THE ABSENCE OF GUILT.

A novel.

by Mark Gimenez.

For Charlie Rice, may he rest in peace.

Author's Note.

Back in the late 1980s, while I was a young partner in a large Dallas law firm, I met a terrorist. I didn't know it at the time. At a senior partner's request, I met with a potential client who wanted to invest $100 million in U.S. real estate. He was an older Arab gentleman. When I asked for his contact details, he gave me several locations in London and Europe; and then he said, "But there are times when I will be unavailable as I will be in the desert of Libya with Muammar Gaddafi." I asked what he did for Gaddafi. "Consult." On what? "Construction." Of what? "Projects." He declined to be more specific. After escorting him to the elevators, I went to the senior partner and convinced him that the firm didn't need this client. We declined to represent him. End of story.

Or so I thought.

About a year later, I read an article in a national news magazine that reported of his death-and that he was the man who had built Gaddafi's chemical weapons plant. Sarin was reportedly produced at that plant. Twenty-five years later, ISIS captured Libya's cache of sarin.

I met the man who made that possible.

Innocence: The absence of guilt.

Black's Law Dictionary, Fifth Ed.

"We will put terror into the hearts of the unbelievers."

The Koran 3:151.

PROLOGUE.

Thursday, 14 January.

24 days before the Super Bowl.

The Dallas Cowboys don't play in Dallas. They play in Arlington. In Cowboys Stadium-officially known as "AT&T Stadium" in this age of corporate sponsorship of sports-which sits halfway between Dallas and Fort Worth, seats one hundred thousand spectators, boasts the largest suspended HDTV screen in the world, and cost $1.2 billion to construct. The stadium is domed, but two roof panels retract to reveal a 661,000-square-foot hole that exposes the playing field to the heavens above, supposedly so God can watch His team play. God's team hasn't played so well lately-the Cowboys haven't been to the Super Bowl in twenty years-but Cowboys Stadium would host the next Super Bowl in twenty-four days. The stunning glass-and-steel, three-million-square-foot structure is Texas-sized-almost as long as the Empire State Building is tall and tall enough for the Statue of Liberty to stand inside, raised torch and all-and futuristic in appearance; it rises from the high plains of Texas like something out of a Spielberg movie.

Aabdar Haddad stared at the silver-and-white stadium lit up against the night sky through the front windows of his apartment. It took his breath away, as it did each time he gazed upon it. He lived directly across the street; the stadium loomed large overhead. It was like living in the shadow of the Great Pyramid. He had chosen his apartment for the view. He saw the stadium first thing each morning when he opened the drapes and last thing each night when he closed the drapes. The stadium was his neighbor, his landmark, his dream, and his destiny.

It was his plan for greatness.

His eyes dropped from the stadium to the stadium's architectural plans spread on the desk in front of him. Cowboys Stadium constituted an architectural and engineering feat of genius. Other domed stadiums require strategically placed pillars to support the roof, the same as load-bearing walls in a residence. Proper support of the roof is essential, be it a house or a football stadium. But, just as one cannot sit in a recliner at home and watch television through a load-bearing wall, spectators cannot sit in a stadium and watch the game through a support pillar. The Dallas Cowboys owner was adamant that not a single spectator's view would be blocked by a support pillar. Not in his stadium. The architects would have to find another way to support the roof.

Their answer: arches. Two steel arches-the longest interior structural arches on the planet at 1,290 feet in length-would span the stadium and support the roof and everything attached to the roof. The load the arches would have to bear was not inconsequential: in addition to the roof itself, there would be the two retractable roof panels, each weighing 1.68 million pounds, the seven-story-tall HDTV screen weighing 1.2 million pounds, and the two largest sliding glass doors in the world beyond each end zone. And there was gravity; the constant force of gravity pushing down on the roof would require the arches to transfer eighty million pounds of thrust into the ground. The architects designated 65-grade steel, the strongest steel made by man, and designed ten-story-tall concrete anchors at each end of the arches that would extend seventy feet straight down into the earth and then one hundred seventy feet away from the stadium. The arches would be the load-bearing walls of the stadium. Cowboys Stadium would stand or fall with the arches.

Such thoughts occupied Aabdar Haddad's mind that night.

What would happen if one of the arches suffered a fatal fracture? If both did? Would the stadium still stand? Could it possibly come down? If the World Trade Center could come down, anything could. Three thousand people died on 9/11 when the Twin Towers came down on a workday. How many would die if the stadium came down on a game day? During the Super Bowl. In a terrorist attack.

If the arches failed, and the stadium fell.

Aabdar's eyes again rose to the stadium in the windows. His mind played out a scenario that seemed as real as if he were an eyewitness: a massive bomb exploding at ground level where the arches join the concrete supports ... the arches buckling ... the domed roof sagging ... then collapsing ... the entire structure imploding ... the stadium falling ... a hundred thousand people dying. Their grave had already been dug; the playing field sat five stories below ground level. There they would lie for eternity like the sailors aboard the USS Arizona at Pearl Harbor, victims of another surprise attack America had not anticipated. But before his mind could fully comprehend the loss of life such a terrorist attack would bring, the door to his apartment burst from its hinges, and the last two sights Aabdar Haddad saw in this life were Cowboys Stadium still standing and his blood and brains splattered on the architectural plans.

ONE.

Friday, 15 January.

23 days before the Super Bowl.

"I knew the Honorable A. Scott Fenney back when he wasn't so honorable."

The audience of lawyers chuckled politely.

"Back when we were fraternity brothers at SMU, back when he was still Scotty Fenney, number twenty-two, scoring touchdowns on Saturday afternoons and sorority girls on Saturday nights."

The lawyers laughed now. The typical introduction of the guest speaker at these continuing legal education luncheons each Friday consisted of a recitation of the speaker's career highlights-top-of-his (or her)-class in law school, editor-in-chief of the law review, partner at a big Dallas law firm, major commercial cases won for corporate clients, that sort of thing. But the man making this introduction, Franklin Turner, famous plaintiffs' lawyer, had never done typical, in or out of a courtroom. Scott braced himself for the worst.

"That twenty years later he would be sitting here as a federal judge was a future I never once entertained. I would've bet on his being a movie star-he had the looks-or maybe an ex-NFL star player turned broadcaster-he had the football ability. But a knee operation took care of that career path."

Two knee operations.

"So he went to law school. We all went to law school. Hell, we had no choice: none of us were smart enough to get into med school."

More laughter from other lawyers who were also not smart enough to get into med school. Consequently, in order to maintain their law licenses in good standing, they had to obtain fifteen hours of CLE credit each year, including three hours of ethics, about as enjoyable to lawyers as eating the broccoli that remained untouched on Scott's plate. They would earn one hour of ethics credit that luncheon listening to that day's topic: "Professionalism in Federal Court."

"Scotty and I, we graduated together. Well, I graduated. Scotty, he graduated number one in our class. There's a difference, as we all well know. I hired on with the DA's office-I didn't realize at the time there was no money in criminal law; hell, I put two stone-cold killers on death row and all I got was a pat on the back, so I switched to personal injury-and Scotty hired on with Ford Stevens. He became a partner in record time. He represented rich and famous clients, married Miss SMU, lived in a Highland Park mansion, drove a red Ferrari ..."

Frank smiled and shook his head.

"Used to see Scotty tear-assing around town in that red rocket. That was a hell of a car. Scotty was a hell of a lawyer making a hell of a lot of money ... not as much as me because by then I had moved on to suing your clients for toxic torts, but he was making a boatload of bucks. Which is to say, he had a perfect life."

The smile slowly left Frank's face.

"But then Scotty's life changed. That happens, doesn't it? How many lawyers do we know whose lives were changed by bad luck? By disease-a death sentence called cancer or the death of a wife or a child? Or by bad acts? We all know a few lawyers who walked on the wrong side of the law and paid the price. But Scotty's life changed not because he did the wrong thing, but because he did the right thing. Because he defended an innocent person-a black prostitute from South Dallas accused of murdering a white man from North Dallas. And not just any man. But the son of a powerful U.S. senator with White House ambitions. It doesn't get any worse than that for a lawyer."

The banquet hall fell silent, not an easy feat with two hundred lawyers in attendance. But Franklin Turner could do that; he could command a room. He was lanky and a bit ungainly, but he had a presence. And he had that voice. And something else, some indefinable capacity to connect with people, especially trial juries. Frank Turner could, as they say, sell ice to Eskimos.

"We've all read about that case and Scotty's life in the newspaper. We all know what happened to that prostitute-acquitted only to die of a heroin overdose two months later-and to him-he lost everything. His job, his mansion, his Ferrari ... and his wife. She ran off with the golf pro at the country club."

The lawyers stared solemnly at their plates, as if praying this introduction would end soon. But Frank was just warming up.

"No, wait-it gets worse. Two years later, his ex-wife is charged with murdering the golf pro, who just happens to be Trey Rawlins, the next Tiger on tour. Butcher knife stuck in his chest. Her fingerprints on the knife. His blood all over her. What we call a slam-dunk for the prosecution. But she claims innocence. And whom does she call? Yep. Scotty. Now, I have to be honest ... well, I'm a plaintiffs' lawyer, so I don't have to be honest, but I will be ... I don't think I could represent my ex-wife who left me for the stud golf pro at the club even if he did cure my slice. But Scotty did. He went down to Galveston and proved her innocent-not to get her back, but to set her free. That's who he is."

Franklin Turner, famous plaintiffs' lawyer, turned to Scott. Their eyes met. Frank nodded then turned back to his audience.

"I can tell you this about Scotty. He's a better athlete than I ever dreamed of being-hell, I played tuba in the SMU marching band. He's a better lawyer than I ever hoped to be-not richer, just better. And he's a better man than I'll ever be-he adopted the prostitute's daughter. Yes, I'm doing well, damn well. I'm making a hell of a lot more money than he is and I've got a Lear jet ... but he's doing good-as a lawyer and as a man. And if I ever stray to the wrong side of the law-and get caught-and another man is going to sit in judgment of my life, I pray that that man is Scotty Fenney. Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present the very Honorable A. Scott Fenney, United States District Judge."

Two hours later, United States District Judge A. Scott Fenney sat in judgment of another man's life. Which is not an easy thing, deciding if a man deserves freedom or prison, mercy or misery, two to five or five to ten. He stands before you, his face full of fear if not remorse, his body trembling with the prospect of a long prison sentence, his mother clutching him as if he's dying of cancer.

As if his crimes were all just a big misunderstanding.

They weren't. The government had proven its case against him beyond all reasonable doubt. The evidence against him was overwhelming. He was guilty. After the jury convicted him, he had no choice but to throw himself upon the mercy of the court.

But he didn't.

His mother had pleaded for mercy. "He's a good boy, Judge," she had said. "Please show him mercy. Please don't take my son from me."

Character witnesses had pleaded for mercy. His MIT professors testified to his genius, his brilliance, his potential to save the world with an invention, a process, or perhaps the cure for cancer. They all said he was a good boy who had lost his way.

But he had not pleaded for mercy.

"My dad gave forty years of his life to that company, and what did he get in return? Fired. They took his pension and his health care and his life. He got sick and died of cancer. They got rich, and he got Obamacare. The CEO took home fifty million dollars last year. Is that right? It's legal, but is it right? I'm going to prison and that asshole is going to the beach, to one of his five mansions. Am I sorry? I'm only sorry I got caught before I destroyed him as well as the company. Another six months, he would've been homeless."

Denny Macklin was twenty-four years old, the classic geek. Brilliant, arrogant, and as cocky as an NBA star. He looked like the students at SMU Scott had seen loitering outside the mathematics building as he hurried to the football stadium. He had made his name in online video games-not developing them but playing them; he was the best of the best among players, a master of his universe. But when the company fired his father, he turned his genius on them. A Fortune 500 company had destroyed his father's life, so he had destroyed the company. Almost. He hacked the company's computers, he disrupted its sales and shipments, he stole its cash, he ruined its credit ranking. The company plunged from number 378 on the Fortune list to number 8,456. He brought down a public company with a laptop, an Internet connection, and a 187 IQ. And he destroyed the lives of ten thousand employees the company had to lay off. He hadn't thought of that consequence of his actions. In his anger and desire for revenge, he forgot about people just like his father.

The FBI investigated, but he made them look inept. He was always too smart and two steps ahead. They would have never caught him. He could have gotten away with his crimes. Scot-free. But like all seekers of revenge, Denny had to tell his target-the company's CEO-that it was he who was bringing all the misery upon the company, just as the company had brought misery upon his father. The CEO had to know that Denny Macklin had avenged his father.

Once the CEO knew, the FBI soon knew.

Now he stood before Judge A. Scott Fenney and between his lawyers. A top-notch criminal defense lawyer from Houston, famous for winning in Texas courts, and a top-notch corporate lawyer in Dallas, head of one of the richest law firms in Texas.

Dan Ford.

Three and a half years before, Scott had stood where Dan now stood, in front of a federal judge and next to a client about to learn her fate. The case had cost him everything he had held dear, everything except his daughter. When he had refused to betray his client to preserve Senator Mack McCall's White House ambitions, Dan had fired him from the firm. He had shown him no mercy.

Dan had pleaded for mercy for his client that day.

To a federal judge who sat on the bench that day because an older judge had died. Before Sam Buford had succumbed to cancer, he had put Scott's name forward as his replacement. Scott had thought the senator would block his nomination, but the senator had himself died of prostate cancer. Scott had won Senate confirmation by a unanimous and uncontested vote. Federal Judge A. Scott Fenney now sat in judgment of another man's life. The sentencing guidelines called for twenty years, but the guidelines were only advisory, only sentences on a page. Only a judge sentences another human being.

"Mr. Macklin, you have been convicted on one hundred twenty-seven counts, all felonies under federal law. You have expressed no remorse. To the contrary, you have stated that you would have continued your criminal activity until you had put the company and its CEO in bankruptcy. You are proud of your actions because you view your actions as honorable. You think you're innocent. But feeling no guilt is not the same as being innocent. I have nothing but disdain for the way the company treated your father. But that does not justify your actions that destroyed the lives of ten thousand innocent people. Just because you could exact your personal revenge does not mean you should. You've been given a great gift-brainpower that few people possess. You can use that power as a boy might, or you can use that power as a man might. So far, you've used it as a boy. And you stand before this court as a boy. When I walked into this courtroom today, I was still unsure of your sentence. Your statement here today shows me that you need time to think about your power, time to think about your future, time to become a man who will make your father proud. Denny Macklin, you are hereby sentenced to two years in a federal minimum security prison."

"His dad was a good man. We went to school together, same fraternity. He went MBA, I went law. We kept up, talked once or twice a year. The company moved him all around the world. He worried about Denny, that he didn't have friends and roots. He was real proud when the boy got into MIT. This would break his heart."

Dan Ford shook his head. He had requested a meeting in chambers after the sentence. Scott's former senior partner was sixty-four now; he seemed older.

"How are you, Dan?"

"Me?" He shrugged. "I'm rich."

"A happy man."

"Are you? With your salary? What are you making, one-ninety?"

"Two hundred. Plus benefits."

Dan grimaced. "Ouch. I make in a month what you make in a year. Plus benefits."

A federal judge earned a good salary: $201,100. Not for lawyers-Scott had been making $750,000 at Ford Stevens when Dan fired him-but for normal people. And it was guaranteed for life, security normal people did not enjoy. But federal judges were appointed for life so they enjoyed financial security for life. A. Scott Fenney was no longer the poor lawyer on the block, but he was not again a rich lawyer. He was not an upper-class lawyer as he had been at the firm or a lower-class lawyer as he had been after the firm. He was a middle-class lawyer. A federal judge doing good instead of doing well. Living a steady, stable life. A nice life without fame or fortune but with dental. Pajamae had braces. Her teeth would look like pearls.

"You've made your peace?"

"I have."

"If you ever change your mind, you know my number."

"Office?"

"Salary. One million a year. Your name on the door."

"Good to have options."

That was always a financial option for a lawyer, what most people would call a moral dilemma: To do well instead of good. His appointment as a federal judge was for life, but he could always change his mind. He could always take the money.

"Standing offer. All you have to do is say yes."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that."

Dan Ford gave Scott a fatherly look, a look of concern for the prodigal son. Which reminded Scott.

"Sorry about your son, Dan."

His son had died of AIDS since the last time Scott had seen Dan.

"You were more of a son to me than he was. But he was my blood. I hope he's in a better place." His gaze wandered off for a moment, then he said, "What about Rebecca? Is she in a better place?"

"Better than prison."

"Where is she?"