“When the great Prophet Mohammed, may peace be upon him, returned from battle, he said, ‘We are finished with the lesser jihad; now we are starting the greater jihad.’ For too many years, too many Muslims have been fighting the lesser jihad and ignoring the greater jihad, the internal battle for purity, a battle with our own evil nature.” Khalid’s voice echoed with authority in the stillness of the mosque. The worshipers were unusually still and solemn today, anxious to hear a word from someone who had suffered for the sake of Allah, a prophet in their own midst whom they had too long taken for granted.
“This greater jihad will not be won by honor killings and suicide bombers. It will only be won when we peacefully submit to Allah’s will. It is time to lay down the swords of the lesser jihad and pick up the plowshares of the greater jihad.”
Khalid paused and searched the eyes of the faithful. In some, he saw resistance. They wanted a leader full of threats and bravado. But in others, he saw hope. He realized that his words this day would unleash powerful forces for and against him. He had studied the great reformers, and this was always their lot. Violence. Passion. Hatred. Admiration. Love.
But ultimately-perhaps in his case-there would be one other by-product-the salvation of the world’s greatest religion.
36
Like millions of other Muslim Americans, Hassan watched Khalid Mobassar’s khutbah on cable television. Afterward, the talking heads sliced and diced each word and debated Mobassar’s guilt or innocence. Most were cynical, postulating that he had used the national spotlight to influence future jurors. They pointed out that he would probably not take the stand in his own defense and that the media coverage of today’s events gave him the chance to “testify” without being cross-examined.
Representatives of various Muslim groups took the other side, chastising the media for its rush to judgment. It was a classic case of racial and religious stereotyping, they said.
To Hassan, it was all empty rhetoric. Americans believed in talk, like some collective national therapy. It was another weakness of the Great Satan, and Hassan turned off his television before he was drawn into its mindless addiction. They wanted to talk? He would give them something to talk about.
His orders came, as he expected they might, nearly four hours later. This time, they came via e-mail from a temporary address that could never be traced. There was a young woman in California, the daughter of a prominent leader in an LA mosque, who had strayed from the faith. She’d had the audacity to get baptized in front of a large congregation in a suburban Christian church.
Hassan was instructed to show no mercy. There would be no opportunity for the woman to renounce her newfound faith. She must die in a way that would send terror into the hearts of the weak-kneed American public.
Hassan was also told to begin surveillance on Taj Deegan, the single mother who would lead the prosecution team against Khalid Mobassar, and to investigate the jury selection process for the city of Virginia Beach. He should be prepared to act as soon as the jurors were selected for Khalid’s trial. The Americans celebrated the transparency and openness of their judicial system. What the Americans saw as a great strength, Hassan Ibn Talib would be prepared to exploit as a great weakness.***
It had been a long time since Alex had stayed home on a Friday night. But that’s exactly what he was doing tonight. He flicked from one TV channel to the next, watching the endless loop of coverage on what the media called “the Sandbridge Honor Killings.” He sat with his legs extended in front of him resting on a stool, his computer in his lap. Against his better judgment, he scrolled through the comments to the story about Khalid in the Tidewater Times. They were overwhelmingly negative and, for the most part, emotional rants by anonymous commenters. “Muslims like beheadings. Once he’s found guilty, this man should be beheaded on the Virginia Beach boardwalk.” Other commenters used symbols to replace certain letters so that the foul language wouldn’t get flagged by the automatic filter. A few took shots at Alex and Shannon. “Typical lawyer scumbags. They’ll say anything this guy wants them to so they can make money from his wife’s car accident.”
One of the comments took specific aim at Alex’s church. “And this guy calls himself a pastor?” The same comment gave the phone number for the church and a list of deacons for people to call so they could urge the church to fire Alex.
There was a thread of race-baiting in the comments as well. “This country is being overrun by radical Arabs. We need to cut out this cancer NOW!!”
Reading the comments, Alex felt like somebody had tied him to a runaway train and was dragging him down the tracks. He had done nothing to bring this on. But every word printed about him or his firm would stay on the Internet forever. Khalid’s story would eventually give way to other stories, and the American public would move on. But when someone Googled the name Alexander Madison, the first page to pop up would show his representation of an accused Muslim murderer.
He normally didn’t care that much about what people thought. In fact, he had a way of intentionally antagonizing people just to get a reaction. But the magnitude and lopsidedness of this criticism were overwhelming even for him. Alex was a young professional with his entire career in front of him. Now he would be forever defined as an attorney who had represented a client accused of beheading an innocent young woman.
He hated to leave Shannon alone on the case. He had tried everything possible to talk her out of it. But the more he pressed her, the more she dug in her heels. His partner was determined to drive off a cliff. Alex’s only choice was whether or not he would be riding in the passenger seat.
In a way, they had been down this road before. Shannon had stayed with her emotionally abusive boyfriend long after Alex begged her to break it off. He knew that eventually the relationship would crash and burn or escalate into real physical abuse. His role would be to help pick up the pieces.
He admired her spunk, but this time she was in way over her head. This time, the pieces might be damaged beyond repair.
37
On Saturday morning, Alex threw on a pair of board shorts, a T-shirt, and Chacos and headed to the Belvedere for breakfast. The entire world may have turned against him in the past few days, but breakfast with his grandmother would be a respite from the storm. He needed someone to help him think clearly and navigate his way out of the case in an ethically appropriate manner. His grandmother wasn’t a lawyer, but she had more common sense in her little finger than most people did in their entire bodies.
This morning, Ramona had commandeered one of the coveted booths near the windows. Alex arrived ten minutes late, and she waved him over. Her curly gray hair stuck out from under a visor, and she wore a long, droopy T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The tourists were out in force, and the small coffee shop was overcrowded to the point that the air-conditioning couldn’t keep up. Nothing like sweating a little during breakfast. Alex sat down, and the waitress came over and filled his coffee cup. Just the smell of Saturday morning coffee and sausage on the grill started to relax him.
“I’ve been trying to call the last few days,” Ramona said. “You’re harder to reach than the pope.”
Alex didn’t try to defend himself. He had wanted to talk with his grandmother but hadn’t had the energy to go into it over the phone. He knew they’d have some time to hash things out this morning. “I’ve been a little busy.”
“Well, don’t forget to brush your teeth, get plenty of sleep, and have your devotions.” Ramona smiled, but her matronly humor was lost on Alex. “Oh… they have gotten under your skin,” she said.