Nadia Hashimi - A House Without Windows

She stood from her chair and shook her head indignantly. She picked up the strap of her bag, nearly knocking her chair over in the process. Yusuf stood as well, his hands remaining planted on the table. This had gone all wrong.

“Just give me five minutes.”

“Good luck with your case, Yusuf. Sorry this has been a waste of time.”

YUSUF BIT THE END OF HIS PENCIL, A RESURRECTED HABIT FROM high school. Qazi Najeeb had summoned both lawyers to return to his office on Monday for the verdict and sentencing. Both sides had presented their entire cases, and he had had ample time to deliberate.

Today was Monday.

Yusuf sat in the floral armchair with Zeba on a wooden chair beside him. The prosecutor took the seat opposite Yusuf with a nod. Yusuf stuck his gnawed pencil in his bag, the taste of metal and rubber still in his mouth. The prosecutor settled into the chair and placed a folder of papers onto the table. The two men looked at each other and exchanged half smiles.

“Whatever it is, it’ll be over today,” the prosecutor said, shrugging.

Yusuf nodded. He’d been utterly unimpressed with the prosecutor’s halfhearted approach, but he’d been judging the man by his own set of criteria.

“I. . I have to tell you, the way you use the letter of the law. . I’ve not seen anyone work so hard to defend a criminal.”

“She’s not a criminal yet,” Yusuf quickly corrected. “That’s the point.”

The prosecutor nodded deferentially. He would humor Yusuf for today.

“You know what I mean.”

Qazi Najeeb entered and moved past the two lawyers and Zeba to take his seat behind the desk. Both young men put their hands on their knees and started to rise when he entered. Zeba saw no point, given that the judge’s back was turned to her already. She remained in her seat.

“ Salaam wa-alaikum. ” Their greetings were synchronized.

“ Wa-alaikum, ” replied Qazi Najeeb. “Take your seats.”

The judge leaned back in his chair and grew quietly pensive. He slipped his hand into his vest pocket and pulled out his tasbeh and held it in the palm of his left hand. He stretched the moment as long as he could, wanting everyone to feel the importance of today’s meeting.

“It’s time to bring this matter to a close,” the judge said, turning his attention to Zeba. “The two attorneys here have argued about the facts of this case a great deal. We’ve taken a lot of time to be sure the proceedings fell in line with the letter of the law. Even if we are not Kabul, we were no less diligent.”

Zeba sat with her hands clasped on her lap. She watched the judge, but blinked and looked downward often so as not to appear too brazen. Qazi Najeeb sat back in his chair and considered her for a moment.

“You are not the same woman who was brought into this office months ago.”

Yusuf’s body tensed.

“You came in here months ago looking like you’d been overcome by djinns. You were like an animal, nothing human about you. I can see now that you feel differently. This has nothing to do with your guilt or innocence and everything to do with what kind of person you are.”

Yusuf felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Zeba did not flinch. In fact, her shoulders pulled back a bit and her chin lifted. She did not appreciate being compared to an animal even if the judge talked of a transformation since then. She knew he was right, though. She’d been dragged out of his office kicking and screaming, feeling a wildness in her bones because she no longer knew what or who she was. What mother would not go mad if she were pulled away from her children just when they needed her most? Complacency in that moment — that was the true madness.

“You’re not saying much. You never have throughout this trial. All we know about you is your signed confession,” the qazi said.

“That’s not her confession,” Yusuf interjected, raising an index finger.

The judge raised his hand in Yusuf’s direction. Yusuf bit his lower lip.

“You think you control us, don’t you?” asked the judge. “You think, like your mother, that you can move the world in whichever direction you’d like because you are who you are. You’re the granddaughter of a murshid who has sometimes been described as holy and sometimes as a spy for the enemy states. You’re the daughter of a jadugar —”

Zeba tried not to flinch, but the judge caught the way her muscles twitched at the mention of her mother’s sorcery.

“Oh? Did you think I didn’t know about her tricks? She’s been a crafty woman all her life.” Qazi Najeeb looked away and sucked his teeth. Why couldn’t he see Gulnaz as just another plotting, graying woman? He scowled and thought of the ungodly way she commanded attention.

“Qazi- sahib, the reputations or habits of her grandfather or mother shouldn’t have anything to do with this case,” Yusuf said in a controlled voice. Defending his client without infuriating the judge was an art form that required continued practice.

The judge didn’t bother to acknowledge Yusuf’s comment but resumed speaking without further comment about Gulnaz, who seemed just as important to him as Zeba.

“You, Khanum, have been arrested for murdering your husband. Is there a worse crime? Is there something worse than depriving your children of their father. . of. . of depriving his family of their brother? Is there something worse than taking the life of a person?”

Zeba felt her body tighten with resignation. In a matter of moments, few or many, he could declare her fit to be executed for Kamal’s murder. Her children’s faces appeared behind her closed eyelids.

Yusuf saw her withdraw and instinctively said a prayer. He wanted to put a hand over hers but resisted. She was not who the judge thought she was. She was the bravest woman he’d met, willing to submit herself to the judge’s mercy to save a young girl from having her life destroyed before it had even begun. He had profound respect for this woman whose behavior had maddened him at times.

“You’ve given me no explanation for why you killed your husband that day.”

Yusuf closed his eyes. He could not look at Zeba. Not yet. A smile broke out on the prosecutor’s face, his head bobbing ever so slightly in vindication. He was pleasantly surprised by the judge’s apparent decision.

Qazi Najeeb brought his hands onto his desk, his thumb still moving one amber bead at a time though he could not possibly be reciting anything holy as he spoke. The soft click of the stones against each other grated on Yusuf’s nerves. What kind of judgment was this? Had Qazi Najeeb not heard the stories about Kamal the drinker, the blasphemer? Had he chosen to ignore that Zeba’s husband had been the worst kind of man?

Zeba’s hands began to shake. She turned her head to the side as if moving away from an oncoming blow.

“I find you guilty of murder,” Qazi Najeeb explained grimly. “Because that is what the evidence indicates. I have not seen anything in the defense’s case to give another explanation for your husband’s brutal death.”

“Well done,” whispered the prosecutor, who could now log another victory. The particulars of Zeba’s case may have affected him as a person, but he also had to worry about his professional record. It was how he would be judged.

Yusuf’s elbows rested on his knees. He knew the penal code. He’d studied it and then reviewed it again when he first picked up Zeba’s case. She could be hanged. If he looked at her now — if he dared move his gaze from the tassel of the carpet on the ground — he would see her suspended in the air, neck snapped like a plastic doll and body limp with defeat.