza even identified the cab number as well as the license plate number of the vehicle. He had everything but the VIN number off the engine block. When asked if he was absolutely certain that it was Mustaffa that he saw that night, he said he had no doubt whatsoever. He told the jury that he observed the defendant clearly from several different angles as Mustaffa struggled under the bright lights of a streetlamp to drag the body over to the edge of the alley, against the side of a building, where he left her and drove off.

The witness also testified that the defendant was wearing gloves. This would explain the lack of fingerprints on the plastic tarp used to wrap the body.

When the prosecutor had hammered the last nail in Mustaffa’s coffin and turned the witness over to Paul, the jurors were looking at Madriani as if to say, Try and get out of that one.

Paul introduced himself to the witness. “Mr. Mirza, let me ask you, what is your first name, your given name? It’s not Terry, is it?”

“No. It’s Tariq.”

“What is the origin of the name? I mean, it’s not English or Irish or German.”

“Objection, Your Honor. What’s the relevance?”

“I think the jury has a right to know a little bit about the witness and where he’s from,” said Paul.

“I’ll allow it,” said the judge. “But keep it short, Mr. Madriani.”

“Mr. Mirza, where is your family from?”

“My parents were Bedu, Bedouins. From the desert, originally Saudi Arabia.”

“Do you have family in Saudi Arabia at the present time?”

“I have an uncle who lives there.”

“Were you born here in this country?”

“No. I came here when I was three with my mother and father and two brothers.”

“Do you have any other relatives living in the Middle East, say, outside of Saudi Arabia, at the present time?”

“Objection as to relevance, Your Honor.” The prosecutor was on his feet once more.

“May we approach the bench?” said Madriani.

The judge waved them on. Off to the side, away from the witness, Paul told the judge that the questions were intended to lay a foundation for the issue of credibility, which was always relevant. After all, it was the prosecution who put the witness on the stand.

“I will give you a little latitude, Mr. Madriani, but let’s try and tie it to something in the case.” The judge eased back in his chair.

Paul picked up where he left off.

“Yes,” said Mirza. “I have one brother and my grandparents who live in Shubra al‑Khaymah.”

“And where is that?” said Paul.

“It’s a town just outside Cairo in Egypt.”

“So your family lives in the same country my client is from?”

“If you say so,” said Mirza.

“When is the last time you spoke to your family in Egypt?” said Paul.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“A month ago?”

“Longer.”

“Two months?”

“I don’t know. As I said, I can’t remember.”

“Mr. Mirza, isn’t it a fact that the testimony you have offered before this jury here today is false? Is it not true that you never saw anything that night and that, in fact, the information you have testified to here today was provided to you by outside parties who have threatened your family in Egypt unless you testify in accordance with their instructions?”

“No, that’s not true,” said Mirza.

“Isn’t it a fact, Mr. Mirza, that you received a letter, typed correspondence, hand‑delivered to your home, instructing you to incriminate my client, telling you what to say, giving you details including the defendant’s taxi number, the license number of the vehicle, the location of the alley, and other specifics like the time of your supposed observations, and telling you that unless you did as the letter instructed your family members in Egypt would be killed? Is that not a fact?”

“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The discomfort level of the witness was obvious.

Madriani lifted a sheaf of papers from the table in front of him. Beneath the papers were several large glossy photographs as well as photocopies of a letter and its envelope. Madriani handed one set to the bailiff who delivered it to the judge and another to the prosecutor.

“May I approach the witness, Your Honor?” The judge nodded as he read from his copy of the letter.

“Mr. Mirza, this is not the original but a copy of the letter in question. The original has already been examined by a laboratory employed by the defense. It was turned over to the police for their examination less than an hour ago. I should tell you that our experts have already identified your fingerprints on the original letter and its envelope. You should be advised that perjury is a serious crime. I remind you that you are under oath.”

Mirza looked at the document.

“Your Honor, we’ve never seen this before.” The prosecutor was on his feet waving his copy of the letter at the judge.

“Neither had I, Your Honor, until late yesterday morning,” said Madriani, “when, subject to a subpoena, the letter was found in a safe‑deposit box belonging to Mr. Mirza at Fontana Bank in the city. It was tucked inside a large manila envelope containing some insurance documents.”

“I’ve never seen this before,” said Mirza, his hands shaking.

“We would ask for a continuance,” said the prosecutor.

Madriani ignored him. “Then perhaps you can explain to the jury and the judge how it came to find its way into your safe‑deposit box with your fingerprints on it?”

“The witness will answer the question.” One thing judges don’t like is perjury.

Mirza looked up at the judge, then toward the prosecutor, and finally at Madriani. A bewildered expression spread across his face. “I don’t know! I really don’t know!”

* * *

Six days later, after the police crime lab verified Mirza’s fingerprints on the letter and its envelope, both sides made their closing arguments to the jury.

In the courtroom, crowded to overflowing, Alex Cooper sat just beyond the railing behind Madriani at the counsel table. In closing, it took little more than an hour for Madriani to shred the State’s case given that the testimony and evidence of the prosecution’s chief witness had turned to dust. Other than the bleak GPS data putting Mustaffa’s taxi in the vicinity of the body dump, Mirza’s testimony was the only real evidence tying him to the crime. Worse, it now appeared as if there was an active conspiracy afoot to frame Mustaffa.

Paul explained to the jury that while he could not defend Mirza’s conduct on the stand, he understood the unwillingness on the part of the witness to own up to his perjury. After all, his family was in jeopardy and he had reason to be afraid for them.

Mirza, to the last breath, denied ever having seen the letter in question. He claimed that, to his knowledge, no one had ever threatened his family and no one had told him what to say on the stand. He was adamant. No doubt the DA’s office would take him to its own version of the woodshed for a thrashing on the issue of perjury if the jury failed to believe him. Still, there was no way to explain the fingerprints and the letter in the safe‑deposit box, all belonging to Mirza.

After retiring to the jury room for deliberations, it seemed that the headiest item on the jury’s agenda was the election of a foreman. Before the noon break they were back with a verdict. “On the count of violation of Penal Code Section 187, first‑degree murder, we, the jury, find the defendant, Ibid Mustaffa, not guilty.”

There was a veritable uproar in the courtroom as Mustaffa was discharged by the judge. Madriani made plans to meet with him the following Monday at his office in San Diego. Mustaffa left to get his personal belongings that had been taken from him the night of his arrest.

Paul, Alex, and Jenny Corcoran retreated through the phalanx of reporters to a restaurant for lunch and a glass of wine. It was Friday afternoon. Alex had to fly back to New York, but Jenny was able to stay on. She made plans to get together with Paul and his girlfriend, Joselyn Cole, as well as his law partner, Harry Hinds, in San Diego for a quick visit.

After lunch, some local sightseeing, and a heavy dinner, the lawyers parted as Paul dropped Alex at the airport. She was still conflicted, she told him, about how it felt to hear that Mustaffa was acquitted when her first assumptions about his guilt in this heinous crime were so strong.

Paul headed back to his own room. He would spend one more night in the City of Angels before collecting his luggage, picking Jenny up the following morning, and heading south to San Diego and home.

As for Jenny, she was exhausted. As soon as she got to her room and showered, her head hit the pillow and she tried to sleep. But still the subconscious was at work. Something troubled her. It was the testimony of Terry Mirza.

In the true‑to‑form trials of the real world, Perry Mason endings with witnesses crumbling on the stand and admitting their guilt do not occur, except in one narrow band of cases. People who commit perjury and who are confronted on the stand with irrefutable evidence of their lies often do recant their testimony, particularly when admonished by counsel and the judge in stern language that perjury is a serious crime for which they could pay a stiff penalty, including time behind bars, if convicted. Mirza had been told this several times and still he stuck to his testimony. He insisted that he had never seen the letter threatening his family or directing him how to testify.

The letter had still another quality to it, like a rabbit pulled from a hat. Samir Rashid somehow had acquired information about Mirza and his family in Egypt. According to Rashid, they were under a severe threat of death from the people who had raided the Cairo Museum and stolen the golden figurine, Surfing the Panther. These people had already killed Carla Spinova to get their hands on the memorandum left behind in the charred U.S. consulate building in Benghazi, the memo that identified the mastermind behind the museum theft, as well as the deal for the sale to the North Korean dictator. Rashid’s same sources had told him about the letter delivered to Mirza and the threat to his family. The Cairo thieves were desperate to convict Mustaffa for Spinova’s murder – to make her death appear to be a brutal sexual assault, staged to seem so – because it would put an end to the controversy and leave them free to do their deals with their stolen booty. Case solved. Story over. It all made sense. Sort of.

Slowly her subconscious released her and Jenny drifted off to sleep. She couldn’t tell how long the slumber lasted, minutes or hours, disoriented as she was in the dark room. But she was awakened with a start by the noise next to her head. She opened her eyes in the dark, little blinking lights in unfamiliar places and the sound of the electronic ringtone blaring next to the bed. She grabbed for the receiver and found it on the second stab.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Jenny. Paul Madriani here. I’m sorry to wake you.”

“What is it?” She looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was four thirty in the morning.

“We need to talk. The police called me ten minutes ago. Ibid Mustaffa is dead.”

“What?”

“He was killed by a hit‑and‑run driver at an intersection in West Los Angeles two hours ago. The police found my business card with the hotel phone number in Mustaffa’s pocket. They said he was drunk, stumbled into the street, and got nailed. According to witnesses, the driver sped off.”

Jenny’s mind, still half asleep, raced trying to absorb it all.

“Corcoran, are you there?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Mustaffa was Islamic, devout. He prayed five times a day. More to the point, he didn’t drink.”

* * *

An hour later, the two lawyers sat bleary‑eyed hunched over the table in Paul’s hotel room gulping coffee from Styrofoam cups, something from an all‑night café on the corner.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” said Jenny. “You want to know what I think?”

“What?” said Paul.

“I think Mirza was telling the truth. I don’t think he’d ever seen that letter before. I mean, you had him in a vise right there on the stand, squeezing him with hard evidence. Why not own up? After all, if your family is in jeopardy, it’s no longer a secret.”

“Then how did his prints get on the letter and the envelope?”

“Blank paper,” said Jenny. “Maybe somebody got into his house. We all stack paper in our printers. Somebody could have taken the bottom page from the feeder. Or better, somebody hands Mirza a blank piece of paper in an envelope. He opens it, looks at it. Whoever gives it to him says, “Oops, wrong envelope,” takes it back, and gives him something else. Mirza never thinks twice about it. The contents of the letter are then typed or printed on the blank page and suddenly the witness is confronted with it in court.”

“You’re forgetting something. How did the letter get into Mirza’s safe‑deposit box?” said Madriani.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. You said it was found inside an envelope with some insurance documents.”

“Right.”

“Where did the insurance papers come from?”

“I don’t know. I assume an insurance agency.”

“Yes and we, as well as the court, all assumed that Mirza either hid the letter or misfiled it with his insurance papers. Now let me ask you, who reads insurance documents?” said Jenny.

Paul looked at her. “Nobody.”

“Exactly. You receive them and you file them away somewhere safe. Anybody could have gotten to that manila envelope with the insurance documents and slipped whatever they wanted in it before it was delivered to Mirza. Look again and you might find pictures of Mirza shooting from the grassy knoll in Dealey Plaza.”

Paul thought for a moment. “And who knew exactly where to look for the letter?”

“Rashid,” said Jenny. She looked at her watch, picked up the receiver on the nightstand, and started dialing, first an outside line.

“Who are you calling?”

“Alex. I need to pick her brain, but it’s going right to voice mail.”

“She may still be airborne,” Paul said.

Jenny tried again and asked for information this time.

“I would like the phone number for New York, the United Nations, UNESCO, if there is a separate listing.”

“What about his business card?” said Paul.

Jenny shook her head. “If I’m right, that’s probably an answering service. They’ll answer with any name a client gives them.”

Ten minutes later they had the news. The good part was that UNESCO had its own main number; the bad news was that no one by the name of Samir Rashid worked there. There was no listing under that name for any employee.

Jenny slammed the receiver into the cradle. “He played you and Alex like a piano. How the hell did he get into the building? His office?”

“After hours. On a Saturday night,” said Paul. “And the janitor who just happened to be going in through the side door. The man is just full of coincidences. He used the service elevator instead of the bank of elevators near the main entrance. I should have known it was way too smooth.”

“No going through security,” said Jenny.

“Exactly. He probably paid the janitor at the door to let Alex and me in. You hang a few pictures and certificates on the wall, put a holder with business cards on the desk, slip a plastic plaque with your name on the office door and you’re in business. What we saw is what he wanted us to see. It’s all about confidence,” said Paul. “Put yourself in the right setting, surround yourself with a cloak of authority, and you can peddle anything.”

“To two gullible lawyers, searching for the truth,” said Jenny. “And all you got was smoke and mirrors. Alex will go ballistic.”

“Don’t be so hard on us. We were the perfect marks. I’ve got a loser of a case. He’s got the answer, the solution to all my problems. He plays on the interests of justice. We both wanted the fair result, especially when we figured out that Mustaffa was being set up.”

“Why does he want to get Mustaffa off?” said Jenny.

“Mustaffa killed Spinova,” said Paul. “He had something Rashid wanted and he was holding it over Rashid’s head unless Rashid helped him beat the charges.”

“What?”

“The CIA memorandum,” said Paul.

“What? You think that was real?” said Jenny.

“The best con is one that includes a kernel of truth. Mustaffa killed Spinova to get the memo – and he got it. But in the process he got nailed. Mirza saw him dump the body. Cops caught up with him and Mustaffa used the memo which, unless I’m wrong, identifies Rashid as the mastermind behind the Cairo Museum theft. Mustaffa used the memo to extort Rashid. ‘Help me or else.’ If Mustaffa goes down for the count, he uses the memo and the evidence in it to cut a deal for himself come sentencing.”

“Enter two overanxious lawyers,” said Jenny. “And Alex, trying to do the right thing by the dead woman. Make sure the wrong guy isn’t convicted unfairly. Those autopsy pictures haunted her.”

“Now Mustaffa’s dead. The memo’s gone,” said Paul, “and God knows where Rashid is, assuming that’s even his name, which you and I both know it is not. He may be a lot of things, but stupid is not one of them.”

“I hate being used like this,” said Jenny.

“You think I like it? I had an obligation to defend Mustaffa to the best of my ability. But suborning perjury was not included among my services.”

“So what do we do?” said Jenny.

“You got me,” said Paul. “We could go to the trial judge and the DA and explain what happened. Of course, what good is that? Even if Mustaffa were alive he would be beyond the reach of the court, double jeopardy being what it is, which is redundant in this case since he’s dead.”

“Rashid is a coconspirator,” said Jenny. “He’s still liable.”

“Try and find him,” said Paul. “He’s busy peddling his wares, little golden statues, remember?”

“Yes, I heard about them,” said Jenny. She thought for a moment. There was a twinkle in her eye. “That’s it!”

“What?”

“The answer.”

“The answer to what?” said Paul.

“A woman scorned. Alex will want a hand in this. Maybe the DA will listen to her now.”

* * *

Eight days later a sleek Gulfstream G650 touched down on the runway at the heavily guarded airport just outside Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea. It taxied to a stop in front of a large hangar as the stairway was wheeled up next to the door. It swung open and a man stepped out onto the platform. He was carrying a small wooden box under one arm.

The man who called himself Samir Rashid looked down at the official entourage waiting for him at the foot of the steps, behind them the line of shiny black limousines and security cars waiting to escort him to the government house, what is called the Grand People’s Study House.

Rashid walked briskly down the steps until he reached the tarmac, where he extended his right hand in greeting toward the general who was first in line. Before the officer could take it, a guard stepped around him and quickly slapped the cold, hard metal of handcuffs around Rashid’s right wrist. Another guard took possession of the wooden box while they manacled Rashid’s other hand.

“What is this? What are you doing?”

“Silence,” said the general. “You will come with me. Is this the statue?” He gestured toward the box.

“It is, and your leader will be very angry with you for the manner in which I am being treated. There is no excuse for this. I had an arrangement with his father and have an understanding with your Dear Leader. I assure you he will be very upset when I speak to him about this.”

“Yes,” said the general. “Perhaps you can explain the meaning of this to him.” The officer reached for something handed to him by one of his subordinates standing next to him. It was a newspaper, two of them actually, copies of the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times, each of them one day old. Blaring headlines just below the fold from New York: