Reprisal (6 page)

Jackie nodded. “You’re shitting me! Is she smart?”

“Very. But MaryAnn uses every advantage she has. I’m sure the governor didn’t miss those boobs on his new choice as she splashed in the hot tub.”

After the court hearing, Zehra and Jackie walked down Fourth Avenue, two blocks to the Public Defender’s office, past a parking ramp edged in flowers. Spring flowers gloried in the morning light—purple, blue, and dark-green leaves. A fresh breeze lifted them as if they were dancing. Purple crocuses partnered with the miniature irises to move in rhythm with the wind.

Reaching the tall office building, they walked around the coffee shop on the main floor and rode the elevator to the seventh floor, all of it occupied by dozens of lawyers, law clerks, support staff, investigators, and the law library.

In the lobby, Jerry Zimmerman stalked around the room, telling everyone about his newest case. “In this crazy job, you think you’ve heard everything. No … they always throw you a curve.” He jerked his head from one person to another but really just wanted their attention.

Jerry’s squat body moved faster as he talked more. Black hair scrambled to cover the top of his head but failed. “So, I’m interviewing this new guy, who’s charged with burglary of a jewelry shop at the Mall of America. First of all,” he stopped and pointed at Jackie. “You’d pick a store in the busiest mall in America to rob, right? Smart idea?”

Zehra laughed to herself. There were so many of these clients. She’d often been in the same place Jerry found himself.

“Get this. He decides to commit the ‘perfect crime,’ but he lacks a basic tool—the getaway car. That doesn’t stop our little criminal. He must’ve watched too many motivational DVDs, telling him he can be all that he wants to be—a successful criminal. So, he takes the bus out to the Mall.”

Jerry moved again, poking the air with his upraised finger. “Into the Mall, no disguise of course, he heads to the jewelry shop. When he gets there, the clerks are almost closing up for the night. He smashes a case open, shovels the stuff into a garbage bag, and boogies. To his credit, he actually got out of the Mall before security could stop him.”

“What happened?” one of the secretaries asked.

Jerry stopped dead, hung his head. “Ah … you know how they caught him?” Jerry waited to deliver the punch line. “The putz was standing outside waiting for his getaway car—the bus!” Everyone laughed. “He’s got the jewelry still in the garbage bag in his hot little hands when he’s nabbed. And he wants a fuckin’ trial!”

Jerry wiped his eye and said, “I should write sit coms. You can’t make this stuff up.”

“You can do it, Jerry,” Zehra called to him as she walked into her office. Jackie followed, and Zehra dropped her leather briefcase on the chair next to her desk. The office occupied a corner, shaped like a badly designed triangle. Large windows opened onto the condo high rise next door. At least Zehra faced east to catch the morning sun—something vital for her during the long winters.

She turned to her computer and opened her email. Scrolling through the messages of upcoming birthdays, how stupid the judges were, a used car for sale until she saw one with an unknown sender. That wasn’t unusual since her address was a government office that anyone could access.

She opened it, started to read, and gasped.

It read: “Death to the infidel!”

“What?” Jackie’s head jerked up.

“I don’t know. I don’t … probably some nut.” Zehra showed her the message.

“You get stuff like that?”

“Never. I don’t feel good about this. Another reason for me to bail on El-Amin.”

She saved it and sent an email to the IT guy in the office to see if he could

find the source. It bothered her and she felt a low grumbling in her stomach.

She looked at Jackie as she settled in the chair. Glad to have her help, Jackie started working as a public defender two years earlier. She’d come from a corporate law firm but found the work boring, even though it paid almost twice what she made as a government lawyer. She wanted the action of courtroom trial work.

Shiny dark hair curved around Jackie’s round face. Large brown eyes almost distracted Zehra from the beautiful, flawless pale skin—that made her jealous since Jackie didn’t have a wrinkle anywhere. Unlike most Vietnamese women, she had an ample figure that she kept trim with yoga classes, four times a week. Some day, Zehra agreed, she’d come along for a class, although between snow boarding in the winter and biking in the summer, she kept herself busy.

“Like those killer glasses, Jackie,” Zehra said about the square “Buddy Holly” glasses she wore.

Jackie worked hard, was sharp, and anxious to help.

Zehra remembered her own training as a law student in the prosecutor’s office, the county attorney, a few years ago. She thought of her mentor, Charlie Pollard, how much he’d taught her, and how excited she’d been to learn. She’d told that to Jackie.

“Did you like working as a prosecutor?” Jackie asked.

“Sure. There are pressures on both sides. They’re different, but I learned a lot over there. I met a lot of cops and began to see the world from their perspective. I went with them on ride-alongs and even spent some time at the gun range.”

“You?” Jackie’s eyes opened wide.

“Yeah, can you imagine? Me, essentially a pacifist, shooting pistols?” But I wanted to learn. Who knows? I may join the NRA.”

Jackie laughed and asked what they needed to do today.

“Bobby Joe Washington’s coming in this morning,” Zehra said.

“How’d you get him? I hear he’s like one of the best.”

“Right. He’s one of the only investigators to be trained in the FACS, the Facial Action Coding System.”

“Is that like the TV show where the expert can tell if a person’s lying just by looking at their face?”

“Yeah, I think so. Plus, our chief assigned him, specifically. BJ’s not happy about it, but, as usual, he’ll do a good job. He went to work as soon as we got the discovery evidence. I hope to hell, he’ll have something solid for us today. Otherwise, we’re in deep shit.”

“Why’s he unhappy about working on this?” said Jackie.

“Well, I can’t blame him. The chief figures since BJ’s black, he’ll have a better chance of getting access to the black, Somali community than the white investigators.”

“I don’t know …”

“Of course not. It’s stupid. The same reason I was assigned the case—the Chief thinks just because I’m Muslim that should somehow make a difference. I argued with him, but he wouldn’t listen. We’re all stuck with this piece of crap. The Somalis don’t like American blacks, generally. It’s not gonna work, but the chief’s real worried about how this will play in the press.”

Jackie said. “I bet you’re like, so pissed.”

Zehra raised her eyebrows at Jackie. “I’m working to get out of it, if I can. This guy’s a real bronco.” She threw up her arms. “How the hell does he expect us to ‘defend’ him when he says he’s guilty?”

Six

Come on, Barry. You owe me one,” pleaded Zehra. “Think of all the crap I did for you on that robbery … the one where the defendant called you four times a day to complain. Who took all those calls for you?”

“I know, I know. But not this case. I don’t want the press.”

“I’m not asking you to take it for free. I’ll take the two sex cases you got.”

“Awe …”

“Think of what it’ll be like in front of the jury, Barry.” Zehra coaxed him. “Facing those nice people as your perp, who diddled little girls, sits right next to you. Do you want that? I bet he can drool and smell at the same time.”

“He’s innocent,” Barry joked.

“Get off it. This is your last chance to dump those whining perverts.”

“No way, Zehra. I’m sorry you got stuck with this one, but I don’t want to have to deal with all the shit … including ‘Chairman Mao.’” Barry referred to the chief public defender, who, although he wasn’t Asian, resembled the round, cruel face of Mao Tse-tung.

“Go to hell, Barry.”

Zehra sighed and leaned back in her broken chair. Her office contained a beige, laminated desk, a tan bookshelf, two other chairs, and a low credenza.

To avoid the beige jail cell effect, Zehra brought in a Persian wool rug. She could also use that for her prayers, as a faithful Muslim, at least a couple times a day. Two large frames with colorful cloth stretched over them hung on the wall before her desk in her favorite color, red. Photos of her extended family lined up across the credenza in a variety of frames. Inside the door, Zehra had a round mirror to check her hair before she left the office.

Zehra pulled open the bottom drawer and spied the secret she’d smuggled in: a Hostess cream-filled chocolate cupcake. Utterly horrible and disgusting, but she loved to nibble one occasionally. If Jackie wasn’t there, Zehra would have taken a bite. Thank God, Jackie sat across from her. Zehra wondered if there was a twelve-step program for people like her who ate too much junk, especially things that had more chemicals than food.

Jackie shook her head. “What do you want me to do first?”

Zehra closed the drawer, turned to face her. She sighed. “I hope our investigator, BJ, comes in here in the next ten minutes and tells us he’s cracked the case open and it’s gonna be a slam-dunk. I need a miracle.” Zehra looked at Jackie. Zehra forced the thought out of her mind for now. “Until the judge relieves us of representing this ‘camel jockey,’ we’ve got to prepare. We need to challenge the search of his apartment. Check out the warrant and give me some research on the legality of it. After all, there were two other guys living there. How do we know which guy owned the knife and shirt?”

“Prints?”

“None. Then, there’s the line-up. Try to knock that out. I’m worried we’re not gonna get this all put together in time.” She looked over at Jackie. “With a trial date in a month, that means the Omnibus hearing to challenge this stuff will come up in about two weeks. If I’m forced to try it, I don’t want any accusations of malpractice ‘cause we’re not ready.”

“You’ll want to see the crime scene. There’s the investigation of witnesses …”

“I’ve already got BJ working his butt off. I hope to hell he scores. The only problem with him is he’s an adult ADD.”

“Huh?”

“He starts off with great ideas and energy but then loses interest. The trick to working with him is to keep him focused. Like the DNA. I’ve been after him to get the test results.” She opened her Blackberry and tapped into her schedule. “Oh, damn! I forgot the appearance this afternoon with the hockey jock.” She glanced at her watch.

“Tough case?”

“Depends on how you look at it. I’ve got a U of M hockey player who was filmed having sex with a woman in the stairwell of a parking ramp. Indecent exposure is the charge. It’s only a misdemeanor, and I told him to plead. We’ll get it off his record later. Know what he tells me?”

“What?”

“He has a constitutional right to freedom of expression. Can you believe it? I’m gonna have to give him a crash course in constitutional law this afternoon when I kick his expressive butt.”

“How about the autopsy of our victim. Still want to go over it?”

“Yeah,” Zehra said. “You never know when something small will pop up for us.”

Jackie tapped on her laptop. She finished and looked at Zehra. “I’m like, amazed at you—you’re so thorough. I really appreciate the chance to work with you. A lot of the younger women look up to you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t see myself that way.”

“It must be tough being the first Muslim in the office. Me—I’m Christian, Catholic. A result of the French co-opting the Vietnamese aristocracy into converting in order to receive special treatment during the occupation.”

“It’s hard to be a Muslim in America period, although we’re the third largest religion in this country. Particularly after 9/11, you can’t believe the looks I get everywhere I go. Even though I’m female, I still get the looks.” She took a deep breath. “You should try getting on a plane.”

“What?”

“When I’m seated, I don’t dare go to the toilet and never, never go to the one in the front, near the cockpit. Many times, I’ve been afraid some of the passengers would take me down out of their own fear. Of course, I’m so claustrophobic, I have a hard time flying anyway.”

Jackie remained silent for a moment. Then said, “But you’re so pretty, so small. I can’t imagine …”

“Well …” she sighed. Some days the effort was just too much, too discouraging. Before Zehra could wallow much deeper, her cell phone rang. She answered to hear her mother’s voice.

“Zehra, you’ve got to come over for dinner tomorrow night. I’m fixing the lamb dish you like so much.”

“Thanks Mom, but I’m too busy, and you know I’m not eating much meat anymore.”

If she didn’t love her mother so much, these conversations could become a pain in the neck. She nagged Zehra constantly about getting a good job at a big company and marrying. After all, she was thirty-two. Couldn’t she find a nice Muslim man, preferably a doctor or engineer?

Of course Zehra would like to be married some day. Most men she dated were Christians because the Muslim population, besides Somali, was small in Minnesota. Although they shared a religion, that was about it. Even the way Somalis practiced Islam was a product of culture and history—foreign to Zehra’s experience. In the meantime, her mother’s words echoed the loneliness she often felt. Zehra imagined that she lived in a large bell of quiet isolation that seldom rang.