Zehra hurried through the last-minute work for the trial in her office. Jackie propped her laptop on her knees and keyed in the instructions as fast as Zehra gave them. Zehra had an appointment in a few hours to see the imam at the mosque and go over his testimony.
She was tired since she hadn’t slept well the previous night, dreaming about weird things: orchids growing all over her condo, up from under her bed, and finally taking it over. Those images had faded when she looked out at the scene of beauty on her deck and remembered the thoughtfulness of Michael
“So, will the trial, like, really start on time?” Jackie said.
Zehra tipped her head to the side. “We have to expect that. I want you to prepare a motion for the judge, asking him to delay the trial because of the new evidence we’ve discovered that’s crucial to the case. If he won’t grant that, we’ll have to demand a hearing. I can tell him more about the Stein test results. That should be enough to delay things until we can convince Steve Harmon to drop the case.”
“I can’t believe he wouldn’t agree with us.”
“These judges are always concerned about the caseloads and how long it takes to get a trial out. They want to move their caseloads.”
“I know, but in our case . . . I’ll get this drafted today so you can check it out. As soon as you give me the green light, I’ll e-file it.”
“Cool. Have you finished the research to challenge the search of El-Amin’s apartment? In case we have to start the trial, we’ve got to be ready to argue that at the omnibus hearing.”
“I’m all over it,” Jackie said.
“Damn. I forgot to get the jury questionnaire. Even though our client many not let us participate as his lawyers, we should be ready for that, too. I’m afraid the jury pool may be biased against him simply because he’s Somali.”
Jackie said, “I forgot how much work a trial can be.”
“It’s like a marathon—lots of training and prep, then as a reward for all the work, you get to try the thing for a few weeks.”
“What a prize.” Jackie gathered the loose papers on the table into brown file folders. She powered down her laptop, folded it, and tucked it under her arm. “I’m really dragging. I thought private practice was hard. This is tough.”
As Jackie finished packing up, Zehra thought of Michael. He had told her about some connections he had in the Somali community. Maybe he could help her, if necessary.
She caught herself. Was she thinking this way because it could help her win the trial, or because she felt attracted to him? The truth involved both reasons.
While she texted Michael, she thought of his eyelashes and the quick eyes that sparkled when he talked about his work. He seemed so worldly and experienced. Zehra sensed passion in him along with intelligence. Crazy as it seemed, this “arranged” date might lead somewhere after all.
She asked in her text if he could help open some doors with the So-malis. Within ten minutes, to her surprise, Michael replied. He was leaving for a few days in Cairo, returning to a two-week vacation back here. Because of that, he didn’t think he could be of much help but would try. Zehra told him she was going to talk with the imam and would contact him afterward.
Getting into her old Audi, she stopped long enough to text BJ but couldn’t reach him. Jackie had too much work to do on the motions. Zehra had hoped to visit the imam with someone else, but now she didn’t have time to wait any longer.
Carolyn Bechter from Channel Six news had called, asking for an interview. Against her better judgment, Zehra had agreed to do a short one in the next few days.
When she got to the West Bank, Zehra parked the Audi around the corner from the mosque and walked. She had to make sure the imam understood how important it was to tell the same story in court as he had told them earlier. The sun peeked between the tall classroom buildings of the University of Minnesota to the east. Cool air nestled under the bushes beside the walk and brushed Zehra’s legs as she passed.
The mosque looked deserted. The front door was shut, no one stood outside like before, and silence cloaked it like a heavy shawl. Maybe they were at prayers. Since she had never attended a mosque, she didn’t know their schedules.
Zehra knocked on the front door and heard a hollow boom from the big prayer area inside. No one answered. She knocked again. Finally, she pushed on the door and it creaked open.
Inside, the sun hadn’t penetrated yet, leaving the cavernous main space in shadows and quiet, settling dust. She stepped one foot in the door and waited. She didn’t hear anything and put the second foot in. Without shutting the door, she moved deeper into the dark interior.
A chirp startled her until she realized it was a bird, caught high in the dome and anxious to get free. A tingling rose up her back. Zehra remembered to flip the back of her jacket over her head. She called out, “Mr. Moalim? Is anybody here?” Her words echoed throughout the prayer area.
She worked her way to the side, toward a door that might lead to the back. Maybe it led to the community center and the imam was there. The door was locked. She turned around and walked back to the front. When the side door creaked open behind her, Zehra jumped. She spun around to see who it was.
A large man approached her. Dressed in a black robe with a black skullcap, he had a long beard that reached almost to his waist. He didn’t look Somali. He came to her quickly.
“What do you want?” he shouted. He grasped at something near his stomach that looked like it might be a ceremonial knife.
At first, Zehra felt like an intruder, as if she’d done something wrong, until she remembered this was a mosque—open to anyone. She took a deep breath, spread her feet, and prepared to deal with another chauvinistic male. “I’m Zehra Henning. I’ve got an appointment with Imam Moalim.”
The man’s eyes softened. “Why do you want him?”
“He met with us several days ago and agreed to help us in a case. He has information about my client, Mr. El-Amin. I would like to talk with him again.”
“Why do you want to do this?” He squinted at her.
“Where is he?”
The man stopped talking and looked into the open, deserted prayer area. He looked back at her. “He is missing.”
“What?”
“I am sorry. He is not here and did not come in this morning. We have checked his home, and he is not there.”
The shock jolted Zehra. “When—?”
The man circled her. “Why do you ask all these questions? Do you have something to do with his disappearance?”
“Of course not. You’re sure he’s gone?”
“He is our imam. I would not joke about such a thing.”
Zehra handed him her business card. “I really need to talk with him. If you find him, please have him contact me.” She turned to leave. “I’ll investigate this also.”
The man studied her card for a long time but didn’t say anything more.
She felt uneasy and just wanted to get outside. Zehra had to leave. She backed to the door, found it was still open, and jumped through it. Outside, she turned and hurried back to the Audi. She breathed deeply and felt the warm touch of the sun, slanting down at a sharp angle. The sweet smell of jasmine from someone’s garden carried on the breeze.
Zehra paused to look in the windows of the small shops on Cedar Avenue. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man from the mosque coming toward her. She turned around but didn’t see him. Her breathing came harder. She hurried to the car, parked around the corner.
As Zehra rounded the corner of the brick building, shouldered next to a vacant lot with high bushes along the sidewalk, the man from the mosque popped out. He must have ducked around the back to ambush her. He lunged at her.
Zehra screamed and stopped.
Of all the bad things to do, she stopped, shocked and paralyzed. He grabbed her shoulder with his hands, trying to pull her into the bushes behind him. She threw off his grip and launched herself down the sidewalk. He came after her.
The streets
were deserted. Where had all the people gone? Zehra ran toward her car, then thought that even if she reached it, he’d be able to grab her while she fumbled for the keys and lock. Around the corner was an old frame building that housed the West Bank School of Music. Surely, someone would be there.
When Zehra turned the corner, she spotted the house and sprinted for it. The man yelled and crossed the street in order to cut her off.
Zehra’s lungs hurt and her legs felt like bags of sand. She pushed on, cutting left to avoid him. She faked turning down the street to the left. The man changed course and charged across the street. Zehra saw a swirl of black robes as he increased his speed.
At the last moment, she faked right and, with a shrug of her shoulders, let him pass off to her left. Zehra clambered up the steps of the school and tugged at the door. Luckily, it popped open and she dove inside, slamming it behind her, and heard it click with a lock.
Sweat coursed down her face, and she gasped to gain her breath. The school remained quiet except for the bellowing of her lungs.
Chapter Twenty-Six