It was his job to defend her, and he didn’t have much in his arsenal to use. If this was a stretch, so be it.
Gulnaz watched the men’s faces. They all seemed to have forgotten she was in the room, which was fine by her. She only needed to hear what they were saying.
“The law? Listen, I haven’t objected to much until now, but it’s clear that you’ve come here with some kind of American agenda.”
Yusuf gritted his teeth. The prosecutor’s case was a handful of handwritten documents, composed mostly of Zeba’s “confession,” which had been written by a police officer. It wasn’t a case at all. Anywhere else in the world, the prosecutor wouldn’t be able to call himself a lawyer, and yet here, sitting in a ridiculous armchair, he could accuse Yusuf of representing foreign interests.
“I’m here to defend a woman who’s been accused of a horrible crime and had her children taken away. I’m here because if we want the Afghan judicial system to have any kind of integrity, we have to follow the procedural code and give accused individuals their due process. I know you don’t care much for due process but it’s important.”
“I do my job. You have no right to question my professionalism.”
“Don’t I? My job is to question how well you do yours. And I have lots of questions for you.” Yusuf’s voice cut through the room like the sound of glass breaking. Even Gulnaz was impressed.
“What questions?”
The prosecutor was still in the armchair but barely. He had both hands on the armrests with elbows bent, as if he were about to lift off the seat. He looked at Qazi Najeeb who sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.
“I’m interested to know what questions you have as well,” he said quietly.
Expecting the judge to intervene and squash the discussion, the prosecutor huffed with annoyance.
“To start, I wonder if you conducted any kind of real investigation. Article 145 of the Criminal Procedure Code states: ‘Investigation is required for all felony and misdemeanor crimes and it is performed in the presence of the accused person’s defense lawyer by the prosecutor in accordance with the provisions of this law.’”
“Investigation? We have a signed statement from Khanum Zeba!” the prosecutor insisted, waving a folded piece of paper in the air.
“She did not write that statement. She’s a literate woman — her mother can attest to that and she can prove it herself. If that were her statement, it should have been written by her own hand.”
“From what I was told, she was hysterical and so the police officer making the arrest did his job and transcribed what she recounted to him. That’s her thumbprint on the bottom of the page,” he shouted, his finger jabbing at a blot of blue ink. “Why would she sign it if it weren’t her statement?”
“She was hysterical when she was arrested? By hysterical do you mean crazy? That’s exactly my point, friend. I’m glad you agree.”
“That’s not what I said. You’re trying to put words in my mouth!”
“Let me continue. Article 145 talks about a few more requirements for an investigation. Did the police go to the scene of the crime to collect evidence? Did the police interview any one of their neighbors? Did you try to ascertain if there was any possible motive for this crime? Did you have any experts speak with Khanum Zeba to assess her mental status? Has he, Qazi Najeeb?”
“If anyone’s mental status needs to be assessed, it’s yours. The police are the ones who conduct discoveries. It’s a simple, black-and-white case, and I’m sure Qazi Najeeb will tell you that.”
“I’ll speak for myself!” Qazi Najeeb interjected. He hadn’t expected today’s trial proceedings to be so animated, especially with Gulnaz present. Gulnaz, as far as he could tell, did not seem bothered by the shouting match. She remained composed, listening intently.
The judge continued. “Let’s move on. There was as much investigation as there typically is for a case like this. Your client’s been charged with the crime. We know the crime happened. We’ve got a written statement in which she confesses to killing her husband.”
“Your Honor, on that piece of paper is a confession of a woman who hit her husband on top of his head with a hatchet.”
“Yes?”
“Kamal died from a hatchet wound to the back of the head, low enough that it was near his neck. If she did confess, she would know where his wound was, wouldn’t she?”
“On top of the head. . back of the head. . you’re really reaching.”
“Why are we wasting our time on this?” the prosecutor asked.
“I don’t consider it a waste of time to do my job,” Yusuf shot back. “Maybe you should ask yourself if you’re doing yours.”
Qazi Najeeb stroked his short beard and felt a few crumbs between his fingers. Of course, a case involving the murshid’s daughter would not be straightforward. He could let these two lawyers take cheap shots at each other but he had to do it in a way that would save face for him.
“Go ahead, Yusuf.”
The prosecutor huffed and sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest.
“This is what happens when we let foreigners stick their noses in our affairs,” he muttered.
“Article sixty-seven of the penal code of Afghanistan states,” Yusuf recited with his eyes set on the prosecutor, “that ‘a person who while committing a crime lacks his senses and intelligence due to insanity or other mental disease has no penal responsibility and shall not be punished.’”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” the prosecutor said, chuckling.
Both the judge and Yusuf noticed Gulnaz square her gaze on him.
“And I’ve never had such a case,” Qazi Najeeb explained. “Yusuf, this is not the type of defense I was expecting to hear. Maybe you want to reconsider. Khanum Zeba is obviously distressed, but that could be because she’s thinking about the day she plunged a hatchet into her husband’s head. Women have gone mad over much smaller matters, I’m sure we can all agree.”
The qazi took a sip of his tea. The biscuits, though delicious, were dry and seemed to have caught on the inside of his throat. Still, he found himself reaching for another.
“These are delicious, Khanum,” he said absently. “My own mother’s biscuits were not this good, God rest her soul. What did you put in these?”
“May you eat in good health, Qazi-sahib,” Gulnaz replied politely. “They are nothing but flour, butter, and sugar.”
“Mm, delicious.” The qazi wiped the crumbs from his mouth before he spoke again. “I have an idea that might help us in this odd situation. I have a good friend who provides treatment for the insane. He’s been quite successful curing some very seriously affected people. Maybe we can ask him to evaluate Khanum Zeba. Why not follow the letter of the law in this case? We might make a name for ourselves here.”
“Make a name for ourselves? Your Honor, I thought we’d have this case decided today or in the next week. If he were asking for mercy because she’s a mother or if she stated her husband tried to kill her, then maybe there would be something worth talking about but this. . this. . insanity excuse. .”
“It’s the law,” the judge said with amusement. “We cannot argue with that.”
The prosecutor was astounded. Qazi Najeeb had a reputation for being objective and difficult — though not impossible — to bribe. Still, this was unexpected behavior.
“Qazi-sahib, this is a great idea!” Yusuf said excitedly. If Zeba remained in her current state, the evaluation would provide a quick answer in their favor. “Your friend is a doctor? Is he at the hospital in the city?”