Zeba wasn’t expecting Yusuf back so soon, less than a week since he’d last been to see her. Each time they met, he left appearing frustrated but determined. She did not know what he did in the intervals between their visits and wasn’t sure if she wanted to ask.
“My lawyer? Are you sure?”
Asma laughed.
“Get up, Zeba. No reason to keep the handsome gentleman waiting.”
YUSUF WAS PACING THE ROOM WHEN ZEBA ENTERED. HIS BAG hung from the back of the chair, and there was his yellow notepad with his indecipherable scribbling. The top page looked softly crinkled and Zeba would have bet anything at that moment that Yusuf had fallen asleep with his face pressed to it.
He looked at her, grim-faced.
“We’ve got to talk, Khanum Zeba. We’ve got to talk.”
Zeba slid into the chair across from Yusuf’s bag. Asma lingered at the door until Yusuf sharply thanked her for bringing Zeba in for the meeting.
Asma’s ears perked at the tone of his voice, but she closed the door behind her and took a few steps down the hall. Zeba watched her walk away from the glass-enclosed interview room and turned her attention back to Yusuf. He had shadows under his eyes.
“What’s going on? Has something happened?”
Yusuf shot her a look of annoyance.
“I’ve asked only that you be open with me. I told you from the beginning that if you let me in, if you shared everything with me, I might be able to help you. You could have saved us both a lot of trouble if you would’ve just trusted me from the beginning. That’s the only way this”—he waved a finger back and forth between him and Zeba—“can work.”
“Say what you want to say.”
Yusuf stopped short. Zeba breathed a little easier. His pacing always made her nervous. Yusuf pulled the chair back quickly, its legs scraping against the floor tiles. His bag slipped off the back, but he didn’t bother to pick it up.
“I went to your village,” he said, looking straight at her.
Zeba felt a knot in her stomach. She waited.
“I went to your town and I went to your house. I knocked on your neighbors’ doors. There’s a lovely woman down the street from you who’s watched you walk past her house while she tends to her plants.”
Zeba knew precisely who Yusuf had spoken to. On two occasions, Zeba had herded her children out of the house rather abruptly. Those were days when Kamal had come home with red-rimmed eyes and heavy feet. He’d been violent but in a directionless way that made Zeba frightened for the children. The drink gave Kamal bursts of energy followed by bouts of exhaustion. Knowing he would not bother to chase after them, she’d thrown a head scarf on and scurried past that woman’s house, tears streaming down her face as she anxiously looked over her shoulder. She’d seen the woman looking out into the street as if she’d been waiting for just such a curious sight to come by.
“There’s more,” Yusuf said. “I talked to a man who was outside your house the day Kamal was killed. He was just outside your door that afternoon. He says he knows what happened.”
A man. Zeba thought back to that day. What could a man have seen or heard from outside their walls? He couldn’t have seen the hatchet go into Kamal’s head.
“What man? Is he saying I killed Kamal?” Zeba was on the brink of rage, a sudden boiling anger at the thought that a man would step forward to further condemn her. “I don’t know who he is, but he’s a liar!”
“The man saw something. He saw someone go into your home, Khanum Zeba.”
Zeba remained in her seat, her lips pressed together into a thin, pink line. Had a man really seen her? Had he told anyone else? All the days she’d spent away from her children and all the days ahead that she would fester here without them—all this could not be for nothing. She could not let Yusuf or this man, whoever he was, render her sacrifice meaningless.
By the severe look on Zeba’s face, Yusuf felt any doubt he’d harbored in Walid’s story melt away.
“I don’t really feel like talking now,” Zeba said with quiet resolve. She crossed her legs at the ankle and kept her fingers tightly intertwined, an effort to prevent any part of her body from revealing more than had already been revealed. If only Yusuf could understand how badly she wanted to tell him. But it seemed the truth would be of little benefit—not to people who deemed her testimony worth only a fraction of a man’s. In a flicker of despondency, the lines came to her:
“What good is a woman’s telling of truth
When nothing she says will be taken as proof?”
Yusuf looked at her quizzically.
“Where did you hear that?”
“The words are mine,” she said, emboldened. “But every woman knows them.”
She was right, he admitted to himself. A woman’s word held little value here. Women themselves seemed to hold little value here. But Yusuf couldn’t stop now. He would press her because he wanted to get to the heart of the story. This would be the moment that redefined the case. Zeba would break down and be completely honest with him and he would put together a magnificent defense, the likes of which had never been seen in this town, maybe in this country.
“Listen, this is a whole new case now. I’ve got—”
Zeba’s head lifted suddenly. Urgently.
“Did you see him?”
“Who?”
“My son, Basir. Did you see him?” She was leaning across the table, her palms pressing onto its wooden surface.
“No, I didn’t see him. Did you hear what I said?”
“Did you hear anything about him? Are they all right? Did anyone tell you about him and the girls? You said you talked to people. People must know how they’re doing.”
Yusuf took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. She was entitled to inquire about her children, even if that meant diverting his questions.
“I’m sorry, but I think Kamal’s family is keeping them at home. I didn’t get much information from anyone, but no one said anything worrisome either. I’m sure they’re as well as they possibly could be given the circumstances.”
“Yes, they’re probably fine,” she mumbled.
“Khanum Zeba, it’s really important for us to focus on you now,” he said gently. “I think there’s a way to defend you.”
It occurred to Zeba that just a few moments ago she had been watching a stupid card game. How could she have gone from that moment to this one without much warning?
“I know about the girl.”
Zeba stared at the table until the grain of the wood blurred. She leaped ahead, skipping his questions and arriving at the inevitable conclusion.
“Even if I am released from here, I won’t get my children back. If I cannot have my children, there is no reason for me to leave this place.”
Yusuf leaned back in his chair. She was right. The odds of Kamal’s family returning the children to their mother if she were released were slim. Yusuf spoke again.
“Khanum, I said I know about the girl.”
The girl. All this because of a little girl who had been stupid enough to get within reach of Kamal. Zeba didn’t know how he’d lured her into their yard but he had. The poor thing had been so frightened. Zeba could still see her eyes, wild and round with shame. She had looked so much like her own daughters. It could have been Shabnam or Kareema. Feeling took so much less time and energy than thinking. Zeba hadn’t paused to ask questions. She’d seen everything she needed to on the girl’s face, the desperate way she clutched her pants in her hand.
And Kamal. Kamal had stood before her, his back to the afternoon sun. He’d been nothing but a silhouette, the dark shape of a man she hardly recognized. He’d dusted his shirt off. He’d been flustered, nothing more. He’d started mumbling something, but Zeba couldn’t hear him over the roaring in her ears, loud enough to drown out any reasons he might have offered for her to ignore the gruesome scene she’d just stumbled upon.
Kamal wanted her to be something she wasn’t. He wanted her to be the woman who would lo
ok away forever.
But she’d seen everything. And Rima was only a few meters away. How could she explain this to the girls? She would never explain it to them. It would be buried with her.
So much had been decided in the space of seconds, in a span of time too short to accommodate thoughts but with only enough room for reflexes.
When had she picked up the hatchet? Zeba closed her eyes. She couldn’t say for certain. She didn’t even remember seeing it leaning against the side of the house. Kamal must have left it there, though Zeba couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him hold it. How often had she asked him to put it away so that the children wouldn’t hurt themselves with it?
Yusuf watched his client withdraw. He let her be, hoping that her thoughts would lead her to a place of use to him.
“The girl, Khanum. She was the reason for all this.”
Was he asking her or seeking confirmation?
She was too young to be so damaged. Had she been the first one? It was too late to ask Kamal. Was that the first time he’d hurt that girl? By the look on her face, Zeba would guess so.
“There was no girl,” Zeba said flatly.
“There was no girl?”
“There was no girl,” Zeba said, each word steeped in resolve.
Yusuf sat directly across from her. Their eyes met, each daring the other to back down.
“But there was, and that girl changes everything.”
“Did you talk with anyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you talk with anyone else in my village?”
Yusuf tapped a finger on the table, the ticking of a metronome.
“I didn’t talk to the girl’s family, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
Zeba hoped, for the sake of the girl, that it was humanly possible to forget something so horrible and pretend it had never happened. She needed that to be true.
“Why don’t you want to let the judge know what happened? This girl could be the way for you to—”
Zeba’s face hardened. She stared directly at Yusuf and spoke with absolute clarity.
“She is just a girl and I won’t do that to her. Listen to what I’m saying, Yusuf. There was no girl.”
Yusuf lowered his voice. He understood, somewhat, that Zeba was trying to protect the girl, but he couldn’t let her sacrifice herself unnecessarily.
“I’m sure we can do this in a way that won’t bring attention to her or cause her any problems. We may not even need to talk to her. But we’ve got to share some of this information if we’re going to make any kind of reasonable defense for you. There’s no other way to get you out of here. A man was killed.”
Zeba scowled.
“Anything I say will ruin her. I don’t know if her family knows. What if they don’t know? What if she’s okay now? That possibility is everything to me. I know what they might do to her if they find out. You may not, but I do. Every woman in Chil Mahtab knows. Every woman and girl in Afghanistan knows!”
Yusuf bit his lip. Zeba was right about that. It was a truth he understood the moment his foot hit this soil. It was all about honor. Honor was a boulder that men placed on the shoulders of their daughters, their sisters, and their wives. The many stories in Chil Mahtab were evidence of that fact. This girl had lost her father’s honor in Zeba’s courtyard. If he knew that something had happened to her—the details hardly mattered—she might not be forgiven, even though she was an innocent child.
Whatever Kamal had done to that girl might have been just the beginning of her woes.
Zeba’s eyes drifted off. A guard was slowly walking past the interview room, with a step so heavy that it had to be deliberate. Zeba watched her, her eyes going glassy again. The path was simple to her. She looked utterly unconflicted in that moment.
“Do you think Kamal was the only person killed that day?” she asked in a hollow and monotonous voice. “He wasn’t. I was dead the moment his blood spilled. That girl was dead the moment she was alone with him. There were three dead bodies in my home, though only one had a decent burial and mourners to pray for his soul. They prayed for him. They are still praying for him. They have marked the fortieth day of his passing as if he were some decent soul to be missed. They will shake their heads and talk about what a shame it was to lose their brother, their cousin, their uncle. They don’t know what shame is, nor do they know that there are lots of ways to take a life.”
Yusuf was silent. The guard outside had disappeared around the corner for a few moments only to return. She glanced into the room and continued to stroll past them, stopping briefly to adjust the belt on her uniform.
Yusuf could not argue that defiled girls were worth very little. If something were to happen to that young girl, Yusuf did not want to be responsible either. But there was the possibility this girl’s family would be different.
“Did you hear about the nine-year-old girl who was raped by their local mullah about a year ago? Her parents were paying him to instruct her on how to read Qur’an. Her parents tied him to a chair and cut off his nose and ears. Then there was the case in Kunduz. That ten-year-old girl testified before a judge, and her rapist was sentenced to twenty years in prison. Not every family considers this a shame they can’t recover from. There can be justice.”
“You’re talking to me about two cases in a land of millions. How can I burden that girl with such a risk?”
Yusuf stood, frustrated. He walked the short length of the room and returned helplessly to his seat.
“I don’t know how else to defend you,” he admitted. He ran his fingers through his hair brusquely, feeling his professionalism slip away from him. Maybe Aneesa had been right to warn him against taking this case. He’d pushed it further than anyone else probably would have, and all that had gotten him was information he couldn’t use.
“I did nothing for too long,” Zeba whispered. “I lived with my eyes and ears closed when I should have been paying attention. I should have known sooner. But I was not vigilant. If I did nothing then, I can do nothing now. I will do nothing and I will say nothing. I refuse to bring any more shame to my children.”
Yusuf’s elbows sat on the table, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled back. She wouldn’t budge, he knew, but he wasn’t quite ready to give up on her altogether. Knowing about the girl only made him want to defend her more. He could only imagine what the little girl had been through. Too bad the world wouldn’t stand and applaud Zeba for what she’d done.
“Are you saying to me that you killed your husband?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it? Why would you doubt it if everyone says it’s so? I’ve even confessed to it according to my arrest record. You should drop this case.”
“I won’t do that,” Yusuf said defiantly. “I’ve got to find a defense that will stand up to the prosecution’s case.”
“God is great and you are young, Yusuf-jan,” Zeba said as she pushed her chair back and stood to leave. “There are plenty of innocent people to defend. Stop wasting your time on the guilty.”
CHAPTER 29
“A DEFENDANT’S MOTHER HAS NEVER BEEN PRESENT FOR THESE proceedings,” the qazi said. He rubbed his palms on the end of his tunic and wondered why they were so sweaty. The prosecutor shot him a curious look.
Gulnaz sat with her back as straight as the chair itself. Her eyes were lightly lined in kohl, which made Qazi Najeeb want to touch her cheek as he stared into their green depths. He cleared his throat and reached for the tasbeh, the string of amber prayer beads on his desk.
“I am sure I am not the first mother to be concerned about her daughter’s case,” Gulnaz said as she set her purse on the floor next to her.
“No, you are not,” the prosecutor agreed, reaching for a biscuit from the table in the middle of the room. He bit in and felt the buttery cookie crumble in his mouth. By the nod of his head, Gulnaz could tell the taste of it agreed with him.
“These are delicious, Khanum,” the prosecutor declared.
&n
bsp; “Yusuf-jan, you haven’t tried one yet, have you?” Gulnaz asked gently.
Yusuf shook his head.
“No, Khanum, I’ve just eaten, but thank you,” he said tightly. A plate full of biscuits was a far cry from bribery if that’s what Gulnaz was trying to accomplish.
“Maybe later then,” Gulnaz suggested.
“You don’t have to ask me,” Qazi Najeeb said before Gulnaz even offered the cookies. The prosecutor held the plate out and watched as the judge took two and placed them on a napkin before him. “When I was a boy, there was nothing I enjoyed more during Ramadan. Before the sun came up, my mother would make me a mug of sweet tea and cream and let me eat as many of her homemade biscuits as I could stuff into my stomach. Part of me looked forward to Ramadan for that very reason.”
“I made these for my family during Ramadan as well. They would tell me it would have been difficult to survive the hours without these.”
Gulnaz had asked for nothing more than to be present for the discussion, especially since it had become clear that Zeba could not be. Hearing of her recent collapse in the prison hallway, the judge had decided to leave her out of the proceedings.
“I hope that Zeba will be back to herself soon. We’ll have to continue in her absence, and I don’t think anyone wants to delay this case any longer.”
“She wanted to be here,” Yusuf offered. “But she hasn’t spoken in two days. I checked on her again this morning, and she is not improved at all. She’s actually gotten worse, in my opinion. The director of the prison told me that she’s been moaning and rocking in her cell. Her roommates complain that they wake to find her whispering to herself and they are frightened.”
“What are they frightened of?” asked the judge as he brushed crumbs off his desk.
Yusuf had watched Zeba leave the interview room the day he’d confronted her about the girl. She’d walked as if each step had been a great effort. She’d drifted to the wall and leaned against it, her fingers looking for something to grip on to. Again and again, Yusuf had asked her to talk to him, but her eyes had gone wild. Her words were incomprehensible, and those that he could make out didn’t make sense anyway. Her roommates had been quite shaken up at the sight of her.
A House Without Windows Page 23