He bobbed his head.
“First, we should talk about bail. Is there anyone who could afford to come up with some money …?”
“I want a male lawyer,” he demanded.
She’d heard this before, too. “Sorry, you get me.”
“Are you Muslim?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“In my country, women are not allowed to work like this. It is contrary to the Qur’an.”
“Well, this isn’t your country, and women do work like this here,” Zehra said. “Do you want to talk about your case or religion? ‘Cause if it’s religion, I’m leaving.”
He leaned back and refused to speak. His nostrils flared as if he smelled something.
Zehra took a deep breath. Most defendants were desperate to get out of custody. Not this one. And the bullshit about Muslims really set her on edge.
As an American-born Muslim, she knew the difficulties faced by people like her-trying to be good Americans and good Muslims at the same time. It was the discrimination and the crap suffered by Muslim women that upset her and had led to law school. Most Americans knew more about micro-breweries than Islam and how close its theology related to Judeo-Christianity. Along with other females in the United States, Zehra was passionate to modernize the role of Muslim women.
And here she faced the very problem they all faced-a radical, extremist who probably hated all women and had probably killed an innocent young man.
She thought to herself, Is there a way I can dump this case? Can I beg a male, Christian colleague to take this bronco?
“Okay. Let’s look at the Complaint,” Zehra sighed. She pulled out a document written by the prosecutor that alleged facts to make the defendant guilty of the charge of first-degree murder.
“It says that on March 19th a witness was standing on an open porch at the back end of the Horn of Africa deli on Cedar Avenue. The witness saw a young black man come out of the patio next to the deli through a wooden gate in the fence below the witness.
“Just as the guy got through the gate, another dark man, wearing a mask of some sort and identified as you, came up behind the younger one, grabbed his forehead with the left hand. With the right hand, he cut the younger one’s throat with a knife. Then the killer fled.”
Zehra glanced at El-Amin. His expression remained frozen.
“A week later,” she continued reading, “a confidential, reliable informant, a CRI, reported to police you were at a coffee shop near the crime scene and bragged about a knife you had. You bragged that you ‘brought a little lamb to Allah.’ When police executed a search warrant at your apartment, they found a knife and a shirt. Both had been cleaned, but forensics later determined the victim’s blood showed on both items.”
Under brows hooded low, his eyes moved from the paper to Zehra’s eyes again. He crossed his muscled arms over his chest.
A creepy feeling crabbed its way up her back. At this point, after reading all the accusatory facts, most defendants raved about how they were “all lies” and insisted they were innocent.
Still, Zehra’s training as a defense lawyer asserted itself, and she started to see holes in the state’s case. “When the cops did that line-up with the witness and he picked you, it’s highly suggestive. The light was bad during the crime and after, as well. I don’t know if it it’ll stand up to cross-”
“It is not important. There are bigger things.”
“What things? You think a murder one case isn’t important?”
“You are not qualified.”
“Damn right. If I could pull the plug on you, I would so fast”
“I have a right to a lawyer, don’t I?” His lips lifted above white teeth.
“You got one.”
“You … are a woman and an infidel.”
“Aw … shit.” Zehra moved her chair back. It felt hard to breathe around El-Amin, as if there were a vacuum sucking the air out of the room. She wanted to get out of this case. Besides, he made her feel uneasy.
Mostly, he stood for all she hated and fought against.
El-Amin raised his arm with a finger pointed up in the air. “Men have authority over women because Allah has made the one superior to the other,” he quoted from the Qur’an.
Zehra felt a drop of sweat course down her neck. The stuffy room became claustrophobic. She breathed faster. “Don’t quote me that crap. I know the Qur’an.”
He interrupted her. “I have the right to a trial, and I can command you to have one.”
“You have a right to a trial.”
“I want a jury trial with a new lawyer.”
“You’ll get your trial,” she shouted at him.
“I did it.”
Zehra’s words caught in her throat. “You killed the Somali?”
“It was necessary.”
She stammered, “Well … I could talk to the prosecutor about a deal …”
“Do not talk to them.”
Zehra’d never had a defendant admit guilt but still demand a trial.
“I know that I have a right to represent myself.”
Zehra felt the anger rising in her until a thought struck her-she might be able to get out of the case. If he insisted on defending himself, she could be relieved of representing him.
She started to stuff the papers into her briefcase, not worrying about the order. The room felt small, stuffy. She wished she were drinking a cup of tea and working with her garden plants.
El-Amin stood and leaned toward her. He smelled of onions. Through gritted teeth, his said, “I will not have anything to do with you. I will be disgraced.” His eyes shone with fury. “You do not wear
Zehra snapped. She jammed her finger into his face. “Listen you jerk, I’d be happy to never talk to you again. And don’t tell me about the law of Allah. I know it better than you do.” She stopped for a moment. “Have you ever read the Qur’an yourself or do you let others interpret it for you?” Her shouts bounced off the close walls.
“A woman cannot understand the words from the Prophet like a man.”
Zehra felt her face flush hot with anger. Sweat stood out on her forehead. She knew better than to argue with him, but she hated all that he said. She stood but didn’t trust her legs to support her. “Get out of my way,” she yelled at him.
“No woman talks to me like that.” He reached for the chair, gripped the edges, and started to lift it.
The silence in the room crackled with tension. Zehra heard the lights above humming. Thick air dulled any outside sounds. The chair scraped across the floor.
Zehra watched his eyes. Knew it was time and slammed the red panic button with her fist.
El-Amin had the chair off the ground. He twisted his shoulders to get better leverage. She could hear him grunt as he strained to swing it toward her.
Zehra backed into the corner. The block walls felt surprisingly cool. She had her arms up. Clanking sounds echoed around the room. El-Amin swore something in Arabic.
Two deputies burst through the door and clamped their arms over El-Amin’s shoulders. The chair clattered to the floor. One deputy seemed to enjoy the opportunity and twisted El-Amin’s arm behind him until Zehra heard something crunch. El-Amin screamed and dropped to the floor. He stomped on El-Amin’s back.
Another deputy arrived and helped the first two drag her client outside the interview room. “You okay, Zehra?” he asked her. “Sorry… we didn’t see anything until you hit the button. I … I’m so sorry.”
She waved her hand at him. “Don’t worry, Jack. I gotta get out of here.” She stumbled back to the elevator and rode up to civilization above. Her blouse was drenched, and Zehra longed to get out of the sticky clothing.
She burst through the doors outside and felt the comforting smell of fresh air. Closing her eyes, she let the sun’s warmth penetrate her wet face. Tangled thoughts flew through her brain. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before.
