Reprisal (5 page)

He thought of Zehra. When she was first assigned to represent the killer, Paul told his superiors he knew Zehra, providing him an excuse to contact her. It seemed like a good idea then. Now he realized how difficult it would be.

Four

Carolyn Bechter could feel tension rumble up from her groin, through her stomach, and into her chest. She took deep breaths to calm herself. As one of the “seasoned” reporters for TV Channel 6, she thought this was the story that would catapult her out of obscurity. She’d missed breaking the story of the disappearance of the young Somali men. Of course, she covered the arrest of the terrorist El-Amin and was assigned to cover the murder trial when it began. But she competed against all the other local to national journalists. After years of declining responsibilities, this story
had
to work for her.

She paused in the lobby of Hiawatha High School, in a southern suburb of the Twin Cities. Just outside, protesters were gathering. Carolyn knew other media people would be here soon, but she was the first.

She could feel the immensity of this story.

Carolyn stopped at the front desk and showed her ID.

While Carolyn waited, she thanked the cheap-ass station owners for at least setting up the “Tip-Six” website. Corny as it sounded, it actually worked. When it was introduced two years ago, her producer assured everyone that the tips coming in would be distributed equally. Not true.

As an older reporter, Carolyn fought a losing battle against the newer, blonder, and lower-paid reporters who caught the eye of the producer—pig that he was. The perky, new reporters always got more choice assignment with more face time on the screen. The more they jiggled, the more stories they got. For years, Carolyn struggled to make a name for herself. But now, even her producer told her she was “branding out.” His term to describe the fatigue that viewers felt when they saw her yet again, after fifteen years with Channel Six.

She’d show the self-centered prick.

When the tip came in about the protest, Carolyn happened to be there, had grabbed it, and run with it.

“Hey,” the receptionist said. “It’s like, gonna happen over there.” She pointed and looked at her watch. “We’ve been cut-back to part time, so I’ve gotta boogie.” She looked at Carolyn with stupid eyes. “Sorry, but you’re on your own.”

Carolyn sighed. Years ago, her presence at a school like this would have brought out several people, all interested in seeing the face they watched nightly or trying to get on camera themselves. Not anymore. The twit of a receptionist didn’t even recognize Carolyn. Of course, the poor girl wasn’t Carolyn’s demographic. She had the over-forty-five crowd. This girl’s group got their news from the Internet.

She thought of her former husband, Matt, who had soared while she’d stalled in the secondary market of the Twin Cities. He’d moved to Los Angeles. The passion between them always teetered between love and competition. So far, he’d won. Carolyn tried to dismiss him. It didn’t matter anymore. Let it go.

And passion? Well, she hadn’t been laid in months.

She felt the rumble in her lower body. This story could do it for her.

A middle-aged woman entered the lobby. She had short, curly brown hair, a frumpy brown outfit, sans makeup. Her smile was crooked and weak and as she came closer she said, “Are you … Carolyn Bechter?”

Of course I am you idiot
, Carolyn thought to herself.
Don’t you recognize me?
She forced a smile back. “I am. Who are you?”

“I’m a teacher here. Gennifer. I just came out to see what was going on with these protests.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

“You don’t have a camera man?”

“Uh … no. For these background stories, we usually don’t send one along,” Carolyn lied.

“Oh, I can’t say anything.”

Carolyn waited. Silence was her greatest interviewing trick.

“Well …” Simmons shifted her weight onto the other hefty thigh. “I guess the Muslims are protesting that they want more time set aside for their prayers. They pray five times a day, you know. And since they just wash before, they use all the lavatories.”

Carolyn nodded.

“But I guess the Christian Evangelical group is also going to protest. They want prayer in the school too. And to be able to use the bathrooms when they want.”

“What do you think?”

“Oh … I can’t say. I’m just here to see what happens. I don’t want my students getting in trouble. We have a large Somali population in our school, you know.”

Carolyn sighed; convinced this source wasn’t a source at all. She’d learned over the years to keep trolling until she hit something big. “Nice to talk with you.” Carolyn moved outside.

Across the grassy field next to the administration building, several people, obviously Somali or Middle Eastern, gathered in a group. Most of the girls wore long dresses in spite of the warming weather. Most wore head coverings. The boys stood separate from them and carried a few placards that asked for more prayer time.

Carolyn thought they’d picked up that American practice pretty quickly. She wondered how many were illegals but still had learned to demand “their rights.”

On the other side of the field, another group of students walked forward slowly. This group looked all-American. Short hair, long pants, tan tshirts, and jeans. Boys and girls mingled. They were chanting about more prayer themselves.

For a moment, it struck Carolyn—why the protest? Weren’t they asking for the same thing? Who instigated the protest?

As an investigative journalist, she questioned everything, looking for an angle that she could exploit before other media arrived.

When the second group got closer to the first, there were some shouts back and forth but no violence. Nothing looked too coordinated, and Carolyn wondered if the tip and her trip out here had been another waste of time.

Then she saw a lone man, an adult, behind the Somali group. He moved among them quickly and spoke to various students. He was a tall man, dark skinned with a long white shirt, buttoned to the neck.
Don’t these people ever get hot?
Carolyn wondered.

Something about the man caught her attention.

She couldn’t hear what he said, but the way he darted from one student to the next looked unusual. Carolyn knew her instincts were almost always right on. When the man left the group and headed for the building, Carolyn followed him.

Catching him just before he entered a side door, Carolyn called out, “Excuse me, sir? Carolyn Bechter, Channel 6 TV news … can I talk …”

His head swiveled around, and black eyes jerked back and forth. He focused on her. “What do you want?” he said in good English.

“Uh … I just want to know what’s going on here.” She felt her high heels sinking into the grass as she hurried over to the man.

“Our students have rights that should be protected.”

“What do they want?”

“To be treated equally. To be allowed to practice their religion in peace.”

“What’s your name?”

His eyes darted to both sides again. “I must leave now.” He ducked through the door.

Carolyn grabbed the handle, but it had already closed and locked. When she turned around, two men in short-sleeved colored tshirts passed her. “Excuse me, I’m Carolyn Bechter, Channel 6 TV news … do you work here?” They stopped and recognized her. Good. The power of celebrity always got her information.

“Yeah. Nice to meet you in person. I watch you a lot.” The older man hesitated, and then stuck out his hand to shake hers. “Jim Miller. I’m in charge of the entire physical plant here. How can we help?”

“Did you happen to notice the man I was just talking to?”

“Ben? Yeah, he’s worked here for a short time.”

“Who is he? What’s his name?”

“Ben Mohammad. ‘Course, every other one of ’em’s named Mohammad. He was just hired as our outreach coordinator. We’ve got a large Somali student population, so they hired Ben. Lots of these parents can’t speak English and are working too hard to participate much in the school, so I guess, Ben’s supposed to ‘reach out and touch ’em.’”

“Do you know anything else about him?”

“Naw … he lives in South Minneapolis, near Somali-land, over by Augsburg College. I think he works part time in a deli there … I don’t know.” Jim’s brows furrowed. “Why are you interested?”

Easy … easy
, Carolyn thought to herself. All her experience taught her to not raise suspicions, or the information source would stop. “We’re just covering the protest. I’m looking for a human interest angle. You know, make the story real by showing real people.”

Carolyn couldn’t help but think this might be her last chance—thanks to high-def TV. In a few years, the lines in her face, even with make-up, couldn’t be hid. She’d be out on the street. Then where would she go? She hadn’t saved a penny, and the little she had in her 401K dipped every day to new lows. Maybe print journalism? What a joke! They were even more strapped for funding that TV. Maybe an obscure position on, God forbid, a public TV station. She shook her head.

Jim started to back away. “Hey, where’s your camera guy? Don’t you always have one for TV?”

“He’s on his way. What are Ben’s duties?”

“Uh … I don’t know. You should talk to the principal.” Jim started to turn.

The younger man said, “I think he takes some of the boys on projects. Ya know, like field trips and stuff like that.”

In spite of the Pepto Bismol she’d popped, Carolyn felt the rumbling start inside her again. “Field trips? He takes the Somali boys on field trips? Where do they go?”

Jim pulled on the other man’s arm. “Come on, Kenny. We got work to do.” They spun around and walked away.

The rumbling in Carolyn’s stomach told her one thing: she had stumbled onto something important. She didn’t know what. From all her year’s experience, she could feel it. She’d stick with it until the story cracked open. Carolyn would be a hero again.

Five

Monday morning in Courtroom Two, Zehra stood before the Honorable MaryAnn Gorden Smith, the “Hot Tub” judge, and arraigned her client. “My client doesn’t want a female lawyer,” Zehra said. “He wants to represent himself.”

Prior to coming to court, Zehra had researched all the rules governing this issue. She desperately wanted out of the case.

The judge stopped flipping papers and frowned at her.

“I know, Judge. But my client has a right to represent himself, and he demands it.”

Judge Smith peered at El-Amin, standing behind the low wooden wall at the side of the courtroom. He crossed his hands in front of himself at his waist. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” she asked.

He closed his eyes and spoke, “I will not have a woman represent me nor have a woman judge me.”

The prosecutor, Steve Harmon, stood behind the table reserved for counsel. “I want the record to note the defendant wants to go pro se. He can’t change his mind later.”

“I want my trial as soon as possible,” El-Amin shouted.

To make clear her disagreement, the judge twitched her head back and forth. “Well, it’s your right but …” she said to El-Amin and looked back at Zehra and Jackie Nyguen, the lawyer who would second-chair Zehra. “I don’t have time for this today. We’ll settle the issue of representation later. For now, you’ve still got the case.” She bent her head to the papers and flipped them to dismiss the lawyers.

“Wait.” El-Amin said in a deep voice.

The judge’s face jerked up. Annoyed. “What?”

“I will not have this woman represent me. I understand that I am able to represent myself?”

Her lips tightened. “It’s not advisable in a case this serious.”

“I demand to represent myself.”

Zehra jumped in, “That’s his right, your Honor. You could relieve me of my duty to represent him.” Zehra knew the judge was too quick to fall for that but hoped she would give her a break.

“I’m not going to deal with this today or you, sir,” the judge sneered. “For now, everything remains the same. You’re representing him, Ms. Hassan.” She gathered the file together and tossed it aside as if tired of a bad paperback novel.

“But your Honor …”

“What is it you don’t understand?”

“I know you’ve appointed the public defender, but the defendant wants to go pro se, and he has a right …” As her voice rose, Zehra knew it was too shrill.

“That’s enough out of everyone,” Judge Smith shouted. “Counsel, you sit down.” The judge turned to the defendant. “Deputies, get him out of here.”

As they moved away from the bench, Jackie whispered, “Way to go, girl. What a bitch. Why do you call her the ‘Hot Tub’ judge?”

Zehra sighed, “Several years ago, the governor worked with Smith in the state legislature. She was a successful lawyer and prominent in legal circles. Well, the governor’s wife and Smith became friends, as Smith was always politically savvy. After legislative sessions, they’d go back to the governor’s mansion to relax in the hot tub. When the next judicial opening occurred in this county, guess who got it?”