“How so?” I asked.
“His willingness to renounce his own faith in favor of mine.”
“Do you sense falsehood in it?”
“I sense weakness.”
Hadi regarded me from behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Calm but alert, the same keen forbearance I’d seen in most of the various priests, ministers, rabbis, and other holy men I had dealt with in my thirty-nine years. It must come from being closer to God than I am.
My relationship to God would have fallen into the “needs to improve” category until April 7, 2004, at 2:17 p.m. in Fallujah, Iraq, when a skinny boy threw a homemade bomb at my feet and it didn’t explode. Which got me thinking that God might be a lot closer than I’d thought, and maybe He even kind of liked me. I believed that until April 21 of 2015, when Justine’s custom-painted pink Cessna 182 — Hall Pass — crashed into the Pacific Ocean not far from Point Loma. Mechanical failure. Fuel pump. Low hours on it. An accident. Whose accident? I was infuriated with God and am still not completely over it. I try to forgive Him. I listen and try to hear Him. The worst of my fury is gone.
“Has anyone said anything to Hector about his behavior here?” I asked.
“Not that I know,” said Hadi. “I think the imam is considering what to do. Of course, we are open to new believers. But not men of low quality.”
“Are you expecting him again, on a certain day or time?”
He sat back and folded his hands over his middle. Like many Muslim holy men, his hands were expressive and emphatic. I wondered if this was formally taught.
“He lingers in the brothers’ prayer room during the sisters-only Tuesday Qur’an classes,” said Hadi. “To glimpse them coming and going. So, tomorrow at one thirty. He also has attended the Wednesday and Saturday beginners’ Arabic classes, after evening prayer. Please do not confront him directly here at the masjid.”
I nodded, then wrote “Caliphornia” across a notebook page, tore it out, and handed it to Hadi across his desk. No facial reaction whatsoever.
“I have never seen this word spelled in this way,” he said. “What does it mean? Where did you see it?”
“Someone is using it as a name,” I said. “He signed a death threat using it.”
“A death threat against whom?”
“I’m not free to say.”
Again, the patient stare. “Is Hector suspected of the threat?”
“No. He came up in the net.”
“He strikes me as unusual and maybe lost,” said Hadi. “But not murderous. Caliphornia. Such a strange name. Tea, Roland?”
“No, thank you.”
“I read about the shootout at your home last year and I was glad you were not killed or wounded.” A wry smile. “You are becoming an action figure. Such as my sons see on TV. You are now famous for three things in San Diego.”
Yes, my fame. Most recently augmented by last year’s helicopter shootout and fiery crash, as referenced by Joan Taucher earlier in the day. In this debacle, one notorious celebrity had been burned dead, and one psychiatrist wounded. On my property. My watch. Much media and speculation, and a lot of truth left untold.
Another part of my notoriety was the fatal shooting of a young black man by a San Diego sheriff’s deputy back in 2009. The deputy was my partner and I was standing not ten feet away when he shot. I had drawn but held fire. I told the IA investigators why I decided not to shoot. My words cost my partner his job. And cost me my reputation within the department. Coverage and controversy. Lots of bad blood. My assignment to the JTTF was widely and correctly seen as a form of punishment for breaking rank, shattering the blue brotherhood, costing a good man his job.
The third pillar in my local notoriety is the plane crash that killed Justine. Much coverage on that, too, though of a different kind. The media was actually brief and respectful of my privacy, and quickly onto the next stories. I was envious of the ability to move on.
“It’s been a year and a half since my most recent disaster,” I said. “I enjoy the quiet life.”
“May it continue, inshallah.”
“And you, Hadi? How are you and Masjid Al-Rribat in these heated days?”
He leaned forward and touched his fingertips again. “I am small in the eyes of Allah and smaller in the eyes of America. I enjoy this smallness. But the masjid? So many eyes are upon us. It is very hard to be a Muslim in America. There is some tolerance, yes. But there is suspicion, too. And beyond the suspicion there is fear. And fear can turn to hate, as we all have seen. So we worship our god and we take care of our own. There is much about this life we cannot know.”
“Amen to that.”
“Alhamdulillah.”
“Yes. God be praised.”
We stood. I looked down at Hadi’s shiny glass desktop, in which I saw a distorted reflection of his trunk and face, and decades of nicks and scratches. Followed by a sudden errant thought: “So did you say when Hector was up here he emptied his backpack on your desk? Poured the contents right out in front of you there?”
“Exactly.”
“Why?”
“He is impulsive. I think he wanted to display his... commitment.”
“By showing you what?”
Hadi recapped for me: a newly bought Qur’an, the Noor Foundation edition. And two pamphlets written by an Orange County imam named Mustafa Umar — “Welcome to Islam” and “How to Pray.” Hector’s pack also contained a rubber-banded stack of invitations to the “Treasures of Araby” collection at a showroom in Solana Beach.
Hadi indicated the table beside him. “As you see, he left a few of those. He also had an Arabic language CD program still in its box. Mr. Padilla assured me that he had bought the program used online, at a good price.” A small smile.
“That was all?”
“No. There was also an energy drink, two chocolate donuts with peanuts in a plastic box with a top, so they wouldn’t be crushed. There was a clear Baggie of brown tablets. I have no idea what they were. And he had a sharpening stone in its box. The box cracked loudly into the glass desktop, but only made a small mark. The stone itself spilled out.”
“A sharpening stone.”
“Yes, Roland. A whetstone. With which someone might sharpen a knife.”
A jump in the heart rate. “Describe it.”
“The stone was maybe three by eight inches, with a wooden base. I can’t remember who the maker was. My impression of the box and the stone was that they were new.”
When Hadi had finished his description, I asked him to describe the whetstone again. Patiently, he did. The scar on my forehead tingled. I wrote down his words in my notebook as accurately as I could. I have big hands and write slowly with a pen. Finally, I rose and slipped my notebook into my pocket. “You’ve been generous with your time.”
Hadi stood, too, handed me one of the “Treasures of Araby” flyers that Hector had given him. “I actually might go to this. It looks interesting and that gallery has a good reputation. The opening night reception is free and open to the public.”
I glanced at the rugs and vessels and jewelry pictured there. Gallerie Monfil Presents the Treasures of Araby.
The stairs creaked as we walked back down. The smell of food was stronger and the young Muslims were already assembling for Hadi Yousef’s class. They looked at me, some curious, some appraising.
“You will always be suspicious here, Roland. But always welcome.”
“Thank you, Hadi.”
He walked me outside. “Your soul is troubled.”
“Beheadings trouble me.”
We stopped at the front gate. Hadi put his hands behind his back and contemplated me. “Beheading. Caliphornia?”
I nodded.
“So, your keen interest in Hector’s whetstone. There could be an innocent explanation for the stone.”