Beyond the Veil
By Ayesha Haqqiqa
Officer Mary Johnston came back to the patrol car with doughnuts and coffee. “Heard the latest blonde joke?” she asked.
Her partner, Sgt. Hank Gomez, groaned, but Johnston ignored him. “A blonde secretary has been so spooked by the anthrax scare she won’t open her email.”
“That wasn’t worth the groan,” Gomez said as he sipped his coffee. “In fact—“
His words were cut short by an explosion down the block. The two police officers looked at each other in disbelief, and then radioed in…
“You didn’t hear or see anything suspicious?” Lennie Briscoe asked Sgt. Gomez.
“No, I was in the cruiser. Mary was the one who got out. Besides, the blast was halfway down the street from the doughnut shop.”
“Yeah, darned inconvenient.” Lennie rolled his eyes. “What can you tell me about the place that was bombed?”
“It was a jewelry store,” Gomez said. “Owner was Abraham Stein, a nice old man who lives on the East Side. The first thing we thought of was robbery, of course. But the explosion was bigger than what they use to blow a safe. It took out the whole building. Once we radioed in, we checked for suspects fleeing the scene, but we saw no one. You’ll have to ask the fire captain if they found anyone inside.”
“I will.” Lennie shut his notebook and went to find his partner, Ed Green.
“Officer Johnston said she saw no one near the store, either before or after the blast,” he said. “Of course, they could have come in the back way and set off the bomb. If they were trying to get into the safe, they were probably blown to bits. We’ll have to wait until the fire is completely out to check for remains.”
“And if there are no remains?” Lennie asked.
Ed shivered. “Then it means someone set it off for other reasons. After all the city’s been through lately, I hope we find the remains of some crook who was too dumb to know how much dynamite to use.”
The two detectives walked down the block towards the fire, which was under control and nearly out. A fireman in a white hat came toward them.
“Before September 11, we’d have called this a big fire,” Capt. Sanders told them. “The blast broke a gas line, which started the fire. We got it shut off in short order. Looks like none of the neighboring buildings are in any danger. The way this is going, we should be able to send arson investigators in to check for remains in about an hour.”
“That’s what we’re interested in—finding out if someone was in the building when it blew.”
“Thinking burglary?” Capt. Sanders shook his head. “Usually crooks are smarter than to let themselves get blown up. Of course, it could have been something else. With all the terrorist threats, that’s the last thing we need.”
Suddenly, a small, heavy-set man wearing a dark coat and Homburg pushed his way up to the detectives and Capt. Sanders.
“I’m Abe Stein,” he cried. “What happened to my store?”
“That’s what we want to try and find out,” Lennie said. “Did you have a large amount of valuables in your safe?”
Stein shrugged. “No, if anything, I had less than usual. I’m expecting a big shipment of gold coins on Monday, and I made room with a stock reduction sale.” He looked at the ruins and sighed. “Sadie said I should have got more insurance after September 11, but I didn’t listen!”
“Did you have any enemies who might have wanted to destroy your business?” Ed asked.
Stein looked at him. “After what happened in TriBeca, you have to ask? With a name like mine plastered over the doorway—“
“So you think it was a terrorist attack?” Ed continued.
Stein nodded. “The FBI, they rounded up a lot of them, but a few terrorists have probably slipped through. They can’t get to airplanes anymore, so they resort to this.” He wrung his hands in despair.
“Were you active in Jewish causes?” Ed asked as he made a note.
Stein shook his head. “I go to the temple on High Holy Days, that’s all. My father, he was political, and it got him a trip to the ovens. I just mind my own business, trying to make a living for me and my family.”
Lennie frowned. “Are you sure you don’t know someone else besides terrorists who could have done this? A disgruntled employee? Or maybe you owed money?”
“The only ones who work the store are Sadie and my son, Myron,” Stein replied. “And I own the shop, free and clear—well, I did. Who knows what I own now?”
2-7 Precinct
September 25, 2001
“Stein’s story checks out?” Lt. Van Buren asked later in the day, when the two detectives came in to report.
“Yes.” Ed sipped a cup of coffee. “He lives frugally and has no debts. The only help he has is his wife and son.”
“And preliminary investigation of the site indicates no one was in the store at the time of the blast,” Lennie said. “The bomb itself was small, yet powerful. Very sophisticated, the arson investigators say. And the bomb didn’t go off in the back, near the safe. It was apparently on the floor, under one of the showcases. They found a piece of a timing device, so it could have been placed there any time, by anyone who was in the shop.”
“Hmm,” Van Buren was lost in thought. “That doesn’t seem to be the way terrorists operate—but then, do we really know how they operate? Still, we can’t rule out the idea that al Qaeda is behind this.” She shook her head.
“Have there been any more bombings?” Lennie asked. “If there haven’t, that’s a good sign that this was not the act of terrorists.”
“Yeah, but look at the anthrax letters,” Van Buren said. “They didn’t turn up all at once. Man! I just wish we could do an investigation without having to take terrorism into account as a possible motive! Between that and following up on every frightened housewife who gets a letter without a return address, we’re being stretched to the limit!”
“I know,” Lennie said, putting a hand on Van Buren’s shoulder. “And we’re not going to ask for any extra officers to help us on this one. We’ll follow all leads—it just might take us a little time, that’s all.”
“Thanks, Lennie,” Van Buren said. “You’re right—focus on the case. Talk to the family, and see if you can get a list of who was in the store yesterday. That might be a good place to start.”
September 25, 2001
Ed knocked and knocked, but no one was home. Then a neighbor across the hall opened the door.
“Whatcha knockin’ so loud for?” she asked grumpily.
“We’re detectives, investigating the arson at Mr. Stein’s store,” Lennie said, flashing his badge. “Do you know where Mr. and Mrs. Stein are?”
“Sure. They went down to the insurance company. Boy, was Sadie mad! She’d been on to Abe to get more insurance since September 11th!”
“So we heard,” Lennie said wryly. “Do you know where their son Myron is?”
“Not here,” the neighbor snorted. “He has his own place in the Village, down on Arbor Street.”
“Then he hasn’t lived here in a while?”
“Not for a couple of years,” she said. “He moved out when he turned 25, to try acting or music, or something. Didn’t come around for a year or two. Then his career stalled out and he crawled back here, seeking a handout. Abe was generous, of course, and let him come back to the store.” The woman shrugged. “Fatherly love!”
Greenwich Village
September 25, 2001
Myron’s apartment was in one of the nicer buildings in Greenwich Village. He opened the door at the detective’s first knock.
“Dad called and told me you might come,” he said, indicating some chairs. The detectives sat down, but Myron kept pacing around the room. He squeezed his temples with a hand. “He told me about the bomb. I knew I should have told him about the letter, but I thought it was a hoax.”
“What letter?” Ed asked.
“Let me get it,” Myron said. He went to a desk and opened a drawer. “I got it a couple of days after they destroyed the Trade Center. I figured it was just hate mail. I didn’t want to upset my parents.” He handed the letter to Ed.
“But you kept it anyway,” Lennie observed as he got up and read the text over Ed’s shoulder. The letter said:
We shall destroy you, too, Zionist
supporter of Israeli oppression.
“No signature. It was postmarked at Grand Central,” Ed remarked as he handed the envelope to Lennie. “When we talked with your father, he said he wasn’t political. Why would they want to target him?”
Myron shrugged. “To get to me,” he said. “I support several Israeli charities. Besides, with our name, it would be easy to know we are Jewish.”
“Well, to know about you, they’d have to know about the store,” Lennie said. “Do you have many Muslim customers?”
“Some,” Myron said. “We carry a lot of gold jewelry and gold coins. That sort of stuff attracts people from India and the Middle East, especially women.”
“Could you have gotten a little too friendly with some of those women?”
Myron scoffed. “If you are thinking jealous husband, forget it. I’m polite and friendly, but I know my place.”
“But could someone have misconstrued your friendliness for something else?” Ed continued. “After all, people from other cultures –“
Myron sighed. “I don’t know. I just don’t know anymore.”
“Do you remember who came into the store yesterday?” Lennie asked.
Myron furrowed his brow. “It was a slow day. Let’s see…Mrs. Feldman came by looking for a Bat Mitzvah present. And then two Indian ladies came in, looking for gold ropes. They bought three, as I recall. Then there was—but wait a minute, I have it all here.” He went to his computer. “Dad insists on keeping books the old fashioned way, but I keep records on my hard drive. He thought it was silly. But now his books are burned. He’ll be thanking me for this record.” He turned on the printer. “I can make you a list of everyone who bought something yesterday.”
“Did anyone come in and just browse?” Lennie asked as the printer whirred out a sheet of names. “Anyone come in and ask for directions, or for change?”
Myron wrinkled his brow. “I think there was a girl, good looking, who came in about noon. She asked to talk to Dad, who was in the back. I went to get him. He came out and she asked if she could post a flyer. Dad said no, and she left. But she left with a smile.”
“Do you remember anything about the flyer?” Lennie asked.
“It was pink, hot pink. That’s all I know,” Myron said.
“Don’t you think it is silly, walking around the neighborhood looking for a pink flyer?” Ed asked as they parked down the block from the site of the jewelry store.
“No,” Lennie said. “The rest of the people on this list all bought something. But this one didn’t. What better way to have time to plant a bomb by asking to see the owner of the store, saying you had some phony flyer to put up?”
“Well, it doesn’t look like the flyer was phony,” Ed said as he looked into the window of the doughnut shop. “It says there will be a prayer service for the people who lost their lives at the World Trade Center.”
“Yeah, and it’s brought to you by the Sufi Islamia Ruhaniat Society,” Lennie said. “I’m not sure what all those words mean, but Islamia sounds like Islam to me.”
“There’s an address in TriBeca.” Ed wrote it down. “Let’s check out these folks.”
TriBeca Neighborhood
September 25, 2001
Lennie and Ed walked up to the storefront. The window had a painted heart with spread wings, and the words “Sufi Bookstore” beneath it. The display included books and photographs of Indian-looking men. Ed opened the door, and breathed in the smell of incense.
“Takes me back to the Sixties,” Lennie muttered as a jeans-clad young woman with frizzy blonde hair came up to them.
“Hi,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re detectives,” Ed said, showing his badge. “We’re investigating the bombing of the Stein Jewelry Store last night.”
“Stein Jewelry Store?” The girl’s eyes grew wide. “That’s terrible! I was just there yesterday, when I was putting up posters about the prayer service!”
“So you were the one that was there,” Lennie said easily.
“Yeah,” she said. “They didn’t want to put the poster up.”
“And did that make you mad?” Lennie asked.
“No,” she said. “I was disappointed, but not surprised. Everyone is really tense right now. I just hope the prayer service helps with the healing process.”
“It’s sort of funny, that you’d remember the name of the store, since you didn’t get to put up your flyer,” Ed said easily as he looked through a bookshelf.
“It’s not so funny,” she replied. “I’ve been there before. They made me this necklace.” She showed a gold heart and wings on a chain.
“Your group—it’s Muslim?” Ed asked as he took down a book and looked at it.
“We’re Sufis-technically, the mystical sect of Islam,” she said. “But we believe that all roads lead to God. Everyone is welcome at our services. Was anyone hurt in the bombing?”
“No,” Lennie said.
“Well, I’m glad for that,” she said. “We’ve had enough death and tragedy around here. Say, if you’re not on the job, come by for the prayer service. We’re serving coffee and sweets afterwards.”
“Well, one suspect scratched off,” Ed remarked as they walked back to the car. “Frankly, I think the Muslim connection will turn up to be a dud.”
“Then lets go through the list of customers and cross them off too,” Lennie sighed.
September 25, 2001
The lady who opened the door to their knock was wearing a veil and a long dress with long sleeves. She looked at the detectives with a mixture of distrust and fear.
“What do you want?” she asked. “We are here legally in this country!”
“I’m sure you are, Mrs. Gabril,” Lennie said. “We are investigating the bombing of a jewelry store you visited yesterday. May we come in?”
Mrs. Gabril opened the door. The two detectives walked into a room with wall hangings of verses from the Koran and low couches crowded with pillows. She did not invite the detectives to sit down.
“I do not want trouble,” she said. “I know nothing about a bombing. I have not left my house since September 11.”
“I’m sorry, but the records of Stein’s Jewelry Store show you bought two gold necklaces there yesterday,” Lennie said.
“Stein? Stein?” A man, obviously from the Middle East, came into the room. “I am not talking to you about that cheater, Stein!”
“And you are--?” Ed asked mildly.
“Abdul Mohammed Gabril,” he said. “My wife and I are from Egypt, and we are not terrorists!”
“I’m sure you’re not,” Ed replied. “We are here to ask if you were at the Stein Jewelry Store yesterday.”
“Why?” Gabril asked angrily. “Has he accused me of stealing some of his junk?”
“Should he?” Ed asked.
“No, but I should make a complaint to you about him,” Gabril continued. “I thought he would be fair, because, though he is Jewish, he is not a Zionist. My wife goes to purchase two ropes, two gold ropes, and she brings them home to show me. They are not the right color. I take them to my friend Hamid, who assures me they are not 24-carat. I call the store, and am put off by Stein with excuses! I don’t care if he has called you to complain about my call. I have my rights to expect to get my money back!”
“Just what did you tell Stein?” Lennie asked. “We want to get your side of the story.”
“That he was a crook, that he was just like the Zionists, who think they can lie to the world and get away with it!” Gabril started pacing the room. “This country has been blinded by their lies—“
“Did you threaten him in any way?” Ed broke in.
Gabril looked at him angrily. “Is that what that dog said? I do not call demanding my money back or I will sue a threat—it is a promise!”
“Well, that’s a motive,” Ed said when they left the Gabril’s apartment. “First the wife lies about being at the store, then her husband goes into a tirade about Stein cheating him.”
“Let’s see if any of the other customers had a beef with Stein,” Lennie said. “I have a feeling, though, that we’ll be seeing more of the Gabrils.”
2-7 Precinct
September 27, 2001
“What have you found out about this Abdul Gabril?” Lt. Van Buren asked when the detectives reported at the station.
“He’s from Egypt. He and his family have been in this country for three years. Gabril is a doctor with a private practice, mostly the Muslim community. The mosque he attends is one that is-a bit radical.” Ed shifted uncomfortably. “I-went undercover. It was easier for me to appear to be Muslim than Lennie.”
Briscoe laughed mirthlessly. “While Ed was discovering that the people of the mosque were active supporters of several radical Palestinian groups, I checked up on Gabril’s kids. His oldest, Mohammed, is a junior in high school. I found out he is an honor student in science, with an interest in physics. One of his friends said he did a science fair project on explosives last year.”
“Motive and means,” Van Buren muttered. “Is the school missing any chemicals?”
“He could get it from a science supply house,” Lennie said. “He might have even had some left over from the project last year.”
“Pick up the boy for questioning,” Van Buren said.
September 27, 2001
Mohammed Gabril was talking with some friends as he left school. The two detectives waited until the boy parted from the others, then came up to him.
“We need to ask you a few questions,” Lennie said.
“What? Why are you picking on me?” Mohammed said. “I had nothing to do with the World Trade Center bombing!”
“We know that, kid,” Lennie said, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We want to ask you about another bombing.”
“I have told you everything I know,” Mohammed said in the green interrogation room of the 2-7. His father, who sat beside him, glared at the detectives. “I have not had any materials for making explosives in my possession for a year. The science project was controlled by my teachers. The chemicals were purchased by my teachers, and I created the project under their direct supervision!”
“There, he’s told you all,” Abdul Gabril said. “I told you, I am angry at Stein, but I wouldn’t bomb him, and I resent you thinking my son would create anything that would destroy human life! Contrary to popular belief, Islam does not condone killing.” He looked directly at Ed. “You, I am greatly disappointed with. You, of all Americans, must know what it means to be singled out because of how you look.”
“Hey, your wife lied about being in the store yesterday,” Ed responded defensively. “And then you came on like a bull—“
Van Buren came into the room. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Gabril, Mohammed,” she said mildly. “You are free to go.”
Ed shrugged as the Gabrils left. “What do we do now?”
“I’m not ready to let this lead go,” Van Buren said. “Check up on the teachers.”
2-7 Precinct
October 2, 2001
“We found out from the teachers that Mohammed was never allowed to take any of the explosive materials from school,” Lennie reported to Lt. Van Buren. But we also found the name of the chemical houses where they obtained the stuff—and guess what? Abdul Gabril purchased ammonium nitrate from them last week!”
“Sounds like Dr. Gabril wasn’t quite as forthcoming as his son,” Van Buren said. “Pick him up.”
October 2, 2001
“I want the first case against a Muslim since the Trade Center tragedy to be airtight,” Nora Lewin told her executive, Jack McCoy, when he came to her office. “What have the police got on Dr. Gabril?”
Jack opened a folder he was carrying. “He was angry at Mr. Stein over the quality of some jewelry his wife bought. His son built a bomb as a science project in school last year. Dr. Gabril purchased bomb-making chemicals from a supply house last week.”
“Which he will say he planned to use as fertilizer,” Nora sighed. “Isn’t he a member of a mosque that is anti-Israel?”
“We’re not using that,” Jack said. “Stein was apolitical.”
“But his son wasn’t,” Nora said. “Didn’t the report say the son got a threat?”
“Yes, but it was vague,” Jack said. “Postmarked September 12, Grand Central.”
“And just a week after, Dr. Gabril orders the chemicals.”
“We’re asking the detectives to work strictly on the connection with the jewelry store,” Jack said. “We’ll use the threat only as a last resort.”
“Good,” Nora said. “I don’t want to create more unwarranted panic in the city. I’m considering appointing a special task force to handle the anthrax hoaxes.”
“After we sentence one or two of the hoaxers to five years at Attica, you won’t have a problem with baby powder in the mail,” Jack said.
October 8, 2001
Serena came into Jack’s office, bearing a blue-backed paper. “Bad news,” she said. “Dr. Gabril’s changed lawyers. He’s hired Shambala Green.”
Jack raised his brows. “Not a bad move, in his case. Shambala is a good attorney who knows how to appeal to the hearts of the jury when she feels someone has been discriminated against. Is there more?”
“Yes,” Serena said. “She said that Mohammed was questioned without his parents being present, and that anything he said, and anything that the police discovered because of his statements, should be suppressed.”
“What?” Jack took the papers and looked at them. “The detectives assured me that they called Dr. Gabril as soon as they got to the precinct!”
“Yes, but apparently Mohammed talked to them a bit before that. He was so intent on proving he had nothing to do with the bombing, he blurted out the whole story, including the name of the science supply house where his teachers got the chemicals, before his father arrived. He merely repeated his story in his father’s presence.”
“Damn!” Jack threw the papers on the floor.
October 9, 2001
“The detectives knew the father was coming,” Shambala Green said. “But they baited Mohammed, which caused him to blurt out things before his father came.”
Judge Rivera looked at Jack severely. “Is this true, Counselor?”
“I was told that the detectives brought the boy in, and that Mohammed volunteered the information,” Jack replied.
“Well, what would you say if you were a Muslim and a policeman asked your opinion about the World Trade Center bombings?” Shambala countered.
“They were making conversation,” Jack said.
“They were implying that Mohammed had something to do with the terrorism!” Shambala turned to the judge. “This is a hard time for Muslims in this country. They are trying to show that they are good people, a people of peace. Everyone has seen the photographs of the car driven into the mosque. Is it any wonder that Mohammed talked with the detectives?”
“No, it isn’t,” Judge Rivera said. “In times like these, we must be sure that we follow the law. All the information given by Mohammed, and what the detectives discovered because of it, is out.”
October 9, 2001
“Mr. McCoy, I don’t believe it,” Myron Stein said when he visited Hogan Place. “Gabril was the one. He had to be. And yet you say he’s going free?”
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “But, in times like these, we feel we need an airtight case.”
“Air tight?” Myron stood up. “Wasn’t the hate message enough?”
“No fingerprints linking the letter to Dr. Gabril were found,” Jack said. “We had found evidence that he had purchased ammonium nitrate and other things, but that evidence was thrown out.”
“By sloppy police work!” Myron paced the floor. He stopped and looked at McCoy. “My parents want to relocate, start up business again. How can we do that if this threat of terror is hanging over our heads?”
“We’re still investigating,” Jack said. “We’ll try to find more evidence that will hold up in court.” The phone rang, and he took it. After a few minutes, he cradled the receiver and looked at Myron. “That was Detective Briscoe. He and his partner are working with the FBI on this case. So it isn’t dead.”
“Keep working. I want you to nail this bastard,” Myron said.
5:05 pm
October 9, 2001
Jack went into Nora’s office. “The detectives are working with the FBI on the Stein case. The Feds have given them a little bit of information on the mosque, but nothing linking Dr. Gabril with any terrorist network.“
“I was hoping we could keep terrorism out of this,” Nora said. “It—“
Her words were broken by a blast. Nora looked about her in fascinated horror as the bookcases, walls, and ceiling crashed and buckled around her.
She came to, coughing. There was still a pall of dust in the air, and she found it was difficult to breathe. Or move. Something was over her legs; she looked down and made out the end table in the gloom. She pushed it to one side, and moved her legs carefully.
She looked around. She had been thrown from her chair by the force of the blast, and wasn’t sure exactly where she was. The mess in the room didn’t help, either. Her toppled chair was behind her, the end table to one side, and file folders covered the floor. In front of her was a large piece of ceiling tile, and to the other side, a piece of long, heavy wood, which, Nora realized with a shock, had once formed part of the door frame. Something was missing, though, she thought dazedly. Something—no, someone. Where was Jack?
“Jack?” she called weakly. She coughed and tried again, louder. “Jack? Where are you?”
“Nora?” The voice was muffled, but it came somewhere over to her left. Carefully, she tried shifting the doorframe. A small shower of dust rained down on her, but she opened a small gap. Slowly, a hand came through the gap, moving the wood some more. Nora touched the hand, nearly weeping; it was bloody. She renewed her efforts to move the debris. When she finally saw Jack, she crawled toward him.
Jack’s head was bloody, but otherwise he seemed to be unhurt. He held out his arms to her and she fell, trembling, into them. They sat, arm in arm, for some moments before Nora realized Jack was trembling, too.
“I feel cold,” he said, “You do, too. I think we’re in shock.”
“As if we don’t have a reason,” Nora breathed. She looked up at Jack’s head. “What caused your wound?”
“Not sure,” Jack said. He broke from Nora’s embrace and felt for his handkerchief. Nora took it from him and wiped the blood from his forehead. Jack winced, but said nothing.
“I think you caught the edge of the chair,” she said. “I’ll hold this here until the bleeding stops.” She looked through the gloom at Jack’s face.
“What do you think happened?” he said finally.
“I’d say that someone planted a bomb just outside the office,” Nora said, taking the handkerchief away from Jack’s head. “There, the bleeding’s stopped. The thing we must decide is what to do next.”
“Not much to do,” Jack sighed. “If we try and move things, it might collapse on us. So all we can do is just sit and wait until we’re rescued. Listen! I think I hear sirens.”
Nora listened. There were sirens, and they were heading their way. She drew closer to Jack again. “When we hear a bullhorn, we’ll both shout,” she said. “They will be sure to find us then.”
“Yeah.” Jack held her close and sighed. “We’ll just wait here until we’re rescued.”
They said nothing, just held each other tight as the darkness slowly stole what little light they had. They felt the cold chill creep into their bones and wondered if the entire outside wall was gone, whether they were safe, or whether the ceiling and walls would collapse upon them as soon as the firemen tried to rescue them.
Nora trembled slightly, and Jack stroked her back. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I’ve admired – your work in the DA’s office,” he said. “I was never certain how to say something, without it sounding like I was just sucking up to you. But you have a way—an integrity—“
“I love you, too, Jack,” Nora whispered softly.
5:45 pm
October 9, 2001
“We came as soon as we heard,” Lennie Briscoe as he watched a paramedic bandage Jack’s head. “Are you going to the hospital?”
“Yes, he is,” Nora Lewin said, coming up to them. “We both are. I’m just glad no one else was hurt.”
“Lucky for you the bomb blew so late in the day,” Lennie said. “And the fire captain said the damage is limited to the tenth floor.”
“Where was the bomb?” Jack asked as he lay down on a gurney.
“Your office,” Lennie said.
6:30 pm
October 9, 2001
Myron Stein opened his door to see Ed and Lennie. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Oh, how about telling us the truth for a change?” Lennie asked, pushing Myron back into his apartment. “We’ve been doing some checking. Seems you have been having money problems lately. And you have been buying certain chemicals—funny, you look a little old for doing science projects! Anyway, here’s a warrant. How much you wanna bet we find something you wanted to stay hidden?”
Hogan Place
October 12, 2001
Jack McCoy, looking pale and angry, paced the floor. Arthur Gold and his client, Myron Stein came in, along with Myron’s father, Abraham.
“I just got the indictment,” Jack said. “If you want a deal, you’re not likely to get it.”
“I think we will,” Gold said as he sat down. “You see, Abraham Stein has decided not to press charges. He owned the building, and is willing to take the loss if you don’t prosecute his son.”
Jack looked at the old man, incredulous. “Your son destroyed your livelihood, and yet you’re willing to lose all you’ve worked for so he doesn’t pay for his folly?”
Abraham looked at Jack sadly. “And who was I working all this time for? My family. Sadie, she’s old, like me. We can live on our pensions.”
“Well, it doesn’t work that way, Mr. Stein. You see, your son bombed Hogan Place as well,” Jack said. “You can drop your charges, but we will just impose the additional charges of arson, public endangerment, and assault on officers of the court.”
“But you can’t do that, Jack! You were a victim!” Arthur Gold said.
“I know. But the Bronx DA will graciously take over prosecution,” Jack said. “In fact, Serena is taking the paperwork to him now.” He turned to Myron. “So, you are going to do time—hard time, no matter what your father tries to do. You know, if you really cared for him, you’d make a deal with me and not with him, and spare him more heartache.”
October 16, 2001
“I was in need of money,” Myron said at his allocution. “I thought that if I could burn down my dad’s store, it would convince him to quit the business, and I could take the insurance money and go back to acting. Then September 11 happened, and I got the idea of setting a bomb. We have a lot of Muslim customers. I waited until a day when one of them complained to Dad about a purchase. I set the bomb that night. I wouldn’t have set off the second bomb, but Mr. McCoy seemed to think that Dr. Gabril would get off. I wanted to give Mr. McCoy more of a motive to go after Gabril, so I placed the bomb under my coat. When I visited Mr. McCoy’s office, I placed the bomb on the floor while he was distracted with a phone call. It was set to go off a little after five, when I thought everyone would be gone. I am truly sorry for what I have done.”
“As you should be,” Judge Rivera said dryly. “You are sentenced to a term of ten to fifteen years for arson.”
“It seems funny, working on the ninth floor,” Jack said to Nora after the allocution.
“We’ll be back in our offices in a few weeks,” Nora said. “Be glad that it wasn’t any worse.”
“Oh, I am,” Jack said. “I’m also glad that we finally saw beyond the veil of prejudice and paranoia to discover the truth. I just hope we don’t have any more cases like this.”
“Me too, Jack, me too,” Nora sighed.