“Come on Henry. We’ve got to finish up,” she told her assistant.
“If you have to run, I’ll sew it up and clean things,” he offered.
“Thanks. I’ve got the meeting this afternoon.” She turned back to the mike. Dr. Wong spoke again to indicate the time they finished then stepped back. She’d wash thoroughly but quickly and still have plenty of time.
Outside the exam room, she stripped off the gown, face mask, protective glasses, and gloves, throwing them in the cleaning receptacle. Into the bathroom for washing and a quick check on her hair and makeup, then she’d go home and change.
Dr. Wong climbed the stairs from the basement lab to the modern office complex that housed her office, three assistants, and the support staff. A skylight in the middle of the space provided a welcome square of sunshine, especially during the long Minnesota winters.
Outside, the warm sun on her face reminded her that she needed to start using sun block in her make-up again. Uncovered from a layer of winter snow, the ground around the office revealed new mysteries popping up in the greediness of growth.
Dr. Wong climbed into her Lincoln Navigator and sped out of the lot.
Like the dirty clothing she’d left in the cleaning bin, she left any thoughts of the routine autopsy behind.
Later, of course, she recognized her mistake.
But then, how could she be blamed? The year she started medical school, it didn’t even exist.
The small pox virus, variola, proved to be one of the most successful killers in human history. Thanks to a farsighted world-wide program, by 1979 the virus had been eradicated from the planet. Vaccine production stopped. Human immunity against the disease waned year to year to the point that today, everyone in the world is defenseless and susceptible to infection.
One
Although never convicted of a crime, Zehra Hassan had to go to jail. One of dozens of public defenders in Minneapolis, she forced herself out of the office and down Fourth Avenue toward the concrete building known as the Public Service Facility. In spite of the bureaucratic name, it was still a jail. She never liked going there and, especially today, dreaded the first interview with her new client.
She’d been appointed to defend the terrorist accused of killing a missing Somali boy who’d returned to Minneapolis. Zehra remembered her first appearance with him. One of the arresting cops who was a friend of hers, approached her after the hearing.
“Watch this guy, Z. He’s bad news.”
When even the cops were worried about a defendant, that concerned Zehra.
Hot sun pressed like a weight across her back. For May, this was unusually warm. Bright light glanced from the tall glass buildings surrounding her. Heat rising off the sidewalk clutched at her legs.
Zehra opened one of the doors to the PSF and thought of the air-conditioned reward on the other side. Once in, she still felt clammy and hot.
“Hey, Joe,” she called to the deputy sheriff at the metal detector. “What’s up with the air?”
Joe grinned when he saw Zehra. “The computer’s aren’t programmed right. They tell us they’re workin’ on it”
Zehra took a deep breath, patted her damp forehead, and headed for the elevator that would take her down two floors into the suffering and struggles of the inmates below. Pulling the back of her suit over her hips, she slowed down and waited.
When she’d first moved to Minnesota years ago, she thought of it as the tundra. “Siberia with family restaurants,” one of the filmmaking Coen brothers had said after they left themselves.
Certainly, the first winter matched her expectations. Then she experienced her first spring. Formally hidden under snow banks, caches of unexpected objects appeared. People uncovered life in a variety of colors with a diversity of animals and plants all greedy for new growth. The spring thaw also uncovered other odd things: sinners; unexplained mysteries; and even a dead body on occasion.
The elevator came, and Zehra rode alone as it descended. After graduating from law school and working in the prosecutor’s office for a few years, she’d switched to the defense side. One of the necessary difficulties of the job involved meeting clients who were dangerous enough to be held in custody.
When the elevator opened, Zehra rushed out into a small room with a beige tile floor. The bright fluorescent light above caused her to see a metallic reflection of herself in one of the thick windows in the wall. She liked her face, her large hazel eyes-unusual for someone with her dark complexion. Thick black hair curled around the edges of her chin. Then, there was her nose-too long. A remnant of her distant relatives from Iran.
The heat made her chest feel clammy and damp.
When Zehra moved forward to press the button on the intercom, a deputy looked up at her and waved in recognition. She heard the loud metal clank as the lock shot open in the door. She pulled on the cold handle, walked through, turned left.
Zehra’s parents were part of the flood of educated people who fled to the United States after the fall of the Shah for more opportunity, a chance to become naturalized citizens, have children, and work hard.
She’d grown up in Dallas but moved to Utah for college, mostly because she loved to snowboard. After graduating, she moved to Minnesota for law school, followed by her parents after they wilted in the hot weather of Texas summers.
Zehra walked through the thick dead air of the jail toward an interview room. She missed the colors of her garden down here. She found an open room and stepped into it.
Against one wall, two metal chairs flanked a plastic table. She set her briefcase on the table next to a red button, the size of her palm, that protruded from the wall. If she hit the button, several deputies would charge into the room.
Zehra pulled out the thin file she had on the new client. It read:
Zehra stood-she never liked to meet new clients sitting down. She had to control the meeting. Not that she believed much of what defendants told her. So many lied, made excuses, denied, and minimized their behavior. The savvy ones threw in a few truths like glue, to try and hold together their preposterous stories.
Around the control desk, she saw two deputies escorting El-Amin toward the second door in the room.
He had closely cut curly black hair and a short, flat nose. Dark skin that shone under the lights and a ragged beard. A short man, he walked slowly, erect and proud. He wore the jail’s private-label clothing line-an orange jump suit. The deputy pushed on his arm. El-Amin jerked it away and came through the door.
He paused. His eyes rose slowly and looked at Zehra. They glistened black and focused, surrounded by deep cavities of smudged gray making him look old.
Even though his shoulders were narrow, Zehra saw wiry strength in them.
Behind El-Amin, the door closed, and the lock scraped through, metal against metal. Zehra nodded. “Hello, Mr. El-Amin. I’m Zehra Hassan, your lawyer.” She held her hand at her side.
He didn’t respond. Continued to stare at her. His eyes probed her face, shoulders, chest, then circled her hips and legs. She’d seen this before-the Stare, although it usually came from the street gangsters.
But this defendant was different. He wasn’t a gangster and at twenty-six, was older. She held his gaze for a moment, then broke it off.
They both sat, and El-Amin used his left hand to push himself away from her. He had strong hands with thick calluses edging each finger.
Zehra took a deep breath. Considering that she had ambitions to be the first Muslim judge in Minnesota, defending a Muslim terrorist wouldn’t help her career at all.
“I’ve been appointed to represent you in your murder case,” Zehra began. “You speak English?”
