Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

“I hope that Zeba will be back to herself soon. We’ll have to continue in her absence, and I don’t think anyone wants to delay this case any longer.”

“She wanted to be here,” Yusuf offered. “But she hasn’t spoken in two days. I checked on her again this morning, and she is not improved at all. She’s actually gotten worse, in my opinion. The director of the prison told me that she’s been moaning and rocking in her cell. Her roommates complain that they wake to find her whispering to herself and they are frightened.”

“What are they frightened of?” asked the judge as he brushed crumbs off his desk.

Yusuf had watched Zeba leave the interview room the day he’d confronted her about the girl. She’d walked as if each step had been a great effort. She’d drifted to the wall and leaned against it, her fingers looking for something to grip on to. Again and again, Yusuf had asked her to talk to him, but her eyes had gone wild. Her words were incomprehensible, and those that he could make out didn’t make sense anyway. Her roommates had been quite shaken up at the sight of her.

“They’re frightened because she’s unstable. I was there, sir, and I can tell you that she is not in her right mind. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of what happened when she was last here in your office. If you think that was bad, you would be horrified to see her now.”

Yusuf stole a quick glance at Gulnaz, who had drawn her lips together tightly as she listened. Her eyes were lowered, staring at the floral motif of the small rug beneath their feet. She seemed neither shocked nor saddened to hear of her daughter’s condition.

“It makes no difference. We can continue with the case, as the qazi has said,” the prosecutor agreed with a wave of his hand. “It shouldn’t take long anyway. We have a signed statement from the day of her arrest and we’ve got a dead husband. Let’s wrap this up, and we can move on to the sentencing.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Yusuf said. He braced himself for the reaction he was about to get. “I don’t think Khanum Zeba is in her right state of mind and, thus, is incapable of standing trial.”

“What are you talking about? What do her senses have to do with anything?” The prosecutor was incredulous. The qazi leaned forward as if he may have misheard Yusuf’s words.

“Are you suggesting we delay this again?”

“Qazi- sahib, I am simply stating that she’s not competent to stand trial, which means we cannot try this case now. It’s not really a postponement as much as it is allowing for a proper procedure to be followed.”

“Proper procedure? What you’re suggesting is anything but proper procedure,” the prosecutor roared.

“She’s upset,” the qazi agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that we can ignore what happened.”

“She’s more than upset,” Yusuf explained. “From what I have seen, she is suffering from mental disease, and I do believe this mental incapacitation began before she was brought to Chil Mahtab. I believe it existed in her well before the day her husband was killed. I think she was not in her right state of mind, and we can all see that she is not in her right state of mind now, either. I think she should undergo a formal evaluation and obtain treatment for her condition. That’s what the law prescribes for situations like this one.”

The truth was Yusuf wasn’t fully convinced of Zeba’s insanity. He’d made a case for it, but given what she’d been through, he imagined the way she’d been acting to be almost rational. She’d been living with a man who drank and beat her. She’d raised four children with him lording over them. She’d walked into her own backyard to find her husband violating a child in the worst way imaginable. Maybe this wasn’t the first time. And their three daughters — had he violated them as well? Two of them were close in age to the girl the raisin vendor described. If the thought crossed Yusuf’s mind, it must have boiled with horror in Zeba’s.

In all honesty, she probably had killed him. Yusuf had to admit that given her motive and the scene of the crime, little else made sense. She would have been out of her mind to do nothing. Yusuf, had he been in her shoes, would have gladly slammed the hatchet into the man’s skull.

It was his job to defend her, and he didn’t have much in his arsenal to use. If this was a stretch, so be it.

Gulnaz watched the men’s faces. They all seemed to have forgotten she was in the room, which was fine by her. She only needed to hear what they were saying.

“The law? Listen, I haven’t objected to much until now, but it’s clear that you’ve come here with some kind of American agenda.”

Yusuf gritted his teeth. The prosecutor’s case was a handful of handwritten documents, composed mostly of Zeba’s “confession,” which had been written by a police officer. It wasn’t a case at all. Anywhere else in the world, the prosecutor wouldn’t be able to call himself a lawyer, and yet here, sitting in a ridiculous armchair, he could accuse Yusuf of representing foreign interests.

“I’m here to defend a woman who’s been accused of a horrible crime and had her children taken away. I’m here because if we want the Afghan judicial system to have any kind of integrity, we have to follow the procedural code and give accused individuals their due process. I know you don’t care much for due process but it’s important.”

“I do my job. You have no right to question my professionalism.”

“Don’t I? My job is to question how well you do yours. And I have lots of questions for you.” Yusuf’s voice cut through the room like the sound of glass breaking. Even Gulnaz was impressed.

“What questions?”

The prosecutor was still in the armchair but barely. He had both hands on the armrests with elbows bent, as if he were about to lift off the seat. He looked at Qazi Najeeb who sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

“I’m interested to know what questions you have as well,” he said quietly.

Expecting the judge to intervene and squash the discussion, the prosecutor huffed with annoyance.

“To start, I wonder if you conducted any kind of real investigation. Article 145 of the Criminal Procedure Code states: ‘Investigation is required for all felony and misdemeanor crimes and it is performed in the presence of the accused person’s defense lawyer by the prosecutor in accordance with the provisions of this law.’”

“Investigation? We have a signed statement from Khanum Zeba!” the prosecutor insisted, waving a folded piece of paper in the air.

“She did not write that statement. She’s a literate woman — her mother can attest to that and she can prove it herself. If that were her statement, it should have been written by her own hand.”

“From what I was told, she was hysterical and so the police officer making the arrest did his job and transcribed what she recounted to him. That’s her thumbprint on the bottom of the page,” he shouted, his finger jabbing at a blot of blue ink. “Why would she sign it if it weren’t her statement?”

“She was hysterical when she was arrested? By hysterical do you mean crazy? That’s exactly my point, friend. I’m glad you agree.”

“That’s not what I said. You’re trying to put words in my mouth!”

“Let me continue. Article 145 talks about a few more requirements for an investigation. Did the police go to the scene of the crime to collect evidence? Did the police interview any one of their neighbors? Did you try to ascertain if there was any possible motive for this crime? Did you have any experts speak with Khanum Zeba to assess her mental status? Has he, Qazi Najeeb?”