Randy Singer - Fatal Convictions

“I’m not sure,” Alex admitted. “But that’s why we had you sign it too.”

Khalid seemed ready to wrap up the meeting. He thanked Alex and Shannon, told Ghaniyah that he would see the guests to the door, and stepped outside with the two lawyers.

“She says she’s fine,” Khalid explained. “And I think that one of Allah’s blessings in all of this is that Ghaniyah doesn’t know how badly injured she is.” Khalid paused and appeared uncertain about how much of his private life he should reveal. “Sometimes, when she gets dressed, she puts her blouse on backward.” He looked down, as if he was a little ashamed of talking about his wife behind her back. “She can’t remember the simple things in the morning. One thing she can remember, but not two things in sequence. I have to tell her-brush your teeth… brush your hair… take a shower.

“Her personality… she used to be so…” He struggled to find the word. “So forceful… in a good way. Opinionated. Outgoing. It’s like somebody took that woman and replaced her with someone I don’t know.”

Khalid looked from Alex to Shannon and back to Alex. “I know you can’t fix all that… but I just wanted you to understand that

… well, I don’t know what to do.”

“We understand,” Shannon said. “And I can promise you that we’re going to do everything in our power to get her as much help as possible from this case.”

“Thank you,” Khalid said.

It struck Alex that the man might know how to speak multiple languages and how to cope with the political chaos of a country like Lebanon. But when it came to living with a spouse who had a brain injury, Khalid was in uncharted waters.

“And, Mr. Madison,” Khalid said to Alex, looking his new lawyer directly in the eye, “I might appreciate a few of those prayers after all.”

Alex headed straight home after his meeting with the Mobassars and didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it. Shannon would undoubtedly head back to the office, but Alex had long ago stopped trying to keep up with her. He wanted to get in an hour or two of surfing before it got too late. He assuaged his conscience by reminding himself that he had landed a big new case today and could always bill a few hours at his home computer later if he got inspired.

Right after he changed into a pair of board shorts and a ratty T-shirt, his BlackBerry started vibrating. He was ready to hit ignore but checked the caller ID first. Shannon.

“Please tell me you’re not back at the office,” Alex said.

“I like this guy,” Shannon answered, ignoring Alex’s statement. She had perfected that part of her job. “Have you Googled Khalid?”

He hadn’t, of course. But why would he need to with the obsessive Shannon Reese for a partner? “What’d you find?” Alex asked.

“Interesting stuff. He lost a son who was working in a refugee camp when the Israelis bombed Lebanon in 1996 as part of Operation Grapes of Wrath. For a while he became an outspoken supporter of Hezbollah. But eighteen months later, he lost his second son during a suicide bombing mission in southern Israel.

“And here’s the really intriguing thing: instead of fueling Khalid’s hate for the Israelis, this somehow mellowed him. He became a leading voice for an Islamic reformation and an outspoken opponent of those who preached violence and jihad. He came to the U.S. on a teaching visa about five years ago and started the mosque in Norfolk.”

Alex was delighted to see Shannon’s growing enthusiasm for the case. But most of this information seemed irrelevant. “And this helps us how?” Alex asked, slipping into his Chacos.

“Credibility. I mean, the only evidence we have that there’s a John Doe vehicle is the testimony of Ghaniyah Mobassar. The defense will never say it, but they’re going to play the Muslim card, painting the Mobassars as radicals who can’t be trusted. I’m just saying-they’re not that way.”

“Good,” Alex said. “I’m glad you like these guys. Now, why don’t you go home and get a life.”

“This is my life. Somebody around here’s got to work for a living.”***

Two hundred fifty miles to the north, on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., Hassan Ibn Talib was also thinking about Khalid Mobassar. It had been nearly a week since Hassan had received the text message from Mobassar’s phone. This weekend, he would complete the assignment and send a one-word message in response: Finished.

Afterward, he would toss his phone into the river, get a new phone, and wait for further instructions. These honor killings, he knew, were just the beginning.

twenty-one years earlier beirut, lebanon

Hassan was in the fourth grade when he first had the dream. It came the night after he betrayed his best friend, Mukhtar.

The two skinny Muslim boys had been walking home from school together, trying to pretend they weren’t nervous as they crossed through a neighborhood where a gang of Sunni Muslims hung out. Hassan had grown up hearing about the Lebanese civil war between the Christians and Muslims, but to a nine-year-old, those conflicts were ancient history. In real life, Hassan was less afraid of the Christians than of the Sunni Muslims, especially the gang of older boys who sometimes surrounded Hassan on his way home from school, demanding money and threatening him with his life if he ever told his parents.

Once, they had stopped Hassan when he had no money. They made him turn his pockets inside out and pushed him back and forth between them, shouting curses at him. They waived a knife in front of his face. “Don’t ever come here again empty-handed, lout!” One kid stepped forward and kicked Hassan between the legs, causing the most intense pain Hassan had ever experienced. He yelped and collapsed in a ball on the sidewalk.

The boys laughed. “Maybe he will talk like a girl now,” one of the boys teased. As they walked away, one of the boys spit on him.

Since then, Hassan had learned to save up portions of his lunch money, even though it meant going hungry a few days a week. It was the price of peace on the streets of Beirut.

On this day, wearing a white shirt and his hand-me-down black pants, he felt relatively safe. He was walking with Mukhtar, and he had a few Lebanese lirat in his pocket, enough to keep the bullies at bay. Hassan hated himself when he paid them, and he always dreamed the rest of the way home that one day he would stand up to them and fight. But he knew the next time they met, he would pay them again.

When Mukhtar saw the Sunni boys hanging out on a street corner several blocks away, he nudged Hassan, and they quickly crossed the street. They both fell silent and walked a little faster, eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of them.

One of the bullies called out to them, but Hassan and Mukhtar refused to acknowledge him. Walking faster, Hassan watched the boys out of the corner of his eye. They started strolling toward him and Mukhtar, a pack of four or five of them. There were no adults around-no help on the horizon.

When the Sunnis shouted again for Hassan and Mukhtar to stop, Hassan bolted. He had good speed for a fourth grader, and in a few steps, he had left Mukhtar behind. Adrenaline fueled his body, causing Hassan’s heart to pump wildly, his shoes barely touched the pavement as he sprinted for his life. He could hear the Sunnis chasing him, shouting curses as they ran. Apartments and shops flashed past, and Hassan glanced over his shoulder. The boys were gaining!

He cut across a side street, dodging between cars and forcing a taxi driver to slam on the brakes. Horns blared. The older boys gained ground. Hassan took a sharp left turn, but one of the boys anticipated the move and had the angle on him.