“I’ve printed your name on my body to match the print on my heart. What you’ve done for me, I will never forget.” She had her two hands pressed against her sternum, her head tilted to the side so that her bangs hung away from her kohl-lined eyes. “I will always be grateful for the time you’ve given me with my sons.”
“Oh, you foolish girl!” Zeba laughed. “What will your sons say?”
“My sons? They’re lucky I didn’t tattoo your name on them, too!” She glowed with relief, and Zeba felt her shoulders relax at this woman’s happiness. “They would cry every time I talked to them about going to the children’s shelter. You cannot imagine how happy they are to be staying with me now! Marzia is teaching the children numbers now, or they would be here to hug you themselves.”
“Malika Zeba!” called another woman’s voice. Her couplet echoed through the hallway, followed by a ripple of laughter:
“There is hope even for the rice ever burned
Since our Queen Malika has been returned!”
Four more women charged toward them with giddy smiles and eager faces. “Finally! I never had a chance to talk to you before. I’m so thankful you’re back. You’ve got to help me!”
Zeba was swept away by a wave of women, leaving Yusuf standing in the hallway of Chil Mahtab. Asma laughed at his slack-jawed expression and shrugged her shoulders.
“She’s got the women under her thumb with that jadu of hers. Last week, they had a tattooing session in the beauty parlor. Her name’s been written on a dozen body parts,” Asma whispered, scandalized.
Yusuf’s mobile phone chirped in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the number that had called him three times in the last week. Three times he’d ignored the calls because he’d been in the middle of a conversation with the judge or Aneesa or his mother. He pressed the green button to take the call, still thinking Zeba owed him an explanation. Was the mullah really her father? Did her mother know about this?
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello. Is this the phone of the lawyer for Khanum Zeba, the prisoner at Chil Mahtab?”
It was a woman’s voice. Yusuf wondered if it were someone from the office, though Aneesa hadn’t mentioned anyone would be calling.
“Yes. Who’s asking?” The last of the women disappeared around the far corner of the hallway. Asma followed, more out of curiosity than a need to control the swell of women around Zeba.
“I’m a reporter with Dawn News. My name is Sultana. I wanted to ask you a few questions about her case. I’m happy to chat with you on the phone or in person.”
She spoke quickly and concisely. She was polite, but there was an edge to her tone. When Qazi Najeeb had talked about the reporter, it had never crossed Yusuf’s mind that it might be a woman.
“Oh, so you’re the one looking for a story on Chil Mahtab?” Yusuf went to the interview room. He needed to write up a report of what had transpired at the shrine today and the mullah’s latest assessment of Zeba. He pulled the door closed, and the echo of the hallway disappeared. He threw his bag on the table and pulled back the chair.
“I am. Initially, I wanted to do a story on the crimes of immorality, but it seems that your client is a very interesting one and the charges against her are pretty serious. Do you know the women of the prison are entranced by her? She’s become something of a hero to them.”
“Yes, that’s pretty clear,” Yusuf agreed, the calls for “Malika Zeba” still ringing in his ears.
“And it seems she’s got an intriguing background. Her grandfather was a murshid and her mother is a bit of a character. How did Zeba come to be charged with such a gruesome crime? Has she truly confessed to killing her husband or do you assert that the signed statement recorded in her arrest registry is false?”
“How did you hear about that?”
“By asking questions. So is it her confession or was it fabricated?”
Yusuf was taken aback by her direct questions. They’d been on the phone for only a moment, and she was already pecking at the heart of the case.
“I’ve raised serious concern about the validity of the confession,” he said carefully. He’d already decided that he would use the press coverage in any way he could. If it meant pointing fingers at the muddied justice system, he would do just that.
“I see. And I’ve also heard that she was taken to a shrine to be treated for insanity. This is not at all standard procedure in a murder case. Was it your recommendation to take her to that shrine? How much longer will she be there?”
Yusuf undid the top button of his collar and peeled it away from the back of his neck, where beads of moisture made it cling to his skin.
“She’s not at a shrine,” he said simply. If Sultana wanted more information about the shrine, she would have to look for it elsewhere. He wasn’t about to paint his client as an insane person when it didn’t seem an insanity defense would get her anywhere.
“But she was at a shrine, a local one where a mullah engages in some fairly controversial treatment for the insane. Why was she taken there when we have medical facilities with trained professionals who could evaluate and treat her scientifically?”
“She is not at a shrine,” Yusuf repeated without elaborating.
“Where is she?” Sultana asked with great interest.
“She’s here at Chil Mahtab. We’re preparing our final statements for her case, and the judge should be issuing a ruling in the next two days.” Yusuf had been struggling with his final arguments, going through pages and pages of handwritten scrawl without satisfaction.
“And how do you think Qazi Najeeb will rule?”
“That’s a question for Qazi Najeeb,” Yusuf replied. “But my hope is that he will weigh all the factors in this complicated case and reach a fair conclusion for this mother of four young children. The sooner she can be returned to them, the better.”
“You maintain her innocence?”
“I do,” Yusuf affirmed.
“You’ve made a case that she is insane, from what I understand. Do you know that no one has ever been defended with an insanity plea in Afghanistan? This is quite unusual.”
“I’m aware, but the circumstances of this case are unusual and Qazi Najeeb has been careful about sticking closely to the procedural and penal codes of Afghanistan. We have followed the law precisely to be sure that Khanum Zeba is receiving a fair trial. Just because there’s no precedence doesn’t make it wrong. Lots of things are happening for the first time in our country.”
“You’re speaking to the only female journalist willing to cover this province. I don’t think you have to tell me that.”
Yusuf’s lips curled in a smile as he pulled at a stray thread on the strap of his messenger bag.
“When are you planning on printing this story?” he asked.
“When I feel I have enough to go on. As of right now, there’s a woman accused of murdering her husband and her American lawyer is making claims that she is not guilty because she’s insane. Not a bad lead, is it? Still, I want to include everything I can. Sometimes, crime in Afghanistan is more about rumor and gossip than anything else.”
“There’s a lot of truth to that.” Yusuf sighed.
“But I don’t want to be part of the gossip. Rumors can get a woman lynched in the streets. I want facts, and facts might just help your case,” she suggested. “Anything I print could potentially sway the courts to act on the right side of the law here. Our reports sometimes catch the attention of the foreign media. A few international eyes on your case, and the pressure is on.”