Fatal Convictions (13 page)

34

Shannon and Alex agreed to meet at a restaurant on Thursday night so they could avoid the reporters staking out their office. They chose a place called Chick’s, an oyster bar and seafood restaurant on the north side of Virginia Beach along the Lynnhaven River. It was a favorite watering hole for the locals. Many would arrive by boat, tying up at the pier along the backside of the restaurant for hours while they hung out at the bar.

The night was hot and muggy, so Alex and Shannon asked to be seated inside the air-conditioned plastic canopy. They waited about fifteen minutes until a picnic table cleared. Even in the air-conditioning, it must have been at least eighty degrees, and Alex was sticky with sweat.

As soon as they were seated and had ordered something cold to drink, Shannon launched into an update. The Mobassars’ home was nearly back to normal, thanks to help from several of Ghaniyah’s friends. Nara Mobassar, Khalid’s thirty-year-old daughter, had obtained a visa and would be in town by Saturday. And even though Shannon had passed along Alex’s concerns to Khalid about posting a large bond, the imam was determined to get out of jail. Shannon expected his bond would be posted on Friday or Saturday at the latest.

In contrast to Shannon’s rather upbeat report, Alex was all gloom and doom. He told Shannon about the visit from Bill Fitzsimmons and Harry Dent. He had also responded to several e-mails from personal-injury clients who were nervous about the firm’s continuing to handle their cases. “They think a jury might take it out on them if we’re their lawyers,” Alex explained.

“I can’t believe the entire world has tried and convicted Khalid Mobassar before the first witness has even taken the stand,” Shannon said. “How can we get an unbiased jury after this?”

We?
Alex thought. He had intended to wait until after they had ordered their food, but he couldn’t let that pass. “Look, Shannon, I know you like this family, but I think we need to withdraw from this case.” He hesitated while she absorbed the statement. “I mean, we should stay on Ghaniyah’s case and help her. But we’re in over our heads on this criminal stuff.”

After an uncomfortable silence, Shannon’s voice was measured and calm. “I like this guy, Alex. I can’t imagine cutting and running on him. You know as well as I do that they’ll end up with some criminal lawyer who is just in it for the publicity. And besides, I really believe he’s innocent.”

Alex stared at Shannon in disbelief. There were powerboats motoring by on the Lynnhaven, young singles on the prowl lining the bar, ESPN blaring away on the television—but Alex ignored it all. “They’ve got text messages from his phone, Shannon. Somebody in the mosque was siphoning the offerings and wired $20,000 to a Lebanese bank account using Khalid’s password. The cell phone that received the text messages was at the parking lot where Ja’dah Mahdi was abducted and then was traced to Sandbridge that night. How do you explain all that?”

“Maybe Khalid’s phone was stolen,” Shannon countered. “Maybe somebody’s trying to set him up.”

“You don’t think Taj Deegan has thought about that? You don’t think they’ve got pictures of Khalid with his cell phone in the days following the text messages? You don’t think they can reconstruct the movement of his cell phone using GPS coordinates and show how his cell phone happened to be in precisely the same places that Khalid was in the days after he sent the text messages? Deegan’s no amateur. She doesn’t file a case like this until she’s covered every angle.”

“You might be right. But I’m just saying that it’s too early to tell. And it’s not our job to assume scenarios that would convict our client.”

When the waitress came to take their order, Alex asked if she could give them a few more minutes.

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Shannon, you did an awesome job this morning for Khalid. I want to believe in his innocence as much as you do. But at the end of the day, we’ve got a responsibility to our firm, and I’ve got a responsibility to the people in my church.”

Alex decided not to finish the thought. He could tell by the look on Shannon’s face that she knew his position was nonnegotiable. But what worried him was that look of flint in her eyes—a look that said she was digging in too.

“I know we both wish that your grandfather was here right now to help us through this,” Shannon said softly. “But he’s not. And I know that, as much as I loved and admired him, you were a lot closer to him than I was. So I’m not going to sit here and tell you that he would have taken this case.” She hesitated and took a sip of iced tea, though Alex could tell she wasn’t finished. “But I
can
tell you what seems right to me. And I can’t walk away from this man, Alex.”

Alex started to respond, but Shannon put a hand on his forearm. “Please let me finish.”

Alex nodded. He hated being at odds with Shannon like this.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” she continued. “On the way over here, I decided that the best way to resolve this matter is for me to leave the firm and take Khalid with me. You can continue to represent Ghaniyah and the personal-injury clients who are getting nervous. Your deacons will get off your back, and we won’t be abandoning Khalid. And I’m not suggesting this out of frustration or because I’m angry or anything like that. You and I just have different ideas about what it means to be a lawyer. We’ll still be friends,” Shannon promised. “But maybe it’s best if I strike out and start handling criminal cases, and you can focus on personal-injury clients.”

The whole thing caught Alex so off guard that he didn’t know how to respond. He wrinkled his brow and frowned at the idea. “I . . . I don’t know. . . . Shannon, I definitely don’t want this case to split our firm.”

“It’s too late, Alex. It already has.”

35

Hassan Ibn Talib watched the news coverage of Khalid Mobassar’s bond hearing with more than passing curiosity. He noticed how haggard the imam looked when he stepped out into the bright sunshine after posting the $1.5 million bond on Friday morning. Reporters shouted questions, but Khalid ignored them all as he climbed into the backseat of a waiting Town Car. After the vehicle pulled away, a field reporter talked about the issue on everyone’s mind. Where did a man like Khalid come up with the security to post a bond worth $1.5 million?

Hassan smiled at the television and the idiocy of the American press. Now that Khalid was out of jail, Hassan knew that the next assignment would not be far behind.

* * *

It was,
Khalid Mobassar thought,
Allah’s will that I was released in time for the Friday noon salat.

Prayer was a cardinal tenet of the Islamic faith, the foremost duty after the Shahadah. Like all devout Muslims, Khalid prayed publicly five times each day, allowing the salats to dictate the rhythm of his life. Man existed to worship Allah—
“I have created the jinn and humankind only that they might worship me.”
The salats were an outward expression of worship, a spiritual lifeline by which worshipers submitted themselves to the will of Allah.

Khalid had, of course, been faithful to each salat during his time in jail. For a devout Muslim, when it is time to pray, all the world becomes a mosque.

On Friday, Khalid arrived at the Norfolk mosque in time to hear the adhan blare over the loudspeakers:
“Allah is most great. I bear witness that there is no God but the One God. I bear witness that Mohammed is the messenger of God. Hasten to pray! Hasten to success! God is most great! There is no God but the One True God.”

In response to the call, the faithful streamed into the Islamic Learning Center and went about their purification rites. Each worshiper removed his or her shoes prior to the ritualistic washing. The carpet, trampled on by so many wet feet, smelled musty—the stench of sin being washed away.

Khalid delighted in the sight and the smells. The mosque had never been so full!

He led the salat, as always, with the worshipers stationed behind him in straight rows, shoulder to shoulder, all facing the quiblah. As the congregation proceeded through each part of the ritual, Khalid was overwhelmed with the majesty and greatness of Allah. He could see Allah’s timing in his release, Allah working out every detail of Khalid’s humble life.

Allah
is
most great.

He prostrated himself before Allah and thought about the opportunity he would have in a few moments to speak not just to his mosque but to a worldwide audience. Khalid’s voice of reform, so stifled and insignificant only a month ago, would now be broadcast to the entire planet.

Khalid begged Allah for favor and ended the salat with the invocation of peace called the salaam. Following Khalid’s lead, the worshipers turned first to the right and then to the left, uttering the greeting, “May the peace, mercy, and blessings of Allah be upon you.”

As they finished and sat down, Khalid turned to face the worshipers. Next came the khutbah, a ten-minute message of solemn importance. Khalid placed his left hand on the front of his right hip and his dominant right hand on the top of his left as he began.

“When the great Prophet Mohammed, may peace be upon him, returned from battle, he said, ‘We are finished with the lesser jihad; now we are starting the greater jihad.’ For too many years, too many Muslims have been fighting the lesser jihad and ignoring the greater jihad, the internal battle for purity, a battle with our own evil nature.” Khalid’s voice echoed with authority in the stillness of the mosque. The worshipers were unusually still and solemn today, anxious to hear a word from someone who had suffered for the sake of Allah, a prophet in their own midst whom they had too long taken for granted.

“This greater jihad will not be won by honor killings and suicide bombers. It will only be won when we peacefully submit to Allah’s will. It is time to lay down the swords of the lesser jihad and pick up the plowshares of the greater jihad.”

Khalid paused and searched the eyes of the faithful. In some, he saw resistance. They wanted a leader full of threats and bravado. But in others, he saw hope. He realized that his words this day would unleash powerful forces for and against him. He had studied the great reformers, and this was always their lot. Violence. Passion. Hatred. Admiration. Love.

But ultimately—perhaps in his case—there would be one other by-product—the salvation of the world’s greatest religion.

36

Like millions of other Muslim Americans,Hassan watched Khalid Mobassar’s khutbah on cable television. Afterward, the talking heads sliced and diced each word and debated Mobassar’s guilt or innocence. Most were cynical, postulating that he had used the national spotlight to influence future jurors. They pointed out that he would probably not take the stand in his own defense and that the media coverage of today’s events gave him the chance to “testify” without being cross-examined.

Representatives of various Muslim groups took the other side, chastising the media for its rush to judgment. It was a classic case of racial and religious stereotyping, they said.

To Hassan, it was
all
empty rhetoric. Americans believed in talk, like some collective national therapy. It was another weakness of the Great Satan, and Hassan turned off his television before
he
was drawn into its mindless addiction. They wanted to talk? He would give them something to talk about.

His orders came, as he expected they might, nearly four hours later. This time, they came via e-mail from a temporary address that could never be traced. There was a young woman in California, the daughter of a prominent leader in an LA mosque, who had strayed from the faith. She’d had the audacity to get baptized in front of a large congregation in a suburban Christian church.

Hassan was instructed to show no mercy. There would be no opportunity for the woman to renounce her newfound faith. She must die in a way that would send terror into the hearts of the weak-kneed American public.

Hassan was also told to begin surveillance on Taj Deegan, the single mother who would lead the prosecution team against Khalid Mobassar, and to investigate the jury selection process for the city of Virginia Beach. He should be prepared to act as soon as the jurors were selected for Khalid’s trial. The Americans celebrated the transparency and openness of their judicial system. What the Americans saw as a great strength, Hassan Ibn Talib would be prepared to exploit as a great weakness.

* * *

It had been a long time since Alex had stayed home on a Friday night. But that’s exactly what he was doing tonight. He flicked from one TV channel to the next, watching the endless loop of coverage on what the media called “the Sandbridge Honor Killings.” He sat with his legs extended in front of him resting on a stool, his computer in his lap. Against his better judgment, he scrolled through the comments to the story about Khalid in the
Tidewater Times
. They were overwhelmingly negative and, for the most part, emotional rants by anonymous commenters.
“Muslims like beheadings. Once he’s found guilty, this man should be beheaded on the Virginia Beach boardwalk.”
Other commenters used symbols to replace certain letters so that the foul language wouldn’t get flagged by the automatic filter. A few took shots at Alex and Shannon.
“Typical lawyer scumbags. They’ll say anything this guy wants them to so they can make money from his wife’s car accident.”

One of the comments took specific aim at Alex’s church.
“And this guy calls himself a pastor?”
The same comment gave the phone number for the church and a list of deacons for people to call so they could urge the church to fire Alex.

There was a thread of race-baiting in the comments as well.
“This country is being overrun by radical Arabs. We need to cut out this cancer NOW!!”

Reading the comments, Alex felt like somebody had tied him to a runaway train and was dragging him down the tracks. He had done nothing to bring this on. But every word printed about him or his firm would stay on the Internet forever. Khalid’s story would eventually give way to other stories, and the American public would move on. But when someone Googled the name Alexander Madison, the first page to pop up would show his representation of an accused Muslim murderer.

He normally didn’t care that much about what people thought. In fact, he had a way of intentionally antagonizing people just to get a reaction. But the magnitude and lopsidedness of this criticism were overwhelming even for him. Alex was a young professional with his entire career in front of him. Now he would be forever defined as an attorney who had represented a client accused of beheading an innocent young woman.

He hated to leave Shannon alone on the case. He had tried everything possible to talk her out of it. But the more he pressed her, the more she dug in her heels. His partner was determined to drive off a cliff. Alex’s only choice was whether or not he would be riding in the passenger seat.

In a way, they had been down this road before. Shannon had stayed with her emotionally abusive boyfriend long after Alex begged her to break it off. He knew that eventually the relationship would crash and burn or escalate into real physical abuse. His role would be to help pick up the pieces.

He admired her spunk, but this time she was in way over her head. This time, the pieces might be damaged beyond repair.