Fatal Convictions (10 page)

26

If Alex thought the furor would die down on Tuesday, he was badly mistaken. Commentators speculated endlessly about honor killings and whether women who converted from Islam faced danger. That question focused the attention on Ja’dah’s husband—Fatih Mahdi—and the mosque that he attended.

By early afternoon, cable shows were reporting links between the Islamic Learning Center and Hezbollah. Unnamed sources confirmed that the mosque, which cost an estimated $13 million to build, had been indirectly funded with Hezbollah money.

One show aired an old clip of Khalid Mobassar from 2006, during the heat of the conflict between Hezbollah and Israel, showing Khalid arguing that Israel had overreacted. He bemoaned the destruction of Beirut and the loss of innocent lives and then asked a series of rhetorical questions. “Where will the Lebanese go for medical assistance? Who will help them rebuild? Who will feed the refugees who have lost their homes? Hezbollah. The Lebanese will go to Hezbollah hospitals. Eat Hezbollah food. Rebuild with Hezbollah funds. Israel’s bombs have forced the Lebanese into the arms of Hezbollah.”

The clip spread like wildfire from one show to the next. By three o’clock, a desperate Khalid was on the phone with Alex. “They’re taking it out of context,” he said. “I was lamenting the fact that this conflict would only strengthen Hezbollah. Let me talk to them. How can it be any worse?”

But Alex held his ground. If Khalid wanted Alex to be his lawyer, then Khalid needed to heed Alex’s advice. No interviews. Period.

“We look like a terrorist cell,” Khalid protested. “I can set the record straight.”

“Will they be able to trace any Hezbollah funds to the mosque?” Alex asked.

A moment’s hesitation told Alex all he needed to know. “It is impossible to say,” Khalid stated. “Hezbollah is like the vines in a jungle. It is a political party. It funds charities. It recruits soldiers and trains doctors. Hezbollah is your neighbor. Most of the Shiite mosques in Beirut take two separate offerings. One for the mosque. Another for Hezbollah. Who can say whether
none
of the money that helped us build has ties to Hezbollah?”

“No interviews,” Alex said. He had heard enough to keep a gag order on his client until this whole thing blew over. “This is a lose-lose situation.”

“This is why Americans think all Muslims are terrorists,” Khalid responded. “Because the media wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Granted. So let’s not feed the beast.”

“Unfortunately, the beast has already been fed.”

* * *

By late afternoon, Alex had stopped watching television and tried to get some work done. So far, his own name had been kept out of the coverage. Khalid Mobassar wasn’t a suspect, so Alex rationalized that there was no need to inject himself into the story and make it look like Khalid had “lawyered up.” Instead, Alex hoped to lie low for a few days until the story went away. Hopefully, Ja’dah Mahdi and Martin Burns would show up in some other corner of the country and do a round of interviews about how unsafe Ja’dah felt after converting to Christianity, and the whole story would soon disappear.

At which point, Alex and Shannon could go back to representing the Mobassars on the case that really mattered—Ghaniyah’s closed head injury. If—and it was a big
if
—Shannon ever located the trucking company that started the whole thing, the firm could be looking at a big payday.

The thought prompted Alex to call his partner. “See anything?” he asked when she answered her phone.

“No . . . well . . . maybe.” Shannon sounded pretty exasperated. “I don’t know, Alex. This whole thing is probably stupid. There are trucks that come by with red cabs and white trailers, but nothing that has pictures of produce on the side. But then again, Ghaniyah didn’t even sound very sure about the produce part.”

“How long do you plan on staying out there?”

“Every day but Friday. I’ve got hearings on Friday.”

Alex knew what he was supposed to say next. She was waiting for him to volunteer. He checked his Outlook calendar. It was open Friday. He started typing an appointment.

“Can you cover for me Friday?” Shannon asked.

Alex finished making the entry. “I’m booked all day,” he said.

“Doing what?”

He should have known she wouldn’t give up so easily. “Sermon preparation.”

“Good,” Shannon said. “You can do it out here.”

* * *

Chief Stargell scheduled the press conference for 5 p.m. so the local networks could run it live. Alex and Sylvia watched on a television in the firm’s small conference room.

A woman at the anchor desk said they would be switching to Sandbridge for the press conference, and Alex felt his stomach drop. An announcement from the site of the search could mean only one thing—they had found a body.

Stargell stepped to the microphones with Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney Taj Deegan behind him, just over his left shoulder. Ms. Deegan looked as somber as Stargell. “I will be giving a brief status report about some developments in the case of Ja’dah Mahdi and Martin Burns,” the chief said. “I will
not
be taking questions.”

He drew a deep breath and faced the reporters. No notes. Weary eyes.

“Approximately an hour and a half ago, at 1535, with the help of state police canine units, we were able to locate the bodies of Ja’dah Mahdi and Martin Burns. The two bodies were buried on a sandy beach on a federal preserve approximately 1.2 miles south of Sandbridge. The site was accessible only by boat.”

The chief paused to survey his audience, seemingly apprehensive about the firestorm his next line would unleash. He set his jaw and continued.

“The head of Mrs. Mahdi was severed from her body in an execution-style killing. . . .” Alex could hear a collective gasp from those in attendance. “Mr. Burns was buried next to her. We have not yet been able to confirm an official cause of death for Mr. Burns, but indications are that Mr. Burns may have been buried alive next to the headless body of Ms. Mahdi. We have requested an expedited autopsy and will fill you in as soon as we have the final results.”

Cameras clicked and Stargell remained stoic. He informed them that he had no hard leads on a suspect. He gave a phone number for people to call with any information. He thanked the reporters and walked away, their shouted questions following him off-camera.

Coverage switched back to the live news desk, where the anchors struggled to put the developments in perspective.

Alex was no longer listening.

A beheading. A live burial.

He dialed Khalid’s cell number. Alex had no long-term plan for his client, but the short-term plan was painfully obvious.

“Lock the doors,” Alex said, “and don’t answer the doorbell. Shut the blinds. Don’t go outside under any circumstances.”

Alex rubbed his temple, a headache spreading like fire over his eyes.
Double murder. An honor killing.

And all roads were leading to his client’s mosque.

27

On the third day of Shannon’s stakeout, she hit gold. It was late Wednesday afternoon when the truck went sailing by—a red cab, white trailer, and a colorful array of fruits and vegetables painted on the right side, just as Ghaniyah had remembered. It took Shannon a moment to react, as if a figure from a dream had unexpectedly materialized in front of her. But she snapped out of it, pulled a quick U-turn, and gave chase.

Within a few minutes, she caught the lumbering truck and pulled out her cell phone. While driving—in fact, while tailgating—she put the device in camera mode and took a few shots of the license number. She glanced at the images as she drove. A little blurry and a glare from the front windshield. She definitely couldn’t read the license plate in the photos. She had an answer for that, too, dialing her own number and reciting the numbers into her voice mail.

Then she called Alex, got his voice mail, and remembered his saying something about a court hearing on another case. Her adrenaline was surging—
This could be big!
—but she felt a little silly at the same time.
What am I going to do, make a citizen’s arrest?

She stayed glued behind the truck for about four miles, turning from North Landing onto Centerville Turnpike and eventually onto Kempsville Road. When the truck proceeded through a yellow light, Shannon followed through on red. She checked her rearview mirror.

No cops.

Eventually, the truck pulled into the parking lot of a Farm Fresh grocery store, drove down a side alley, and disappeared somewhere out back. Shannon assumed the driver was making a delivery. She also assumed that it might look a little conspicuous if she followed him.

She parked in front of the store, grabbed her cell phone, and hustled down the alley where the truck had disappeared. She rounded the corner and saw that the driver had backed the truck up to a loading ramp and was in the process of opening the doors.

Shannon whistled. “Dooley! C’mere, boy!” She glanced around, trying to look a little frantic but not too out of control.

“Have you seen a yellow Lab?” she asked the truck driver.

“No, but I just got here.”

The guy was young, maybe midthirties. He had blond curly hair, a good-size paunch, and a couple of days’ growth on his round face. He was wearing a brown uniform.

“He wanders around on me a lot,” Shannon said. “We live right over there.” She pointed to a residential neighborhood that backed up to the shopping center.

“Like I said, I just pulled in.” The guy went back to work, propping the doors open and getting out a hand truck. “If you want to leave me your name and number, I’ll give you a call if I see him.”

Shannon felt in her pockets. “Um, I don’t have a pen.” The driver pulled one out of his pocket, but Shannon had a different idea. “Why don’t you just give me your cell number; I’ll call your phone, and then you’ll have my number.”

The guy paused for a second and looked like he might dismiss the idea. But Shannon gave him her best cute and innocent smile and checked his finger to make sure there was no ring. “I mean, if you don’t want my number in your phone, that’s fine.”

“No. No,” the driver said quickly. “That’s a good way to do it.”

He recited his number for Shannon, who immediately dialed his phone. She walked next to the truck and stuck out her hand. “My name’s Shannon.”

“Jim,” the driver said. Shannon’s call went into voice mail, and she hung up.

Things turned a little awkward. “Well, guess I better keep looking,” Shannon said.

“Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

“Thanks for keeping your eyes open, Jim. Maybe we’ll meet again sometime.”

Just for good measure, Shannon pretended that her phone rang, and she brought it to her ear. “This is Shannon,” she said, turning sideways to Jim. She took a couple of pictures and talked into her phone, waving as she walked away.

“Hold on a second,” she said into the phone. “Thanks again,” she called to Jim, over her shoulder. He smiled and waved.

No wonder people hate lawyers,
she thought.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, just before Shannon pulled into the parking lot at the office, she received a call from the Mobassars’ number.

“I left a message with Mr. Madison,” Ghaniyah Mobassar said. Shannon recognized the accent, but there was more emotion in her voice today. “But he has not called back. I am sorry to bother you, but I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s fine,” Shannon said. “In fact, I was just getting ready to call you.”

“They’ve arrested Khalid,” Ghaniyah said, the words rushing out. “And the police are searching my house, tearing everything apart.” Her voice was trembling. “I didn’t know what to do.”

28

Shannon had to park a block away from the Mobassars’ duplex and argue her way through the police working crowd control. Somebody had probably tipped off the media about Khalid’s perp walk. All the local satellite trucks were in place and had no doubt recorded the event. The crews were now busy doing the obligatory neighbor interviews.

Shannon spotted Khalid in the back of a police cruiser and approached the uniformed officer who appeared to be in charge—a tall man in his midforties with gray hair and a thin gray mustache. His name badge identified him as Lt. Shaw. Shannon introduced herself, and Shaw asked for identification. He studied her bar card for a long moment and did a double take.

“You’re his lawyer?” Shaw asked.

“Is that a problem?”

Shaw studied her, perhaps deciding whether to put up a fight. Shannon had seen it all before. When she showed up in court with Alex, most people assumed she was his paralegal. When she told a new acquaintance that she was a lawyer, the most common response was a one word question: “Really?” But every time somebody underestimated her because of her size or Mary Lou Retton looks, it only made her more determined.

“No problem,” Shaw groused.

“Good.” Shannon motioned toward the car. “I’d like to speak with my client now.”

“We need to finish processing him first. As soon as we finish executing the search warrant, we’re taking him down to the station for processing.”

“Let me see your warrant,” Shannon demanded.

Shaw frowned and produced the paper. Shannon examined the document, returned it to Shaw, and thanked him. She turned and headed toward the cruiser.

“What are you doing?” Shaw asked, following behind her.

She ignored him.

“What are you doing?”

Shannon stopped just outside the tinted glass of the cruiser’s backseat window. Khalid was alone in the seat, hands cuffed, looking up at her with fearful eyes. Another officer came over and stood beside Shannon, placing a hand against the door as if Shannon might try to open the door and spring her client.

Shannon ignored the officer and focused on Khalid. “Don’t talk to the cops,” she said loudly. “As soon as they ask you a question, demand your lawyer. Don’t talk to anybody at the jail—especially your cellmate. . . .”

“Ms. Reese, you can talk to him downtown,” Lt. Shaw said sharply, stepping between Shannon and the cruiser.

Shannon looked past Shaw and locked eyes with Khalid. “Got it?” she asked loudly. When he nodded, Shannon turned back to Shaw.

“Try to keep the waterboarding to a minimum,” she said.

* * *

The inside of the duplex was trashed. Shannon complained loudly to Detectives Sanderson and Brown, following them from room to room, commenting sarcastically on their handling of the Mobassars’ stuff. The officers ignored her as they methodically emptied every dresser drawer, pulled all the clothes from the shelves, shook open every book in the library, and confiscated legal pads, journals, credit card receipts, and Khalid’s computer.

After they left, Shannon found Ghaniyah sitting on her bed in the middle of the shambles that had been her bedroom. She was staring at the mess, stunned beyond words at what had just transpired.

Shannon knew she couldn’t leave Ghaniyah alone. The poor woman, still trying to recover from her brain injury, would be overwhelmed by the simplest of tasks. She would never be able to cope with
this
.

“Why don’t you pack up a few things and spend the night at my place?” Shannon offered. “We can start cleaning up first thing tomorrow.”

Ghaniyah looked at Shannon as if she was surprised to discover that Shannon had entered the room. “What did he do?” Ghaniyah asked. “When will they let him go?”

“I don’t know,” Shannon admitted. She looked at a small pile of Ghaniyah’s bras and panties. Shannon thought about how humiliating it must have been for this conservative Muslim woman to have a man pawing through her stuff.

Then another thought hit Shannon. Ghaniyah would be equally distraught at the notion of Shannon helping reorganize Khalid’s clothes.

“Why don’t you work on the bedroom, and I’ll start downstairs on the study,” Shannon suggested. “After we get things picked up a little, we can talk.”

“Okay,” Ghaniyah mumbled.

Shannon glanced over her shoulder as she left the room. Ghaniyah had not moved an inch from her spot on the bed.