On Tuesday, Zehra trudged into the courtroom on the eighteenth floor of the Government Center for the pretrial conference for Ibrahim El-Amin. She dreaded the confrontation that was sure to come. Why couldn’t I have a simple job like writing wills? she thought.
When she arrived, Steve Harmon was already there. He nodded at Zehra as he unpacked several files from a rolling metal cart on wheels.
Zehra walked down the middle aisle and pushed through the swinging gate that separated the public area from the judge’s bench and the lawyers’ area. Sitting on the high bench, Judge Gordon Smith listened to another case. She looked distracted. To her left was the secured area where prisoners stood. A low wooden wall surrounded it, topped by a thick glass wall.
Jackie came down the main aisle and followed Zehra into the lawyers’ area. Zehra envied Jackie’s beautiful hair; straight and shiny, it always looked good. In contrast, Zehra’s hair was thick and often tangled by its own devious will.
“Josh made me breakfast today, ’cause he knows how hard we’re working on the case. I’m, like, so impressed with the dude. I’m worried it might turn out to be permanent.” Jackie laughed. “What will I tell all the others?”
What you can tell them is you’re self-absorbed was all Zehra could think in return. Jackie rarely asked Zehra about the guys she was with—not that there were many. Jackie’s full relationship contrasted with the lack of romantic attention in Zehra’s life.
Although, Zehra had to admit, the guy she’d met at the Health Tech party was a possibility. Michael. Dark, handsome, intelligent, and charming. What more could she ask for? He was a Muslim, but that didn’t bother Zehra—not at this point, anyway. If he didn’t call, she would follow up with him. He seemed so different from most of the men she met. He was more worldly and had traveled extensively.
“Which judge did we get for the trial?” Jackie said.
“Don’t know yet. Hot-Tub is too lazy to actually try the case, so I’m sure she’ll pass it on to another judge. Besides, I’m so damn mad at her for calling Mao behind my back.”
In ten minutes, the deputies had brought El-Amin into the courtroom holding area. He stopped and stood ramrod straight. Without moving his head, his eyes traveled over the entire courtroom. He spied Zehra and glared at her.
It always bothered Zehra that defendants took out their wrath on the defense lawyers instead of the judges or the prosecutors, who were the ones actually trying to put them in prison.
“State of Minnesota versus Ibrahim El-Amin,” the clerk announced from the far corner of the courtroom where she sat with a massive pile of files before her.
The defendant swiveled his head toward the judge.
Both Zehra and Harmon stepped up to a wooden podium directly before the raised bench. The judge asked if the case had been settled.
“I can’t offer much. With a crime this serious and the nature of it,” Steve said, “I can only offer a straight plea of guilty to murder in the first degree.”
Zehra started to speak. “My client has—”
“I am not her client and she does not speak for me,” El-Amin thundered from his side. “I represent myself. I will not accept the work of a woman, including the judge of this courtroom.”
“Is that so?” Gordon Smith responded. Her eyes became small.
“I am in charge of my case. This infidel will not speak for me.”
The judge turned toward him. “I want Ms. Henning as backup counsel in case you have questions during the trial.”
El-Amin closed his eyes and swayed back on his legs.
“Ms. Henning, I still expect you to fully prepare for trial. If, at any time, the defendant changes his mind about you, I want you ready to jump in.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Zehra could feel warm anger tinting her face and hoped it showed to the judge.
Gordon Smith flipped a few pages, leaned over to whisper to the clerk next to her, and straightened up again. “I’ll block this case to Judge Goldberg for a trial date certain in two weeks.”
El-Amin exploded. “What? A Jew? I refuse. My fate will not be in the hands of a Jew.” He pounded his fist on the wooden railing before him.
“Quiet, or I’ll have the deputies remove you.”
Zehra and Jackie loaded up their files and left the courtroom.
“I think I really, like, hate that son-of-a-bitch,” Jackie said.
“And everything he stands for. He’s the reason Islam has such a bad rep.”
“So now what?”
“You heard the judge.” She shot the words at Jackie. “We prepare the case as if we’re going to try it.”
She started to walk away. Her cell phone played music. It was Paul Schmidt—a welcome change.
“I’m glad I caught you,” he said. “Have you got a minute to talk?” He sounded out of breath.
“Sure. Just got done with our bronco. He threatened me again.” Zehra shifted her heavy bag onto the other shoulder.
“Don’t trust him an inch.”
Zehra laughed. “Paul, it’s safe to say that we hate each other. Trust isn’t even a word associated with this guy.”
Paul explained El-Amin’s role in the criminal networks that Joan had revealed. “Your case is part of something a lot bigger than we expected.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Are you investigating the alibi witness?”
Zehra stopped. Her brain twitched. Had she told him about the alibi witness? Except for Harmon and the announcement in court today, she hadn’t told anyone. “How do you know about that?”
“Uh . . . I happened to talk with BJ Washington.”
“He and I are going to shake down the witness this afternoon.”
Paul took a deep breath. “I think I should help you.”
“How can you help? The FBI helping a murder suspect? Know how odd that sounds?”
“No, I mean help you personally. Your client is financed and controlled by people we don’t know who are probably here right now. I’m worried about you.”
Zehra found a bench in the hall and sat down. She waved Jackie next to her. “What are you talking about?”
Paul coughed. “You still there?”
The tone of his voice caused her stomach to tighten. The gold car she’d seen several times popped into her mind.
“We can’t find out anything about your client’s background. People always leave some trail, but not this dude. He’s probably a puppet for someone more powerful.”
She didn’t answer as the words tumbled through her mind.
“Here’s what really worries me. Your client couldn’t have done this alone. It’s too complicated. Why didn’t the boy call his parents when he got back here? If someone went to all the work to get him back from Somalia, why turn around and kill him?”
“I see what you mean.”
“And what if the murder is not the end of whatever this network is planning?”
Zehra took a deep breath and shifted to the edge of the bench. “I’ll be careful. But what could they possibly want with me? I’m just the defense lawyer doing my job.”
“Don’t you understand? Anyone associated with the case, me included, could be a target for them. Who knows what they’ll do to keep their secrets?”
She thought briefly of telling Paul about the gold car, then changed her mind as it was probably nothing to worry about. “Thanks for the warning, Paul. I guess I could use your help.”
By that afternoon, BJ, Jackie, and Zehra stopped in front of the mosque on Riverside Avenue, near the University of Minnesota’s complex of buildings on the west bank of the Mississippi River.
Zehra answered her cell phone. “Hi, Dad.”
“I know you don’t want us to interfere, but I wondered how you got along with Michael. I don’t know him, but I hear he’s a real star in the company. Could go a long ways.”
She laughed to herself at the soft sell. “Don’t worry; he seemed nice. I may even get together with him if I can find a free night.”
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“He’s not Hindu.”
“Oh, I know. You and I will have to face Prisha in the future, but right now I’m concentrating on winning this trial.”
As they approached the front door of the mosque, several men sat around it, dressed in colorful African clothing. They wore tops of red, green, purple, and gold. Three women walked by, covered from head to toe—even in the warmth of the afternoon—in long maroon skirts that ended by swishing across their sandaled feet. Their heads were covered fully, with only their faces showing. As they crossed the street in a line, the wind blew their robes out at an angle. Zehra could imagine them plodding through the sand of a desert, leaning into the wind.
Across the street was a bar named The Nomad Bar. How appropriate, Zehra thought.
At the door of the mosque, she remembered to remove her shoes and set them next to a pile of over twenty other shoes, mostly sandals. As they moved into the mosque, it opened into a large, quiet room that soared up to a rounded dome above.
Zehra had brought a scarf with her and, out of respect, she covered her head. Jackie flipped up the back of her sweater. She glanced at Zehra and BJ. “How do I look?”
As they started into the open center of the space, a man in a long tan robe came from the left and stepped in front of them. “I am sorry, but it is not permitted to have women in the main prayer area.” He nodded at a small balcony on the second floor to the right. “That is reserved for women.”
Zehra bristled. On one hand, she wanted to remain respectful and get the trust of the local imam, but this discrimination made her furious. Thoughts of El-Amin yelling at her crowded into her mind. She tried to ignore them and remain calm. She said to the man in the robe, “We have an appointment with the imam, Hussein Moalim.”
The man searched Zehra’s face without looking at the others. “Wait near the front door,” he instructed them.
They moved back to the door. Zehra looked around the interior. Persian rugs covered most of the floor. It was designed for prayer, and all faithful Muslims prayed from their knees on the floor. BJ and Jackie moved to either side of her.
“I’ve never been in a mosque,” Jackie whispered. “Who are those guys in the corner? They look like they’re sleeping.”
Zehra had been in a mosque before with a friend in Texas, who had explained the various aspects of the building. “They’re praying or meditating. This is a place of worship, of course, but also for learning. The back side of this part is probably a community center and school for religious instruction, like a Christian Sunday school.” She pointed to an ornamental niche set in the wall on the eastern end of the big room. “That reminds the faithful of the direction of Mecca, and see how it resembles a door?”
The others nodded.
“It’s symbolic as a door to Allah and their faith. That wooden structure at the top of the staircase? That’s the pulpit for sermons. The imam will give them on Fridays, the holy day for Muslims.”
“Is that water over there for baptism?” BJ asked.
“No. It’s for the ritual washing everyone does before praying to Allah.”
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Come to God in a state of cleanliness.” BJ’s shoulders dropped, and he said in a hushed voice, “It’s so peaceful. Tranquil. I can understand why people like it here.”
Zehra turned to him. “That’s great, but remember why we’re here.”
Jackie said, “I’ve been in a Jewish synagogue before, and it’s funny, but a mosque looks a lot like a synagogue.” She laughed. “My Catholic church looks like a circus in comparison to this plain, simple interior.” She asked Zehra, “Is an imam a priest?”
“No. Islam doesn’t have a priestly class. Every believer has direct access to Allah and doesn’t need anyone to intercede for them. An imam is a learned person who can direct the faithful.”
“Welcome to our mosque,” said a voice from behind them.
They all spun around to see a man standing there. He must have been there for a while. He wore a white robe from his shoulders to the floor. A gray beard hung over his chest, and he wore a pair of modern, stylish glasses. He smiled to show huge, white teeth.
“I am Imam Hussein Moalim.” He bowed slightly. In automatic response, they bowed also. “Let us go outside. It is a glorious day.” He led them out of the front door and down the sidewalk to a small patch of grass. “What may I help you with?”
BJ said, “We talked on the phone. Ms. Henning is representing Mr. El-Amin. You told me you’re acquainted with him and were with him the night of the murder.”
Moalim bowed his head to reveal a small red skullcap perched on the back of his head. “That is true. As you know, our mosque also serves as a community center, and Ibrahim came here often. I did not know him well but saw him here on occasion.” His black face glistened in the sun.
Zehra asked, “You definitely remember that on March nineteenth —a Thursday—he was with you?” She smelled the fragrance of lilac bushes in the air.
The imam looked at her with his soft eyes for a long time. He said, “Yes. He arrived shortly after sunset, and we had tea in the community room. We talked of many things until late into the evening.”
“You understand the murder occurred just around the corner from here?” BJ said.
“Unfortunately, yes. But El-Amin was here.”
“He never left until late at night?” Zehra thought of the DNA tests. “Because there is evidence that points to him as the murderer.”
“He never left,” he said in a gentle voice.
They talked for ten minutes more, but the imam never wavered in his insistence of El-Amin’s presence at the mosque. Later, he told them about the community he served. “We are poor, as you can see. Most are from Somalia and have suffered unbelievably. We offer religious training for everyone, especially the children, to keep them law abiding and faithful. We provide food, money, and homes for new people. So many Muslims are misunderstood in this country. The majority of us want only peace, jobs, and to take care of our families.”
He raised his arm and swept it over the street before them. “Look at these people. They only want to live in peace. They love America and everything it offers. This is our new homeland.” He smiled and turned toward the mosque.
Back at his car BJ said, “Seems believable to me. I watched his facial movements, and this guy seems like he’s not bullshitting or covering for our boy.”
“I know, but what about the DNA? And the fact the murder was a few blocks away. El-Amin could’ve slipped away for a short time without the imam knowing it,” Zehra said.
“If he did, he’d have come back covered in blood. The killer hit both arteries in the boy’s neck. Even if the killer jumped back at the right instant, there’d still be a hell of a lot of blood flyin’ all over.” BJ shook his head.
Zehra’s training as a trial lawyer came forward. “He’ll make a great witness for the defense. I think the jury would believe him.” She let BJ open the door of his Chevy Bronco for her. Jackie squeezed into the back seat.
When BJ pulled away from the curb, he popped his jazz group’s CD into the player. “I got a friend hooked up with a company in Israel. They do testing on DNA, check the results for accuracy. Maybe we should do our own, independent test.”
“Why?” Jackie asked. “I thought our BCA lab was one of the best in the country.”
“I know, but what would it hurt?” He turned to Zehra. “Can you get some funding for the retest?” He smiled the smile that always caused Zehra to melt.
“Aw . . . Denzel, for you, anything. How soon can your friend do it?”
“As soon as we get a sample from the BCA, he can start. Shouldn’t take more than a few days. I’ll tell him to rush it.”
“Good idea.” She thought of Paul. “Denzel, did you ever tell Paul Schmidt, from the FBI, about the alibi witness?”
“Huh? About Imam Moalim? No, why would I talk to them about anything?”
Chapter Eighteen
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