Reprisal (9 page)

He looked into her eyes with a basset hound’s expression in his own. “You’re so interesting, Zehra.” He paused for one second and then said, “It reminds me of my passion for the theatre. I hope to have, well … I should have a leading role this fall in our new production. Maybe you’d like to see it?”

“Uh, I’ll check my schedule.”

Her mother interrupted them. “You go on and on about that new stuff, Zehra. All those things you want to change. Don’t you understand that as things change more, you must cling to the principles that have sustained us through so much? The Qur’an says …”

“Drop it about the Qur’an. I’m sick of people telling me what it says. I can read it for myself, and I don’t need anyone to interpret it for me.” Her mother’s eyes softened, and she looked away. Zehra regretted her sharp tone. The new case, the jerk for a client, and the set-backs in the investigation—they all upset her. “Look, Mom. I’m sorry. It’s not you.”

Martha avoided any more argument by going to the simmering pot. She stirred and added more spices.

Zehra’s Casio watch beeped.

Robert picked up her wrist in his limp grasp. “What’s this?”

“Oh … Casio makes this watch for Muslims that goes off five times a day to remind me to pray. Stupid, but I like it.”

Martha turned the heat lower on the rice and wiped her hands. She looked up at Robert. “You’re faithful? Join us. You can wash in the bathroom on the left, down the hall.”

He nodded. “I’ll wash now. How ‘bout you, Zehra?”

“I’m lucky to get in two prayers a day. I’m so busy.”

“You should really be more faithful,” he said and walked away, his khaki pants bunched in puddles around his shoes.

Zehra shook her head behind his back and followed her mother into the other, larger bathroom and performed the ritual ablution or cleansing to ensure they were in a state of physical and spiritual purity.

They washed their hands and faces and arms up to their elbows. While they washed, Zehra also meditated to cleanse her mind and heart from worldly thoughts and concerns, even her recent argument with the odd man down the hall. Martha handed her a scarf to cover her head and hair.

Together, they moved into the living room. Robert followed and stood next to Martha. They all raised their hands parallel to their ears with the palms facing out. Then they knelt on their knees, said more of the prayers, and bowed fully to the floor so that seven parts of their bodies touched the ground. They faced northeast, the shortest path to Mecca from North America. Robert stepped in front and prostrated himself until his forehead touched the carpet.

Zehra felt stiffness in her back, so she relaxed as she knelt.

“Allahu Akbar,” they recited. God is great.

They stood upright, folded their hands over their chests, and repeated the opening discourse of the Qur’an.

“All praise belongs to God, Lord of all worlds, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Ruler of Judgment Day. You alone do we worship and to you alone do we appeal for help. Show the straight way, the way of those upon whom You have bestowed Your grace, not of those who have earned Your wrath or who go astray.”

Zehra and her mother completed the obligatory prayers and remained silent as they each privately petitioned Allah with their own requests. Robert moved off to the side by himself.

Standing, Martha hugged Zehra and went back into the kitchen. Zehra knew she could escape this loser easily. She frowned at the thought of her mother’s machinations. But it was impossible to stay mad at someone who had just prayed with you.

Nine

Running late for a full morning of court appearances, Zehra grabbed her purse and briefcase from her desk. As she hurried toward the door, her phone rang.

Caller ID showed it was her boss, the Chief Public Defender.

“Get up here right now,” he demanded.

Zehra could tell from his tone of voice not to protest about her own late schedule. In five minutes, she sat before Bill Cleary. He’d been in the job forever and had gone from a crusading young lawyer to an overweight bureaucrat, protecting his position. He popped open what was probably his tenth can of Coke for the day and leaned forward.

Everyone called him ‘Chairman Mao’ behind his back because of the way his face had exploded into a round moon, along with his body. Too many cheap hotdogs and fries eaten in the Government Center plaza, Zehra thought. She studied his face, trying to anticipate the problem.

The moon face clouded over. “I just got off the phone with Judge Gordon Smith.” He scowled. “And I don’t like these kinds of calls. Know what I’m talking about?”

“I can guess.”

“Zehra, you’re good, one of our best, but I’ll get to the fucking point. I don’t give a shit if you want off this case or not. You’re on it, you’re trying it, and you’ll do a good job. Got that?”

“Bill, don’t you have any consideration for me? Just because I’m Muslim, doesn’t mean I’m the best for this case.”

“Yes it does. With this kind of publicity and the press chewing on my ass every day, you’re exactly what I need for this case. If deflects all the racist and religious crap they always try to throw at us.” His heavy cheeks quivered with anger. “It’s window dressing, I know. But you’re gonna do it.”

“So, you’re going to let an idiot like Gordon Smith tell you how to run your office?”

“Of course not. I don’t give a rat’s ass about her.” He looked like he was lying.

Zehra tried to remain calm. Her voice rose, “What the hell does that have to do with our mission to give the best possible defense to everyone? You don’t give a damn about that anymore,” she shouted.

“Careful …”

“Maybe you don’t remember that this bronco attacked me. I shouldn’t have to do this.” She thought about the email. “Then, I got this strange email.” She explained.

“I don’t know. What can I do? Have IT track it down. In the meantime, be careful.”

“So, I’m off the case?”

“No.”

“She stared at him. “I won’t forget this.”

“You don’t finish this case, I’ll send you back to traffic court for the rest of your career.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Mao’s eyes glazed over and Zehra knew he was done with her.

Ten minutes later, carrying a stack of files against her chest and lugging her heavy purse over her shoulder, Zehra struggled through the door into the courtroom. Jackie followed behind her.

“Thanks for letting me come with you,” she told Zehra. She pushed her thick-framed glasses higher on her little nose.

“Oh, you’ll have fun.” Zehra raised her eyebrows to send the real message.

“How many cases have you got?”

“Let’s see …” Zehra reached one of the low counsel tables in the middle of the courtroom and dropped her load. “Eleven for this morning. Not too bad.”

Zehra felt the energy surge in the courtroom—people moving in all directions at once, the constant buzz of conversation, the public drifting in and out, and the clerk shouting out the names of cases to be heard by the judge.

The only quiet bubble of space was directly before the judge where lawyers and their clients made their formal appearances.

Most of the lawyers in the courtroom worked for the government, either assistant county attorneys or public defenders. A few private lawyers represented clients, but, in reality, most criminals were poor and had appointed counsel. Since public defenders worked the courtrooms every day of the week, they were some of the best lawyers in the county.

When Jackie asked her about a career as a public defender, Zehra had told her not to expect big money. “Instead, you’ll get lots of freedom, responsibility, and an opportunity to have tough cases dumped on you at an early stage in your career. Dealing with the clients we represent is a tough part. And a lot of us stay because we believe it’s an important part of what we call justice.”

“That’s what I want—the experience in the courtroom. It sounds like the most fun.” Jackie dropped her shoulders. “I’ve put everything on hold in my life for our case. My boyfriend, Josh, is so great. He just adores me and says whatever I need to do is cool with him.”

“Hey, Zehra, I heard you got the El-Amin murder case,” a voice from behind them called.

Zehra turned to see Charlie Pollard, the county attorney she’d worked with many years ago. He was a friend and had been a mentor to her over the years. She smiled and gave him a quick hug. “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “I guess I specialize in ‘broncos.’ This guys’ a treat.”

“What’s the defendant like?”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t have switched sides.”

“That bad, huh?” Charlie looked older than she remembered, his hair thinner, his eyes sagging. “I’ve hear rumors through the grape vine… be careful of this guy, Zehra. Even the cops are spooked by him.” “You know you’re always welcome to return from the ‘dark side’ to work with us.”

Zehra laughed. “Too much bureaucracy for me.”

He said goodbye with a little flip of his hand and left to meet with the defense lawyer on his case.

“Nice guy,” Jackie said.

“Most of the prosecutors are. We’ve got our problems; they’ve got theirs.”

“It’s busy today.” She squinted at the horde.

“Let’s look for our client, ‘World Premiere.’”

“Huh?”

“That’s his name.”

“Seriously?”

Zehra shrugged.

They walked to the public area of the courtroom and searched the crowd. Outside, in the hall, they called out his name. Zehra looked at her watch. “He always runs twenty minutes late so he should be here.”

“Ms. Hassan.” The slim black man strode toward them. He tipped from side to side with an exaggerated shoulder roll that matched the rhythm of his walk. The baseball cap, red and white, was too large for his head and turned at a precise angle to his face. He smiled at them, exposing a golden front tooth.

“World Premiere,” Zehra reached out her hand to shake. With some of the male public defenders, the black clients gave a ‘soul’ shake, with a turn of the wrist and a bump of the fist. None of her clients ever shook with her that way.

“W’as happ’n here, Man.”

“Well, you’ve got the Disorderly Conduct case. Nothing too serious.”

“Man … they should drop that! Jus’ a bad communication.”

“Could be, but the prosecutor won’t. Probably ‘cause it happened with an employee who works in the building. Prosecutors feel very protective of them.”

“Ahh … what I gotta do?” His red shorts and basketball shoes, matched the color of his tank top.

Zehra flipped open the thin file containing a Complaint and a single page police report. “It says you wanted your free bus card. When the clerk wouldn’t give it to you, you went off on her, yelling, screaming, and threatening to ‘kick her ass.’”

“Nah, nah … that ain’t it, Man. She went off on
me
. Tha’s the truth. Here, catch this: how could I go off on her if I jus’ finished my last class on Anger Management. Twelve weeks in them classes. I graduated, Man.” He leaned back in stiff pride and jerked his head once to emphasize his success. He crossed thin arms over his chest. The tank top he wore revealed the tattoos on his arms. Most were gang signs.

“And … that proves it?”

Yeah, it proves it!” He jerked his head again.

“Look, World, or should I call you World Premiere?”

“My mama named me World Premiere. Tha’s my name.”

“Okay. Look, how ‘bout I can get you ten days in the workhouse, stayed for six months?”

“I don’t gotta go?” His eyes focused on Zehra.

“Not unless you violate your probation.”

“Do it, Man. I ain’t got time for this bullshit. I got my bidness to take care of, and I gots to get back to the crib. My baby’s mama’s there.”

After he pled guilty and was sentenced, they both walked out into the hall.

“Hey, thanks,” World Premiere told Zehra. “You’re a good lawyer. I’ll ask for you next time.”

When he flashed the golden smile, Zehra saw a young boy trying to act tough but, in the end, a petty criminal. She liked him and hoped he could make something worthwhile out of himself before it was too late. “Yeah, do that. Good luck.”

“I kind of liked him,” Jackie said. “Awesome outfit. Who’s next?”

“Franklin Pierce Anderson.”

“Like the president?”

“Hey, I don’t think these names up. You can’t invent them.” They both laughed.

When Zehra went back into the courtroom, she spied him sitting by himself in the public section. “Mr. Anderson?”

A pale, white man stood and stared at them for a moment. When he recognized Zehra, he followed her out into the hall.

The toughest problem with this one would be his body odor. Could she handle his case without passing out?

She turned to face him. He said, “Isn’t there a place we can talk in private? I don’t feel comfortable with these …” he twisted his head as he looked around them. “Criminals.”