“Come on, Barry, you owe me one,” Zehra pleaded with the lawyer whose office was across the hall from hers. “Think of all the crap I did for you on the robbery case—the one where the client called you four times a day to complain. Who took all those calls for you?”
“I know, I know. But not this case. I don’t want to deal with a guy like him or get the media in my face.”
“I’m not asking you to take it for free. I’ll take those two sex assault cases you’ve got. Those aren’t any fun to try.”
“He’s innocent,” Barry joked.
“Get off it. This is your last chance to get out of defending someone like him.”
“Well—”
“The El-Amin case has some interesting legal issues. Besides, the prosecutor is going to have some problems getting the line-up into evidence. There are things to work with for a defense.”
“How good is the ID?”
“There’s a witness, but the conditions were bad. It was night and he was far from the scene of the crime. DNA is still being tested. And, like I said, the line-up should be challenged.”
“Maybe I’ll take it. Let me think about it. Depends on the DNA. If that’s inconclusive, I will take it. But if it comes back to nail this guy, I’m out.”
“Fair enough. Thanks.” She hung up the phone and leaned back in her broken chair. Her office contained a beige laminated desk, a tan bookshelf, two other chairs, and a low credenza.
To avoid the beige jail cell effect, Zehra had brought in a Persian wool rug that had belonged to her grandfather. Two large frames with colorful cloth stretched over them hung on the wall before her desk in her favorite color, red. Photos of her extended family lined up across the credenza in a variety of frames. Inside the door, she had hung a round mirror to check her hair before she left the office.
Zehra pulled open the bottom drawer on her desk and spied the secret she’d smuggled in: a Hostess cream-filled cupcake. Utterly horrible and disgusting, but she loved to nibble on one occasionally. If Jackie wasn’t there, Zehra would have taken a bite. Thank goodness, Jackie prevented it. Zehra wondered if there was a twelve-step program for people like her who ate junk, especially things that had more chemicals than nutrition.
Jackie interrupted Zehra’s thoughts. “So we’re off the case?”
“Not quite. I don’t trust Barry to take this until he actually appears in court and substitutes himself for us. We better keep working.”
Zehra stood and walked to the door. She shut it, which caused the sheetrock around it to shiver. She turned to face Jackie and sighed. “Bobby Joe’s supposed to stop by. I hope he comes to tell us he’s cracked the case open and it’s going to be a slam-dunk. We need a miracle.”
Jackie nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“We need to challenge the search of his apartment. Check out the search warrant and give me some research on the legality of it. After all, there were two other guys living there. How do we know which guy owned the knife and shirt?”
“Prints?”
“None. Then there’s the line-up. Try to knock that out. I’m worried we’re not going to get this all put together in time if El-Amin keeps demanding his speedy trial rights.” She looked at Jackie. “We’ve got a trial date coming up fast. If we’re not ready, I don’t want any accusations of malpractice because we’re not prepared.”
“We should see the crime scene. Then there’s the investigation of witnesses—”
“I’ve already got BJ working his butt off. The only problem with him is that he has adult ADD.”
Jackie sat up. “Huh?”
“He starts off with great energy but then loses interest. The trick to working with him is to keep him focused. Like the DNA. I’ve been after him to get the test results.” She swiped her cell phone and tapped into her schedule. “Oh, dammit! I forgot an appearance this afternoon with the hockey god.”
“Hockey god?”
“Thinks he’s a gift to all women.”
“I’ve known a few of those types.”
“He’s a U of Minnesota hockey player who was filmed by a security camera having sex with a woman in the stairwell of a parking ramp. Indecent exposure is the charge. It’s only a misdemeanor, but it will look terrible on his record. I told him to plead and we’ll get it expunged later. Know what he tells me?”
“What?”
“He has a constitutional right to freedom of expression. Can you believe it? I’m going to have to give him a crash course in constitutional law this afternoon while I kick his expressive butt.”
Jackie looked down at the El-Amin file on her laptop. “What about the autopsy of the victim? Still want to go over it? Seems pretty routine.”
“We should still go over it,” Zehra said.
Jackie tapped her laptop. She finished and looked up at Zehra. “I’m, like, amazed at you—you’re so thorough. I really appreciate the chance to work with you. A lot of the newer women look up to you.”
“Thanks, but I don’t see myself that way.” Her cell phone rang with an Adele song. It was her mother, Prisha.
“Zehra, you’ve got to come over for dinner tomorrow night. I’m fixing my favorite Indian dish, and just for you, I’ve included some lamb.”
“Thanks, Mom. But I’m too busy with this new case.”
“I won’t take no for an answer. You need a break; you work too hard.”
If she didn’t love her mother so much, these conversations could become a pain in the neck. Zehra knew the real reason for the dinner invitation: Prisha had met some Indian man that she wanted Zehra to meet. Her mother was insistent that she marry an Indian, even though Zehra wasn’t Hindu. She wasn’t a strong Christian either. The conflict bothered her. Zehra had no interest in a Hindu faith like her mother’s, but she didn’t have a strong faith of her own either. She envied people who had a religion that comforted them. “I’m working hard because I was just assigned a murder case,” Zehra answered.
“Well, you need to eat; you’re too thin. Can you be here at six thirty?”
“Oh, Mom. I’m so busy—all right. But I can’t stay long.” She wanted to end the call.
“Okay, dear.” A pause. “I almost forgot to tell you. I’ve invited a nice young friend to come over, too. I’m sure you’ll like him. Good-bye.”
Clicking off, Zehra shook her head. Probably another loser.
“Something wrong?” Jackie looked closely at Zehra.
“My mother. Still trying to set me up with a man. In her generation and in India, arranged marriages are common. She’s adopted almost all American customs, except for a few. When it comes to her daughter, my mom is very protective. Of course, I’d like to get married someday. But marrying a Hindu man is probably not going to be in the cards.”
A deep voice penetrated into the office from the hallway.
“That’s BJ,” Zehra told Jackie.
The resonant sound of singing was followed by a large black man. He turned sharply into the office and pulled up straight until he finished the song. “Jazz,” he told them. “Beautiful music. Too bad the kids don’t learn this stuff anymore. A lot better than gangsta rap for them.” He nodded to each of them. “These black kids are losing their roots if they don’t understand the blues and jazz.”
Zehra looked up at him. He stood over six feet and had a shaved head, a gray goatee, and liquid brown eyes that never stopped moving. Zehra had noticed he over-enunciated his words when speaking, like Denzel Washington. Probably because BJ also had big teeth like the actor, which seemed to get in the way when he talked. Sometimes, to kid him, Zehra called him Denzel.
“BJ, I was telling Jackie about the FACS training you had.”
“Yeah, cool stuff.”
Jackie offered him her chair. “How’s it work?”
“It’s a system for breaking down human facial expressions into a series of muscle movements called action units.”
“You mean, like every time I wrinkle my face or smile, you’re checking me out?” J
ackie said. “Wicked.”
“Exactly,” BJ said. “We memorize about seventy muscle and head movements, and the combination of those can tell us what a person is really thinking. It’s not perfect, but it helps me when interviewing people to have a sense if they’re lying to me or not.”
“Is it something new?”
“Researchers developed it in the seventies, and law enforcement is starting to use it. There was a famous case of a woman in South Carolina who went on TV to plead for the return of her kidnapped kids. I saw the video in training. The woman’s cheeks lifted in a smile while the corners of her mouth tried to suppress it. The disconnect between a smile and her pleading led investigators to question her further. Turns out, she killed her two kids and make up the kidnapping.”
“What’s up, Denzel?” Zehra asked.
His eyes darted from one to the other. “I warned them sons of bitches this wasn’t gonna work. ‘Oh no,’ they said. ‘You’re black and all the witnesses will open doors for you.’” BJ waved his hands in the air. “May as well have been green for all the good black did for me.”
“We all warned ‘Mao.’” She referred to the chief, Bill Cleary. He was called Mao not because he was Asian, but because he’d gained so much weight his face looked like the round pumpkin face of Mao Zedong. At times, Cleary could be just as ruthless. “None of us wants this case. So, did you get to interview the main identification witness?” Zehra asked him.
He stopped talking and looked at her with large eyes that Zehra could look into for hours. “Z, we didn’t score.”
“What happened?” The muscles low in her body tightened. In her mind, she saw a digital clock ticking off the days and hours left before the trial must start.
“I found the dude, but he wouldn’t talk. None of the other ones would either.” His eyes dropped. “Sorry, this is a dead end for now.”
Zehra took a deep breath. “We’ll keep working—”
BJ cleared his throat. “I got more bad news.” He paused as if to soften the blow. “I just got a message about the DNA testing. The lab checked the blood and saliva on the mask used by the killer. It matches our client exactly.”
Chapter Seven