Randy Singer: Fatal Convictions

He faithfully performed each raka’ah, the supplications to Allah and recitations from the Qur’an, some in a standing position, others sitting, some prostrate, his forehead and both palms touching the prayer mat. It felt lonely without the strong voice of Ghaniyah behind him.

He was in a prostrate position, his first sujud, when he thought he heard her repeat the words he had just spoken. “Subhaana rabbiyal Allah” -to God be the glory. He feared it was a psychosomatic reaction on his part, the way victims report pain in their hands even after an amputation. She had been there for so long, affirming and repeating his prayers, that his mind was playing tricks.

He rose to a kneeling position, hands on his thighs. “Allahu akbar.” This time he heard it more clearly-a hoarse voice from the bed. He resisted the strong urge to go to her and instead began the second sujud. “Subhaana rabbiyal Allah,” Khalid chanted. His wife had definitely joined him again, her voice feeble but determined.

Khalid tried to finish his prayers without rushing, a deliberate focus on a merciful God. He said the last Allahu akbar with an intensity that had been missing earlier in the day. Tonight, Allah was a miracle worker.

He stood and moved next to his wife’s bed. He took her hand, and she squeezed his, as if she knew that something significant had just happened. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

“Allahu akbar,” she said.

Khalid stood and gazed at his wife of thirty-two years. Though she had tubes in her nose and her face was swollen and purple, her eyes showed signs of life and recognition.

“Welcome back,” Khalid said, though Ghaniyah didn’t respond. “Praise be to Allah.”

The following week, Alex Madison walked into the Virginia Beach Circuit Court building carrying his grandfather’s worn leather briefcase. For the first time in months, he felt like John Patrick Madison might actually be smiling down on him. His grandfather had been a crusty old civil rights lawyer, a veteran of the school desegregation struggles in Virginia and a legend around the courthouse. When he died, the phone had pretty much stopped ringing at Madison and Associates. To make a living, Alex had transformed the practice into a personal-injury shop. On good days, the firm’s waiting room looked like a hospital ward.

And his grandfather was probably rolling over in his grave.

But today, Alex walked a little straighter. He took his seat next to sixteen-year-old Aisha Hajjar at the counsel table. His client, a teenager of strong convictions, believed it was her duty to keep her head covered with a hijab, or head scarf. That conviction didn’t sit well with the owners of the Atlantic Surf Shop in Virginia Beach, a competitor to Alex’s favorite surf shop. When Aisha applied for a summer job, they told her that she didn’t fit with the outlet’s “Look Policy.”

Twenty-four hours after receiving the call, Alex had filed a discrimination suit.

They were in court today under a Virginia statute that allowed for a summary jury trial. Each side had already taken depositions and would now have an hour to present its case to a panel of seven jurors. Alex had agreed to be bound by the result because he wanted to get a quick resolution before the summer employment season ended, and he would have to wait months for a normal jury trial. It also played to his strength. Alex was, in his own humble opinion, a gifted communicator. It was the detail work that always tripped him up.

He wasn’t sure why the lawyer on the other side, a young Harvard graduate named Kendall Spears, had agreed.

After Judge Thomas, a friend of Alex’s grandfather, explained the process, he invited Alex to present his case. Alex stood facing the jury with a single piece of paper in his hand. “I hope some of you don’t apply for a job at the Atlantic Surf Shop,” he said, “because some of you don’t quite have ‘the look.’”

“Objection!” Kendall Spears said, standing to face the judge. “He’s asking the jurors to put themselves in the plaintiff’s shoes. He can’t do that.”

Technically, Kendall was right. Lawyers weren’t allowed to argue the Golden Rule. But Kendall’s objection illustrated the difference between his Harvard education and Alex’s apprenticeship with his grandfather. Raising the objection only served to highlight Alex’s point.

“I think he’s right,” Judge Thomas said. “Why don’t you avoid that line of argument.”

Alex shrugged. “Sorry, Your Honor.” He turned back to the jury and eyeballed the young man in the second row. He was wearing an earring, and tattoos covered his arms. Alex certainly had his attention.

Alex held up the paper in his right hand. “Atlantic Surf’s Look Policy says that the store wants to project an ‘All-American image’ with a level of dress and grooming that represents what people expect from the brand. Okay. Nothing wrong with that.

“But that’s just the first sentence. The rest of this page dictates every aspect of how you need to look. The first sentence: ‘Employees are expected to have a natural and classic hairstyle that enhances natural features and creates a fresh, natural appearance.’”

A few days earlier, Alex had gone to a Hair Cuttery and asked them to use a number three blade, shortening his blond hair to little more than a buzz cut. He ran a hand over his head. “This is certainly natural and fresh,” he said, “but is it ‘classic’? And that’s the problem: Who defines these things? Should a bad haircut keep you from a good job?”

He returned to the document. “Colored fingernail polish is prohibited, and toenail polish must be worn in appropriate colors, to be determined by the store management.

“No facial hair, of course. Eyebrow pencil, eyeliner, lipstick, and eye shadow are allowed only in natural shades.”

Alex again surveyed the jury. A few of the women wore dark eye shadow; one raised an eyebrow at him.

“And here’s my favorite.” Alex pointed to the fourth regulation on the page. “‘Inconspicuous tattoos are acceptable only if they represent the Atlantic Surf Shop look.’”

He smiled. “I’m not sure who gets to inspect those inconspicuous tattoos, but I’ll bet that’s a fun job.”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

“You know what’s not on here?” Alex asked, unfazed by the objection. “A BMI number. A requirement that you work out every day at Bally’s and have a six-pack. But it should be.”

Using a remote, Alex flicked on a PowerPoint presentation. “These are pictures of me with all the employees that were working on the day I visited the store.”

Kendall rose to object but apparently thought better of it. This was, after all, a summary jury trial. The lawyers were supposed to present the evidence they would use at trial.

“Notice how they could all be straight from an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog,” Alex said. “‘All-American image’ is apparently a synonym for ripped.”

Alex looked at his motley little group of jurors. Nobody would accuse these folks of being even remotely in shape, much less ripped. “Atlantic Surf pays almost double what other retail outlets pay,” Alex continued. “Think they might be paying a premium for good looks?”

“Objection! That’s not the issue here,” Kendall said.

Judge Thomas twisted up the corner of his mouth, a look of indecision. “I’ll let it go,” he said.

“Oh… one thing I forgot to mention,” Alex continued. “No hats. And that’s where my client, one of those rare people who could probably comply with every other aspect of this draconian policy, didn’t make the cut. She’s a member of the Islamic faith. And she believes that, for the sake of modesty, women should have their heads covered with the type of scarf she’s wearing today.”