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. How appropriate, she laughed to herself.
She desperately needed the testimony of the Imam, the alibi witness. Had to make sure he’d cooperate.
At the door of the mosque, she reminded the others to remove their shoes and set them next to a pile of over twenty other pairs of shoes, mostly sandals. As they moved past the front entryway, the mosque opened into a large, quiet room.
Zehra brought a scarf with her, and, in respect, she flipped it over her hair.
Jackie lifted the back of her sweater up on her head. She glanced back and forth. “Don’t I look beautiful?”
As they started into the open area, a man in a long tan robe came from the left and stepped in front of them. “I’m sorry, but it is not permitted to have women in the main prayer area.” He nodded at a small balcony on the second floor to the right. “That is reserved for women.”
Zehra bristled. On one hand, she wanted to remain respectful and get the information they needed, but this discrimination made her furious. Images of El-Amin yelling at her crowded into her mind. She tried to ignore them. Zehra stood in front of the man in the robe. “We have an appointment with the Imam, Hussein Moalim.”
The man searched Zehra’s face, only glancing at the others. “Wait here,” he said.
Zehra looked into the open area. Many detailed Persian rugs covered the area. It was designed for prayer, and all faithful Muslims prayed from their knees on the floor if at all possible. BJ and Jackie moved to either side of her.
“I’ve never been in a mosque,” Jackie whispered. “Who are those guys over in the corner? They look like they’re sleeping.”
“They’re praying or meditating,” Zehra explained. “A mosque is a place of worship of course but also for meditation and learning. The back side of this is probably a community center.” She pointed to an ornamental arched niche set in the wall on the eastern end of the big room. “That’s called a mihrab and reminds the faithful of the direction of Mecca. And that bench on top of the wooden steps next to it is the minbar. It’s like a pulpit in Christian churches. The imam will deliver sermons from it on Fridays. As we have to perform ablutions, cleansings, before prayer, there have to be areas near here with water to perform the acts.”
“It’s so peaceful,” BJ said in a hushed voice. “Tranquil. I can understand why people like it. It’s actually relaxing.”
“That’s the idea. You have access to Allah here.” She turned to him. “Remember why we’re here. We’ve got to focus.”
Jackie said, “I’ve been in Jewish synagogues before, and, you know, it’s funny, but they look similar in many ways.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I mean my Catholic church looks like a circus with tons ornamentation. The mosque and synagogue are really pretty plain inside.”
She turned to Zehra. “By the way, is an ‘imam’ a priest?”
“No. Islam doesn’t have a priestly class. Every believer has direct access to Allah. We don’t need anyone to intercede for us. Imams are people specially trained in the religion and act as leaders and teachers.”
“Welcome to our mosque,” a voice said from the left.
They all turned to a man walking toward them. He wore a white robe from his shoulders to the floor. A gray beard hung over his chest, and he wore a pair of modern, stylish plastic glasses. He smiled to show huge white teeth.
“I am Imam Moalim.” He bowed slightly.
In response, they bowed also.
“Let us go outside, It’s a glorious day.” He led them out the front door and down the sidewalk to a small patch of grass. “What may I help you with?”
BJ said, “We talked on the phone. Ms. Hassan here is defending Ibrahim El-Amin. You told me he was here the night of the boy’s murder, right?”
The imam bowed, his head covered by a red skullcap. Then he said, “Yes, that is true. As you know, the mosque also serves as a community center, and Mr. El-Amin came here often for social purposes. I knew him, not well, but I saw him several times.” His black face shone in the sun.
Zehra asked, “You definitely remember that on March nineteenth-a Thursday-he was with you?” She smelled the fragrance of flowers on the breeze.
The imam looked at her with his soft eyes for a long time. He said, “Yes. He arrived shortly after sunset, and we had tea in the community room. We talked of many things until late into the evening.”