“Of course. She’s my girlfriend.”
When he uses the present tense, I have the urge to charge the witness stand and pummel him. When Debra and I interviewed him, he mentioned a text from Farah but said nothing about the photo. Was he protecting Hailey or himself?
“How did Hailey react?” Lundy asks.
“She went ballistic, screaming and shouting. She said Farah must’ve taken the picture of her in the girls’ locker room and photoshopped it. She said she was going to kill that Persian bitch.” He doesn’t even have the guts to look at Hailey.
“He’s a fucking liar,” Hailey says, her harsh whisper much too loud.
“What happened next?” Lundy asks.
“Hailey and I confronted Farah at school. I didn’t want to do it, but Hailey insisted. She told Farah she hated her, to stay away or she’d kill her.”
“I never said that,” Hailey whispers. “I told her to stop bothering me.”
I believe her for once, because that’s precisely what Aaron told us during his interview at the office. But to get immunity, he needed to give Lundy something better than Hailey told Farah to leave her alone.
“Was Ethan Gold telling the truth when he said you showed the picture of Hailey and Farah to other students?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. It was a horrible mistake. Sometimes teenagers do stupid things. I want to apologize to Hailey and to Farah’s mother for that.”
Debra glances back, then whispers to me, “Not even Farah’s mother bought that bullshit.”
“But the jury is buying his testimony about Hailey,” I reply.
“Do you have a copy of the photo?” Lundy asks.
“No, sir. I realized what I did was wrong. So I deleted it.”
“Your witness,” Lundy says to me.
I stand. Aaron looks at me with no fear, as if he’s waiting for Hailey in our living room on date night.
“Did you ever tell Hailey Hovanes that you loved her, Aaron?” I ask.
“Sure, lots of times, Matt—Mr. Hovanes.”
“Do you think a boy who loves a girl would show a nude, sexual picture of her to random boys?”
“I was just—”
“Answer my question. Is that an act of love?”
“No, sir, but—”
“When you told Hailey you loved her, you were lying?”
“No.”
“So, you’re just a sleazeball?”
Lundy half-stands to object, but he sits down again—Aaron is a sleazeball.
“Do you think a boy would do anything for the girl he loves?” I ask.
He puffs out his chest and preens, a chance for redemption, or so he thinks. “I know I would.”
“So maybe if you thought Farah was bothering Hailey, you’d send some obscene and threatening e-mails to get her to stop?”
He looks at me in confusion. I always told Janet the kid is a dim bulb. Finally, the light flickers on. “I didn’t do anything like that.”
“You told Hailey that you’d delete the photo of Farah and her, didn’t you?”
“I did delete it.”
“But not right away.”
“No, sir.”
“Does that make you a liar?”
He shrugs. “I guess you could say I didn’t tell Hailey the whole truth. I don’t know if that makes me a liar.”
“Well, if you didn’t tell the girl you love the whole truth, how do we know you’re telling the whole truth now?”
“Because I’m under oath.”
“Except you wouldn’t testify until you got immunity from prosecution. You’re testifying so you can avoid a prison sentence.”
“But I’m telling the truth.”
“Now, Ethan Gold said you talked about a threesome with Hailey and Farah?”
“It was just guy talk.”
“Right. ‘Teenagers.’ You knew that Farah Medhipour was fourteen years old and Hailey was sixteen?”
“Yeah.”
“And how old are you now?”
“Eighteen.”
“A grown man. Do you think a grown man should be making sexual comments about a fourteen-year-old child? Showing nude pictures of her?”
He hesitates, fidgets in his chair, and then blurts out, “I was seventeen at the time.”
Someone—a spectator or a media member—guffaws so loudly that the entire gallery breaks up in the kind of laughter that’s uncontrollable because it’s so morbid. Judge Sears admonishes the room that further outbursts won’t be tolerated.
“I’m done with this…witness,” I spit.
No one in the room likes Aaron, including the prosecutor, judge, and jury. It doesn’t matter. I haven’t overcome the damage that he’s done. I can see it in the jurors’ faces.
Chapter 30
Another recess, another litany of excuses from Hailey. She was embarrassed to tell me about the nude photo. What girl would want her father to know something like that? After the arrest, she thought the photo would make her look bad, and no one was supposed to find out about it. She trusted Aaron. Besides, she told her mother, even showed her the photo, and Janet told her to keep it secret—even from me.
“Why ever would your mother do that?” I ask.
“Because she thinks you would’ve complained to Aaron’s parents or the school, and I didn’t want that. It would’ve been humiliating. You’re a crusader, Dad. I didn’t want to be your—what does Mom say—your Holy Grail. So, I handled it my own way.”
That last is very close to an admission that she harassed Farah. I don’t think I’ve ever been intentionally cruel to my children, but now I’m cruel to Hailey. “How did it feel to have Aaron betray you like that? To show your naked body off to other boys?”
She gawps at me for a moment, and then for once her emotions overcome her, and she starts crying.
“Feels terrible to be the object of public ridicule, doesn’t it?” I say, unrelenting, surprised at the insensitivity in my voice. “Well, now you know how Farah Medhipour felt. Remember that feeling, Hailey. Remember it every day for the rest of your life. Otherwise, you won’t truly be human.”
Chapter 31
I resigned from the district attorney’s office because Joshua Lundy was an unethical shyster willing to do anything for a conviction. When he calls a surprise witness, Special Agent Grace Mogren, an FBI computer forensics expert, it becomes clear that Lundy hasn’t changed a bit.
I ask the judge to exclude the witness because we didn’t have notice that she’d be testifying and so haven’t had a chance to prepare a cross-examination. Lundy claims that the information just came to his attention a day earlier. It’s a lie, exactly the kind of sharp practice he engaged in when we worked together.
“I can’t say I’m comfortable with this, Mr. Lundy,” the judge says. “But I’m going to let the testimony in. If I find out that you knew about this witness’s testimony before yesterday, I won’t be happy.”
Lundy starts with Mogren’s credentials: a bachelor’s degree in engineering, a master’s degree in computer science, twelve years with the FBI’s forensics unit, an expert in hacking, spoofing, and other cybercrimes. The Bureau lent her out to help on the Farah Medhipour investigation. There’s no way to attack her qualifications.
“Did you run a forensic analysis on Farah Medhipour’s laptop computer?” Lundy asks.
“I did. The police department had already located a number of threatening e-mails, and you asked our office to examine the Medhipour girl’s computer for additional evidence. The FBI has jurisdiction because internet use involves interstate commerce.” This woman is slick, prepared, and experienced. Talkative, but not so much that I can object that she’s giving a narrative answer. A dangerous witness, in other words.
“Did you attempt to identify the source of the harassing e-mails that Farah received?”
“We did. No luck. It appears that the sender used a Tor browser and a secret e-mail client—Hushmail, Guerilla Mail, and, believe it or not, Hide My Ass are ex
amples. That software enabled the perpetrator to keep his or her identity confidential.”
“Is it difficult to use this software?”
“It takes some work, but anyone with moderate computer knowledge can learn how to do it by searching the web, unfortunately. We call this the Dark Web. There’s some bad stuff that goes on there.”
“Did you find anything else of interest on Farah’s computer?”
“We examined Farah’s internet browsing history, web cache, and what’s called an ntuser.dat file—a registry file that contains browsing history. Based on that examination, we located a link to a social media page set up by someone called Farahs_Nightmare. We tried to open that page, but it had been deleted.”
“What happened next?”
“Your office subpoenaed the social network provider for information as to what was on the website and who might have posted the information.”
“And what did you learn?”
“The social media site had archived the webpage. It had purportedly been set up by a group of students at the Star Point School.” On cue, the courtroom monitors light up. Mogren clicks through a series of increasingly harassing messages and images directed at Farah—criticizing her physical appearance, her heritage, and her intelligence, and suggesting that she shouldn’t be alive. The posts seem to come from many different people, as if the whole school is against her.
“At this point, because of the sensitive nature of this next image, I’d ask that the courtroom be cleared,” Lundy says.
I don’t object, not only because it would be the wrong thing to do, but because I’m numb. I glance over at Debra, who seems to be as shocked as I am. Hailey stares straight ahead, a defiant expression on her face. Is she silently proclaiming her innocence or justifying her guilt?
“Everyone but law enforcement and family members will leave the courtroom,” the judge says.
When a reporter protests, Judge Sears says, “Get one of your overpaid First Amendment lawyers down here if you don’t like my order. Right now, you’re either outside in the corridor or sitting in jail. Your choice.”
The reporter exits along with everyone else.
“Please tell us what else you found, Special Agent Mogren,” Lundy says.
“This image.” She points to the screen, which displays a capture of a social media page depicting a nude, sexually suggestive photo of Farah with the caption, “Drink Drano and die, you skanky Persian ho!!!”
Farah’s mother and uncle bolt out of their seats and hurry out of the courtroom. Why didn’t Lundy warn them about what was coming? The answer is obvious. Their reaction makes for better drama in front of the jury. No matter that he’s torturing them.
“Have you determined when this image was posted?” Lundy asks.
“Our forensic analysis indicates that it was posted the day before Farah Medhipour died.”
The screens go dark, and Judge Sears instructs the bailiff to allow the media and the spectators back inside.
“Agent Mogren, were you able to identify who posted these statements and images on the internet?”
She nods solemnly. “You know, it’s interesting about people who commit cybercrimes without a lot of hacking experience. No matter how careful they are, there’s always a slip. The person who posted this filth was fairly careful. But there was a mistake. One of the images of Farah on the soccer field is accompanied by a demeaning ethnic slur. This image wasn’t sent anonymously, according to the social media service’s logs. The Tor browser works through a standard web browser, but it’s slower. The perpetrator apparently got confused or impatient and used the standard browser on this one occasion, which allowed us to obtain information about the poster’s identity.”
“Please explain how that worked.”
“The social media service logged the user’s internet protocol, or IP, address. To locate the user, we had to issue another subpoena to the internet service provider. Only yesterday, the company responded.”
“Did you identify a user?”
“We’ve narrowed it down. The person who posted on that website did so from a computer that had an IP address assigned to the internet account of Matthew Hovanes.”
Chapter 32
All is not lost. We still have the defense case to put on, and the law favors us, as it does every criminal defendant. We don’t have to prove Hailey’s innocence; we only need to raise reasonable doubt. Farah took her own life, so Hailey can’t be criminally responsible. All is not lost.
This is my mantra. I don’t believe it for a second.
Debra and I go back to the office and spend the next hours phoning and e-mailing forensic computer experts who might jump into the case at the last minute and try to poke holes in Mogren’s testimony. The response is bleak—too busy, too much regard for Mogren, animosity toward Hailey. At nine thirty, Debra says she’s leaving for the night and advises me to do the same. I’m not going anywhere.
I knock off at midnight, lock up, and head to my car. Just as I reach the parking lot, a hulking figure emerges from the darkness, as if lying in wait. I stop when the guy blocks my way. It takes me a moment to identify him—Downtown Dennis, my pantomime basketball buddy and former client. Only now, he wears an expression I’ve seen only once, when he was angry at a cop—menacing and foreboding.
“Hello, Dennis,” I say. “I’m just heading home.” I start past him but he holds up a hand, and it’s clear that I’m not going anywhere.
He looks back, and with a wave of his arm beckons someone from the dark parking structure. The person shuffles over almost casually. Only when the floodlight hits his face do I recognize my own son.
“Daniel, what—?”
“He’s been hanging out on the streets the last few nights, Attorney Hovanes,” Dennis says. “Almost got into a fight tonight until I showed up and recognized him as your boy. He should stay off the streets, Attorney Hovanes. It’s dangerous.” Before I can reply, he turns and, with long, athletic strides, disappears back into the night.
“Thank you, Dennis,” I call after him, but he doesn’t respond. I wish I could’ve hugged the man, though he wouldn’t have liked that.
With eyes lowered, Daniel says, “She had a gun, you know.” He sounds as if he’s in a trance.
My knees buckle at the words. “Who had a gun, Daniel?”
“Yeah, Farah. She was going to use a gun and blow her brains out.” As chilling as the words are, his tone is affectless. Has he been doing drugs again?
“Let’s get in the car. We’ll talk on the way home.”
“No! In your office.”
I nod. As we pass the contingent of homeless in the plaza, a few of them greet him by name. As a child, he spent a lot of time at my office. I even dreamt that he’d follow in my footsteps and become a lawyer someday. How naïve that dream was.
We sit on the faux-leather sofa in the lobby.
“What’s this about Farah and a gun?”
“I told you. She was going to shoot herself. She stole her uncle’s gun.”
“When did she tell you that, Daniel?”
“Three weeks before she killed herself. I told her a gun was too messy and sometimes it doesn’t work, and, boom, you’re a vegetable. Poison isn’t dramatic enough and even less effective than a gun. But hanging yourself like Robin Williams—that makes a statement.”
I shudder, not only because he has knowledge of Farah’s death but also because he must’ve researched suicide methods himself.
“I liked Farah—you know, outcasts bonding, shit like that—but she didn’t really want to be seen with me.” He laughs sardonically. “She thought I’d hurt her reputation. One day, she came up to me at school and asked to talk. She told me Hailey was harassing her and that if it didn’t stop she’d shoot herself. She showed me the e-mails that the DA is using in court. Anyway, that’s when we talked about ways to kill yourself. I thought it was a funny conversation. I didn’t think she’d really do it.” He shakes his head in childlike wonderm
ent, though kid stuff is the last thing this is.
“Did you send those e-mails, Daniel? Set up the phony social media account?”
“If I was going to go after some kid, it wouldn’t be Farah. Anyway, I went to Hailey, told her what Farah said, and she laughed. She said that Farah was crazy.”
“I can’t believe—”
“She said she was sick of Farah bugging her. She wanted me to do my enforcer act.”
“Hailey really would ask you to intimidate other kids? And you’d do it?”
He shrugs. “She’s my sister. Besides, most of the guys I strong-armed are assholes. I wouldn’t do it to a girl, especially not to a sweet girl like Farah. I told Hailey that.”
“You really think Hailey did what they say?”
“Who else would it be, Dad?” He picks at his fingernails, a habit Janet despises. “I guess Farah wasn’t angry enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s the only reason I don’t kill myself like she did. I’m too fucking pissed off. If Farah had more hatred like I do, she’d be alive today.”
“Daniel, I’m…I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize you felt this way. But…why are you telling me this now?”
“Because I want Hailey to tell the truth. I don’t want her to go to prison, but I can’t stand her lies anymore. She could’ve left Farah alone. I should’ve stopped Hailey.”
“Come home with me, Daniel.” I place my hand on his shoulder as gently as possible, but he recoils.
“You’re going to defend Hailey anyway.”
“That’s my job. She’s entitled to a defense.”
“I’m not going to the DA. But if he does call me, I’ll tell the truth.”
“That’s exactly what I’d expect. Now, let’s go home.”
He thinks for a moment and then nods. On the ride home, he hunches over and plays a game on his phone.
“What are you playing?” I ask. I need to connect with my son, and there’s no time like the present.
There’s an insolent frown on his face. “Postal.”
“I thought we talked about…” When he was younger, we forbade him to play that game, which is about an average person who goes “postal” and embarks on a serial-killing spree. The object of the game is to kill every living thing in sight.