Reprisal (21 page)

On her couch before the TV, Carolyn had put her feet up on the ottoman and crossed her legs. She had been thinking of the last time she’d been laid—too long ago, when the news show had started.

Watching her employer try to deliver the news—especially since she was rarely a part of it anymore, always frustrated her. To Carolyn, the holes and weaknesses were so obvious. Did they really think the public would buy the shit they called “news” anymore? Ratings were down, and Carolyn knew why.

The familiar pounding rock music cued up, and the graphics started flashing on and off to create a sense of something happening, even if the lead story was just a suburban art fair.

This show was different.

Out from the studio, Reggie had cut immediately to a street scene. The usual young blonde with a quivering voice stood with a strained face. Suddenly, the scene looked familiar to Carolyn. She reached for the remote to turn up the sound.

“Antoine,” the reporter said to the anchor as if they were intimate friends—which they were, but the public didn’t know that, “I’m here in the Seward neighborhood of south Minneapolis. It looks beautiful and serene but don’t let that fool you.” She stretched out her hand in a practiced manner. “There’s apparently been a robbery gone bad—very bad.”

Carolyn recognized the Johnson Deli.
Sure, that’s it
, she thought. She sat up.

The camera man, probably Ray for this shot, moved to the front of the deli. Sure enough, Carolyn could see the large dirty windows. The door was propped open.

“Witnesses tell us that about four-thirty this afternoon two men came into this small deli and tried to rob it at gun point.” The camera traveled in through the open door. “The two men working inside were cooperative. When a customer came in behind the robbers, something went wrong. Wrong because it caused the death of the two workers and the customer.” A breeze pulled the reporter’s hair up on the left side.

Carolyn couldn’t believe her eyes. She had stood right there a couple days earlier.

The reporter made a nice move between the camera and the open door to get inside. “All three men are dead, shot to death. We don’t have information as to why they were killed. Two of the victims, the workers, are identified as Jason McMillian and Ben Mohammad …”

Carolyn stood unsteadily. It couldn’t be true. She’d seen plenty of death and violence in her career but this frightened her for another reason.

“Police are searching this normally quiet, integrated family community for other witnesses. As of now, they don’t have any suspects and are baffled as to how this could happen in broad daylight.”

A creepy feeling worked its way over Carolyn. She’d sensed a big story and every step of her investigation confirmed that. This killing couldn’t just be a random robbery gone bad. That was bullshit. This was a hit, a hit on Ben Mohammad.

But why?

Where was the FBI in this? They missed it and missed it big. That is, Paul Schmidt missed it. And Carolyn would make sure the public knew all about him.

Twenty-Five

Back in her office, Zehra shut the door in order to pray. Christians often asked her why Muslims prayed so often. Although she never managed to fit in five times daily, she tried for a few. It was a wonderful way to remind her of the blessings of the day, and it also brought her peace in the midst of a hectic job. With all the problems facing her, it helped. The past day’s events had shaken her badly.

She faced northeast, looked out her window to St. Paul on the horizon, and started her prayers.

In fifteen minutes she was finished and refreshed. Better than meditation, she thought and she didn’t even need a bite of chocolate cupcake. Zehra called for Jackie to stop by the office.

Ricky from forensic IT had left her an email. He’d never seen an email like hers before. The sender had used a series of anonymous servers and mirror sites. Very sophisticated stuff. He’d keep searching, but so far, he’d come up empty.

Zehra thought she should call Paul. He’d know how to handle this. She started to dial his cell and then stopped. Was this serious enough to involve him and the FBI? Zehra didn’t know what to do. Pulling open her lower drawer, she reached in for a bite of a chocolate cupcake.
Guilty … you bad girl
, she worried.

In another fifteen minutes, Jackie arrived and looked at the chairs pushed to the edges of the floor. “Praying again?” She looked up at Zehra. “Is the case that bad?”

Zehra laughed. “No. One of the ‘Five Pillars of Wisdom’ of Islam is to pray five times a day.”

Jackie pursed her lips. “That’d be a good practice for a lot of Christians I know.”

Soon, she had the El-Amin file spread over the small conference table that they pulled from the corner. Jackie knew of the faked DNA sample and Harmon’s response.

“So, what do we do? Prepare as if trial will like, start on time?” she asked Zehra.

“We have to. I want you to prepare a motion for the judge, asking him to delay the trial because of new evidence we just discovered that’s crucial to the case. If he won’t grant that—he probably won’t—we’ll have to demand a hearing. I can tell him more about Stein’s test results. That should be enough to delay things.”

“I can’t believe he wouldn’t do it.”

“You know these judges—they’re always concerned about the case loads and how long it takes to get a trial out, which make their stats look bad.”

“I suppose, but in this case … I’ll get that drafted today so you can check it out. I’ll get it filed as soon as you give me the green light.”

“Cool. Have you finished the research to challenge the search of El-Amin’s apartment? I think it’s clearly illegal. Just in case we have to start the trial, we need to be ready to argue it at the Omnibus hearing before we get to the jury selection.”

“I’m all over it. It’ll need a little polish,” Jackie said.

“Damn! I forgot to get the jury questionnaire. Even though our ‘client’ may not let us participate in the jury selection, we’ve got to be prepared for that, too. We may get involved. I’m really concerned since he’s Somali, there’s probably going to be a lot of strong feelings against him on the panel of jurors. I want them all biased—for us, not against us.”

Jackie stopped and looked at Zehra. “Have you experienced much prejudice against you in court?”

Zehra stopped. Jackie finally asked her something about herself. Zehra shrugged. “I suppose, but I don’t pay any attention. I figure if I’m professional and prepared, what else can I do? When I first started trying cases as a prosecutor, jurors would come up to me after the verdict and tell me how surprised they were with me. Like, they couldn’t believe anyone who looks like me could handle it.”

Jackie shook her head. “I’m like, go figure.”

“I’ve found the tough part in representing someone like El-Amin is that jurors want to sound unbiased, because it’s not cool to admit you’re a racist in public. Underneath, those people really hate all black Muslim Somalis. We need to find out the truth about each juror as best we can.”

Jackie sighed. “I’d forgotten how much work a trial can be.”

“It’s like a marathon—lots of training and prep, then as a reward for all that work, you get to try the thing for a few weeks.”

“What a prize.” Jackie gathered the loose papers on the table into brown file folders. She powered-down her laptop, folded it, and tucked it under arm. “I’m really dragging. I thought private practice was hard. This is tough. Okay, boss. I’m back at it.”

Zehra thought of Mustafa. He had told her he had some connections in the Somali community. Maybe he could help her. Zehra caught herself. Was she thinking this way because it could help her prepare for trial or because she felt attracted to him? The truth involved both reasons.

While she tapped out a text to Mustafa’s Blackberry, she thought of his long eyelashes, the quick eyes that sparkled when he talked about his work. So worldly. Zehra sensed passion in him and intelligence and discipline. They’d discussed their faith and how committed Mustafa was to Islam—like Zehra. Crazy as it seemed, maybe this arranged date would lead to something, although she wouldn’t hold her breath.

She asked if he were willing to help in some investigation for the case.

Within ten minutes, to her surprise, Mustafa replied. He was just leaving for a couple days in Cairo, returning to a two-week vacation, didn’t think he’d be of much help, but was willing to try.

Zehra keyed back she was going to talk with the imam first thing tomorrow. After that, she’d contact Mustafa.

The next morning, she dragged herself into the office. She hadn’t slept well, dreaming weird things: orchids growing all over her condo, up from under her bed, and finally taking it over. Those images had faded when she looked out at the serene beauty of her plants and remembered the thoughtfulness of Mustafa.

Zehra was anxious to see Mr. Moalim. She called BJ’s cell but couldn’t reach him. Jackie hadn’t come into the office yet. Zehra looked at her Casio, felt time slipping by, and decided to go over to the mosque herself. She had to make sure the imam stuck to his story.

Caroly Bechter from Channel Six had called to ask for an interview. Against her better judgment, Zehra agreed to do a short one in the next few days.

She parked the Audi around the corner and walked to the mosque. The sun peeked over the tall classrooms of the University of Minnesota to the east. Bright green leaves stretched up to meet the promise of warmth and life. The cool fog of the night still hovered under bushes that Zehra felt on her legs as she walked.

The mosque looked deserted. The front door was shut, no one stood outside like before, and a silence surrounded it. Maybe it was too early. Since she never attended mosque here—most were filled with Middle Eastern or African Muslims that she had little in common with—maybe things didn’t get going until later in the day.

Zehra knocked on the front door and heard a hollow boom from the big prayer area inside. No one answered. She knocked again.

She pushed on the door, and it creaked open.

Inside, the sun hadn’t penetrated yet, leaving the cavernous main hall in shadows and quiet, settling dust. She stepped one foot in the door and waited. She heard nothing and put the second foot in. Without shutting the door, she moved deeper into the dark interior.

A squeal startled her until she realized it was a mouse, as startled as she was. She heard it scurry away. Tingling feelings rose up her back. She didn’t like mice.

Zehra remembered to flip up the back of her jacket, over her head. She called out, “Mr. Moalim? Is anybody here?” Her words echoed throughout the prayer area.

She started to work her way to the side, toward a door that might lead to the back area. Usually, every mosque had a community center nearby. Maybe someone would be there.

The door was locked. She turned around and walked back to the front. She jerked when the door she’d just found locked, creaked open. She spun back to face it.

A small man approached her. Dressed in a black robe with a black skull cap, he had a long beard that reached almost to his waist. He didn’t look Somali. He came to her quickly. “What do you want?” he shouted. He grasped at something near his stomach that looked like it might be a ceremonial knife.

At first, Zehra felt like an invader, as if she’d done something wrong, until she remembered this was a mosque and she was Muslim. She took a deep breath, spread her feet, and prepared to deal with another chauvinistic male. “Zehra Hassan. I’m looking for the imam, Hussein Moalim.”

The fierce eyes of the new man softened. “Why do you want him?”

“He met with us several days ago. He has information about my client, Ibrahim El-Amin. I want to talk with Mr. Moalim again.”

He squinted at her. “Why now? And why do you want to talk to him?”

“Where is he? It’s very important that I meet with him.”

The man stopped talking and looked into the open, deserted area of prayer. He looked back at her. “He is missing.”

“What?”

“I am sorry. He is not here and did not come in this morning. We have checked at his home and at the hospital where he works. He has disappeared.”

Zehra felt an electric shock jolt through her. “When …” she mumbled.

The man circled her. “Why do you ask these questions? Why do you seek him?”

“I already told you. You’re sure he’s missing?”

“He is our imam. I would not joke about such a matter.”

Zehra handed him her business card. “I really need to see him. He was supposed to testify in our trial. If you find him, please have him call me.” She turned to leave. “I’ll investigate it too.”

The man studied the card for a long time. “This is where we can locate you?”

“Huh? Yeah, that’s my office.” She didn’t like the way he looked at her. The air became thick and cloying. Zehra had to leave. She backed to the door, felt it still open, and jumped through it. Outside, she turned and hurried back to the Audi. She breathed deeply and felt the warm touch of the sun, slanting down at a sharper angle.