Qazi Najeeb brought his hands onto his desk, his thumb still moving one amber bead at a time though he could not possibly be reciting anything holy as he spoke. The soft click of the stones against each other grated on Yusuf’s nerves. What kind of judgment was this? Had Qazi Najeeb not heard the stories about Kamal the drinker, the blasphemer? Had he chosen to ignore that Zeba’s husband had been the worst kind of man?
Zeba’s hands began to shake. She turned her head to the side as if moving away from an oncoming blow.
“I find you guilty of murder,” Qazi Najeeb explained grimly. “Because that is what the evidence indicates. I have not seen anything in the defense’s case to give another explanation for your husband’s brutal death.”
“Well done,” whispered the prosecutor, who could now log another victory. The particulars of Zeba’s case may have affected him as a person, but he also had to worry about his professional record. It was how he would be judged.
Yusuf’s elbows rested on his knees. He knew the penal code. He’d studied it and then reviewed it again when he first picked up Zeba’s case. She could be hanged. If he looked at her now—if he dared move his gaze from the tassel of the carpet on the ground—he would see her suspended in the air, neck snapped like a plastic doll and body limp with defeat.
“Let me be even clearer. You, Khanum Zeba, have been found guilty of murdering your husband. It is a deplorable crime against Islam and a crime against the laws of our country. There can be no excuse for it. We will meet again in three days and I’ll announce your sentence.”
CHAPTER 49
AFTER HEARING THE GUILTY VERDICT, YUSUF HAD SLOGGED home. He had planned to go directly to his apartment but decided, halfway down the road to his house, that he would stop at the gym first. He needed to do something physical.
He’d joined during his first week in the city. Inside were floor-to-ceiling mirrors, bright recessed lights, and the familiar hum of treadmills. Weight machines were scattered throughout the room as were dumbbells. There were men of all different sizes, some in Adidas tracksuits and others in faded T-shirts with sleeves cut off at the shoulder. One man in a short-sleeved T-shirt pulled outward the two ends of an elastic resistance band. A thick vein ran down the center of each bicep like the crease on a pair of pants. The place smelled of rubber, sweat, and metal.
The treadmill kept Yusuf sane. There was something soothing about the rhythm of his sneakers hitting the belt as it spun around the conveyor. It gave him a place to think when his apartment was too quiet and the office was too empty.
Inevitably, his thoughts returned to Zeba and the mullah. He had to know if Habibullah truly was her father, though he was still unsure whether or not it would make a difference. Shortly after Zeba had returned to Chil Mahtab, he’d called her to ask about it.
What kind of question is that? she had replied. It was neither confirmation nor denial.
Yusuf, with beads of sweat trickling down his back, decided to find out from Mullah Habibullah himself. If it were true, there might be more to chat about.
THUS, IN THE MORNING, YUSUF TRAVELED BACK TO THE SHRINE and knocked on the mullah’s door. The mullah’s son answered, looking back into the living room with raised eyebrows.
“Padar! It’s the lawyer!”
Yusuf peered into the sitting area and saw the mullah sitting on a floor cushion, the same exact spot he’d been sitting in during their last conversation. He had his back against the wall and his legs crossed. He wore a white crocheted prayer cap on his head and a black vest over his brown tunic and pantaloons. He glanced at his watch as if he’d been expecting Yusuf at this particular moment.
“Salaam, Mullah-sahib,” Yusuf said with a hand on his chest.
“Wa-alaikum. Welcome, young man.”
“Could we speak for a few minutes? I have an important matter to discuss with you. It has to do with Khanum Zeba, of course.”
The mullah motioned him to come in. Yusuf took two steps into the room. As he moved past the wooden door, he saw that the mullah was not alone. Across from him sat Gulnaz, her back straight as a hairpin. Her legs were tucked under her and hidden beneath a navy blue shawl with red embroidery. She looked from Yusuf back to the shawl spread across her lap, a deep sigh escaping her lips.
“Salaam wa-alaikum,” Yusuf said to Gulnaz, bowing his head. She nodded. “I did not expect to see you here.”
The mullah’s son returned from the back room with another empty teacup.
“Have a seat,” the mullah said. Yusuf sat on the same floor cushion as the mullah, leaving a generous gap between them. The mullah’s son placed the teacup on the carpet before him. He brought over the teapot and filled it sloppily, his carelessness disappearing into the worn carpet. The boy then disappeared too, slipping into the next room and out an unseen back door.
Gulnaz had her eyes fixed on the mullah.
“I’ve interrupted your conversation,” Yusuf declared, feeling quite certain that he was sitting with both of Zeba’s parents. Though Yusuf had never been married, he’d felt the same tension when he’d visited an aunt and uncle who had stayed married only to avoid the embarrassment of divorce. He’d felt it on the phone in his last conversation with Elena. It was a special brand of anger, a brooding, an ire that existed only where there had once been love. Yusuf cleared his throat. “I came here to ask a question about something Zeba said the other day but . . . well, I think my question’s been answered.”
Neither the mullah nor Gulnaz said a word.
“I don’t need to get into your family affairs or history. My concern is regarding the judge’s verdict. I am sorry to report that the judge has found your daughter guilty. But I’m not ready to give up on her.”
Gulnaz’s hands flew to her forehead.
“Guilty.” She sighed, her voice as thin and delicate as the red threads of her shawl. “Of course.”
“As I said, I’m not going to give up on her case.”
A small shift of the clouds brought a wash of sunlight into the room. Dust motes floated in the shaft of brightness that fell on Yusuf’s feet.
“You,” the mullah said, his voice spiny with resentment. “How is that you couldn’t find anything to grind up or set on fire to save your daughter? I suppose you only have tricks for an evil sister-in-law or the woman who looks at you sideways.”
Gulnaz’s splayed fingers pressed into her lap. She lifted her head and turned her narrowed eyes to her husband.
“What a thing for you to say! You, the great holy man of the shrine, you pious wretch! You with all your prayers tied to the fences and unsaved mad men—how much have you done for your daughter?”
“What a fork-tongued witch you are,” he muttered.
“I’m the woman who raised your children and put up with your family after you left! If that makes me a fork-tongued witch, so be it. But imagine what a dog you must be—the man who didn’t care to watch his children grow. You left us with nothing when rockets and bombs fell around us like rain.”
“I left you in the folds of a respected family.”
“You took me from the folds of a revered family.”
“Revered,” the mullah scoffed. “You told me yourself the tricks you helped your father play to make believers out of your poor neighbors.”
“You ungrateful bastard. If you think so little of my father, why are you so desperate to be like him? He was respected because he helped people. Unlike you, he did it in a civilized manner. He never shackled anyone or starved them.”
“What I do works. Talk to the families of the people I’ve helped heal. They’ll tell you. Or don’t. I don’t need to prove myself to you.”
“No, you don’t. You already have proven to me just what you are,” Gulnaz spat. She turned her head to the door, refusing to look at the man who’d walked out of their home a lifetime ago.
Yusuf considered leaving. They would likely not notice his departure. He couldn’t waste valuable time listening to them rehash the past. Zeba was going t
o be sentenced in two days, and Qazi Najeeb’s desire to follow the letter of the penal code meant he would hang Yusuf’s client without blinking an eye.
“It’s not my place to intrude,” Yusuf began cautiously. He was acutely aware of the difference in years between himself and Zeba’s parents. They were old enough to be his grandparents, old enough to be treated with deference even if they were acting like fools. But social etiquette had been cast aside when Gulnaz and the mullah had aired their history before Yusuf. “But rehashing history will not help your daughter. Her outlook is bleak. I have a few ideas, but I’ll need your help—both of you.”
The mullah slurped his tea and Gulnaz scowled, giving Yusuf a snapshot of their past.
“I would do anything to help Zeba. I told her that before she left here,” Habibullah declared, swirling the unfurled tea leaves at the bottom of his cup.
“Good. Then I’ll ask you to speak to the judge. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
The mullah nodded.
“Does he not know who you are?” Gulnaz asked. “His family is from the same village.”
“We were boys then,” Habibullah said quietly. “He’s not once recognized me, and I don’t expect him to. I’m a different man now in many ways, including in my appearance.”
“That much is true,” Gulnaz muttered. “You’ve aged badly.”
“Then speak to him,” Yusuf said quickly. “He respects you and your efforts here. He considers you an expert and a pious man. Tell him Zeba is your daughter and beg him for leniency.”
“Tell him who I am?”
“Yes. He’s got to feel an obligation to do something for you. You can’t just be speaking up for a person who’s passed through your shrine. You’ve got to give him a real reason to listen to you.”
“That’s exactly what I was telling him,” Gulnaz said quietly. “The qazi may have mercy on her if he learns that she’s your daughter. It’s Zeba’s only hope.”
The mullah scratched at his beard, his thick eyebrows drawn together and his bottom lip puffed out. He was pouting, Yusuf realized.
“What’s wrong with you?” Gulnaz snapped. She was irked that there was silence where there should have been agreement. She turned her head just fractionally to address her husband. “Is that too much to ask of you?”
“Listen.” The mullah’s voice was a low roar. “I’ll do anything I can for her. I told her I would. But that doesn’t mean I have to jump headfirst into a well. I want to know if there’s a better way.”
“A better way that doesn’t involve you, isn’t that what you mean?”
“And for you, Khanum,” Yusuf said, tracing the rim of his teacup with his index finger. Gulnaz lifted her head but did not look at him. “I need you to do what you do best. Pay the qazi a visit and ask for mercy. She’s the mother of four children. She was a good daughter. Her husband was a terrible man. Tell him all of that and, most important, remind him of your talents.”
“My talents?” Gulnaz repeated softly.
“Yes, you know what I mean. It’s not something I would normally ask, but these are unique circumstances.”
“I understand,” Gulnaz nodded. “I’ll speak with him.”
Yusuf did not doubt that she would.
“And what about you? What else are you going to do?” the mullah asked.
Yusuf looked at the door and remembered the sight of chained men in the yard by the cells. He thought of the many hours he’d spent under the green lamps of the law library and the way Zeba had steeled herself when he suggested approaching the judge with what she’d seen Kamal doing to that girl.
He was not proud of his tactics, but he’d been troubled ever since he’d learned why Zeba had done what she’d done. He thought of Sultana and the way she’d walked out on him, indignant and beautiful.
Yusuf put the teacup back on the floor and clapped both hands against his thighs before pushing himself to stand.
“As for me, I’ve got one other idea, but if it’s going to do anything for Zeba, I need to get working on it. You both have my mobile number. The sentencing is on Thursday. Call me tomorrow and let me know what’s happened.”
They remained in their places long after he’d left, the irresistible need to retrace their steps preventing them from leaving. Age demanded that they not leave anything unsaid.
Once upon a time, Gulnaz recalled sullenly, there had been an afternoon when she had peered into a window and felt giddy at the thought of her life tied to this man’s by an invisible silver thread. Such an idea seemed astonishing now as they sat seething in each other’s presence.
CHAPTER 50
YUSUF OPENED THE PLASTIC CONTAINER OF SAUTÉED SPINACH and rice Aneesa had brought him, the contents resembling a green-and-white yin-yang symbol. Famished, he took in the aromatic steam of the white rice, a blend of cumin and salt. She’d even brought two squares of fresh bread. Yusuf tore off a piece of bread and shaped it around a lump of spinach, pink threads of rhubarb mixed in. His cheeks were round with food when Sultana walked into the office.
Yusuf could not conceal his surprise. He stood and grabbed a napkin. Holding it over his mouth with one hand to conceal his chewing, he motioned her over. She’d seen him and nodded, making her way to his desk.
“I’m interrupting your lunch,” she said somewhat apologetically.
Yusuf hoped not to choke as he forced the food down quickly. He swiped the napkin over his lips and slid back into his chair. They were across from each other, just as they had been in the interview room of Chil Mahtab.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, snapping the top back on the container. “Are you hungry? I could offer you some but—”
“Thank you, but I ate not long ago,” Sultana said. She was wearing the same olive-colored jacket with the sleeves rolled up. A yellow-and-green head scarf hid her hair, knotted high on her head. “Don’t stop on my account, please.”
“It’s fine. I wasn’t that hungry anyway,” Yusuf said, clearing his throat. There was one other lawyer in the office, but his desk was on the opposite side of the room and a half wall separated them. He’d looked up with interest to see Sultana enter and kept glancing over as he spoke on the phone. It was unusual, of course, to have a young woman visit.
“You got my message. I’m surprised to see you.”
“I’m sure you are. I could have called, but I thought it might be better to stop by.”
“I’m glad you did. Look, let me say that I’m sorry about the way our last conversation went. I didn’t mean to try to use you or manipulate you into a story.”
“But that’s what you were doing, wasn’t it?” She still had her handbag on her shoulder, and Yusuf wished she would set it down. She looked like she might walk out at any second.
“It . . . it was,” he admitted. “Look, I’ve been struggling with Zeba’s case. It’s a tragedy from many angles, and as much as I’ve tried, well, the court just won’t see why she shouldn’t be hanged. The holes in the prosecutor’s case are forgiven, when they really shouldn’t be.”
“I’m sure that’s true. But do you honestly think that a man who burned a page of the Qur’an, if that’s what he did, should be killed by his wife? I don’t think you do, and that’s why I wanted to speak to you again. Maybe there’s a better angle to the story.”
Yusuf rested his elbows on the desk. It was Wednesday, about twenty-four hours from the time of the sentencing. He had yet to hear from Zeba’s parents. He’d called them both, but neither had answered the phone.
“I could tell you the whole story, but it’s an ugly one and not anything that you can print. The details can’t go public.”
“What is it?” Sultana was, of course, curious. It was her job to ask questions, and that was precisely why she’d made the trip into this office.
“I need you to promise to respect what Zeba’s kept private.”
“I promise.” Sultana slid the strap of her bag off her shoulder and let it rest on the floor. She sat ba
ck in the chair and listened as Yusuf told her about the little girl, his voice low and grim. She flinched, almost imperceptibly, but did not interrupt or move from the seat. Yusuf told her about Zeba’s fears that the girl would be shamed publicly if word got out, that the village would seek out the victim and her life would be ruined once again. He didn’t have to explain Zeba’s concerns. Sultana understood them in the way any woman would because it all came down to honor.
The girl had been stripped of her honor, of her future. If the world knew, she would never live a life without shame.
It was the greatest injustice, and it made Sultana’s blood boil.
“She has four children. Zeba is all they have. If they lose her, they lose everything.”
“Are you certain about this story?” Sultana asked. She didn’t doubt it though. There was no reason to.
“I’m certain,” he said, nodding. “The way she talked about it . . . it’s the truth. That’s the reason why I said what I did to you. She’s going to be sentenced tomorrow, and the judge has made it pretty clear that he wants to honor the law. I think he wants to see her hanged.”
Sultana crossed her legs and tapped a finger on her chin.
“What can be done? Even if I go to the judge with rumors about her husband, what good will that do?”
“It’s a long shot, but it’s all I have. I’ve tried everything else.” And he had, even using the mullah and Gulnaz to sway the judge toward mercy. It was a tragic shift, he realized, that he was now simply asking for mercy instead of justice or freedom.
“And you’re thinking that if I tell the judge I’m going to run a story about the dead husband, that I’m going to write about the accusations made against him about Qur’an burning, that he’ll feel pressured not to hang the woman who killed him?”
“I think it’s a possibility . . . based on what I’ve seen of this judge.”
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