Randy Singer: Fatal Convictions

Thirty minutes later, she stirred. He wanted to go over and shake her but instead stayed in the corner and prayed. It wouldn’t be long now.

A few minutes later she groaned and moved again. Another minute and she opened her eyes. She squinted and closed them quickly. She opened them a second time, and it seemed like she was trying to pull her hands from behind her back when she realized they were handcuffed together. When she noticed Hassan sitting in the corner, she blinked and wiggled into a sitting position.

Hassan stood without talking.

She stared at him with a confused look, as if she thought maybe she was dreaming. Her eyes were glazed and somewhat distant, the residual effect of the Rohypnol. Hassan took a few steps toward her. Her gaze grew clearer.

Then, in a moment of sudden recognition, Nara’s eyes flew wide. She tried to say something, but the duct tape turned it into a murmur. She squirmed and turned her head left and right, eyes darting around the room, a look of panic taking over. When Hassan moved in front of her and knelt, she tried to scoot back. Her face was wild with fear.

“It’s me,” Hassan said softly. “And I’m not going to harm you.”

She was in a state of shock, woozy from the drugs, but there was no mistaking the recognition in her eyes.

“I’ve been working for your father,” Hassan said. He was down on one knee in front of her. “He knows that I am still alive. He has been ordering the beheadings of those who convert to Christianity in order to advance his own vision for the Islamic faith. It is exactly as the prosecution claimed in their opening statement.”

Nara shook her head. She spoke louder into the duct tape, but Hassan could not decipher the muffled words.

“Listen to me!” he said. Nara flinched and shuffled back a little. “Your father is not who you believe he is. He sent me here to kill you. He said if I did that, the jury would never believe he was guilty. He’ll take the stand and testify about how much he admired you, but in truth, he thinks you’ve discovered his true agenda, and he sent me to eliminate you and restore the honor of the family.”

Hassan could tell that Nara didn’t believe a word he was saying. But he knew beyond any doubt that she would one day come back to the faith. And when she did, it would happen with a vengeance.

“Your father knew from the beginning that I didn’t die,” Hassan explained. “He helped me gain a new identity because my fake death helped propel his cause forward. It’s hard to ignore a man who lost both sons to the Israelis.”

Hassan stood and Nara looked up at him. There were tears in her eyes, and he sensed her fear. He would have to trust Allah to change her heart.

“Do you remember when we were kids and the Sunnis would beat me up on the way home from school?”

Nara nodded. She tried to say something but couldn’t.

“You fought my battles then. Today, I will fight yours. When I am done, those who wish to harm you, and those who wish to despise the name of Allah and his Prophet, will no longer be a threat.”

He thrust out his jaw and spoke the words with as much conviction as possible. “After I die, you must take up the cause. Allah will give you wisdom enough to see the truth and courage enough to one day lay down your life.”

Nara shook her head and lifted her chin, as if she was willing to die on the spot for what she believed. Her eyes pleaded with him to remove the duct tape, but he knew better. She would argue and protest. She would anger him and endanger her own life. He was doing this for her! Why couldn’t she see that?

He would have to give her another shot of Rohypnol and then secure her to the bed so that when she woke, she would not be able to squirm away. During his mission, he would carry the rental agreement for this property in his pocket. After his death, they would come for her.

He reached out and put his hand on Nara’s shoulder. She stared and tried to shake the shoulder free. But this did not bother him. He had heard from Allah. Who could stand against the will of God?

He smiled at his sister, remembering how she had cried at his funeral, how she had ridden next to him in the dream. “One day, you will follow me to paradise.”

“Do we have any housekeeping items before I bring in the jury?” Judge Rosenthal asked. It was the same question he asked every morning, a perfunctory inquiry that always generated a “No, sir” from the lawyers. But this morning, Alex had a few surprises.

“There is one thing, Judge.” Alex handed a two-page document to Rosenthal and gave a copy to Taj Deegan.

“It’s on a related case,” Alex explained. “It’s a motion to nonsuit the civil case of Ghaniyah Mobassar v. Country-Fresh, Inc., et al. ”

Rosenthal looked at Alex as if the lawyer had lost his mind. “You want me to sign an order to nonsuit your civil case?”

“Yes, sir,” Alex said, as if this type of thing were done every day.

“Do you mind telling the court why?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Rosenthal tilted his head back as if Alex had just taken a swing at him. But on this point, Alex knew he was entirely within his rights. Under a unique aspect of Virginia law, every plaintiff in a civil case had the opportunity to nonsuit the case one time as long as the request was made before the judge granted a motion to strike or the jury retired for deliberations. A nonsuit was a voluntary dismissal, after which the plaintiff was entitled to start fresh by refiling the case anytime within the next six months. It was one of the many things Alex loved about Virginia. Judges had no choice in the matter; they had to grant a nonsuit if the plaintiff requested one.

“It seems a little peculiar, but I guess my hands are tied,” Rosenthal said as he peered down his nose at Alex. He grabbed a pen and scribbled his signature on the order. He handed it to the bailiff, who in turn gave it to Alex.

“Is there anything else?” Rosenthal asked. “And maybe this time it could have something to do with this case.”

“Just so the record is clear, Your Honor, my firm no longer represents Mrs. Mobassar. Because of a perceived conflict of interest, we have given her a letter of resignation that became effective once the court granted our nonsuit.”

“That’s fine,” Rosenthal said. “But it makes no difference to the court in this case. Bailiff, bring in the jury.”

When they were seated, Rosenthal turned to Alex. “Call your next witness, Counsel.”

“The defense calls Ghaniyah Mobassar.”***

Hassan arrived at the Virginia Beach Courthouse at 9:25. He was wearing a gray suit under a long overcoat and carrying a black leather briefcase. As he approached security, he flashed a Virginia bar card he had created several months earlier and a Virginia driver’s license. The deputy waved him into the line for attorneys, and he placed his briefcase on the belt for the scanner. Hassan passed through the metal detector without incident, picked up his briefcase, and told the deputy to have a nice day.

“By the way, what’s all the commotion about?” Hassan asked.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Hassan shook his head.

“Big murder trial on the third floor. A Muslim imam accused of ordering honor killings.”

“Sounds interesting,” Hassan said.

He rode the escalators to the third floor and found his way to Courtroom 8, where the trial of Khalid Mobassar was under way. The courtroom had reached capacity, but Hassan explained to the guards that he was there to represent Fatih Mahdi, who had been subpoenaed as a witness. Hassan flashed his bar card and was allowed to pass through the metal detector that had been set up outside the courtroom doors.