Chapter 22
Righley’s Saturday-morning soccer game was a family event. Jack watched with pride, but unlike some parents, he accepted that
he probably wasn’t witnessing the next Mia Hamm or Abby Wambach. Andie wasn’t an official team coach, but seeing her daughter
on the field seemed to bring out the old Junior Olympian in her, and she couldn’t help weighing in from the sidelines.
“Righley, run to open space!”
It was Andie’s answer to youth soccer’s perennial problem: two teams surrounding the ball and kicking each other in the shins
as an amoeba-like glob of children inched across the field. All it took was one kid to break from the pack—“Run to open space!”—and
a teammate with the presence of mind to pass her the ball, and it was an easy goal. It struck Jack as a metaphor for life.
Somehow, the ball found the back of the net. The fact that it was the wrong net didn’t preclude the usual reaction.
“ Gooooooooooooal! ”
The game was over before nine o’clock, followed by a visit to Righley’s favorite pancake house. A weekend off would have been
nice, but phase two of Zahra’s case—the dispositive phase—was less than forty-eight hours away. Jack had an 11:00 a.m. meeting
with a child psychiatrist at his office.
Dr. Margot Vestry arrived right on time. She was about fifteen years older than the headshot on her website, having reached
the age where many women tire of their long hair and opt for a more practical shoulder-length cut. The kitchen felt less like
a workplace on a Saturday, and it got the best natural light in the morning, so their meeting began at the table over coffee.
“Have you worked with a psychiatrist before?” the doctor asked.
“Well, my wife and I are seeing a marriage counselor who’s a psychiatrist.”
“I meant, have you ever engaged a psychiatrist as an expert witness in your past cases?”
Jack chuckled with embarrassment. Andie on your mind much, Swyteck?
“Yes, many times,” he said. “Mostly in the sentencing phase of capital cases. Being the victim of child abuse or other trauma
is irrelevant to guilt or innocence, but a jury might consider it when deciding whether to recommend the death penalty.”
“So you’ve actually worked with child psychiatrists?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that comes as a relief,” she said. “When you told me this was your first proceeding under the Hague Convention, I thought—”
“God help us?”
She smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far. Luckily, this is not my first rodeo.”
Not by a long shot. Harvard Medical School, residency at Johns Hopkins Hospital, and postgraduate fellowship in child and
adolescent psychiatry at Boston Children’s Hospital made for an impressive résumé. But her experience in international child
abduction cases was the reason Jack had selected her—and the reason Myra Weiss’s Washington law firm had agreed to pay for
her.
“Our job isn’t going to be easy,” said Jack. “You should assume that we won’t be able to prove that Farid directed any physical
or verbal abuse at Yasmin. Our theory of the case is that Yasmin witnessed the abuse of her biological mother, Ava, and then
her adoptive mother, Zahra. If the judge returns Yasmin to her father, it will be more of the same.”
“Abusers rarely change their ways, and if they do, it’s a long-term process. Farid’s pattern will likely continue in future
relationships.”
“That’s our argument,” said Jack. “My plan is to put you on the stand to render an expert opinion as to whether witnessing
abuse can cause psychological harm to a child.”
“It certainly can,” she said. “I’ve published a number of peer-reviewed articles on that topic and seen it countless times in my practice. Children exposed to violence can develop everything from ADHD to Tourette’s syndrome.”
“That’s what I need you to explain to the judge.”
“And that’s fine, but it only goes so far. I would be a much more compelling witness if I could take it to the next step.”
“Which would be?”
“I would need to conduct my own forensic psychological examination of Yasmin. I would then render a professional opinion as
to whether she is already exhibiting symptoms of having witnessed Farid’s abuse of her mothers.”
“I agree that would be ideal. But here’s the problem. If you examine Yasmin, Farid’s lawyer will hire another psychiatrist
to examine her. Before we know it, Yasmin is the key witness in the hearing, which Zahra wants to avoid at all costs.”
“I understand. But does she want to win the case or not?”
Jack had hired quite a practical-minded psychiatrist. “Fair question,” he said. “Ultimately, it’s Zahra’s decision.”
“May I speak to her about it?”
“Not without me in the room.”
“That would be fine,” she said. “Is she coming this morning?”
The doorbell rang, a speak-of-the-devil moment. Jack excused himself, went to the lobby, and let Zahra in.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Babysitter problems.”
“No problem. I was just having a nice talk with Dr. Vestry. She has some questions for you.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Basic stuff. Nothing to be worried about.” Jack stopped outside the door to the kitchen and lowered his voice so that Dr.
Vestry couldn’t possibly overhear. “Before we go in, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Jack, I’ve slept on it, and I’m not going to change my mind about putting Yasmin on the witness stand.”
“It’s not that,” said Jack. “It’s about Ava.”
“What about her?”
Jack didn’t have a ton of information from Andie about the confidential dossier on Ava, but he was hoping that Zahra could fill in the blanks.
“Eight months ago, an immigration form was filed with the US government in the name of Ava Bazzi.”
“Yes, a U visa application.”
“You know about that?” he asked.
“Of course. I filed it.”
“Under Ava’s name?”
“Yes, Jack. The whole time I was living in the United States, I was living under Ava’s name. You knew that. I told you that.”
“That you did,” said Jack, no quibble there. “There’s just one thing that doesn’t add up.”
“What?”
“Do you have any idea how Ava’s fingerprints got on the application?”
Zahra’s mouth opened, but the words seemed to be on a few-second delay. “Ava’s fingerprints?”
“The FBI says they’re on the immigration form that was filed eight months ago.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“I hope that’s true,” said Jack. “Or is there something going on here I should know about?”
“Like what?”
“Sisters. The bond between them can be very strong.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Call me crazy, but some thoughts have crossed my mind.”
“Such as?”
“Little sister Ava is alive and in hiding, separated from her daughter. Big sister Zahra is working to unite Ava with her
little girl?”
“That would mean the Iranian government is speaking the truth, and Ava is alive.”
“Yes, it would.” Jack’s tone was matter-of-fact.
Zahra seemed taken aback. “Are you asking if I’m conning you, Jack?”
“Are you?”
“No. That’s not what’s going on.”
Jack gave her an assessing look. She looked back with equal intensity and never blinked.
“If you’re being less than a hundred percent honest with me, you’re only hurting yourself,” Jack said.
“Do I look like a masochist to you?”
“And Yasmin.”
“I would never hurt Yasmin.”
Jack had absolutely no evidence to doubt that statement. “Let’s go talk to Dr. Vestry.”
Andie drove alone to Miami International Airport, but she wasn’t flying anywhere. Isaac Underwood had a two-hour layover on
his flight from Washington, DC, to Freeport, where he was scheduled to meet with Bahamian officials about the funding of suspected
terrorist activities through offshore bank accounts. He’d called Andie from the lounge.
“I have something for you,” he’d said. “It’s about Brian Guthrie.”
Thirty minutes later TSA cleared Andie through security, and she met Isaac in the Admirals Club. They sat away from the crowd
in a pair of club chairs that faced the window, overlooking a long line of delayed departures on the busy runway. A plate
of tortilla chips with guacamole rested on the table between them. Isaac loaded up a chip and made it disappear in one bite.
“Fresh guac for frequent flyers,” he said with a smile of satisfaction. “The only good thing left about flying.”
Andie couldn’t argue the point. “You said you had something for me?”
Isaac put the chips aside, opened his briefcase, and removed a small manila envelope. “This contains a memo written by the
FBI’s legal attaché in Kuwait.”
“About Guthrie?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see it?”
He put it away and closed his briefcase. “No.”
“Why?”
“Iran is one of just four countries designated as a state sponsor of terrorism. A report like this is certainly within the
purview of the FBI’s assistant director of the counterterrorism division. For someone like you? Better to be able to say you’ve
never seen it.”
Andie blinked, confused. “Then why did you ask me to come out here?”
“Because I wanted you to know that what I’m about to tell you isn’t just hearsay. It’s part of an official FBI record. And
because I need your personal assurance that this is just between us.”
Andie sighed, thinking of her last conversation with Jack about Isaac. “Please don’t make me pinkie-swear again.”
He laughed, then turned serious. “Just be aware that there are things in this report I can’t share with you.”
“Got it,” she said. “What can you tell me?”
“According to the attaché’s report, Mr. Guthrie was driving to Kuwait when he was stopped in the southwest province of Khuzestan
and was arrested.”
“Does it say why he was arrested?”
“Yes. Smuggling.”
“That makes some sense,” said Andie. “His mother told me he was a broker in ancient art and antiquities.”
“That’s also in the report. But there’s no mention of any art that was confiscated.”
“Just because it’s not in the FBI report doesn’t mean it’s not in the local police report.”
“True,” said Isaac. “There’s one other interesting thing in this report I can share with you: the timing of Guthrie’s arrest.”
“When was it?”
“October twenty-ninth.”
“Twelve days after Ava Bazzi’s arrest.”
“More important, the day after the Iranian government claims Ava Bazzi escaped from prison and fled the country.”
“Hmm,” said Andie, thinking.
“Yeah,” said Isaac. “Raises a question in one’s mind, doesn’t it? Was Brian Guthrie an art smuggler—”
“Or a human smuggler?” said Andie, finishing his question.
“Or neither,” said Isaac. “Just some poor guy in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Is the answer in that report?”
“No. Which means my work on Mr. Guthrie is done, and yours is just beginning. You’re on your own from here on out, kiddo.”
“Understood.”
Isaac’s phone chimed with an alert. “My plane is boarding,” he said, picking up his carry-on bag. “Anyway, I thought this
would give you something to think about.”
“Thank you,” said Andie, her gaze drifting toward the runway. “Plenty to think about.”