Yusuf had set up a small table with two chairs in a corner of the living room. The set doubled as his kitchen table and home office. His living room had a glass coffee table and a threadbare sofa. The walls were bare except for a plastic framed picture of Mecca that had come with the apartment.
Kind of like hotel Bibles, thought Yusuf when he’d first seen it and not because he had any disdain for his religion. Rather, he believed, he’d developed a certain objectivity to the world around him because he’d lived elsewhere.
He pulled a leather toiletry bag from the hall closet.
There were four bottles of eyedrops left. He cursed himself for not bringing more. He hadn’t anticipated the effect the wind-spun dust would have on his eyes.
So much for being a native.
He shook the tiny white bottle and decided to save what remained. It would be months before he returned to the United States, and the air wasn’t going to get any better.
Yusuf was accustomed to bouts of insomnia. Big cases kept him up, and he would go weeks at a time, sleeping just three hours a night. That was Yusuf’s way. He made lists of precedents to look up, holes in his arguments, and research he still needed to complete. Statute by statute, point by point — it was a meticulous process, like extracting pomegranate seeds one by one. His restlessness was not entirely because of Zeba, though. Yesterday’s conversation with Meena had taken him by surprise. He was doing his best to put it out of his mind and focus on the work at hand.
Yusuf poured himself another cup of black tea. Tea replaced coffee here, not because coffee couldn’t be found but because the Afghan taste for tea had come back to him quickly.
A much needed draft slipped in through a half-open window. It carried the faint smell of blood from the butcher shop below the apartments.
Yusuf was only fifteen minutes away from the prison by taxi. Just fifteen minutes between him and Zeba, his reticent client. He was close enough that he could see her on a daily basis if he chose to, but he didn’t bother. He thought that if he pulled back, she might realize how badly she needed his help. He wasn’t usually a fan of playing games, but defending Zeba required creativity on all fronts. Her chances of beating the charges were slim, at best.
Since he wasn’t with his client very often, Yusuf spent his days digging up what statutes he could and poring over law books. Afghanistan’s legal infrastructure had been destroyed over the years, but a team of international players had taken on the rebuilding of it. They’d created a reasonable set of laws for the country — a playbook he understood. The real justice system, though, was much different. People didn’t play by the rules. Even some of the higher courts judged without jurisprudence. Outside of the major cities, there was no true rule of law.
Yusuf’s colleagues in the main office understood his frustration, though they had little patience for it. Sometimes, his huffing incited anger in those who had been diligently doing this work before he showed up. Aneesa was the head of the legal aid group. She was a bold woman in her early forties who had lived in Australia for the worst years of the war. She’d returned after the fall of the Taliban, determined to put her foreign law degree to good use. Yusuf had been immediately impressed by her when they’d first met.
“Yusuf-jan,” Aneesa began firmly, “the justice system, if you can even call it that, is as twisted as a mullah’s turban. There are ways to work with what we have, but it takes creativity and patience. You cannot expect this country to have its house in perfect order the moment you decided to walk through the door. There’s a lot to be done. And even more to be undone. Yes, in many places the authority of the white beard prevails. What the elders say is law. Lucky for you that your client is facing a judge, not a community trial. And from what I’ve heard about the judge overseeing your case, you should be very thankful. You could be at the mercy of someone much, much worse.”
Yusuf thought of the qazi. Maybe Aneesa was right. The judge hadn’t yet brought up execution. Others probably would have by now. He flipped to a new page on his notepad and made a reminder to learn what he could about the judge. There could be an angle he could use to his advantage.
YUSUF WAS IN THE OFFICE BY NINE O’CLOCK THE FOLLOWING morning, earlier than everyone except Aneesa. When he entered, she waved to him from her desk and adjusted her head scarf, a thin mocha-colored veil in perfect harmony with her pantsuit. Aneesa had quietly pleasant features, soft brown eyes, and a delicate chin. She pursed her lips just slightly when she was thinking. She had a sharp legal mind, Yusuf had learned quickly. Well versed in both Sharia and constitutional law, she could glide between Dari and Pashto and had built a reputation as one of the city’s most formidable lawyers since her return to Afghanistan. Yusuf could only imagine what kind of force she’d been in Australia, the salary she must have turned her back on to return to her homeland.
Yusuf greeted her and sat at his desk on the opposite side of the office. They were separated by two putty-colored filing cabinets.
Aneesa took a hard look at him — hard enough to make Yusuf uncomfortable.
“Have you been sleeping?”
He nodded.
“I’m fine. The dust here, it’s. . I’m fine.”
“How’s the case going?” She spoke to him in English, a faint Aussie accent that somehow made the conversation feel more casual.
“It’s not,” Yusuf admitted. He ran his fingers through his hair just so he wouldn’t rub his eyes. “I’m defending a woman who doesn’t want to be defended. She thinks it’s better for her children if she doesn’t put up a fight. When she’s not screaming like a lunatic, she doesn’t talk. She’s given me nothing to go on. How am I supposed to make a case out of that?”
“We work with what we have,” Aneesa said matter-of-factly. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve learned about the case against this woman? Maybe we can come up with something together,” she suggested. She pulled a chair over and propped her elbows on the desk. It shifted. Without a word, Aneesa tore a page off a newspaper lying nearby, folded it, and wedged it under the lopsided leg. Yusuf pretended not to notice. He’d been meaning to do the same. He cleared his throat and began laying out what he’d learned thus far about the day of the murder.
“Did the police note any bruises on Zeba? Did she say anything about him beating her?”
Yusuf shook his head.
“Some bruises on her neck but someone had tried to choke her just before she was arrested. I know what you’re getting at. I was hoping to somehow use that defense, but she’s not even hinted that her husband had done something awful to her. I know there’s something there, though.” Yusuf pictured Zeba, her face solemn as a tombstone. She was always so careful with her words. “I can’t believe this woman would slam an ax into her husband’s head without reason. She doesn’t strike me as that type of person. She’s too controlled for that.”
“Controlled? The woman who screamed her head off in the judge’s office and then slept for two days?”
“That might not have been her most controlled moment,” Yusuf conceded. “But I’m telling you, this is not a woman who loses it so easily.”
“Maybe. What has her family said? What did they think of her husband?”
“Her family hasn’t been around. Her brother, Rafi, hasn’t said much about Zeba’s husband, just that he wished his sister had never been married off to him. It’s obvious he feels guilty for letting her marry that man. He wouldn’t say anything specific. ‘Talk to my sister,’ he kept saying. ‘She knew him better than anyone.’ He did say his sister did not deserve to be in prison — that her children needed her and wouldn’t fare well living with their father’s family. I believe him.”