“I’m sure you all know the saying: ‘Let justice find its rightful owner.’ It’s a common phrase though most people don’t know the story behind it.”
Yusuf squeezed his pencil between his thumb and index finger until the pads of his fingers went white. The way the judge said “justice” made his stomach drop.
“There was a thief who, just before dawn, was caught trying to steal food from the home of a decent family to feed his own children. Someone heard a noise and lit the wick of a lantern. When the man saw the burglar backing out of his window, he shouted so loudly that he woke his neighbors. The thief took off running, but half the neighborhood gave chase, swinging sticks and knives and whatever else they could find.
“The thief ran through the darkness and came upon the masjid. He thought he could hide out in the house of worship and ducked inside. As his luck would have it, the mullah had gone out to the stream behind the masjid to perform his ablutions. The thief slid into the mullah’s bed and pulled the blanket over himself just as the angry mob approached. They entered the masjid and assumed the man sleeping was the mullah. Just then, the mullah returned from his ablutions and was surprised to find an irate crowd of people. Seeing him return, they assumed him to be the thief and dragged him outside, waving sticks and fists at him. He denied being a thief and begged them to consider carefully before they imposed punishment upon the wrong man. He cried and beseeched them, ‘Let justice find its rightful owner!’ whereupon they chopped off his hand. It was the penalty for stealing. Amid the chaos, the sorry thief returned to his hungry family.
“On the occasion of the mullah’s death, he reached the gates of Heaven and met the angel of death. He asked the angel why God had allowed him to be punished for a crime he hadn’t committed and why the true thief had been allowed to go free. Where was the justice in that?”
The judge paused for a moment, allowing his audience to ponder the question. He cleared his throat and continued.
“The angel told him that the thief had only intended to feed his hungry family. As for the mullah, while he hadn’t been guilty of that particular theft, he’d once swatted a cricket and broken its fragile leg. It was a sin without witness but that made it no less of a sin. ‘Just as you said, my friend. Let justice find its rightful owner,’ the angel explained. What looked like injustice was actually justice overdue.”
Gulnaz flipped the end of her head scarf across her shoulder. She looked at Yusuf, who dared lift his eyes from the floor.
The prosecutor nodded intently, his eyes narrowed as he awaited the actual sentence.
“In this case, there has been much to consider, and as I’ve said all along in this case, I want to follow the laws that now govern our country. It’s the only way to move past the dark times when there was no order or when order was dictated by the individual. For that reason, I turned to the penal code.”
Yusuf blinked rapidly. He looked at the judge whose eyebrows were raised as he read through the lower part of his lenses.
“Article 400 of the penal code tells us that an individual who ‘kills another by mistake’ shall be imprisoned for up to three years or fined up to 36,000 afghanis.” Qazi Najeeb looked up, turning his gaze to Zeba. “From what I’ve seen, this woman did not have the intention of killing her husband. She had no plan nor had she made any statements to neighbors or loved ones that she was going to. Given her behavior and condition, we were even prompted to have her evaluated by an expert to assess her mental condition. She was determined to be in a very weak state and, after discussion with the mullah from the shrine, likely suffering from remorse. I do not believe she meant to kill her husband. I believe she meant to defend herself in light of his behavior — behavior that was both un-Islamic and illegal — and prevent her home from becoming a den of sin. It’s become clear that she intended to turn him in, which is why she’d approached the chief of police before her husband’s death. His deplorable behavior would have been punishable by law according to article 347, which makes blasphemy a crime.”
Yusuf felt a pounding in his chest to hear the judge citing specific articles from the penal code. The prosecutor’s face had contorted from a look of snide satisfaction to confoundment. How had things gone so wrong so quickly?
“And so, with Zeba having been found guilty, I have the responsibility to find an appropriate sentence for her crime, which I have decided will be the time she has already served in Chil Mahtab and a fine in the amount of one thousand afghanis.”
The prosecutor was on his feet, mouth agape. Yusuf’s nervous energy had taken him from his chair as well. If there had been more room in the judge’s office, he would have leaped on the back of the armchair. As it was, he turned to Gulnaz and Zeba to see if the sentence had registered with them.
“But Qazi-sahib, this is not right. Don’t make me go through the pain of an appeal. How could you find her guilty and then—”
The judge waved a dismissive hand in the prosecutor’s direction. The electric fan buzzed in the background.
“The time for arguments has passed. I strongly suggest you focus on your next case,” he said. He closed a manila folder on his desk and rested his two open hands on it protectively. “This decision is final.”
The prosecutor blew through pursed lips. He wouldn’t appeal, he knew. This case was rife with inconsistencies and he wanted nothing more than to move on.
It was just starting to sink in. Gulnaz’s hands pressed harder against Zeba’s. Zeba looked into her mother’s eyes, her green irises like tiny prisms through the pooled tears. It was the greatest gift for them. It was the chance to start anew, their secrets no longer hidden in the folds of their skirts. Judgment Day had come, and Zeba would be free to embrace the four angels she’d been kept from all these months. Anything she ate would be sweeter than the fruits of Paradise. Anything she drank would be richer than the river of unspoilable milk. Zeba would enjoy the humble heaven that was this world.
Zeba would live.
CHAPTER 53
YUSUF SCANNED THROUGH HIS CALL LOG AND PRESSED THE green button when he saw her name. It was Thursday evening, and the events of the sentencing were still fresh on his mind. The prosecutor had walked out without saying a word, a sulk that did not go unnoticed by Qazi Najeeb. Gulnaz and Zeba had pressed their foreheads together and sobbed. Yusuf had looked at the judge, but he had already risen from his chair and mumbled something about seeing to another case. He had paused only to put a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder and nod. He said nothing more.
When Sultana answered the phone, Yusuf pressed his back against the seat of the taxi in relief.
“She’s free,” he said, his words sparse so that he could get them out without his voice breaking. “Zeba’s free.”
“Honestly? You’re serious?” Sultana exclaimed.
“Yes, very serious. It happened just this afternoon. If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t believe it myself!”
“But. . but. . why? What did he say?”
Yusuf recounted the judge’s reasoning, a new jurisprudence incongruous with his age and the traditions of the city. Yusuf was left to wonder what constellation of influences had pushed the judge to set Zeba free.
“That’s astounding.”
“It most certainly is. Listen, I don’t know what you told the judge and whether or not it had anything to do with this afternoon. What did you tell him?”