“Huh? You really want to know?”
“I do.”
“Well I’m a criminal defense lawyer. Uh, I like to garden.” She paused and looked into the air. “I guess I’m excited about my work and like it.”
“What cases are you working on?”
She frowned. “I’ve got a murder case I’m working … struggling through. Maybe you’ve heard about these Somali boys who have disappeared from the Twin Cities?”
He pretended to think about it. “Yes, I heard from people I know in the Somali community.”
“I’ve been forced to represent the guy accused of killing one of the boys.”
“Is that hard?”
“This guy is because … well, maybe you’d understand this better than these other people. The defendant is an extremist Muslim, a terrorist really. That’s opposite to everything I believe as a Muslim. So, it’s just torture to try and defend someone who thinks that way.”
Michael nodded. “It must be hard. I find it hard just living in America. So many people don’t know anything about Islam except what they see in the biased media.”
Her face brightened. “Absolutely. If Christians only knew how close our religions were, they’d be shocked. And most of us aren’t making bombs in our garages at night.”
He laughed. “No …”
“Instead of making bombs, what do you do?”
“My work? I’m trying to alter the genetic make-up of viruses. When I have time, I do a lot of volunteer work in the community.”
“Like what?”
“I try to give time to the poor people in the Somali community, even though they don’t accept outsiders, even Muslims. I also host science fairs in several of the schools.”
When Zehra nodded and looked at his eyes, Michael could tell she was interested. It usually worked this way. He could smell her perfume. Thank Allah it wasn’t floral like so many American women It smelled like sandalwood. She had a full figure and thick hair. And what a stroke of luck-Allah be praised-she was the defense lawyer in the murder case. That interested him.
The noise from the party rose higher. Both of them squeezed to a corner to avoid the wilder dancers who had just erupted from somewhere. It was difficult to talk. Michael had to leave. “I’d like to meet you again,” he said.
“So would I, Michael.”
Seventeen
On Tuesday, Zehra trudged into Courtroom Two for the pre-trial on El-Amin’s case. She dreaded the confrontation. Why couldn’t I have a simple job like a corporate counsel? she thought. Sitting at a desk. Reading five-inch-thick contracts all day long.
When she arrived, Steve Harmon was already there. He nodded at Zehra as he unpacked several files from a metal cart on wheels.
Zehra walked down the middle aisle, pushed through the swinging gate that separated the public area from the judge’s bench and the lawyer’s area. Judge Gordon Smith listened to another case from up on the bench. She looked bored. To her left, was where prisoners stood, a small area enclosed by a low wooden rail and topped by a partial glass wall.
Jackie came down the main aisle, caught her eye. Zehra watched as she made her way into the lawyer’s area. Zehra envied Jackie’s beautiful hair. Straight and shiny, it always looked good.
“Thought I’d be late,” Jackie whispered.
“For what? Not much will happen today. Since we don’t have any plea negotiation, this is pretty much a meaningless hearing.”
“Josh made me breakfast today because he knows I’m working so hard on the case. I’m so like, impressed with this guy. I’m worried it’s gonna be permanent,” Jackie laughed. “What will I tell all the others?”
You’re self-absorbed, was all Zehra could think. Jackie rarely asked Zehra how she was or what guy she was with-not that there were many. Jackie’s full relationship contrasted with Zehra’s lack of one.
“Who’d we get for a trial judge?” Jackie asked.
“Don’t know, yet.” Zehra turned her back to the judge and spoke softly. “‘Hot-tub’s’ too lazy to actually try it, so she’ll pass it to one of the five judges scheduled to hear trials in the next two weeks. Besides, I’m so damn mad 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.”