Reprisal (14 page)

“Yeah?”

“Who got the murdered kid back
into
the country? I mean, when you come through Customs and they ask you, ‘What was the nature of your visit to Somalia? They can’t say: ‘Terrorist training.’”

“El-Amin?”

“He’s too low-level. There are people higher up here in the Cities. People smarter and more connected than he is—that’s who scare us. Who are they? And what will they do next?”

Paul sat back in his chair. Joan had echoed his fears.

She sighed, “Well, I’ll keep you in the loop as much as I can, but you’re on your own.” She leaned close to him. “If these guys think we’re getting too close to them, they’ll do anything to protect themselves.”

“If I get anything on this imam, the alibi witness, I’ll let you know. Some of these imams are real cooperative, but others smell like terrorists. This one smells to me.”

“Oh?”

“We’re getting a lot more traffic all of a sudden. Phone intercepts. It means something’s going on, but I don’t know what.”

Paul’s eyes dropped to the table, to their empty cups and Joan’s crumpled napkin stained with her ruby lipstick. It wasn’t himself he worried about. He thought of Zehra.

Fifteen

At eight-thirty, Zehra sat at the edge of the counsel table in Judge Palmer’s courtroom, as far from her client as she could. Jackie sat on the other side of their client, Mr. James Carlson.

She prayed this client woudn’t freak out and cause her trouble. She had enough stress from the murder case. But knowing Judge Palmer, Zehra was sure something would blow-up.

Jackie looked at Carlson. “We think the trial went well. What’d you think?”

Zehra felt her face twist tightly. Wrong question, Jackie. Well, she’d learn.

Mr. Carlson complained, “I don’t think I got a chance to really explain to the judge.”

“But you testified …” Jackie reminded him. She put on her dark glasses that almost hid her little nose.

“My daughter is making this all up because my former wife, the bitch, told her to blame me for touching her. I asked both of you to investigate that, but you haven’t done shit.”

Zehra held out her hand, palm down to him. “Sshh here comes the judge.”

They all rose and sat to the rhythm of the coming and going of the judge. Palmer wore his robe, but Zehra could see the lavender collar of a cotton golf shirt poking out from the top of the black cloth. He looked amused and smiled at things no one else thought funny.

Carlson had been charged with having sexual relations with his teenage daughter. After hearing all the evidence, Zehra knew he was guilty. During the pre-trial hearings, one of the court clerks, a good friend of Zehra’s, had approached her in the hallway of the courthouse to serve some papers on her client. Zehra smiled at the memory.

“Yo, Z,” the clerk asked, “I have these papers to serve. Can you point out your client?”

“This is all you need to know, Henry. He’s accused of having sex with his daughter.”

Henry blinked and waited for a description. When Zehra smiled at him, he nodded and disappeared around the corner. In three minutes, he returned. “Found him,” Henry said and, without cracking a smile, grinned with his eyes at Zehra. “Spotted him right away. You can always tell those kiddie sex offenders.”

At the counsel table, Zehra looked at Mr. Carlson. He was white, thin, had scraggly blonde hair, and was so pale, she could see blue veins streaked down his arms. He twitched constantly. He insisted on sucking throat lozenges because he said he had asthma. During the entire trial, Zehra heard him next to her, sucking and coughing over the lozenges. He sneezed on her shoulder.

Judge Palmer finally stopped grinning, looked at the file before him, peered up into the ceiling, looked down and spied Zehra, Jackie, and their alleged sex offender client. The prosecutor sat quietly at the other table. She was winning and knew enough to keep her mouth shut.

The judge stuck his head out like a chicken plucking for food and bobbed up and down. “Ready, counsel?” he said to both sides.

Suddenly, the judge ducked down behind the raised bench and disappeared. He remained submerged for a while. Two arms popped up. On each hand, he had a puppet. A green and a purple one wiggled back and forth.

Zehra had seen it before. She wondered how Carlson would react and how much calming down it’d take to keep him from bolting out of the courtroom. Maybe Jackie could tackle him.

Judge Palmer finally sat up and looked down at Mr. Carlson. “Sir, you see these?”

Carlson crunched a lozenge and choked it down. “Uh … yeah?”

“These are the people who’ll decide your case. This one,” he lifted his left hand, “is Not Guilty. This one is Guilty.” Judge Palmer wiggled his right hand. “After your lawyer’s argument, one of these will decide the verdict. So, you watch because when I duck down, one of these will come up and pronounce the verdict.”

Carlson jerked his head back and forth between Jackie and Zehra. He started to gag on his words.

“You got it, son?”

Carlson nodded slowly. “I … I guess,” he coughed something onto Zehra’s shoulder.

“Proceed, Counsel,” Judge Palmer ordered. He lowered his arms.

After both sides made their final arguments, they sat down. The judge looked up to the ceiling and twisted his lips in concentration. “Okay let me think about the evidence …” He rotated his head, nodded, and then looked down at this notes. “Okay.” He ducked below the bench.

The right hand puppet came up. From below the bench, a high-pitched voice said, “Guilty.” And the puppet wiggled.

Zehra turned to Carlson. He looked sick to his stomach. She wasn’t sure if it was the verdict or the bizarre proceedings. “Get used to it,” she whispered. “We always appeal this guy. Don’t worry, I’ll file it tomorrow.”

“But … but …”

“I said, don’t worry. We’ll get it straightened out.” She sighed at the extra work this judge created for her.

Carlson staggered to his feet. Suddenly, he started flapping his arms. He jumped up and down like a chicken. He gurgled something unintelligible. The deputies had to assist him away because he couldn’t walk very well. In a way, maybe this was true justice for him.

As she and Jackie left the courtroom, Zehra’s phone vibrated. She glanced at it and sighed—her mother. “Yes, Mom.”

“Have you got time for lunch today?”

“To meet another wonderful Muslim? I don’t know, Mom, I’m really busy. The trial’s coming up.”

“Just lunch, Zehra. You’ve got to learn to let go and relax. ‘Go with the flow,’ they say. Now, this man is handsome and so nice. I know you’ll love him.”

“Is he another doorknob, like the last one—functional but pretty boring?”

“You want a Greek salad at Christo’s?”

“Can I say no?”

“No.”

“When?”

“Twelve-thirty. And, Zehra, comb your hair. It’s your best asset.”

At twelve-thirty, Zehra sat alone at Christo’s Greek restaurant on Nicollet Avenue salivating for a very large glass of red wine and waiting for her mother. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the busy street, a half-dozen ancient begonias in big green pots crowded out the sun.

Zehra loved the deep colors and thick leaves. White walls surrounded the window with sky-blue trim. She felt like escaping to Greece. It looked so relaxed and sunny and far away from her mother. And the best part—their growing season lasted all year long.

“There you are!” shouted her mother.

Zehra turned from the serenity of the window to see her mother steaming toward her with a small man following behind.
Here we go
, she thought.

At the table, her mother sat quickly and slipped her head covering off, to rest on her shoulders. Martha could be selective as to when she wore it. “I want you to meet Mr. Jamison Raza.” She held out her hand as if she were delivering the original text of the Qur’an. “He’s a doctor at Fairview. Thoracic surgery, I understand. A very lucrative practice.” Martha smiled, her work almost done.

Zehra nodded and reached across the small table to shake Raza’s limp hand.
Can’t imagine those could crack open a chest
, she thought. He looked very Semitic. Long nose, dark skin, and black curly hair. The only attractive thing about him was the hair—any woman would kill for it. He looked down at the table all the time except to glance up at her when he spoke.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” He folded his hands, prayer-like, before him on the table.

Zehra felt a rumbling low in her stomach. Hunger? Fear? “Uh … yeah. Me, too.”

“Your mother tells me your whole family is very observant.”

“Huh?”

“You pray five times a day, attend mosque, and are faithful during Ramadan.”

The rumbling in her stomach became shaking. “Uh … well, I don’t know.”

“I’ve taken my hajj twice, now. It is a profoundly moving experience. Have you made yours?”

“It’s coming up next year … after I go to Greece.” She looked hard at her mother. “Can I talk to you?”

Martha giggled. “I’ve got to run and freshen-up. You two get acquainted.” Her mother left in a puff of old-fashioned cologne.

“I’m Pakistani. My parents are related to the Bhutto family, the former Prime Minister? Benazir Bhutto?” he said. “We own much land near Lahore.”

“Bhutto was just killed, right?”

“The liberals did it.”

“Who?” Zehra felt afloat without a life raft.

“She tried to change the laws of the Prophet. There’s a reason order has prevailed for hundreds of years it’s because people were faithful to the Prophet.”

“What kind of surgery do you do, Jamison?”

“Thank Allah, I have an education and could provide for any woman. She would not have to work but could be faithful and bear children.”

What an exciting thought. “Maybe you forget we’re in America?”

“That’s the problem here. Too many Muslim women have forgotten the True Way. Your mother told me that you’re faithful.”

“I am,” Zehra asserted. “But in a more progressive way…”

“Let me remind you of what the Qur’an says …”

“I can read the Qur’an. And I don’t need you to interpret it for me.”

Jamison sat back and blinked. “But … but I thought you understood that Muhammad had clearly told us what Allah expects of a faithful woman?”

“And the Prophet gave many equal rights to women, also. That was about fifteen hundred years ago.” She longed for a bite of a chocolate cupcake. Zerha’s phone buzzed. Thank Allah! She looked. Jackie. Zehra clicked it on.

Jackie spoke fast, “Zehra, Mr. Peterson’s called five times already. I didn’t think the deputies allowed them that many phone calls. What should I do?”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” She snapped the phone off. Looked back at the doctor. Zehra counted to ten. He represented many of the things she fought against—the intolerant attitude toward women and the ultra-conservative interpretation of Islam.

When she felt calmer, she said, “I’ve got an emergency. I’m sure you know how it is.” She stood and hurried out so quickly, she forgot to look at the begonias. Besides her frustration, these dead-end men her mother brought all reminded Zehra of her loneliness.

In her car, driving back downtown to meet Jackie, Zehra’s mother called.

“All right, make this quick,” Zehra demanded, still mad.

“I’m sorry. He seemed like such a nice man.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I guess. Look, I’m busy, gotta run.”

“Oh, there’s something that’s bothering me. I don’t know if I should bother you with it.”

“What’s wrong, Mom.”

“Well, I’ve noticed a car parked outside our house a lot lately. A gold one. You know how quiet our street is. Even your father commented on it. I can’t imagine who it could be. But it, well, it makes me feel creepy.”

Zehra gripped the leather covered wheel harder. “How often is it there?”

“Almost every day.”

Zehra took a deep breath to calm her racing thoughts. A gold car had followed her on several occasions also. It couldn’t be a coincidence. She didn’t want her mother upset. “I’m sure it’s just an admirer looking at your gardens. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll have my friend BJ Washington check things out. Or maybe you should call the police.”

“Good idea. I’ll call the police.”

Zehra’s fear rose up through her arms. She had to concentrate on driving. “Gotta run, Mom.”

“I know you won’t like this now, but this time your father has a man for you to meet.”

“No!”

“Now, just calm down. He’s an engineer or some scientist who works with your father. Originally from Egypt. We’ll talk about it later.”

Sixteen