here?” They stopped and recognized her. Good. The power of celebrity always got her information.
“Yeah. Nice to meet you in person. I watch you a lot.” The older man hesitated, and then stuck out his hand to shake hers. “Jim Miller. I’m in charge of the entire physical plant here. How can we help?”
“Did you happen to notice the man I was just talking to?”
“Ben? Yeah, he’s worked here for a short time.”
“Who is he? What’s his name?”
“Ben Mohammad. ‘Course, every other one of ’em’s named Mohammad. He was just hired as our outreach coordinator. We’ve got a large Somali student population, so they hired Ben. Lots of these parents can’t speak English and are working too hard to participate much in the school, so I guess, Ben’s supposed to ‘reach out and touch ’em.’”
“Do you know anything else about him?”
“Naw … he lives in South Minneapolis, near Somali-land, over by Augsburg College. I think he works part time in a deli there … I don’t know.” Jim’s brows furrowed. “Why are you interested?”
Carolyn couldn’t help but think this might be her last chance-thanks to high-def TV. In a few years, the lines in her face, even with make-up, couldn’t be hid. She’d be out on the street. Then where would she go? She hadn’t saved a penny, and the little she had in her 401K dipped every day to new lows. Maybe print journalism? What a joke! They were even more strapped for funding that TV. Maybe an obscure position on, God forbid, a public TV station. She shook her head.
Jim started to back away. “Hey, where’s your camera guy? Don’t you always have one for TV?”
“He’s on his way. What are Ben’s duties?”
“Uh … I don’t know. You should talk to the principal.” Jim started to turn.
The younger man said, “I think he takes some of the boys on projects. Ya know, like field trips and stuff like that.”
In spite of the Pepto Bismol she’d popped, Carolyn felt the rumbling start inside her again. “Field trips? He takes the Somali boys on field trips? Where do they go?”
Jim pulled on the other man’s arm. “Come on, Kenny. We got work to do.” They spun around and walked away.
The rumbling in Carolyn’s stomach told her one thing: she had stumbled onto something important. She didn’t know what. From all her year’s experience, she could feel it. She’d stick with it until the story cracked open. Carolyn would be a hero again.
Five
Monday morning in Courtroom Two, Zehra stood before the Honorable MaryAnn Gorden Smith, the “Hot Tub” judge, and arraigned her client. “My client doesn’t want a female lawyer,” Zehra said. “He wants to represent himself.”
Prior to coming to court, Zehra had researched all the rules governing this issue. She desperately wanted out of the case.
The judge stopped flipping papers and frowned at her.
“I know, Judge. But my client has a right to represent himself, and he demands it.”
Judge Smith peered at El-Amin, standing behind the low wooden wall at the side of the courtroom. He crossed his hands in front of himself at his waist. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” she asked.
He closed his eyes and spoke, “I will not have a woman represent me nor have a woman judge me.”
The prosecutor, Steve Harmon, stood behind the table reserved for counsel. “I want the record to note the defendant wants to go pro se. He can’t change his mind later.”
“I want my trial as soon as possible,” El-Amin shouted.
To make clear her disagreement, the judge twitched her head back and forth. “Well, it’s your right but …” she said to El-Amin and looked back at Zehra and Jackie Nyguen, the lawyer who would second-chair Zehra. “I don’t have time for this today. We’ll settle the issue of representation later. For now, you’ve still got the case.” She bent her head to the papers and flipped them to dismiss the lawyers.
“Wait.” El-Amin said in a deep voice.
The judge’s face jerked up. Annoyed. “What?”
“I will not have this woman represent me. I understand that I am able to represent myself?”
Her lips tightened. “It’s not advisable in a case this serious.”
“I demand to represent myself.”
Zehra jumped in, “That’s his right, your Honor. You could relieve me of my duty to represent him.” Zehra knew the judge was too quick to fall for that but hoped she would give her a break.
“I’m not going to deal with this today or you, sir,” the judge sneered. “For now, everything remains the same. You’re representing him, Ms. Hassan.” She gathered the file together and tossed it aside as if tired of a bad paperback novel.
“But your Honor …”
“What is it you don’t understand?”
“I know you’ve appointed the public defender, but the defendant wants to go pro se, and he has a right …” As her voice rose, Zehra knew it was too shrill.
“That’s enough out of everyone,” Judge Smith shouted. “Counsel, you sit down.” The judge turned to the defendant. “Deputies, get him out of here.”
As they moved away from the bench, Jackie whispered, “Way to go, girl. What a bitch. Why do you call her the ‘Hot Tub’ judge?”
Zehra sighed, “Several years ago, the governor worked with Smith in the state legislature. She was a successful lawyer and prominent in legal circles. Well, the governor’s wife and Smith became friends, as Smith was always politically savvy. After legislative sessions, they’d go back to the governor’s mansion to relax in the hot tub. When the next judicial opening occurred in this county, guess who got it?”
Jackie nodded. “You’re shitting me! Is she smart?”
“Very. But MaryAnn uses every advantage she has. I’m sure the governor didn’t miss those boobs on his new choice as she splashed in the hot tub.”
After the court hearing, Zehra and Jackie walked down Fourth Avenue, two blocks to the Public Defender’s office, past a parking ramp edged in flowers. Spring flowers gloried in the morning light-purple, blue, and dark-green leaves. A fresh breeze lifted them as if they were dancing. Purple crocuses partnered with the miniature irises to move in rhythm with the wind.
Reaching the tall office building, they walked around the coffee shop on the main floor and rode the elevator to the seventh floor, all of it occupied by dozens of lawyers, law clerks, support staff, investigators, and the law library.
In the lobby, Jerry Zimmerman stalked around the room, telling everyone about his newest case. “In this crazy job, you think you’ve heard everything. No … they always throw you a curve.” He jerked his head from one person to another but really just wanted their attention.
Jerry’s squat body moved faster as he talked more. Black hair scrambled to cover the top of his head but failed. “So, I’m interviewing this new guy, who’s charged with burglary of a jewelry shop at the Mall of America. First of all,” he stopped and pointed at Jackie. “You’d pick a store in the busiest mall in America to rob, right? Smart idea?”
Zehra laughed to herself. There were so many of these clients. She’d often been in the same place Jerry found himself.
“Get this. He decides to commit the ‘perfect crime,’ but he lacks a basic tool-the getaway car. That doesn’t stop our little criminal. He must’ve watched too many motivational DVDs, telling him he can be all that he wants to be-a successful criminal. So, he takes the bus out to the Mall.”
