at her for calling Mao.”
In ten minutes, deputies led El-Amin into the holding area. He stopped and stood straight. Without moving his head, his eyes traveled over the entire courtroom. He spied Zehra and glared at her.
It always amazed Zehra that defendants took out their wrath on the defense lawyers, not the judges, nor the county attorneys-who were actually the ones prosecuting them.
“State versus Ibrahim El-Amin,” the clerk read from the far side of the bench.
The defendant swiveled his head toward the judge.
Both Zehra and Harmon stepped up to a wooden podium directly before the raised bench. The judge asked them if the case had been settled.
“I don’t think so, Judge,” said Steve. “With a crime of this nature, we won’t offer anything but a straight plea.”
Zehra started to speak, “My client has …”
“I am not her client,” El-Amin thundered from his side. “I represent myself. I do not accept the work of a woman, including the judge in this courtroom.”
“Is that so?” Gordon Smith responded. Her eyes became small.
“I am in charge of my own fate and will make my own decisions. This infidel will not speak for me.”
The judge turned toward him. “You’re right. You can represent yourself, but I’ve appointed Ms. Hassan as back-up counsel, just in case. She’s good and experienced. I’d recommend that in light of the charges against you, you take advantage of her services.”
“I do not want this infidel to have anything to do with my case.”
Gorden Smith yelled, “You’re not in charge of this courtroom. I am.” She spoke to the lawyers. “Ms. Hassan, I expect that you will vigorously prepare this case for trial because you’re going to try it.”
“As the court knows, many times in these situations, counsel is allowed to be in the courtroom but doesn’t actually sit at counsel table with the defendant. I’m asking the court to relieve me of that duty.”
“No. You’ll be present for all appearances and will sit at counsel table, even if you don’t participate in the actual trial. The defendant may, at any time, decide he needs your assistance to answer questions or give advice. I want you available for that.”
Zehra felt warm anger cross her face and hoped it showed.
The judge flipped a few papers, leaned over to whisper to the clerk, and straightened up again. “I’ll block this case to Judge Goldberg for trial in two weeks.”
El-Amin exploded. “What? A Jew? I refuse. My fate will not be in the hands of a Jew!” He pounded the wooden wall with his raised fist.
“Quiet, or I’ll have the deputies take you out,” the judge warned him.
“It’s your fault,” El-Amin screamed at Zehra as the deputies reacted and stood to push him out the back door. “I will get my vengeance!”
After he’d been removed, the courtroom fell into an unnatural silence, like the air quivering without sound.
Zehra and Jackie loaded up their files and left the courtroom.
“I so like, hate that son-of-a bitch,” Jackie said.
“I loathe him and everything he stands for. He’s the reason Islam has such a bad name in our country. How can you expect people to see the liberal, progressive side of the religion with jerks like him?”
“So, what are we gonna do?”
“You heard the judge,” she shot the words at Jackie. “We prepare the case as if we’re actually trying it. I’ll be damned if this guy wins an appeal based on incompetency of counsel because we haven’t prepared well.”
Zehra’s cell phone buzzed. She answered and heard Paul Schmidt’s voice.
“I’m glad I caught you. Uh, have you got a minute to talk?” He sounded out of breath.
“Sure. Just got done with our bronco client, El-Amin. It’s going to be a long, hard trial.” She threw her briefcase and files on a chair.
“Don’t trust him.”
“Paul, it’s safe to say we hate each other. I don’t trust him or anything he says.”
Paul explained El-Amin’s part in the criminal network that Joan told him about. “This case is a small part of something much larger and probably international.”
“So, what can I do? All I can focus on is the trial.”
“Are you investigating the case for him?”
“Of course. I have to be ready for trial.”
“Are you going to talk more with the alibi witness?”
Zehra stopped, and her brain twitched. Had she told him about the alibi? Except for Harmon and her announcement in court today, she’d told no one. “Paul, how do you know about that?”
“Uh … oh, I happened to talk to BJ Washington.”
“Yeah, we’re talking to the guy this afternoon.”
Paul took a deep breath. “I think I should help you.”
“What? How can you help? The FBI helping the murder suspect?”
“No, I mean help you personally. Your client is financed and controlled by people we don’t know, who are probably in the community now. I’m worried about you.”
Zerha sat down and waved Jackie into the chair next to her. “What’re you talking about?”
Paul coughed. “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
At the tone of his voice, she felt her stomach tighten. The gold car her mother talked about popped into her mind. The email.
“We can’t find out anything about your client. People always leave some trail, but not this guy. We’re not even sure if Ibrahim El-Amin is his true name.”
She didn’t answer for a moment as she digested the facts.
“Here’s what worries me. Your client couldn’t have done this alone. It’s too expensive, too complicated. How did he manage to keep the boy from calling his parents once he got to Minneapolis? And if someone went to all the work to bring him back here, why turn around and kill him? This network is still out there and active.”
“Active in what?”
“A cell. And I don’t know if the murder of the boy was the end. There probably is more.”
Zehra took a deep breath and stood up. “I’ll be careful, but what could they possibly want with me?”
“Don’t you understand? Anyone associated with this case, me included, could be a target for them. Who knows what they’ll do to keep their secrets.”
Zehra thought briefly of telling Paul about the gold car. Changed her mind. “Okay, thanks, Paul. Thanks for the warning.” She clicked the phone off and sat still for a long time.
By that afternoon, Bj, Jackie, and Zehra stopped in front of the mosque on Riverside Avenue, next to the University of Minnesota complex of buildings.
Zehra answered her buzzing cell phone. “Hi, Dad.”
“Zehra, I know you don’t want us to interfere, but I had to introduce you to Michael at the party,” Joseph said.
She sighed. “Don’t worry. He seemed nice. Tell me a little about him.”
“He’s got a doctorate in bio-medical engineering. He always dresses beautifully. He’s very intelligent, modern. I’ve gotten to know him somewhat at the office. He seems kind. Of course, his real name is Mustafa, but he’s Americanized totally. Maybe you should … see him again.”
“I probably will.” Zehra could never turn down her father. “But I won’t meet him at home with Mom hanging around. If he calls, I’ll meet him.”
As the three approached the front door of the mosque, several men sat around it, dressed in colorful African clothing. Two women walked by, covered from head to toe, even in the warmth of the afternoon, in long, dark skirts that ended just above their sandaled feet. Over the robes, they wore shawls of red, green, purple, and yellow that covered their entire heads.
Zehra noticed that across the street there was a bar-the Nomad Bar.
