The anger Yusuf has toward Tanveer is palpable and relentless.
“It’s not just about me, it’s about my parents. They needed him. Our mom needed him.”
What about Adnan, I asked him.
“Adnan,” he said, “was the one who kept it together the most. He was selfless, he never let us feel like he was sad or upset. We’d go visit Adnan at the prison and leave laughing. Who leaves a prison laughing? That’s because he worked so hard to keep our spirits up.”
Yusuf attended two more schools, first a rough local one close to Woodlawn called Southwest Academy where many of the students came from broken families. Yusuf said he could relate to them, as lots of them had screwed-up home lives and he didn’t feel out of place there like he did at the Islamic school.
Next, he went to a private Christian high school but was asked to leave after a year. He was fifteen and his family was running out of options.
They then decided to send him to a madrassah in Karachi, Pakistan, where he would study and memorize the Quran for the next three years.
The madrassah was a boys-only institution, with many students from around the world. Someone had recommended the school to his parents, and a friend of Yusuf’s was already studying there. It would be hard for him to leave his mother. In their loneliness they only had each other, but he knew it was the right thing to do.
The curriculum was all in Urdu and Arabic, languages Yusuf didn’t know. The school had a dark, seedy side with drug and alcohol abuse, and even sexual abuse of younger kids by older students. He managed to steer clear of all of that and in his more than three years there, he also met a lot of wonderful young men who became like brothers to him. At the end of his time there he had memorized the Quran, but upon returning to the United States he wanted nothing to do with religion anymore.
Yusuf had suffered from depression since his early teens, but he went into a black depressive spiral after coming back home. All of his former friends had forgotten him, and he missed the friends he had back in Pakistan. The only exception was a young man named Hasan, who would check in on him every so often, pick him up to go grab something to eat, go see a movie. No one else called him, ever.
He was eighteen and had no idea what to do. Once, out of sheer angst, he slammed his head into a dresser mirror, splitting open his head and passing out. Other times he went online to search for ways to commit suicide but out of fear of going to Hell forever, desisted.
“It was the only thing that stopped me from doing it,” he said.
Eventually he took his GED, passing after the second time, and joined a community college. From there he went on to Towson University where he began feeling suicidal again. A close friend of the family, Dr. Atique Rahman, reached out to him, and they then spent many hours together. He was prescribed antidepressants, which, he says, turned him back into a human being.
All this time, as every man in the family was breaking into bits, in the center of the storm was Aunty Shamim.
There were times when, unable to keep the pain from spilling into ugliness, Uncle would tell her it was her fault that Adnan was gone, her fault that all her sons were gone. And most of those times she believed him, even when he later said he didn’t mean it.
Aunty, says Yusuf, suffered the most. “She had to deal with my crazy ass, her husband was depressed, one son left her, her other son was in prison and she had to be there for him, for all of us. She was there for everyone. Like there were five of her. But no one was really there for her. The biggest regret I have is that I wasn’t there for her.”
* * *
Adnan’s family wasn’t the only one going through turmoil. My marriage was bad, deeply damaging to me emotionally, for many reasons.
I also didn’t have a job in 1999, which made things difficult. My husband gave me a tight allowance for groceries but that was it. I was on my own for other expenses, including the expense of calls from the prison.
The cost of collect calls for inmates, which many prisons utilize, are a disgrace and a crime in and of themselves. The charges associated with them were not routine calling charges, they were exorbitant. At the end of the month, having spoken to Adnan six or seven times, I would end up with hundreds of dollars of additional billing. This added up for me and for my parents, and there were months when my ex told me that I had to tell Adnan to stop calling. But I could not.
I kept drawing money from my student loans to help cover costs, to send him things, to every so often put small amounts into his commissary. About a year after his arrest, I had begun an internship at a local immigration law firm. I had been offered an internship at the public defender’s office in D.C., but declined. The hours were too difficult to manage with a young child and family obligations. I have always regretted that decision because I wonder how much better positioned I would have been to help Adnan if I had taken it.
It was a strained existence. The core of my world was my daughter, and I tried to distract myself by staying busy, but as time went on my misery increased. I was desperately lonely and sad, felt unvalued and indeed loathed. After five years, the marriage unraveled dramatically one night, when circumstances forced me to leave with nothing but a suitcase and my ancient computer. I was devastated, but I was finally free; the only problem was I had to leave without my daughter.
* * *
I was broken, broke, bewildered. My marriage had ended both spectacularly and at the same time with barely a bang. One day I was married and the next I was on my own.
I moved in with my parents as I prepared to fight for custody of my daughter. Her father was ten steps ahead of me. The week before I left his house he had gone to Child Protective Services (CPS) and filed a complaint against me, alleging that I gave my daughter drugs.
I found this out when I went to file a custody petition for her and the judge told me, to my astonishment, that CPS would have to conduct a full investigation taking a number of months to investigate the allegations. I stammered to the judge that I had never touched drugs in my life. It didn’t matter; once a complaint was filed it had to be investigated for the welfare of the child.
In hindsight, as painful as it was to be separated from my only child, in those few months I gained back some confidence. I began going to the gym, found some contract work, began studying for the bar again, and began focusing on the appeal that Adnan was about to file.
As concerned as he was about his appeal, Adnan was even more concerned about me. I remember the first time I told him that I was now separated, that I had moved in with my parents, and that I didn’t have my daughter. He was silent for a while and then full of grief at the news.
He told me he couldn’t imagine what I was going through and I recalled thinking, as I held the phone, that this boy is serving a life sentence in prison and he is telling ME that he can’t imagine my pain? I was floored by his compassion. Floored. I took courage from him. If he felt his situation was manageable, who was I to complain?
I got myself together and managed to outmaneuver my ex in the custody proceedings. I had been cleared, after extensive interviews with friends, family, and colleagues, of the CPS charges and our permanent custody hearing was approaching. I wanted the judge to see the family that my daughter would be living with if I didn’t get custody. The people whose immigration status was questionable, the chain smoker, the compulsive gambler. So I marched into the family court and subpoenaed every last one of them a few days before the hearing.
Letter written by Adnan after he learned of my separation
Within a few hours of being served, they called and said I could have her. They weren’t going to contest custody anymore.
Those eight months until I got my daughter, and the moment that phone call came, truly turned my backbone into steel. Going forward I would become a single working parent, one of the hardest jobs in the world, but I wasn’t afraid anymore. If I could handle the thugs that were my ex-in-laws, I could handle anything.
I had my daughter and my freedom
and was ready to start my life over.
At the same time, Adnan and his family were ready to fight for a new trial.
Adnan had strong legal issues and he had something else on his side—the very public disbarment of Cristina Gutierrez the year before. In June of 2001, facing record-breaking client complaints, Gutierrez agreed to stop practicing law. For someone who had lived her life and career fighting every step of the way, her concession was uncharacteristic, but telling.
That was the first that any of us realized what had been going on with her during Adnan’s trial. She had been sick and overworked, neglecting and hurting dozens of clients including Adnan. Her disbarment was no secret in the legal community and when Adnan’s appeal would be filed, the court would certainly notice that he had been represented by someone who was unfit to represent anyone.
The family had begun preparing for an appeal, a direct appeal where technical issues from the trial could be challenged. New evidence, like Asia’s affidavit, could not be raised in direct appeal; it could only be raised in post-conviction relief (PCR), on which Adnan wanted to hold off.
He was surrounded by hundreds of fellow inmates, all giving him the best legal and strategic advice they could muster. They advised him to give the direct appeal a shot before going straight for PCR; better two bites of the apple than one.
Attorney Warren Brown, well known in Baltimore’s legal community, was hired after some consultation with community members. Brown filed an appeal with the Court of Special Appeals (COSA) of Maryland based on three issues, two of which were objections to the admission of Hae’s diary and her breakup letter by Judge Heard.
But the main issue raised was Jay’s plea deal and the circumstances surrounding it: that the State had committed prosecutorial misconduct, violated Brady, and violated Adnan’s due process when it suppressed favorable material evidence of a side agreement with Jay, and that the trial court committed reversible error in prohibiting Adnan from presenting this evidence to the jury.
Adnan sent me his lawyer’s brief and I thought, as an inexperienced law graduate, that it made very sound arguments. I felt hopeful and told Adnan so.
The brief was filed with the court on February 27, 2002, and not long after, oral arguments were held. Adnan was deeply worried about how things would go. All this time he had never spoken with Brown. Brown had never taken his collect calls and never visited him. An associate in the firm was handling Adnan’s case, and he had no idea how this person would do.
5/6/02
Asalaamualaykum. Bismillah’irrahman ir’raheem
What’s up sis? Not much over here. I got the states brief (answer to mine). I don’t know what to make of it. They don’t seem to be denying that they withheld the evidence (1st pt. of Brady), but they’re arguing that 1. The information was before the court/judge in other ways [and] 2. That it wasn’t that important anyway. I’ve read some Stork Briefs (responses) before, and this one seemed like they put quite a bit of work in it. They cited a lot of civil cases, which of course the case law still apply to criminal but nonetheless I still think it’s pretty weird. Allah knows best …
Inshallah I’ll send you a copy as soon as I can. The copying machine here has been down, on & off. So Inshallah as soon as I can.
Eh, I talked to my pops, and he said he’d call Uncle Patel. The Oral Argument is scheduled for June 3, 2002 in the Court of Special Appeals. I don’t know exactly how that works; if I’m there or not, but I think I heard somewhere that each side only gets 5–20 mins. My dad said he’d go, but that he wouldn’t know what’s going on. I wanted to ask you if you could go? You know more @ law then anyone else, and could follow what’s going on. My a#hole lawyer probably won’t even tell me what happened, he’d probably just say wait for the decision!
Man, I really need you Rabia. I got to know how he rebuts their arguments and what he says. I can always get the transcript, but they won’t be ready till months later. I also need to know what the state throws in the game, cause if the judges affirm my conviction, their opinions will essentially mirror the states arguments. That way, I’ll have a head start on my writ of Cert to the higher court.
If you can, Inshallah, I’m gonna try to get the info @ the hearing from Brown, & have my father contact him for it. His #’s 410.576–3900. If you call him, he may/may not give you the info./Or he might just be the jacka$$ he is and refuse to talk 2 u.
Eh, I know you’re really busy, w/ your custody hearing & your bar & job-hunting. If you got some prior commitment/too busy, it’s cool. I know you’d do it 4 me if you could …
Inshallah let me know when you get a chance. Take care.
Love, Adnan
Adnan knew life was a bit crazy for me then as a single working mom, but he requested that I attend the hearing, one of the few times he’s ever really asked me for anything.
He didn’t have to worry, I wasn’t going to miss this for anything.
That morning, Aunty Shamim and I were the only people to attend the oral arguments before a panel of three judges. Adnan’s attorney did a good job. I thought she was prepared, professional, and courteous to the family. But winning a direct appeal is a near impossibility; the odds are completely against the defendant.
A year later, on March 19, 2003, COSA denied the appeal, upholding every ruling of Judge Heard’s in relation to Jay’s plea, discovery of the plea, and the admission of the documents at issue.
No one was surprised. Adnan least of all. He had now been in prison for four years and knew enough stories of the cases of other inmates, denials of even stronger appellate issues, that he was expecting to be denied. As such, he had already begun mentally preparing for the next step: submitting a Petition for Writ of Certiorari, also referred to as a writ of cert.
This petition is granted on even rarer occasions; in essence it is an appeal to the highest court in Maryland, the Court of Appeals. Adnan had seen this coming and, knowing both the extreme unlikelihood of winning and the cost associated with another appeal, decided to draft the petition himself.
He sent it to me to review, as if I knew anything about Maryland law, but I looked it over anyway for grammar, style, structure; he had written a better petition than many attorneys I knew.
Adnan had little time, so in accordance with court rules he filed an original and seven copies within fifteen days of COSA’s ruling. The Court of Appeals took little time to return their answer: on June 25, 2003, they denied the petition.
There was only one shot left now, post-conviction relief. Adnan, however, wasn’t quite ready.
* * *
I think it was the first real fight I ever had with Adnan. Gutierrez had not only been disbarred but she had died from a heart attack after being ill with multiple sclerosis. We had Asia’s letters and affidavit. Why couldn’t we move on the PCR immediately? It was the end of 2004, and his last appeal had been denied almost eighteen months prior. But Adnan wasn’t having it. He had been burned too badly. And despite trying to get recourse for what Gutierrez had done to him, he got nowhere with the Attorney Grievance Commission and the Client Protection Fund. They had both denied him relief, with the Grievance Commission directing him to the Fund to file a claim, and the Fund stating that while Gutierrez had consented to be disbarred, she “did not admit to any theft of monies” so they couldn’t help him. They told him he had a malpractice problem and his only recourse was probably to sue her estate.
It was one more truly low moment for Adnan and his loved ones. He had been failed over and over again, by every part of the system that should have protected him. He knew he had one last chance and was willing to wait as long as he had to, to make sure all of his bases were covered.
My sense of urgency, the desperation of his family, all of it paled in comparison to his very astute grasp of reality. This last time, it had to be done exactly right.
I knew there was no arguing. Adnan had to handle his business the best way he thought, though I worried that he was influenced by his fellow inmate
s. I also realized he was full of fear. As long as the PCR was out there, he had hope. If he filed early and then lost, it was over.
I decided to back off, and also backed down on something else I had been bugging him about for years—going to the media. On that issue he also told me no, it wasn’t the right time, though at moments he faltered and gave me a “maybe.”
I understood his concern, though. Asia was our ace, an alibi witness the State had no idea existed. Going to the media before the PCR meant giving them all the time in the world to come up with a way to discredit her or otherwise interfere with her. That certainly wasn’t worth it.
All we could do now was wait, wait until he felt ready.
* * *
I was wandering through the bazaar in a large, annual Islamic convention, holding a cardboard box with a hole on top, a stack of flyers under my arm. Every so often I would approach whoever made the mistake of making eye contact with me, hand them a flyer, and begin telling them about Adnan, hoping to get a few dollars out of them before they cut me off.
I was raising money for his PCR appeal—though not imminent, it was going to happen at some point. After a few days of intermittent begging, I managed to raise $178. But I also managed to hand out hundreds of flyers with Adnan’s address on them, asking people to write and support him, the address where they could mail checks to help with legal fees, and my own personal e-mail address in case they had any questions.
One of the people who got a hold of this flyer reached out to me. His name was Irfan Aziz, a twenty-three-year-old from Toronto who happened to be at the convention. Irfan had recently returned from England where he’d finished an “aalim” program in Islamic scholarship. He was now getting accredited as a chaplain. I was impressed. He e-mailed to ask about whether he should try and raise some funds for Adnan or organize his friends to write letters to him and I thought it was a great idea. I said sure and thanked him profusely.
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