Fatal Convictions (35 page)

94

Hassan awoke with a start well before dawn. He was clammy with sweat, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. The dream . . . He focused immediately on the vivid details of the dream before it left the recesses of his memory. Dreams were a gift from Allah, clarity of purpose in a world filled with confusion. He struggled to recall every facet.

He tried to reconcile the dream with the theological realities he knew. Khalid Mobassar would be in hell unless he was redeemed by a member of his family. Nara, always rebellious, would surely follow him, but in Hassan’s dream she had become a warrior like him. Could this be her lot in life?

The Sunnis in his dream reminded Hassan of his cowardice as a child. But this morning, they also brought back memories of why the bullies had ceased their relentless attacks.

After the day Mukhtar was beaten and Hassan ran away scared, the two boys had started taking an alternate route home. But the next week, even on this new route, Mukhtar and Hassan found themselves walking down the sidewalk heading straight for the same gang of boys one block away on the other side of the street.

Hassan quickly reached into his pocket and found the money that he hoped would satisfy the bullies. This time, he and Mukhtar would run together. If they caught Mukhtar, Hassan would stop and offer them his money. If it wasn’t enough, Hassan would take a beating along with his friend. He had learned that the emotional wounds of cowardice hurt more than any physical wounds the Sunnis could inflict.

But for some reason, the Sunnis only glared at Hassan and Mukhtar and never crossed the street to confront them. They talked among themselves and narrowed their eyes, putting the fear of Allah into Hassan’s heart, and yet they allowed the Shia boys to walk by unmolested.

Two months later, when Hassan got into an argument with another kid at school, he found out why the Sunnis had backed off. The kid taunted Hassan, asking, “What are you going to do—get your sister to fight your battles again?”

When Hassan confronted Nara, he learned that his sister had indeed walked up to the Sunni gang and called out the leader in front of all his friends. She had challenged him to a fight, and when he tried to laugh her off, she attacked. Perhaps because of Nara’s rage, or perhaps because the boy felt awkward fighting a girl, she more than held her own. The boy eventually retreated, claiming that he did not want to hurt Nara. Nara shouted curses at him as he left.

When Hassan initially learned about his sister’s actions, he was humiliated and furious. But now, as he looked at Nara lying motionless on the floor, he felt only gratitude and sympathy.

Allah had never revealed his will to Hassan in a dream before—at least not the way he had last night. Hassan had heard of other great warriors who had received a direct word from Allah. In some ways, it made Hassan jealous. Wasn’t he every bit as passionate for Allah as the others?

But last night, on the tile floor of this deserted vacation home in the Outer Banks, Hassan had experienced his own encounter with the ruler of the universe. The orders from his superiors no longer mattered. Allah had spoken.

The dream called for a new plan. One of Hassan’s own making. One that fulfilled the prophecies in the dream.

Nara was destined to be a great warrior and a passionate follower of Allah. His first order of business would be to convince her that her father’s ways were wrong. Someday, according to the dream, she would follow him to paradise. Like her brother, Nara would arrive on a river of blood.

But what thrilled Hassan even more was the certain knowledge that today was his day to bring great glory to Allah. This was the day he had been dreaming about his entire life. Events had transpired that now demanded he pay the ultimate price. For the sake of stopping the heresy of his traitorous stepfather. For the sake of preserving the legacy of his real father.

But most of all, for the sake of Allah.

Today, he would fight. Tonight, he would enjoy the fruits of paradise.

95

Alex met with his client at the Virginia Beach City Jail at 6 a.m. on Monday. Khalid was still in his orange jumpsuit and flip-flops. All the conviction and fire were gone from his demeanor. He seemed to be a mere shell of the man who had been sitting next to Alex when the case started. He spoke barely above a whisper, and his bloodshot eyes reflected the sad recognition that one of the things he valued most—his relationship with his wife of thirty-three years—had been damaged beyond repair. He was hanging on by a few tattered threads of his devout faith.

“Until Friday, I believed deep in my soul that we would win this case and justice would be served,” he told Alex. “But now, whether we win or lose is of no great consequence to me. I’ve already lost the most important things.”

Alex tried to fortify his client for the day ahead. He wanted to say something encouraging. But the sad truth was that things were about to get worse for Khalid, not better.

“We’ve got to discuss some things I learned last night,” Alex said. “You’re not the only one who didn’t get any sleep.”

* * *

Hassan knelt next to his sister and removed her hood. Her eyes were still closed and her breathing was steady. As soon as the drugs wore off and she recognized him, he would be committed to his new plan.

He went to the bathroom and completed the ceremonial cleansing. He came back into the tiled game room and performed the morning salat. The rhythmic ritual of the prayer put his mind and soul at peace. When he finished, he sat in a corner and waited. He had to leave by 8 a.m. whether his sister had regained consciousness or not. He could leave a note behind, but he wanted to see the look on her face.

Allah had given him a new mission. Hassan had always been the consummate soldier, carefully executing the orders of the Islamic Brotherhood and Hezbollah without ever wavering. But today was different. This plan had come straight from Allah’s lips to Hassan’s heart. He prayed that Nara would wake up soon. She needed to hear what Allah had given him to say.

Thirty minutes later, she stirred. He wanted to go over and shake her but instead stayed in the corner and prayed. It wouldn’t be long now.

A few minutes later she groaned and moved again. Another minute and she opened her eyes. She squinted and closed them quickly. She opened them a second time, and it seemed like she was trying to pull her hands from behind her back when she realized they were handcuffed together. When she noticed Hassan sitting in the corner, she blinked and wiggled into a sitting position.

Hassan stood without talking.

She stared at him with a confused look, as if she thought maybe she was dreaming. Her eyes were glazed and somewhat distant, the residual effect of the Rohypnol. Hassan took a few steps toward her. Her gaze grew clearer.

Then, in a moment of sudden recognition, Nara’s eyes flew wide. She tried to say something, but the duct tape turned it into a murmur. She squirmed and turned her head left and right, eyes darting around the room, a look of panic taking over. When Hassan moved in front of her and knelt, she tried to scoot back. Her face was wild with fear.

“It’s me,” Hassan said softly. “And I’m not going to harm you.”

She was in a state of shock, woozy from the drugs, but there was no mistaking the recognition in her eyes.

“I’ve been working for your father,” Hassan said. He was down on one knee in front of her. “He knows that I am still alive. He has been ordering the beheadings of those who convert to Christianity in order to advance his own vision for the Islamic faith. It is exactly as the prosecution claimed in their opening statement.”

Nara shook her head. She spoke louder into the duct tape, but Hassan could not decipher the muffled words.

“Listen to me!” he said. Nara flinched and shuffled back a little. “Your father is not who you believe he is. He sent me here to
kill
you. He said if I did that, the jury would never believe he was guilty. He’ll take the stand and testify about how much he admired you, but in truth, he thinks you’ve discovered his true agenda, and he sent me to eliminate you and restore the honor of the family.”

Hassan could tell that Nara didn’t believe a word he was saying. But he knew beyond any doubt that she would one day come back to the faith. And when she did, it would happen with a vengeance.

“Your father knew from the beginning that I didn’t die,” Hassan explained. “He helped me gain a new identity because my fake death helped propel his cause forward. It’s hard to ignore a man who lost both sons to the Israelis.”

Hassan stood and Nara looked up at him. There were tears in her eyes, and he sensed her fear. He would have to trust Allah to change her heart.

“Do you remember when we were kids and the Sunnis would beat me up on the way home from school?”

Nara nodded. She tried to say something but couldn’t.

“You fought
my
battles then. Today, I will fight yours. When I am done, those who wish to harm you, and those who wish to despise the name of Allah and his Prophet, will no longer be a threat.”

He thrust out his jaw and spoke the words with as much conviction as possible. “After I die, you must take up the cause. Allah will give you wisdom enough to see the truth and courage enough to one day lay down your life.”

Nara shook her head and lifted her chin, as if she was willing to die on the spot for what she believed. Her eyes pleaded with him to remove the duct tape, but he knew better. She would argue and protest. She would anger him and endanger her own life. He was doing this for her! Why couldn’t she see that?

He would have to give her another shot of Rohypnol and then secure her to the bed so that when she woke, she would not be able to squirm away. During his mission, he would carry the rental agreement for this property in his pocket. After his death, they would come for her.

He reached out and put his hand on Nara’s shoulder. She stared and tried to shake the shoulder free. But this did not bother him. He had heard from Allah. Who could stand against the will of God?

He smiled at his sister, remembering how she had cried at his funeral, how she had ridden next to him in the dream. “One day, you will follow me to paradise.”

96

“Do we have any housekeeping items before I bring in the jury?” Judge Rosenthal asked. It was the same question he asked every morning, a perfunctory inquiry that always generated a “No, sir” from the lawyers. But this morning, Alex had a few surprises.

“There is one thing, Judge.” Alex handed a two-page document to Rosenthal and gave a copy to Taj Deegan.

“It’s on a related case,” Alex explained. “It’s a motion to nonsuit the civil case of
Ghaniyah Mobassar v. Country-Fresh, Inc., et al.
”

Rosenthal looked at Alex as if the lawyer had lost his mind. “You want me to sign an order to nonsuit your civil case?”

“Yes, sir,” Alex said, as if this type of thing were done every day.

“Do you mind telling the court why?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Rosenthal tilted his head back as if Alex had just taken a swing at him. But on this point, Alex knew he was entirely within his rights. Under a unique aspect of Virginia law, every plaintiff in a civil case had the opportunity to nonsuit the case one time as long as the request was made before the judge granted a motion to strike or the jury retired for deliberations. A nonsuit was a voluntary dismissal, after which the plaintiff was entitled to start fresh by refiling the case anytime within the next six months. It was one of the many things Alex loved about Virginia. Judges had no choice in the matter; they had to grant a nonsuit if the plaintiff requested one.

“It seems a little peculiar, but I guess my hands are tied,” Rosenthal said as he peered down his nose at Alex. He grabbed a pen and scribbled his signature on the order. He handed it to the bailiff, who in turn gave it to Alex.

“Is there anything else?” Rosenthal asked. “And maybe this time it could have something to do with
this
case.”

“Just so the record is clear, Your Honor, my firm no longer represents Mrs. Mobassar. Because of a perceived conflict of interest, we have given her a letter of resignation that became effective once the court granted our nonsuit.”

“That’s fine,” Rosenthal said. “But it makes no difference to the court in this case. Bailiff, bring in the jury.”

When they were seated, Rosenthal turned to Alex. “Call your next witness, Counsel.”

“The defense calls Ghaniyah Mobassar.”

* * *

Hassan arrived at the Virginia Beach Courthouse at 9:25. He was wearing a gray suit under a long overcoat and carrying a black leather briefcase. As he approached security, he flashed a Virginia bar card he had created several months earlier and a Virginia driver’s license. The deputy waved him into the line for attorneys, and he placed his briefcase on the belt for the scanner. Hassan passed through the metal detector without incident, picked up his briefcase, and told the deputy to have a nice day.

“By the way, what’s all the commotion about?” Hassan asked.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Hassan shook his head.

“Big murder trial on the third floor. A Muslim imam accused of ordering honor killings.”

“Sounds interesting,” Hassan said.

He rode the escalators to the third floor and found his way to Courtroom 8, where the trial of Khalid Mobassar was under way. The courtroom had reached capacity, but Hassan explained to the guards that he was there to represent Fatih Mahdi, who had been subpoenaed as a witness. Hassan flashed his bar card and was allowed to pass through the metal detector that had been set up outside the courtroom doors.

Once Hassan entered the courtroom, he kept his head down. He didn’t think anyone would recognize him, but he didn’t want to take unnecessary chances. He found a spot against the back wall next to a TV cameraman and placed his briefcase on the floor. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall to assess the situation.

His mother, Ghaniyah Mobassar, was on the witness stand. She was dressed in her traditional hijab and head covering, though she was not wearing a veil. She looked tired and haggard and was answering softly enough that the judge told her to speak up. Alexander Madison was prowling around the well of the courtroom, asking questions.

There were two deputies stationed against a wall toward the front, not far from Khalid Mobassar’s counsel table. The larger one watched everything in the courtroom like a hawk. There was a third deputy by the door Hassan had just entered through, but he was preoccupied, whispering to a man who looked like a lawyer. Each of the deputies had a Taser, handcuffs, and a pistol on his belt.

The gun used by the courthouse deputies was a Glock 17, a lightweight pistol that chambered 9 mm bullets. Hassan would have preferred larger-caliber bullets, but he liked the fact that the magazine capacity was seventeen rounds. The only safety on the gun was an internal trigger safety designed to prevent accidental discharge.

The spectators all seemed transfixed by the testimony on the witness stand. Ghaniyah was focused on Alexander Madison, and Hassan was not in her direct line of sight. Fatih Mahdi sat in the second row right behind the prosecutors. Hassan had been told that the lawyers had sequestered witnesses until after they testified. If Fatih was now allowed to watch the rest of the trial, his time on the stand must be over.

Hassan was pleased by his own calm demeanor as he sequenced the best plan of attack. He had trained for this moment; he was ready. His heart was not racing, and he felt entirely clearheaded. But it was more than just his training; his serenity came from a sense of destiny. He had been a dead man walking for years, ready to sacrifice his life for the sake of Allah at a moment’s notice. Finally, that day was here.

The Islamic Brotherhood had adopted a Trojan horse strategy for America, the idea that the best attack always came from within. They had infiltrated the country and were using America’s arrogance and sense of invulnerability against her. Hassan had used the same approach to infiltrate this courtroom.

Americans considered the open court system a great cornerstone of their democracy. Today, Hassan would exploit that openness. He was already in the same room with every person who knew the truth about the honor killings and could therefore deal a crippling blow for the cause of Mohammed. He calmly determined the minimum number of rounds he would need. Three for the deputies. One for Taj Deegan. One for Alexander Madison. One for Shannon Reese.

And one for the man he once thought was his father—Khalid Mobassar.

Hassan listened to the testimony of his own mother. He was concerned that Madison may have discerned the truth. Hassan reached down to his briefcase and removed a yellow legal pad and a pen. He began writing his final note.

My name is Ahmed Obu Mobassar, the son of Ghaniyah Mobassar and the stepson of Khalid Mobassar. Several years ago, my stepfather orchestrated events to make it appear as if I had died so that I might become an anonymous agent for the cause of Allah. I have always been the Sent One—the messenger who restored honor to families when their women rejected the Muslim faith. I have done so at the order of my stepfather, a prophet who has promised to lead us in a new direction. But first, he said, we must purify our ranks.

As this trial has unfolded, I have sadly learned that my stepfather cares nothing about the glory of Allah. Instead, his desire is to elevate his own name above the name of Mohammed.

On this day, as a messenger of Allah, I have come to restore the honor of my own family.