“What if I told you where you could find information about Zeba’s case?”
Sultana cocked her head slightly and blinked.
“What do you mean?”
Yusuf tried to ignore the dampness settling into his feet. His mother would have stripped his wet socks off long ago. You don’t know it now because you’re young, she would say, but you’ll have arthritic legs the rest of your life if you don’t get out of those things. I know you’ve got all those diplomas, but there’s a lot you learn from living, too.
Yusuf tapped the tip of his pen on his notepad, then looked up. Sultana watched him, her shoulders even and poised. She knew not to push him. She only needed to be patient.
“You’re right. Zeba’s case is an intriguing one and there’s a lot more to it than can be found in her arrest register,” Yusuf said. A confidence bloomed in him that this was the right thing to do. It was, in fact, the only thing to do. “There’s been a lot of buzz in her village lately. Things people are saying about her dead husband that might shed a lot of light on what happened that day.”
“Really?”
“Yes. There’s a lot of talk about things he had done in the months before he was killed. It’s worthwhile getting to know what kind of man he was, I think.”
“You’re suggesting I go out to her village and speak to people?”
There wasn’t time for that. Yusuf knew just how long it would take to get there, knock on doors, and find the few willing to speak.
“Everyone’s been interviewed by the chief of police — a man named Hakimi. It seems the deceased had a penchant for alcohol.”
Sultana’s eyebrows perked with interest.
“Did he?”
“Yes. Among other vices. But the worst that came out of the police chief’s investigation was that he’d destroyed a page of the Qur’an. Seems he didn’t have much respect for God’s book. A man who does something like that with the holy book — well, you can just imagine how he might have treated his wife throughout their marriage.”
“I see,” Sultana said, her lips pulling together grimly.
“This information hasn’t really made its way outside. . it’s not likely to weigh too heavily on the judge’s decision because he’s looking just at the physical evidence.”
“Is there proof the husband did these things?”
“It’s what a lot of people have been saying.”
Sultana said nothing. She leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes on the pen Yusuf twirled between his fingers.
“Anything else?” she finally asked.
Yusuf shook his head.
“It. . it explains a lot, doesn’t it? I think it would make an interesting piece for the public to read about.”
“Which would then get back to the judge and force him to be lenient with Zeba because her husband was such an awful man that he dared to burn a page of the Qur’an.”
Sultana’s tone had a distinct edge to it. Her eyes were narrowed so that the kohl and lashes and dark irises meshed together into smoky half-moons.
Yusuf wiggled his toes. His legs were starting to ache.
“You know, I didn’t expect this.” Sultana pushed away from the table. Her face was stony with resentment. “I expected better from you, honestly. I’d heard you were trying hard to build a real case for your client. Really trying to defend her instead of moving from her file to the next dismal imprisoned woman.”
“What are you talking about?” Yusuf was thrown by her reaction. He leaned forward, stealing a glance toward the glass door to see if any of the guards might be eavesdropping.
“You want a reporter to do some dirty work for you? That’s not me. Rumors have done enough damage in this country — they’re a poison. Look at the women in this prison. You’ve seen their files, haven’t you? How many of them are here just because someone pointed a finger? I’m not going to be part of spreading another lie just because you’re about to lose your case. If Zeba doesn’t want to talk about her husband that doesn’t mean you can come up with something to justify another lynching like they tried to do in Kabul. I was there, you know. I covered the protests after that woman was murdered in the street because of a rumor. Thousands came out against street justice.”
“Look, that’s not what I was trying to do. Sultana, just let me explain.”
She stood from her chair and shook her head indignantly. She picked up the strap of her bag, nearly knocking her chair over in the process. Yusuf stood as well, his hands remaining planted on the table. This had gone all wrong.
“Just give me five minutes.”
“Good luck with your case, Yusuf. Sorry this has been a waste of time.”
CHAPTER 48
YUSUF BIT THE END OF HIS PENCIL, A RESURRECTED HABIT FROM high school. Qazi Najeeb had summoned both lawyers to return to his office on Monday for the verdict and sentencing. Both sides had presented their entire cases, and he had had ample time to deliberate.
Today was Monday.
Yusuf sat in the floral armchair with Zeba on a wooden chair beside him. The prosecutor took the seat opposite Yusuf with a nod. Yusuf stuck his gnawed pencil in his bag, the taste of metal and rubber still in his mouth. The prosecutor settled into the chair and placed a folder of papers onto the table. The two men looked at each other and exchanged half smiles.
“Whatever it is, it’ll be over today,” the prosecutor said, shrugging.
Yusuf nodded. He’d been utterly unimpressed with the prosecutor’s halfhearted approach, but he’d been judging the man by his own set of criteria.
“I. . I have to tell you, the way you use the letter of the law. . I’ve not seen anyone work so hard to defend a criminal.”
“She’s not a criminal yet,” Yusuf quickly corrected. “That’s the point.”
The prosecutor nodded deferentially. He would humor Yusuf for today.
“You know what I mean.”
Qazi Najeeb entered and moved past the two lawyers and Zeba to take his seat behind the desk. Both young men put their hands on their knees and started to rise when he entered. Zeba saw no point, given that the judge’s back was turned to her already. She remained in her seat.
“Salaam wa-alaikum.” Their greetings were synchronized.
“Wa-alaikum,” replied Qazi Najeeb. “Take your seats.”
The judge leaned back in his chair and grew quietly pensive. He slipped his hand into his vest pocket and pulled out his tasbeh and held it in the palm of his left hand. He stretched the moment as long as he could, wanting everyone to feel the importance of today’s meeting.
“It’s time to bring this matter to a close,” the judge said, turning his attention to Zeba. “The two attorneys here have argued about the facts of this case a great deal. We’ve taken a lot of time to be sure the proceedings fell in line with the letter of the law. Even if we are not Kabul, we were no less diligent.”
Zeba sat with her hands clasped on her lap. She watched the judge, but blinked and looked downward often so as not to appear too brazen. Qazi Najeeb sat back in his chair and considered her for a moment.
“You are not the same woman who was brought into this office months ago.”
Yusuf’s body tensed.
“You came in here months ago looking like you’d been overcome by djinns. You were like an animal, nothing human about you. I can see now that you feel differently. This has nothing to do with your guilt or innocence and everything to do with what kind of person you are.”