But what thrilled Hassan even more was the certain knowledge that today was his day to bring great glory to Allah. This was the day he had been dreaming about his entire life. Events had transpired that now demanded he pay the ultimate price. For the sake of stopping the heresy of his traitorous stepfather. For the sake of preserving the legacy of his real father.
But most of all, for the sake of Allah.
Today, he would fight. Tonight, he would enjoy the fruits of paradise.
95
Alex met with his client at the Virginia Beach City Jail at 6 a.m. on Monday. Khalid was still in his orange jumpsuit and flip-flops. All the conviction and fire were gone from his demeanor. He seemed to be a mere shell of the man who had been sitting next to Alex when the case started. He spoke barely above a whisper, and his bloodshot eyes reflected the sad recognition that one of the things he valued most-his relationship with his wife of thirty-three years-had been damaged beyond repair. He was hanging on by a few tattered threads of his devout faith.
“Until Friday, I believed deep in my soul that we would win this case and justice would be served,” he told Alex. “But now, whether we win or lose is of no great consequence to me. I’ve already lost the most important things.”
Alex tried to fortify his client for the day ahead. He wanted to say something encouraging. But the sad truth was that things were about to get worse for Khalid, not better.
“We’ve got to discuss some things I learned last night,” Alex said. “You’re not the only one who didn’t get any sleep.”***
Hassan knelt next to his sister and removed her hood. Her eyes were still closed and her breathing was steady. As soon as the drugs wore off and she recognized him, he would be committed to his new plan.
He went to the bathroom and completed the ceremonial cleansing. He came back into the tiled game room and performed the morning salat. The rhythmic ritual of the prayer put his mind and soul at peace. When he finished, he sat in a corner and waited. He had to leave by 8 a.m. whether his sister had regained consciousness or not. He could leave a note behind, but he wanted to see the look on her face.
Allah had given him a new mission. Hassan had always been the consummate soldier, carefully executing the orders of the Islamic Brotherhood and Hezbollah without ever wavering. But today was different. This plan had come straight from Allah’s lips to Hassan’s heart. He prayed that Nara would wake up soon. She needed to hear what Allah had given him to say.
Thirty minutes later, she stirred. He wanted to go over and shake her but instead stayed in the corner and prayed. It wouldn’t be long now.
A few minutes later she groaned and moved again. Another minute and she opened her eyes. She squinted and closed them quickly. She opened them a second time, and it seemed like she was trying to pull her hands from behind her back when she realized they were handcuffed together. When she noticed Hassan sitting in the corner, she blinked and wiggled into a sitting position.
Hassan stood without talking.
She stared at him with a confused look, as if she thought maybe she was dreaming. Her eyes were glazed and somewhat distant, the residual effect of the Rohypnol. Hassan took a few steps toward her. Her gaze grew clearer.
Then, in a moment of sudden recognition, Nara’s eyes flew wide. She tried to say something, but the duct tape turned it into a murmur. She squirmed and turned her head left and right, eyes darting around the room, a look of panic taking over. When Hassan moved in front of her and knelt, she tried to scoot back. Her face was wild with fear.
“It’s me,” Hassan said softly. “And I’m not going to harm you.”
She was in a state of shock, woozy from the drugs, but there was no mistaking the recognition in her eyes.
“I’ve been working for your father,” Hassan said. He was down on one knee in front of her. “He knows that I am still alive. He has been ordering the beheadings of those who convert to Christianity in order to advance his own vision for the Islamic faith. It is exactly as the prosecution claimed in their opening statement.”
Nara shook her head. She spoke louder into the duct tape, but Hassan could not decipher the muffled words.
“Listen to me!” he said. Nara flinched and shuffled back a little. “Your father is not who you believe he is. He sent me here to kill you. He said if I did that, the jury would never believe he was guilty. He’ll take the stand and testify about how much he admired you, but in truth, he thinks you’ve discovered his true agenda, and he sent me to eliminate you and restore the honor of the family.”
Hassan could tell that Nara didn’t believe a word he was saying. But he knew beyond any doubt that she would one day come back to the faith. And when she did, it would happen with a vengeance.
“Your father knew from the beginning that I didn’t die,” Hassan explained. “He helped me gain a new identity because my fake death helped propel his cause forward. It’s hard to ignore a man who lost both sons to the Israelis.”
Hassan stood and Nara looked up at him. There were tears in her eyes, and he sensed her fear. He would have to trust Allah to change her heart.
“Do you remember when we were kids and the Sunnis would beat me up on the way home from school?”
Nara nodded. She tried to say something but couldn’t.
“You fought my battles then. Today, I will fight yours. When I am done, those who wish to harm you, and those who wish to despise the name of Allah and his Prophet, will no longer be a threat.”
He thrust out his jaw and spoke the words with as much conviction as possible. “After I die, you must take up the cause. Allah will give you wisdom enough to see the truth and courage enough to one day lay down your life.”
Nara shook her head and lifted her chin, as if she was willing to die on the spot for what she believed. Her eyes pleaded with him to remove the duct tape, but he knew better. She would argue and protest. She would anger him and endanger her own life. He was doing this for her! Why couldn’t she see that?
He would have to give her another shot of Rohypnol and then secure her to the bed so that when she woke, she would not be able to squirm away. During his mission, he would carry the rental agreement for this property in his pocket. After his death, they would come for her.
He reached out and put his hand on Nara’s shoulder. She stared and tried to shake the shoulder free. But this did not bother him. He had heard from Allah. Who could stand against the will of God?
He smiled at his sister, remembering how she had cried at his funeral, how she had ridden next to him in the dream. “One day, you will follow me to paradise.”
96
“Do we have any housekeeping items before I bring in the jury?” Judge Rosenthal asked. It was the same question he asked every morning, a perfunctory inquiry that always generated a “No, sir” from the lawyers. But this morning, Alex had a few surprises.
“There is one thing, Judge.” Alex handed a two-page document to Rosenthal and gave a copy to Taj Deegan.
“It’s on a related case,” Alex explained. “It’s a motion to nonsuit the civil case of Ghaniyah Mobassar v. Country-Fresh, Inc., et al. ”
Rosenthal looked at Alex as if the lawyer had lost his mind. “You want me to sign an order to nonsuit your civil case?”
“Yes, sir,” Alex said, as if this type of thing were done every day.
“Do you mind telling the court why?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Rosenthal tilted his head back as if Alex had just taken a swing at him. But on this point, Alex knew he was entirely within his rights. Under a unique aspect of Virginia law, every plaintiff in a civil case had the opportunity to nonsuit the case one time as long as the request was made before the judge granted a motion to strike or the jury retired for deliberations. A nonsuit was a voluntary dismissal, after which the plaintiff was entitled to start fresh by refiling the case anytime within the next six months. It was one of the many things Alex loved about Virginia. Judges had no choice in the matter; they had to grant a nonsuit if the plaintiff requested one.