The security system rang. Zehra buzzed in BJ. In a few minutes, he walked through her door. “Gettin’ hot out there,” he whistled. He reached around her shoulders and gave her a tight squeeze. His presence was so peaceful. She really needed that now. “How are you, sister?”
Zehra slumped into his arms. “Okay … I guess. I’m coming back to some form of normal. In a way, the trial’s a welcomed distraction. I can keep going.”
“What do you think?”
“Who did it? It’s got to be El-Amin’s people. Who else?”
“Will you get pulled from the case now?”
“No, I won’t be that lucky. I can’t prove he was behind this, so I keep the case.”
“What can I do?”
“Here, you can help.” She handed him the big watering can. “You can start on the hibiscus over there, the big plant with the red flowers.” He held the can as if it were radioactive.
Zehra noticed it and said, “Look, Denzel, just tip it and pour.”
They worked their way around the deck. “How’s Momma?” she asked.
“Holding her own for now. My papa was a cop in Gary. Momma worried every night while she raised the kids. They were both a lot tougher than I am.”
“I know what you mean. So were my parents. Hey, when Mustafa gets here, we can take a look at the video,” she said.
“Mustafa? He the dude your mother wants you to marry? I thought his name was Michael.”
Zehra laughed. “Mustafa’s his Arabic name. But don’t worry. Right now, I’m just shopping.” She told BJ of Mustafa’s help at the mosque and the hospital.
“If it’s cool for you, go for it but take your time.”
“Hey, look who’s talking, Mr. ADD,” she joked.
The security rang again, and Zehra let Mustafa in. He wore tan slacks, perfectly pressed and a cotton shirt that once again, clung to his muscled body. A heavy silver watch glistened on his wrist when he stuck out his hand to shake with BJ.
He carried a package and set it on the table in the main room. When he came over to Zehra, he touched her shoulder. In spite of her reticence, she needed more than that now. Glancing at the package, he told her, “For later.”
“How was Egypt?”
“Hot. The conference was boring and nothing interesting happened.”
Zehra moved to the far side of the table and shuffled through the thick files. “I’ve got the DVD here. BJ, if there’s anything you pick out, let me know.” BJ sat in the wicker chair next to the TV, but he studied Mustafa instead of the screen.
Zehra pushed in the DVD and clicked the play button. A scratchy, black-and-white scene came on the screen. She could see the edge of the deli, the parking lot below, and a fence. Nothing moved in the scene, but the picture jerked repeatedly.
“Cameras are usually programmed to take shots every two seconds,” BJ explained. “Cheaper that way.”
About five minutes into the film, the door on the fence opened out into the parking lot. The victim, a young black man, started into the screen. His jerky movements reminded Zehra of watching films from the early days of Hollywood. A bright light from the deli shone from the right side of the scene.
Suddenly, from the same door, another man jumped out. The young one didn’t react, so maybe he was unaware of the second man behind him. The second man was dark, tall and wore glasses and a huge white mask over his lower face. He dressed in a colored robe. In one jerk, his left hand reached up to the boy’s forehead, yanked it back. Simultaneously, he drew something across the boy’s throat. It happened so fast, Zehra couldn’t see the knife itself.
The killer wore what looked like latex surgical gloves. She hadn’t seen any mention of them in the police reports and wondered why he’d worn them. Why hadn’t the police noted their presence? Hadn’t they been found at the crime scene?
She shifted in her chair and felt a horrid captivation with what happened on the screen. It sickened her, but she couldn’t look away. Thankfully, the film didn’t have any sound.
Even with the bad focus and jerking film, it was clear that the boy’s head snapped back. The killer jumped out of the way. A black gush of blood exploded from the front of the boy. He staggered ahead one step, faltered, and dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The killer lurched out of view to the right.
No one moved in Zehra’s room as they watched five more minutes. The boy sprawled on the ground, motionless while a black pool spread out from his head. Otherwise the scene remained completely still.
Zehra found herself breathing fast and deeply. Up until now, the killing had all been on paper. The description of the death, the autopsy, the witness statements, and the police reports of the crime scene-it had held little more emotion than a stack of paper.
The film showed the life and death of a real human being. Zehra couldn’t talk for a few minutes.
BJ broke the silence. “What I wonder about are the gloves. Along with the surgical mask, it suggests someone who worked in a hospital or clinic.”
“Like the imam?” Mustafa said.
BJ nodded and looked closely at him.
“Why the gloves?” Zehra finally spoke.
“Hide his fingerprints from the weapon, keep the blood off of him,” BJ said. “Where are the gloves? Cops found the mask but didn’t find any gloves. Curious.”
Zehra turned to Mustafa. “I’m so sorry … you must think I have a horrible job. I didn’t realize it’d be so … I didn’t mean for you to have to watch.”
Mustafa’s eyes narrowed. “That’s okay. The curved knife cutting the throat upset me.” He sighed. “I do not like violence, but I will be okay,” he told Zehra as he stood.
BJ cleared his throat. “Got a few clues, Z. I measured the height of the fence, and it looks like the killer was tall, about six feet. El-Amin’s a lot shorter. ‘Course at the angle of the camera, it’s hard to tell, but I’d bet the killer was six feet. Since he wore a robe, hard to tell his body shape. Notice he didn’t have African hair. The killer’s hair was straight, although he had dark skin.”
“Anything else we can pull out of this,” Zehra said.
“The top of the killer’s face was uncovered except for the glasses. In the film, we couldn’t make out much, but the prosecutor’s gonna stop each frame and enhance it,” BJ said. “The lighting was good, so the still frame should give us a better ID on the killer.”
“Your client?” Mustafa asked Zehra.
“No. The DNA doesn’t match him, remember? The killer is someone else.”
“So, that will solve the case for you?” Mustafa asked.
“Not exactly. That’s the job of the police and prosecutor but of course, if we could find the real killer and give the info to them, we’d win our case,” Zehra said.
“Does your trial start soon?”
“This Monday.” Zehra dropped her shoulders. “We’re running out of time.”
Mustafa smiled faintly. “Pardon me, I don’t understand. If your client’s DNA does not match, will he not be released?”
“The prosecutor hasn’t had enough time to check out our doctor and the new testing method. Besides, when the trial starts, I have the burden of convincing the judge to allow my test results into evidence before the jury.”
“So, you think El-Amin will definitely be convicted?” Mustafa asked.
“Don’t know. If our DNA test is admitted, I think he’ll walk.”
Zehra noticed a frown flashed across Mustafa’s face. Maybe he still didn’t understand how a trial worked. She started to explain more until he waved a hand to stop her.
“Well,” BJ stood and stretched. “Gotta hit the bricks.”
It surprised Zehra. “Don’t you want to review some of the case now?”
“Naw. I’ll be in touch. Not much more I can add here.” He nodded at Mustafa, didn’t shake his hand, and
