Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

Malik wasn’t free, but people were shaking his hand. “He’ll never file,” J.T. was saying. “Not a chance.” “Reasonable doubt, what can you say?” Rosalie agreed.

  Brad and Jenna left the courthouse by a side entrance. At a makeshift podium in the lobby, Jordan Chiles was holding a news conference.

  They didn’t go back to the hotel. Jabr, after first making sure no one was following, headed west on I10, then south through a maze of freeways to the coast road. The house, in Laguna Beach, belonged to a friend of Brad’s. Jenna was beginning to see that, for a quiet and very private man, he had a great many friends.

  After the desert, the chill moisture of the sea air was as refreshing as a waterfall. The timeless crashing of the waves was better than any tranquilizer. Jenna could almost imagine that she and Brad were back at Marblehead, and that none of the rest of it had happened.

  Almost. There were Toni and Jabr, and Brad’s security men, mounting watch. There was the fact that her brother was still in jail. There was the possibility that, within a day or two, she would be there herself. (Jordan Chiles had hedged in his press conference. He was confident, he said, that Malik Badir was the perpetrator in the shooting of Ali Rashad. But a wild card had been thrown on the table, and his office was actively investigating the claims made by Dr. Jenna Sorrel.)

  And, of course, there was the constant worry over Karim. She called every- one she could think of who might know where he was. His closest companions, Josh and Jacqueline, she had called repeatedly. She was almost certain they were lying when they said they hadn’t seen him, but there was little she could do about it. Please, God, let this be over soon, so that I can get back to Boston and find my son.

  Sam Adams Boyle arrived on their second day in Laguna Beach. He was a tough, red-faced, silver-haired, old-time Southie, with the sour expression of a Boston police captain hearing that his division’s budget was being cut. He was in time to watch Chiles sing a new tune to the press. The DA conceded that, because “new developments” made it unlikely that a prosecution of Malik Badir could succeed “regardless of its merits,” the state would not refile. As for Jenna Sorrel, alias Amira Badir and Amira Rashad, the investigation was ongoing, and he would not comment on it.

  “What does all that mean?” asked Jenna.

  “It means your brother’s free,” said Boyle. “Or will be as soon as they run through the paperwork. No more than a few hours, I’d imagine.”

  “What about me?”

  “Well, there it is. I met Mr. Chiles this morning—he was none too happy to see me, I assure you. He spent a good deal of time lying—the very same drivel you just heard about an ‘ongoing investigation.’ I’m certain he means to charge you.”

  Jenna gripped Brad’s hand.

  Boyle noticed the gesture. “No fear. He’s got as much chance of a conviction as I’ve got of winning the marathon. But he has to do something or lose his election. He’s going to lose it anyway, in my opinion, but I think he’ll take this last shot. Besides, he’s a vindictive sonofabitch, pardon my French.”

  “Let’s say he brings charges,” said Brad. “What next?”

  “We go in and surrender. I’ll try to arrange for her immediate release, on recognizance or on bail.” He frowned. “I have to tell you, though, that I’m a bit worried about that part. Our friend Mr. Chiles will ask that bail be denied on the grounds that Ms. Sorrel’s brother’s resources and her history of traveling on false documents make her a risk to flee to avoid prosecution. A judge might very well go along.”

  “That means I’d go to jail?” asked Jenna.

  “For a time, at least. It would be an injustice, and I’ll do all I can to pre- vent it, but it may happen.”

  “How long? Until the trial?”

  “I sincerely doubt it. As I said, Mr. Chiles is going to lose his election. And I’ve taken the precaution of speaking with his opponent. In a general way, of course. But I have the strong impression that she’ll be more reason- able than Chiles.”

  “How reasonable?” Brad wanted to know.

  “Our discussion was very general. But I wouldn’t be surprised to hear an offer of probation in exchange for a plea to, say, involuntary manslaughter.” “And what if it goes to trial?” asked Brad. “What’s our defense?”

  “I’ll know more about that after I’ve had a long talk with my client. But based on what I’ve heard, we’ve got classic self-defense or defense of the life of another. There’s also the battered-woman angle, which is very strong these days.” He looked at Jenna. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, Ms. Sorrel, but you’re quite the heroine out there just now for a lot of people. Women especially, but men, too. And that’s another thing: by the time I get through with Ali Rashad, he’s going to look like Satan’s signpost.” “I’d rather you didn’t do that, Mr. Boyle. I have a son—wherever he is—and Ali was his father.”

  “Well, there’s that. I see your point. No more than necessary, then. No more than the truth.”

  That evening at dusk, Jenna and Brad walked down to the ocean. What Boyle had said, the likelihood of separation, hung between them. There were so many things to say that they found it hard to speak. The first stars were coming out when Brad finally broke the silence.

  “Jenna, this will be over soon—sooner than we think, thank God. When it is, let’s go away somewhere. A month, maybe two. The islands. A cottage in Ireland. You tell me.”

  “That sounds nice. But it’s not over. And I can’t go anywhere until I know what’s happened with Karim.”

  “Well, that will work itself out. He’s upset now—it’s only natural—but it won’t last forever.”

  “It’s more than that. You don’t know Karim. And then, you know, sooner or later, I need to get back to work. It’s been so long. It’ll be like starting over.”

  “It’ll be like that whenever you go back. Take the time before you get caught up in it again.” He looked up at the evening star, unbelievably brilliant in a west- ern sky that had darkened to cobalt. “We could make it a honeymoon,” he said. “No one could blame us for taking time off for that.”

  She wanted, with all her heart, to say yes. She traced a pattern in the sand with her toes and said nothing.

  “It’s not an ultimatum,” Brad went on. “It’s open-ended. It runs till that star burns out. I love you, Jenna. That’s never going to change.”

  “I love you. It’s just … it’s just too much right now.” How could she explain? It wasn’t just Karim, or Malik, or Laila, or anyone else. It wasn’t about going back to work. It wasn’t about marriage. It was about shooting a man to death. Ever since Sam Adams Boyle had mentioned the possibility of a plea bargain, her thoughts had been in turmoil. She didn’t feel guilty—yet, she knew she was. She could have screamed, that day at the pool; she could have run for help. But she had done something else entirely. Much of her life’s work was devoted to healing the effects of violence. Yet, when the choice had been hers, she had chosen violence.

  “Whatever you decide,” said Brad, hearing what had not been spoken, “just remember that Jordan Chiles isn’t a man to make fine moral distinctions. Don’t give him any more ammunition. He’ll use it to make you look like a murderer.”

  It was dark now, and cold. They headed home.

  O

  At the house, lights were blazing. A Rolls-Royce and a Lincoln Town Car lounged smugly at the curb. On the deck, looking out over the sea, Malik, Farid, J.T., and Rosalie were raising glasses.

  “So much for a low profile,” said Brad.

  Jenna ran to embrace her brother. Farid joined in the hug. The two lawyers wore the easy smiles of warriors whose battle was won.

  In a corner, Laila stood quietly with a handsome, weather-burned young man.

  “My friend David Christiansen,” she said to Jenna. “We just stopped by to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For telling the truth.”

  O

  The next day at noon, Jordan Chiles went before
the cameras to announce that a grand jury had indicted Amira Badir Rashad, alias Jenna Sorrel, on a charge of second-degree homicide, and that a judge had issued a warrant for her arrest.

  Boyle called. “This is it. We’re going in now. Otherwise, Chiles is likely to show up with a television crew and handcuffs.” He instructed them to meet him at a stop on the interstate. He mentioned a few—very few—personal articles that Jenna should bring. “Wear layers,” was his final piece of advice. “Jails are always too hot or too cold.”

  From the rest stop, they drove to the courthouse in Boyle’s car. There was a crowd, police, trucks with satellite dishes, signs supporting Jenna. Chants. Cheers. “I took the liberty of letting a few people know we were coming,” explained Boyle. “It can’t hurt for the voice of public opinion to be heard. All right, now: we march in like we own the place.”

  Someone, Jabr, opened the car door, and Jenna stepped out to a surge of cheering from the crowd. People were calling her names—both her names. Then she was racing for the door with her hand in Brad’s, Sam Adams Boyle hustling blockily in front of them like the old fullback he undoubtedly was.

  Epilogue

  Aftermath

  Jordan Chiles’s last important public achievement was to convince a judge that no bail should be set for the defendant in the case of People v. Rashad. Two days later, he was overwhelmed at the polls by a thirty- three-year-old corporate lawyer and former public defender named Jennifer Faye Edmondson.

  Sam Adams Boyle blasted Chiles in court and in the media for waging a vendetta against the Badirs, brother and sister. He appealed the denial of bail. With much less sound and fury, he opened negotiations with Jennifer Edmondson.

  “It’ll take a little time,” he told Jenna, “but it’s the only way—and the best way.”

  “How long?”

  “Worst case, three months—that’s when Edmondson officially takes office. Best case, if we can steamroll Chiles, three or four weeks. I know you don’t like to hear that, stuck in this place, but there it is.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m working on that. A plea of some kind, like we talked about. With luck, there won’t be any more jail time. Even if there is, I can guarantee that it won’t be much.”

  “That sounds good. Thanks, Sam.”

  “No thanks needed. I’m just doing my job. So how are you holding up, kid?”

  Jenna had to smile at “kid.” Boyle had become distinctly avuncular as they had come to know each other.

  “I’m fine, Sam. Really—I’m okay.”

  The funny thing was that it was almost true. Unlike most new prisoners, Jenna needed to learn the trick of living one day at a time. She had lived that way before, in the women’s quarters of the royal palace in al-Remal.

  True, in the palace she and the other women had access to every physical luxury their whims might suggest, whereas here, luxury was an extra slice of bologna in the lunchtime sandwich. But psychologically, the similarity was remarkable: when it came right down to it, the women in the palace had been prisoners, too.

  The jail, at least the women’s wing, wasn’t especially grim. Essentially a small dormitory, it wasn’t even crowded; Palm Springs was hardly a high- crime area. Most of the handful of inmates were single mothers who worked in minimum-wage jobs or survived on public assistance, very much like women Jenna had known at the free clinic in Boston. Their typical offense was shoplifting or writing bad checks. At first, they treated Jenna like a celebrity, even a heroine. A housemaid named Latronia Parrish broke the ice.

  “You that princess shot her husband?’’ “Yes.”

  “What you shoot him for?”

  “He was trying to kill my brother.”

  Latronia nodded, as if this were nothing out of the ordinary. “What’s it like bein’ a princess?”

  They all wanted to hear. After lights out, nudged along by a dozen questions, she began the story of her life. It went on for several bedtimes. She began to feel like the girl of A Thousand and One Nights. The others wept when she described the events in al-Masagin, gasped in disbelief about Alexandria, cursed the beating that had hospitalized Amira. By the time it had all been told, the others treated her less as a celebrity and more with the respect due a survivor.

  For all that, the loss of freedom was hard, and hardest of all was Jenna’s inability to go to her son. Every day, he was slipping farther away from her—she could feel it—and there was nothing she could do. She didn’t even know where he was. If only she could see him, talk with him, for just one moment. Wouldn’t a word, a touch be enough to make him remember, to change his heart? Sleeping on the hard prison cot, she dreamed that the jail’s steel bars were modeling clay, the kind she and Karim had played with when he was a little boy. She could bend them aside and slip through, back into the cozy apartment in Boston, back into the past. She hated waking to find that the dreams were only dreams.

  It was during a visit from Toni that Jenna had an inspiration.

  “You’re gonna love this,” Toni said chattily. “Would you say that Jabr and I work well together?” “Very well.” It was true.

  “I’m glad you think so. Because we’ve got this idea. You know I’ve been looking for something to do with my life, some kind of career. And Jabr wants to go out on his own, too. So what we’ve come up with is a security service, investigations, stuff like that, the two of us as partners. What do you think?” “I don’t know. It’s not exactly my field of expertise. Have you mentioned this to Malik?”

  ‘‘He thinks it’s a great idea. In fact, he’s going to back us financially, help us get started.”

  “Toni, that’s terrific!” “Yeah, I’m happy with it.”

  It was then that Jenna had the idea. “What if I gave you your first job?” Toni looked surprised. “Name it. We’re yours.”

  “Find Karim. Find him and … talk with him. That’s all. Just talk with him, find out what he’s doing—how he’s doing.”

  Toni nodded. “Okay. I’m sure my new partner will approve.”

  “Take him with you. Karim is so enamored of everything Middle Eastern, and Jabr is certainly that. Besides, he knew … Karim’s father.” Toni pulled out a notebook and pencil. “Give me the names of his friends—girlfriends especially. Addresses and phone numbers if you can. Classes he was taking at school. Places he likes to hang out.”

  Jenna gave the best information she could.

  “We’ll go tomorrow,” said Toni. She grinned. “By the way, it’s on the house.”

  O

  Malik was in his best mood of sunny optimism.

  “Everything will work out, Little Sister, you’ll see. With Karim, too.” He approved of Toni and Jabr’s mission. “When they’ve located him, maybe I’ll fly him out. You said he likes me.”

  Jenna was less certain. “A lot has changed for Karim, Brother. Invite him, if you like. But whatever you do, don’t pull a stunt like you did with me. It’ll just make things worse.”

  He smiled guiltily.

  “How’s Laila?” asked Jenna.

  “Fine.” But he was suddenly more somber. “She’d like to see you, you know, but I think she’s … nervous. And to be honest, I’ve discouraged it. You know what a circus this thing has become. She doesn’t need to be part of it.” “I agree. Please tell her it’s okay.”

  “The truth is, I’ve suggested that she go back to France for a month or two, until this is over. I’ve talked with David about it. He’d go with her, at least for part of the time.” He smiled again. “I hate to admit it, but I like that young man. I think he’s good for Laila. No business sense, though. Do you know, the captain of my yacht will be retiring soon, and I mentioned the job to David. Offered him an absurd salary. Do you know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘I’ve seen pictures of the Jihan, sir, and she doesn’t appear to have sails.’” Malik laughed, then added, “He loves what he does. I respect that.”

  Jenna felt a little better.
One thing, at least, was working out. And it was a hopeful sign, too, that Malik and Laila were acting like father and daughter again. Not so long ago, Laila had hated Malik—as Karim now seemed to hate Jenna.

  O

  Brad was in for the weekend as always, flying from Boston late Friday, returning late Sunday. In his quiet way, he had made acquaintances among the guards and police and did little things that made imprisonment a bit less onerous for Jenna and the others—for example, the chocolate cake that mysteriously materialized on Latronia’s birthday.

  Characteristically, he was more restrained than Malik in analyzing the Karim situation. “We knew it would be tough when we took this route. Karim was in a difficult, rebellious phase to begin with. It may get worse before it gets better—but it will get better. It’s just going to take time. What we need to prepare ourselves for is the possibility that it may take a lot of time.”

  It was true, Jenna knew, but it wasn’t enough. Even Brad’s, “I love you,” as he rose to go wasn’t enough—not here, not across a table in this harsh, sterile place, under cold fluorescent lights and the eyes of the guards. What she needed was his strong, gentle touch, his arms around her, his words whispered against her skin.

  And she needed her son.

  She was counting on Toni. Toni would know how to handle Karim. Hadn’t she been through something equally tough, maybe even tougher, with her own sons? And Jabr. Jabr was like a force of nature. Together, they would bring Karim back to her.

  O

  One look at Toni’s face told Jenna that she had been dreaming again, foolishly dreaming.

  “What happened?”

  “We found him. That’s the good news. It wasn’t hard. He was crashing at Josh Chandler’s apartment, sleeping on the couch, that kind of thing. Strictly temporary.”

  Obviously, Josh had moved out of the Chandler house, but Jenna couldn’t think about that. “You saw him? You talked with him?”

  “Oh, sure. That’s kind of the bad news. He let us in, very polite, but he didn’t want to hear anything we had to say. He told us he’d made his plans and didn’t intend to change them.”