It was three o’clock in the afternoon and unmercifully hot and humid. Shannon wore a modest dress and two-inch heels so she would seem taller. She stared at the house for a few seconds from inside her air-conditioned car and felt sweat forming on the back of her neck. She knew that in any honor killing, the husband would always be one of the first suspects. She also believed that Fatih had lied in court about his conversation with her client. Could Fatih be the one who had orchestrated his own wife’s death? The thought of going face-to-face with someone like that both infuriated her and scared her. She thought about Ja’dah and ratcheted up her courage.
She walked confidently to the front porch, knocked, and waited. After a few seconds, she noticed the doorbell and rang it. The front door opened slowly, and Shannon found herself a few feet away from Fatih Mahdi.
She had seen him in court, but he had looked less intimidating in his traditional Muslim garb. He stood before her now in jeans and a white T-shirt, powerfully built with a barrel chest. Like everyone else, he towered over her. His hair was unkempt. He eyed her up and down for a second before speaking.
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to ask a few questions about your wife’s murder.”
Mahdi’s eyes betrayed his sadness-not the reaction Shannon expected. She had steeled herself for anger. Instead, he gave her a look of fatigue and resignation. “I have talked to the police and to the commonwealth’s attorney. I can only hope that my friend Khalid had nothing to do with Ja’dah’s death.”
“It would help Khalid Mobassar a lot if you’d let me ask you a few questions,” Shannon responded. “We both want the same thing-the person or persons who are responsible for Ja’dah’s death brought to justice.”
Mahdi looked down for a second, considering Shannon’s request. When he faced her again, he seemed more resolute. “The news reports say that you will be filing motions to keep the text messages out of evidence based on technicalities. Is this true?”
“We’ll be filing a motion to suppress the wiretap evidence because it violated our client’s constitutional rights-hardly a ‘technicality.’”
“Nevertheless,” said Mahdi, “a strange way to get at the truth about who killed Ja’dah. A strange way to bring the killer to justice.”
“My job is to defend my client,” Shannon said, trying not to be argumentative. “And just because he happens to be an imam whose mosque in Lebanon used to support Hezbollah’s relief work does not mean the government should be allowed to tap his phone.”
“I’m sorry,” Mahdi said. “But I know how the American system works. The best way for you to try to prove Khalid’s innocence is to build a case against me.”
Shannon sensed that Mahdi could cut through any pretense. She decided to play it straight. “That’s one way. But if somebody else ordered the killing of your wife, we would have a better chance to catch him if we worked together.”
“What evidence do you have that my wife’s murder was ordered by someone other than Khalid?”
The sun was beating down on Shannon’s back, but a slight breeze floated out from the air-conditioned house. Lawyers liked to ask questions, not answer them. She needed to get inside with Mahdi and become the interrogator again. “May I please come in and ask you a few questions? It would only take about thirty minutes.”
“As I thought,” Mahdi said sadly. “Your only defense is to blame the husband. And you expect me to help you dig my own grave?”
“It’s not like that,” Shannon said quickly. Too quickly.
“For me,” said Mahdi, “it is precisely like that. If you find real evidence that points to someone other than Khalid, I would love to talk. Until then, it appears to me that our conversation would only help my wife’s killer finesse his freedom.”
Mahdi started to close the door and paused for a second. “I hope you are right about Khalid,” he said. “The thought that my imam and good friend ordered the death of my wife has made this ordeal unbearable.” With that, he politely dismissed Shannon and closed the door.
The whole encounter left her with an unsettled feeling. She hadn’t really expected him to answer her questions. But she thought the man would be angry and condescending. Instead, he acted like he was still mourning. And to be honest, he didn’t seem like the type of man who would order the beheading of his own wife.
Was Mahdi also a victim? Was there someone else out there pulling all the strings so that Mahdi would suspect Khalid and Khalid would suspect Mahdi? If so, what could be his motive?
Though Shannon hadn’t thought this visit would provide a lot of answers, neither had she expected it to generate so many questions. She left with her stomach in turmoil. It would be harder to point the finger at Fatih Mahdi than she originally thought.
54
According to the neuropsychologist, it was Khalid’s job to help Ghaniyah return to the normal routines of life. She was still having a little trouble with short-term memory and with what the doctor called “executive functioning.” The doctor had encouraged Ghaniyah to write down anything that came to her mind throughout the day that she needed to do. The lists would help her remember.
On Tuesday night, Khalid took it upon himself to make a list of all the things they needed at the grocery store and then went shopping with Ghaniyah. He drove to the local Harris Teeter and walked the aisles with his wife, checking off items as they put them in the cart.
Things went smoothly in the store until the Mobassars stepped into the long checkout line with their cart full of groceries. A moment later a few young men stepped into line behind them wearing cutoff jeans, work boots, tank tops, and frayed ball caps. Khalid could smell alcohol on their breath.
They were talking in the loud and obnoxious fashion of men who had downed one too many beers and therefore overestimated their own wittiness. The language was vulgar, and Khalid did his best to ignore it. He didn’t want any trouble. He just wanted to check out and get home with his groceries.
Things started escalating when one of the men apparently recognized Khalid. “Hey, ain’t that the towelhead who ordered those women beheaded?”
Khalid flinched but stared straight ahead. He could read the tension in Ghaniyah’s features. Her temper had always been more explosive than his.
“That boy right there oughta be in jail,” one of the men said. “The other prisoners would teach him a thang or two about submission.”
The men laughed; Khalid pretended not to hear.
“I’d have my wife wear one of those head coverings too if she looked like that.”
Khalid felt his face redden with rage, his muscles tensing. It took every ounce of self-control not to react. Others around him glanced nervously at Khalid and the men behind him.
“If the man had any guts, he’d turn around and say somethin’.” Khalid felt the speaker literally breathing down his neck. The man was taller than Khalid by a couple of inches.
Khalid wanted to turn around and nail the guy-make sure the first punch was a good one. But this evening, his focus was on Ghaniyah. Stress like this wouldn’t help her recover.
He took her by the elbow. “Let’s go,” he whispered, then began walking with her to the front of the store, leaving the full grocery cart in the line.
“Come on back, big man!” one of the men called out. “You want a piece of this?”
Ghaniyah didn’t say a word as Khalid led her to the car. He could tell she was irate. He thought about calling the cops, but that might end up as a black mark against his probationary status.
He started the car and turned to back out of the space. To his surprise, one of the men had followed him and was standing directly behind Khalid’s vehicle with his arms crossed.
“Wait here,” Khalid said to Ghaniyah.
He put the car in park and stepped out of the vehicle. “I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of my way,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble.”