Misdemeanor Trials Read online

  IN THE BEGINNING....

  Raintree drove to the Tehran post office, walked inside, and opened his post office box. He rarely received any mail, but this time he was expecting a special postcard. He could see the postcard through the small window. It was the only thing in his box, a simple card from Ankara, Turkey, from a person named Takreet, with a note that he was having a great time on his vacation. Raintree chuckled at how mundane the agency had become.

  He drove home, went to his storage closet, and grabbed the large plastic container labeled “developer”. He poured some liquid in a baking dish and returned the developer to the closet. He took the postcard and carefully peeled off the picture of Ankara. Beneath it was a white glossy surface. He put the postcard into the liquid and almost immediately an image appeared. It was a head-shot of a man with long black hair, a neatly trimmed black beard. He appeared to be Middle Eastern. At least now Raintree would be able recognize the person he was supposed to pick up at the airport. It was John Trader.

  CHAPTERS

  CHAPTER 1 AZAD

  CHAPTER 2 INAUGURATION

  CHAPTER 3 JOHN

  CHAPTER 4 THE DOCTOR

  CHAPTER 5 NICE TIE

  CHAPTER 6 WOUNDS

  CHAPTER 7 CRAWFORD

  CHAPTER 8 VANESSA

  CHAPTER 9 PROBATION

  CHAPTER 10 TOSCA

  CHAPTER 11 CLOSING

  CHAPTER 12 MARTY

  CHAPTER 13 MAUREEN

  CHAPTER 14 JAX

  CHAPTER 15 HOT CAR

  CHAPTER 16 RANSOM

  CHAPTER 17 THE DONOR

  CHAPTER 18 THE WARRANT

  CHAPTER 19 OMID

  CHAPTER 20 DANIELLE

  CHAPTER 21 THE CONVERSATION

  CHAPTER 22 O’REILLY

  CHAPTER 23 THE MORGUE

  CHAPTER 24 INTERVENTION

  CHAPTER 25 EYE IN THE SKY

  CHAPTER 26 THE FEDS

  CHAPTER 27 THE LINEUP

  CHAPTER 28 VAIL

  CHAPTER 29 SARAH

  CHAPTER 30 MIKEE

  CHAPTER 31 SIGN ON

  CHAPTER 32 CUSTODY

  CHAPTER 33 MIKE’S CRABOUSE

  CHAPTER 34 AND THEN SHE DIED

  CHAPTER 35 THE MAKEOVER

  CHAPTER 36 SPOOKS

  CHAPTER 37 LET US PRAY

  CHAPTER 38 MAC

  CHAPTER 39 THE MOSQUE

  CHAPTER 40 THE GOOD DOCTOR

  CHAPTER 41 AFTERMATH

  CHAPTER 42 IN PARTS

  CHAPTER 43 THE BETRAYED

  CHAPTER 44 THE POTION

  CHAPTER 45 THE CONSPIRACY

  CHAPTER 46 THE OUTFIT

  CHAPTER 47 DHL

  CHAPTER 48 NAMAK

  CHAPTER 49 DRONE QUEEN

  CHAPTER 50 RUMBLING

  CHAPTER 51 OFF BALANCE

  CHAPTER 52 BASE CAMP

  CHAPTER 53 WELCOME HOME

  CHAPTER 54 FINAL DISCUSSIONS

  CHAPTER 55 CATCHING UP

  CHAPTER 56 THE O’REILLY FACTOR

  CHAPTER 57 THE TEXT

  © 2015 Copyright All rights reserved

  PROLOGUE

  This is a true story, revealed for the first time in the pages of this book. The story lay festering on the underbelly of distantly related news stories over the last ten years. Rumors, scant facts, a few discussions among journalists at night, over cocktails, but there was no lead. There was no one person who would become deep throat, or provide documents or admissions that would give life to the underlying story. Two years ago, while I was working on a biography of President Barrack Obama, I received a phone call from Michael Brand, who at the time was a columnist for the Washington Post. My own biography of President Obama was developing from third person interviews, discussions with politicians, and public documents. I was denied access to the President, and members of his family. Despite those denials, I felt that a scholarly and thoroughly investigated approach to his life was necessary as a contemporary comment on history that might otherwise become diluted with the passage of time. I had never met Michael Brand, but I was well aware of who he was. Over the phone, he said he had some important political connections he could introduce to me, and that he had a story, backed up by credible facts. He said his information was new, and should be revealed to the nation. At the time I thought Brand may have been familiar with my work, and would be able to provide some fresh information. I asked him to give me the concept of whatever it was that he was trying to tell me. He said he would rather meet me face to face. Over the years I have learned it is a poor use of time to follow naked promises of information, unrealistic access to important persons, or offers of credibility with thinly supported documentation. I told him if he wanted to talk to me, he could come to my offices. Several days later we met in my office in Boulder, Colorado. Brand sat in the sofa across from my desk. He was north of fifty, a bit scruffy, salt and pepper hair that curled at the sideburns and looked like it had not been combed in some time. He looked older than the flattering picture of him that appeared in his column in the daily newspaper. Over the next several hours I listened quietly, jotting a few notes for later questions. He mentioned names, told me dates of events and meetings, and referred to chronicles that supported his story. At the end, there were a few moments of silence. I asked why he was telling me this. He said that a respected non-fiction writer, who was credible, and willing to investigate, was needed to tell the story so that others would know, and believe the truth. I asked why he didn't investigate the story himself. He said he was clearly known as an opinionated columnist with views that would automatically generate skepticism. He then told me, that if I agreed to do the story, I would have access to the involved persons who would be completely cooperative and candid. I would also have access to the official papers that supported the events, and I would be able to visit the places where they took place. Over the next two years I did have access. I interviewed President Obama and President Bush and our current President. I spent five days with Dick Cheney in Wyoming. Cheney had an uncanny grasp of the facts and history. He often would digress and place his views in historical context and deliver an understanding of his view of events. I spent a half hour with Vice President Joe Biden. I had extensive interviews with the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency Porter Goss, and Leon Panetta, and John Brennan, and the current Director Michael Ronson. I also spoke at length with Deputy Director of the CIA John McLaughlin and George Tenet. I interviewed Assistant Secretary of State for Near Eastern Affairs Jeffrey Feltman, David Welch, and William Burns. Each referred me to an assistant or a Bureau Chief who came to our one-on-one interviews with documentation, and they were prepared. I had access to local police reports, and the whereabouts of minor players. Some were dead, others in prison, and others still active in agencies of government. All the agency representatives appeared to be candid, but each one limited the information they gave me to the story at hand. Some were more open and relaxed; others were hesitant, but cooperative. The documents appear real and were in many cases verified by unrelated facts. I abandoned for a while the biography I was working on. The only condition that was placed on me by Brand was to be objective and truthful. Throughout that intensive investigation, which included arduous journeys to places I have never been or heard of, meeting the schedules of persons who really had very little time for me, I always had the help and support of my wife, Belinda, and my children. I would like to especially thank my assistant, Morton Billings, who checked facts, made phone calls, and spent hours helping me edit and rewrite my manuscripts to make the story clear to any reader. I would like to thank my editor, William Chicot, who read and reread the manuscript. He was surprised and amazed at the complexity of the story, and often remarked, “How come we didn't know this?!
” This is that story.

  CHAPTER ONE

  AZAD

  “This means round breasts. (Qur’an 78:33) They meant by this that the breasts of these girls will be fully rounded and not sagging, because they will be virgins, equal in age.”

  ---Tafsir Ibn Kathir

  My name is Azad Kaleem Madani. I was born in Iran but came to the United States with my family when I was four years old. My family lives in Fremont, California. My friends call me Mike. Most of them think I am Italian. I was recently walking down the street in the Tenderloin of San Francisco. I was wearing an armed suicide vest that I put on that morning at the Mosque, and was on my way to the Embarcadero BART transit station where I was told I would be transported to heaven and be rewarded with 72 virgins. The Koran says: "Verily, for the righteous, there will be a paradise; gardens and grape yards; and young full-breasted maidens of equal age; and a full cup of wine". The hadith says: "The least reward for the people of Heaven is 80,000 servants and 72 wives, over which stands a dome of pearls, aquamarine and ruby." I guess the Imams put all this together and said there will be 72 virgins with big breasts. Sounds like a Playboy ad, or something from the marketing department of the publishers of the Koran. Anyway, as I walked I wondered, “Why am I doing this?” My family and my father are devout Shia Muslims. I was raised in a community and household that attended the Mosque, and daily we said our prayers as required by the Koran. My father told me that someday the religious leaders would come to me to make the sacrifice for Islam. It always seemed to be some vague idea that I never focused on. But every six months or so, as I was growing up, one or two Imams from Iran, or some other country in the Middle East, would visit me and sit and talk with me and my father. Sometimes my younger brothers would join us. They told us of the wars in the Middle East, and the need to convert the nations of the world to the wonderful religion of Islam. They spoke of the great sacrifices the brothers of Islam were making in the Middle East and other parts of the world and the need for the family to honor the commands of the Koran. When I was 14 my father told me about the Haj, and he took me to Mecca. We went to the Mosque, and there I saw thousands of men in white dresses at prayer. I spoke a bit of Farsi from listening to my parents so I understood some of the discussions that my father had with others who attended the Mosque. We only stayed a few days and returned to Fremont. What left an impression on me was that the place was hot, smelly, and dirty, and there were no flushing toilets. I got a terrible stomach ache, with vomiting and diarrhea. No wonder foreign worshipers were required to make only one pilgrimage in their life. I vowed to myself that I was never going back. I was looking forward to returning home the minute we arrived in Mecca, but my father had explained to me that he wanted to show me the heart of Islam and how important it was. I never took much note of these religious events. It was just part of my family and religious upbringing. Outside of home I was just another kid at school. I played basketball in High School and ran track. I was a good student and didn't do anything out of the ordinary. Except, in my senior year I did get drunk with a couple of my buddies. Lucky for me my parents never found out. After High School I applied to and was accepted at U.C. Berkeley. I stayed at the International House where my roommate was a guy from Nigeria. I was an engineering major. He was into women's studies or something like that. I never did get it quite straight. Sometimes the guys at the International House would chew the fat about stuff political and worldly. I was not on the cutting edge of world events, but most of the foreign students who joined the conversations exhibited some animosity towards America. It bothered me a little because I was an American. This was my country. I did not know anything but America, but I really liked things that were American. I knew the president’s name was Hussein, which means “handsome and beautiful”, which I thought was pretty neat. His friends called him Barry, just like my friends called me Mike. During my junior year I stayed away from the conversations since they were very negative. I was getting good grades and the basketball team was winning. Life was going really well.

  Last January when I was visiting home over the Martin Luther King three day weekend, two Imams visited my father and the three of them spoke for a long time alone in my living room. The next day they came back to my house and told me it was my time to make a sacrifice for Allah. They said there was a great plan for this year where Islam would make a mark around the world, and teach the infidel that there was only one God, and that was Allah. In college I was fairly knowledgeable about Islam and in the back of my mind I kind of knew it was the only religion that requires its followers to kill those who do not believe in Allah, and to take revenge in the name of Allah. But I didn't think it applied to me. That was for the other Muslims who were constantly fighting in several countries in the Middle East. In the Koran, holy vengeance and retaliation are commanded for Muslims. The Koran had been pounded into my head where it says, “Oh ye who believe! Retaliation is prescribed for you. He who transgresseth after this will have a painful doom. We shall take vengeance, called Muntaquimun, upon the sinners.” Muntaquimun is often watered down in translation by using the word punishment or retribution instead of retaliation. But as a kid, I listened, memorized portions of the Koran, and I took it about as literally as Christians take the Garden of Eden with the snakes and so forth. I figured their call to me would be the Islam counterpart to a Billy Graham Crusade. I didn't say that. Talking about Crusades was not well received in this group. I told the visitors I was ready. I had no idea what they had in mind, but I figured this was the time and I had to make my contribution. My dad probably went through the same thing when he was young and now it was my turn. They said they would be back in March. My thoughts in March turned to Basketball playoffs, and I never gave their promise of a return visit a second thought.

  I was home during Spring break when they returned. They told me that the next day the effort across the United States would forever mark the glory of Islam. I was a bit surprised on Wednesday morning when they arrived. I was taken to the Mosque, where the two Imams and my father showed me the vest. I became nervous and began to perspire a bit. This vest could kill me. The Imams told me that many others would be carrying out their duty throughout the country that day, and that we would meet together in heaven and celebrate our victory. They told me that I was to travel to San Francisco and go to the Embarcadero BART station. At twelve noon I was to push the button attached to the vest. Something inside of me could not resist their instructions, and I could hardly speak. I only nodded my head. My father seemed to join them in what was a really serious idea. I wanted to ask my Dad what was going on, but I could not form the words. They put the vest on me and then a bulky jacket over the vest. They drove me to the bus station in order to avoid the security at the BART station. I got off the bus at Van Ness and started the walk alone to the Embarcadero. “What am I doing here?” I am an American and about as American as you can get. Suicide vests are for people who have nowhere to go and nothing to do. People who have no prospects, who have no future, create one for themselves in a fanciful heaven where there are 72 virgins. I wondered what the Muslim girls get when they die. And who needs 72 virgins? My girlfriend is a hot Latin chick. She will do anything. 72 virgins? Too much training, too much trouble. I decided to take the vest off and dump it in the next garbage can, but I had no idea how to remove it. Then I realized I could go to the Federal Building and ask for help from the FBI. I took the short walk over to the Federal Building and the first problem was the metal detectors and the security guards. I walked up to a security guard and told him I needed to see someone from the FBI and I needed to meet them outside. I could tell they became a bit more alert, and they asked why I needed to speak to the FBI. I told them I had some information about a plan to attack cities by Muslim extremists. They told me to wait a moment and made a phone call. A few minutes later one of the guards told me to enter through the metal detector and they would take me to the FBI office. I told them I wanted to meet someone outside. The guard told m
e that if I did not come through the metal detector they would have to escort me. I saw the guard rest his hand on his holstered gun. I said I could not go through the metal detectors because I was part of the large plan to attack people in several cities, and I did not want to go through with it, and I needed help. I opened my jacket and showed them the vest. I heard one of the guards say, “Oh shit.” He told me to wait right there, and he made another phone call. He hung up and told me someone from the FBI would be down in a moment. A guy in a blue suit came to the entrance a few minutes later.

  “I am from the FBI. What shall I call you?”

  “Mike”.

  “Are you wearing a suicide vest?”

  “Yes”.

  “Is part of your plan to blow up your vest at the Federal Building?”

  “No. I want to take it off. I don't want to go through with it. I need some help, quickly. I don't want to die.”

  “Before we try to remove your vest, we are going to have to evacuate the building or take you to a vacant area in the Bomb Containment area. Will you help us?”

  “Yes, I will cooperate, but I don't think we have the time. There is some sort of a countdown LED on the vest, since I think there was supposed to be a coordinated attack all over the country at the same time. I just don't know. Can someone here help me? I don't want to die.”

  The FBI person looked at the guard and said, “Call Brian Westerfield on the 10th floor, extension 2145. Tell him I have an armed suicide vest, and to meet me in the basement interview room right now with any bomb deactivation tools he has.” He then turned to me and said, “Westerfield can deactivate the device. You will follow me outside the building. We are going to enter the basement from a side door. Brian will meet us and we will get you out of that vest. Follow me. Where else is this coordinated effort happening?”

  “New York, Miami, Chicago, St. Paul, New Orleans, Seattle, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Las Vegas, and Cleveland. I have no idea why they chose Cleveland.”