Fatal Convictions (15 page)

39

fifteen years earlier

beirut, lebanon

Fifteen-year-old Nara Mobassar was helping her mother in the kitchen of their small Lebanese house when the knock on the door came. As usual, Nara had been going about her chores in virtual silence, her sulking manner a teenager’s protest against the stifling rules that applied to Muslim girls. Beirut was straddling two worlds—the secularized culture of the West and the traditional Islamic way of life. For Nara, who had discovered her flirtatious power over the boys at her Muslim school, the standards of the Mobassar household were suffocating.

Her older brother, Omar, whom she idolized, was already helping Hezbollah with their humanitarian efforts in the Palestinian refugee camps. Her younger brother, and Nara’s full-time nemesis, was fourteen-year-old Ahmed. Ahmed was determined to be a warrior and spoke with a stridency that pleased his mother but worried Nara’s more conciliatory father.

Nara was the rebellious one. Ahmed could fight for Islam, but Nara wanted to fight for her own independence and the ability to think freely. As a token of that quest, she waged a silent protest each night, working beside her mother in absolute silence as they prepared the food for the all-important men of the house.

When the knock came, her mother turned from the stove and told Nara to watch the chickpeas as they boiled, while keeping one eye on the fried pita bread and lamb.

Standing over the chickpeas and absorbing the steaming odor, Nara heard hushed conversation at the front door. Curious, she walked quietly across the kitchen and stood next to the doorway. Her mother’s voice grew husky, as if she couldn’t accept what was being said. The visitor spoke softly for a few more seconds, until she was interrupted by the insistent voice of Nara’s mother.

“No! Not Omar!”
Nara’s mother was backing away from the visitor, holding out her hand as if pushing the bad news away, shaking her head. “Not my Omar. Not my son.”

Nara was drawn into the hallway, her own heart in her throat as she watched her mother edge backward. Without warning, her mother’s knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor. Nara rushed to her aid and, along with the visitor from the mosque, helped her mother into a sitting position.

The three women sat on the floor, Ghaniyah looking at Nara in stunned silence. Her next words were a whisper. “The Jews killed him, Nara. Rocket strikes in the Palestinian camps. Omar was collateral damage.”

The scene was so surreal, the news so shocking, that Nara couldn’t process the words. She stared at her mother and felt waves of grief sweep over her, like somebody had ripped her heart from her chest.

But within seconds, her mother seemed to find some hidden strength. She composed herself, sat up straight, and looked past her daughter. “Allah’s will be done,” Ghaniyah said. She shook off the help of her friend and rose to her feet. She began a chant. Loud. Insistent. Praising Allah for taking her son to paradise. Over and over and over. The high-pitched chanting of praise that Nara had heard so many times as a call to prayer.

Soon, her mother’s friend had joined in, praising Allah, oblivious to Nara, who sat on the floor in utter shock and disbelief.
How can they praise Allah when he has allowed such pain?

As the chant continued, Nara’s shock turned to anger, and she rushed from the hallway. She ran outside and down the sidewalk, sprinting without looking back until she thought she might collapse. She slowed to a walk, sobbing and out of breath, dizzy with sorrow. She thought about the sweet spirit of Omar, the way he had always been her protector. She cried uncontrollably, fighting to catch her breath, her grief not allayed one second by the thought of Omar in paradise. She wanted him here! He was too young to die! What kind of God would allow such a thing?

Later that night, after the purification and shrouding of Omar’s body, her father taught about paradise from the holy Qur’an. It was just the four immediate family members gathered in the kitchen.

Nara chose that moment to voice her pain. “Why would Allah let this happen?” Her lips trembled from both sadness and anger. “If Allah is so great, how can he allow the Israelis to kill someone as pure-hearted as Omar?”

The words had barely escaped her lips when the slap came—Ghaniyah’s open hand hard across Nara’s face. “How dare you insult Allah!” Ghaniyah demanded. “No child of mine speaks that way!”

The slap stunned Nara into a seething silence. Her mother had
never
hit Nara before. It made her want to scream curses at Allah. She wanted to spit at her mother and tell her how stupid she was. But her father’s reassuring voice broke in before Nara had time to do any of those things.

“We all feel pain and anger,” he said. He placed a hand on Ghaniyah’s arm to calm her down. He looked compassionately at Nara, who clenched her teeth in rage. “But Allah should not be the target of our anger. Allah has prepared paradise for your brother. Allah did not send the bombs that killed Omar—that is the work of the Jews and the Christians. Allah, praise his name, will bring justice in his time. At this moment our family must come together.”

Nara’s father had always understood her, and she knew he could read her eyes right now. She was not buying
any
of this. Later, she and her father would talk—heart to heart, without her mother’s disapproving presence. Nara’s father welcomed her tough questions about the faith. Nara’s mother was afraid of those same questions.

Standing silently in the corner, Ahmed’s face proclaimed his own anger that night. His narrow eyes filled with rage against the Jews who had killed his only brother. His look reflected Nara’s own raw pain. And for the first time in her life, she was proud to have a brother who believed in conquering evil by force.

40

the present

virginia beach, virginia

On Sunday morning, Alex was still conflicted over whether he should stay in the case. Something about the meeting with Khalid’s daughter was making him reconsider his tentative decision to withdraw. He tried to tell himself that it had nothing to do with her looks. It was already obvious, from the short meeting the night before, that Shannon and Nara would be like oil and water. If Alex didn’t stay, those two would end up at each other’s throats.

Another reason for staying surfaced after Alex preached a lackluster sermon. Bill Fitzsimmons met Alex in the foyer of the church and asked Alex if he would join the deacons for a brief meeting. During the meeting, Harry Dent asked Alex whether he was going to withdraw from the case.

“To be honest,” Harry said with an air of moral superiority, “I’ve heard from a lot of people in our church who believe it would be pretty selfish for you to continue.”

That statement, and the smugness with which it was delivered, turned out to be the tipping point.

Alex’s grandmother had made him think hard about what it meant to be a Madison. Could he live with himself if he abandoned Shannon and Khalid? On the plus side, if he took the case, he might get to know the imam’s daughter a little better. But what pushed Alex Madison absolutely over the edge was the sanctimonious Harry Dent sitting in a deacon’s meeting, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight from a nearby window, trying to tell Alex what cases he should and should not handle.

“I’ve been praying a lot about this,” Alex said, knowing it was a small lie. “And I’ve been asking myself two questions: What’s best for the church? And what would Jesus have me do?”

Alex paused for a moment, actually enjoying this little drama. Truthfully, his decision would have minimal impact on the church. They would have sixty people there next Sunday whether Alex stayed in the case or not.

“I’m staying on the case,” Alex announced, and he enjoyed the shocked looks on their faces. “I believe Mr. Mobassar is innocent.”

* * *

That afternoon, Alex called Khalid and explained that it was in his best interest for his daughter
not
to subject herself to a round of media interviews. Nevertheless, by Sunday evening, Alex was watching the imam’s daughter do the rounds on the cable news shows. She appeared via satellite from Norfolk, which made the interviews a little cumbersome, but her sincerity and charm could not be denied.

She told how, as a young girl, she had questioned her father about many aspects of Islam, especially the subjugation of women. Her father, according to Nara, had explained that Mohammed, peace be upon him, had actually advanced the cause of women in his society. Mohammed’s first convert was a woman. He treated his wives with kindness and respect—unusual in his culture. Nara’s father had encouraged her to speak out against the abuse of women by fundamentalist Muslims and to point out that those practices were wholly inconsistent with the teachings of the Prophet.

It was incomprehensible, Nara argued, that this man had ordered an honor killing.

Nara also talked about losing her brothers—one to an Israeli rocket while he worked for a humanitarian mission, the other when he sought to retaliate. Her father’s interview on Hezbollah television after Omar’s death was not the end of the matter. When his second son, Ahmed, had died, Khalid had gone into the kind of deep mourning that could cause someone to reevaluate his deeply held convictions. He emerged with a firm belief that jihad was not the way. He became a reformer, speaking out against the radicals. That was why Old Dominion University had asked him to come teach. After a few years of teaching, her father had decided to dedicate himself full-time to the growing mosque where he now served as the lead imam.

The interviews came off far better than Alex expected. For the first time, he felt a small shift in momentum. He picked up his BlackBerry to call Shannon. He made a note to feature Nara at the trial.

Even Shannon admitted that Nara had handled herself with great poise. But Shannon also had a sense of foreboding. She had just gotten off the phone with Khalid. “Nara is flying to New York in the morning for some in-studio interviews,” Shannon said. “I strongly cautioned against it, but in Khalid’s words, his daughter is ‘somewhat strong-willed.’”

“You worry too much,” Alex said. “She’ll be fine.”

* * *

When Hassan Ibn Talib awoke from the nightmare, his skin was clammy with sweat. The dream had never ended like this before. There were the usual scenes of fighting—Hassan riding headlong into throngs of enemy soldiers. But this time, he had killed only a few when the arrow struck him and a spear knocked him from his horse. The ground was not yet red with blood. He felt no pain, but neither did he feel the exhilaration of a raging battle. Once again, he appeared humbly before the throne of Allah.

His bad deeds, as usual, were weighing down the left-hand side of the scales. But this time, as Allah squeezed out a few drops of blood on the right side, the scales didn’t move. Allah looked angrily at Hassan, shaking his head.

“Is this it?” he bellowed. “I spared your life all those years for
this
?”

Allah’s rage stunned Hassan into silence. He trembled before the throne, ashamed to the core of his soul that he had not done more.

Before Allah could pronounce judgment, Hassan awoke. The nightmare vaporized, but the feeling in the pit of his stomach remained.

“Is this it?”
Allah had demanded.

I must work harder,
Hassan decided.

I must do more.

41

Alex watched Nara run the gauntlet of morning shows while he got ready for work. He felt a little guilty about not being there with her, but he doubted he could have added much to the conversation. Nara’s story was a family story, told through the eyes of an adoring daughter. A lawyer on the set would only emphasize that Nara’s father was not just a wonderful Islamic reformer but had also been charged with ordering the beheading of a young woman. And the prosecutors had the text message to prove it.

Nara appeared to grow more comfortable with each interview, though Alex could see the weariness in her eyes. He needed to get to the office, but CBS was teasing its interview “right after the break,” so Alex fixed a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats and waited. He gave himself ten more minutes before he absolutely
had
to get going. There was plenty of work waiting for him, including preparation for the preliminary hearing.

The CBS interview began by following the same script as the others—a few tough questions about Khalid’s ties to Hezbollah followed by a chance for Nara to tell her story. But just before the interview concluded, the host headed in a different direction.

“Tell me about the doctrine of al toqiah. Am I even saying that right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Nara said, her manner unflappable. “Al toqiah is a belief held by some Muslims that it’s okay to use deception in order to advance the cause of Allah. The lies will be forgiven if Allah’s cause is advanced and his will is done.”

“Does your father believe in the doctrine of al toqiah?” The host asked the question pleasantly enough, but the implications were devastating. Could it be that all this reform rhetoric coming from Khalid was merely a way for him to enter this country? Was Khalid really a radical supporter of Hezbollah merely masquerading as a moderate?

Nara’s hesitation surprised Alex. She began by repeating the question. “Does my father believe in al toqiah?” She turned her head a little to the side. “My father has
never
spoken in support of this doctrine, to my knowledge. But most religions, while they condemn lying, also recognize that there are sometimes bigger issues at play. For example, in the Jewish and Christian traditions, there is the story of Rahab and how she lied to protect the Jewish spies. She was commended for it, not chastised. Sort of like sacrificing the lesser good for the greater good.”

“Some would call that the end justifying the means,” the host countered.

“If you’re suggesting that my father has somehow engaged in a thirteen-year deception just to gain people’s trust so that he could then commit these heinous acts, you are mistaken. He became a reformer while living in Lebanon, long before he considered coming to the United States.”

But Nara’s indignation did not entirely assuage Alex’s concerns. He hoped Taj Deegan wasn’t watching. She may have just discovered a wonderful tool for cross-examination.

Al toqiah. Lying for the cause of Allah. Deegan could use it to cast doubt on everything Khalid and Nara said.

Even Alex found himself considering Khalid’s statements in a whole new light.