Yusuf felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Zeba did not flinch. In fact, her shoulders pulled back a bit and her chin lifted. She did not appreciate being compared to an animal even if the judge talked of a transformation since then. She knew he was right, though. She’d been dragged out of his office kicking and screaming, feeling a wildness in her bones because she no longer knew what or who she was. What mother would not go mad if she were pulled away from her children just when they needed her most? Complacency in that moment — that was the true madness.
“You’re not saying much. You never have throughout this trial. All we know about you is your signed confession,” the qazi said.
“That’s not her confession,” Yusuf interjected, raising an index finger.
The judge raised his hand in Yusuf’s direction. Yusuf bit his lower lip.
“You think you control us, don’t you?” asked the judge. “You think, like your mother, that you can move the world in whichever direction you’d like because you are who you are. You’re the granddaughter of a murshid who has sometimes been described as holy and sometimes as a spy for the enemy states. You’re the daughter of a jadugar—”
Zeba tried not to flinch, but the judge caught the way her muscles twitched at the mention of her mother’s sorcery.
“Oh? Did you think I didn’t know about her tricks? She’s been a crafty woman all her life.” Qazi Najeeb looked away and sucked his teeth. Why couldn’t he see Gulnaz as just another plotting, graying woman? He scowled and thought of the ungodly way she commanded attention.
“Qazi-sahib, the reputations or habits of her grandfather or mother shouldn’t have anything to do with this case,” Yusuf said in a controlled voice. Defending his client without infuriating the judge was an art form that required continued practice.
The judge didn’t bother to acknowledge Yusuf’s comment but resumed speaking without further comment about Gulnaz, who seemed just as important to him as Zeba.
“You, Khanum, have been arrested for murdering your husband. Is there a worse crime? Is there something worse than depriving your children of their father. . of. . of depriving his family of their brother? Is there something worse than taking the life of a person?”
Zeba felt her body tighten with resignation. In a matter of moments, few or many, he could declare her fit to be executed for Kamal’s murder. Her children’s faces appeared behind her closed eyelids.
Yusuf saw her withdraw and instinctively said a prayer. He wanted to put a hand over hers but resisted. She was not who the judge thought she was. She was the bravest woman he’d met, willing to submit herself to the judge’s mercy to save a young girl from having her life destroyed before it had even begun. He had profound respect for this woman whose behavior had maddened him at times.
“You’ve given me no explanation for why you killed your husband that day.”
Yusuf closed his eyes. He could not look at Zeba. Not yet. A smile broke out on the prosecutor’s face, his head bobbing ever so slightly in vindication. He was pleasantly surprised by the judge’s apparent decision.
Qazi Najeeb brought his hands onto his desk, his thumb still moving one amber bead at a time though he could not possibly be reciting anything holy as he spoke. The soft click of the stones against each other grated on Yusuf’s nerves. What kind of judgment was this? Had Qazi Najeeb not heard the stories about Kamal the drinker, the blasphemer? Had he chosen to ignore that Zeba’s husband had been the worst kind of man?
Zeba’s hands began to shake. She turned her head to the side as if moving away from an oncoming blow.
“I find you guilty of murder,” Qazi Najeeb explained grimly. “Because that is what the evidence indicates. I have not seen anything in the defense’s case to give another explanation for your husband’s brutal death.”
“Well done,” whispered the prosecutor, who could now log another victory. The particulars of Zeba’s case may have affected him as a person, but he also had to worry about his professional record. It was how he would be judged.
Yusuf’s elbows rested on his knees. He knew the penal code. He’d studied it and then reviewed it again when he first picked up Zeba’s case. She could be hanged. If he looked at her now — if he dared move his gaze from the tassel of the carpet on the ground — he would see her suspended in the air, neck snapped like a plastic doll and body limp with defeat.
“Let me be even clearer. You, Khanum Zeba, have been found guilty of murdering your husband. It is a deplorable crime against Islam and a crime against the laws of our country. There can be no excuse for it. We will meet again in three days and I’ll announce your sentence.”
CHAPTER 49
AFTER HEARING THE GUILTY VERDICT, YUSUF HAD SLOGGED home. He had planned to go directly to his apartment but decided, halfway down the road to his house, that he would stop at the gym first. He needed to do something physical.
He’d joined during his first week in the city. Inside were floor-to-ceiling mirrors, bright recessed lights, and the familiar hum of treadmills. Weight machines were scattered throughout the room as were dumbbells. There were men of all different sizes, some in Adidas tracksuits and others in faded T-shirts with sleeves cut off at the shoulder. One man in a short-sleeved T-shirt pulled outward the two ends of an elastic resistance band. A thick vein ran down the center of each bicep like the crease on a pair of pants. The place smelled of rubber, sweat, and metal.
The treadmill kept Yusuf sane. There was something soothing about the rhythm of his sneakers hitting the belt as it spun around the conveyor. It gave him a place to think when his apartment was too quiet and the office was too empty.
Inevitably, his thoughts returned to Zeba and the mullah. He had to know if Habibullah truly was her father, though he was still unsure whether or not it would make a difference. Shortly after Zeba had returned to Chil Mahtab, he’d called her to ask about it.
What kind of question is that? she had replied. It was neither confirmation nor denial.
Yusuf, with beads of sweat trickling down his back, decided to find out from Mullah Habibullah himself. If it were true, there might be more to chat about.
THUS, IN THE MORNING, YUSUF TRAVELED BACK TO THE SHRINE and knocked on the mullah’s door. The mullah’s son answered, looking back into the living room with raised eyebrows.
“Padar! It’s the lawyer!”
Yusuf peered into the sitting area and saw the mullah sitting on a floor cushion, the same exact spot he’d been sitting in during their last conversation. He had his back against the wall and his legs crossed. He wore a white crocheted prayer cap on his head and a black vest over his brown tunic and pantaloons. He glanced at his watch as if he’d been expecting Yusuf at this particular moment.
“Salaam, Mullah-sahib,” Yusuf said with a hand on his chest.
“Wa-alaikum. Welcome, young man.”
“Could we speak for a few minutes? I have an important matter to discuss with you. It has to do with Khanum Zeba, of course.”
The mullah motioned him to come in. Yusuf took two steps into the room. As he moved past the wooden door, he saw that the mullah was not alone. Across from him sat Gulnaz, her back straight as a hairpin. Her legs were tucked under her and hidden beneath a navy blue shawl with red embroidery. She looked from Yusuf back to the shawl spread across her lap, a deep sigh escaping her lips.
“Salaam wa-alaikum,” Yusuf said to Gulnaz, bowing his head. She nodded. “I did not expect to see you here.”