“This is the scene of the crime,” he announced dramatically. “I gathered what evidence I could. It was obvious she had killed her husband.”
They stepped into the courtyard. The absence of life hit Yusuf harder than the shadow of death. This had been a home, and the ghosts of its inhabitants seemed to be present. Yusuf could almost hear the echoes of an everyday existence in the courtyard: the scrape of a spatula against an aluminum pot, the pungent smell of seared garlic and onions, the soft giggles of sisters sharing secrets, the hum of a mother with her children at her feet.
They were gone.
“Where was Khanum Zeba when you got here?”
“Right there,” Hakimi said, pointing to the front wall of the house. “She was sitting on the ground, and all the neighbors had gathered around her. Her children—they were shaken up. She was a bad sight. The blood on her hands was already dry. The baby was crying. I don’t know how long she’d been sitting like that. She wasn’t saying much.”
Thank goodness for that, Yusuf thought.
“People were very upset. They didn’t know what to think. Nothing like this should have happened in our town. The women couldn’t believe she would have done such a thing, but it happens.”
“What happens?” Yusuf said without turning to the police chief. He sensed that looking this man in the eye made him uncomfortable, and he wanted to hear Hakimi’s unfiltered thoughts.
“Women lose their minds. Maybe he did something to make her that way. I don’t know. I didn’t know either of them very well, but I know the rest of his family. This has been very hard on them.”
“So you think Khanum Zeba flew into a rage and killed her husband?”
“Yes, that’s . . . well, then why else would I arrest her?” Hakimi replied defensively.
“Of course. Anyone in your shoes would have done the same,” Yusuf reassured. He kept his tone casual and friendly. “As you described it, there was no obvious reason to think Khanum Zeba hadn’t been the one to kill her husband. But let me ask you this. While you were here with the neighbors and friends, did anyone come forward to say they’d heard any shouting or that they’d seen anything unusual that day? Maybe someone else entering or leaving the home? I’m not saying you did the wrong thing, but I’m just curious if there were any other sides to the story that need to be investigated.”
But Hakimi’s shoulders stiffened.
“I don’t need you to tell me I did the right thing. I know I did the right thing. I’m the police chief here. What you need to be asking is what your darling Khanum Zeba did—not what I did! Where are you from, anyway?”
It was Yusuf’s turn to tense.
“I am not questioning you. This is a misunderstanding. I’m only trying to make sure I know the full story so that I can do my job and provide Khanum Zeba with a reasonable defense.”
“Do what you need to do then. I will wait here for you to finish,” Hakimi huffed and turned to take a seat in an upturned plastic chair in the courtyard. “Don’t touch anything. I’ll be watching.”
“Of course. I’ll just be a few moments.”
Yusuf took a deep breath. How had this conversation gone so wrong? He’d meant to befriend Hakimi, to make him an ally. He strolled through the house. There was nothing unusual about it. There was the usual sparse kitchen area with a few items spread out, as if someone would walk in any moment and pick up where they’d left off. The rooms were small and simple with floor cushions and a single wooden-armed sofa. A thermos sat on the living room floor next to a glass teacup stained with a series of brown rings. There was a brown-and-yellow tapestry nailed to the wall, a geometric print that echoed the pattern of the carpet. He walked through the back door and into the yard behind the house. He recognized the layout from what Rafi had described to him and from the police report. The outhouse was right where he expected it to be, as was the pear tree. The solitary rosebush sat off to the side, almost as if it were retreating from the home.
Was that where Kamal’s body had been? Yusuf could almost believe that the ground still carried the stain of blood though it was now several weeks and quite a few rains since Kamal’s murder.
“That’s all there is to see.”
Hakimi’s voice startled Yusuf, who had crouched on the ground over where Kamal’s body had been.
“Yes, there is nothing surprising. I just wanted to see with my own eyes.”
“Let’s go then. I don’t need the neighbors thinking the chief of police is giving Zeba’s lawyer extra help.”
“Of course. But I believe she’s innocent and in order for me to defend her, it’s important for me to gather information. You’re a fair person—I can tell.”
“I am,” Hakimi agreed, his hands on his hips. “And that’s why I have this title. It’s a big responsibility, but I take it seriously. Most people in my position don’t and that’s the problem.”
“I’m sure of that,” Yusuf said, nodding. “One question, Hakimi-sahib. What position was the husband’s body in when you found him?”
“He wasn’t moving. He was just dead.”
Hakimi’s tone made his unimpressed opinion of Yusuf quite clear.
“I know he was dead when you found him, but what position was his body in? He was here, correct?”
Hakimi pulled at his chin and squinted.
“He was . . . he was on his belly. His head was turned to the side and facing us.”
“Where was the hatchet?”
“Over there,” Hakimi motioned to the back wall of the house, not far from the door Yusuf had just come through.
“And was there any other evidence? Anything else found here or in the house that seemed out of place?”
“It looked just like this. What you see here now is the same thing I saw that day, except for the dead husband, the wife, and the hatchet. You can’t make a simple thing into a complicated one just by asking a lot of questions.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do. I don’t have the benefit of having seen it with my own eyes so I’m asking you. Was there blood inside the house?”
“No,” Hakimi said, though the truth was that he hadn’t checked. What difference would it have made? If Zeba had tracked blood through the house, would that have made her any more or less guilty?
Yusuf sighed.
Forensic science had a long way to go in Afghanistan. Yusuf knew he wouldn’t have the luxury of DNA tests. Fingerprints might have been a possibility, but no one had bothered taking any.
“What’s been going on with the children? I know they’re living with their uncle. Have you heard anything from them?”
“What’s to hear? Poor kids lost their father and their mother, really. At least they had somewhere to go. Not every family would have taken in the children of a killer.”
“But they’re of the same blood.”
“Yes, but the circumstances are different.”
“I’d like to be able to talk to Khanum Zeba’s children. They’re the only ones who know what things were like between their mother and father. How can I get to them?”
Hakimi laughed lightly and shook his head, ushering Yusuf toward the door.
“You’re being ridiculous. They’re only children. They don’t know anything about their parents, and they weren’t there when their father was killed—thank God they were spared that much. There’s no way that Fareed is going to let you near his nephew and nieces. You’d better find someone else to talk to.”
ONCE HAKIMI HAD LEFT HIM, YUSUF DECIDED TO CONTINUE HIS investigation. He knocked on the door of the house to the left of Zeba’s. There was the patter of small feet before the door swung open. A young boy, no more than six years old, peered at Yusuf.
“Salaam!” he said brightly.
“Wa-alaikum salaam,” Yusuf replied, burying a smile. The sight of young boys had had a surprising effect on him since his return, as if he were stepping back in time and seeing himself as a child.
“Who are you?” the boy asked. It was un
usual to have strangers at the door.
“My name is Yusuf. Is your father home?”
“No, he’s working,” he answered. Just then his mother appeared behind him, sliding her head scarf over her forehead.
“Sorry, who are you? What do you need?” she said abruptly, pulling her son aside and closing the door just slightly.
Yusuf took two steps back.
“Forgive me, Khanum. I am looking into the terrible tragedy that happened next door to you. I was wondering if you or your husband wouldn’t mind helping me. I just have a few questions and won’t take much of your time.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
“No, I have nothing to say about it. This is something for the police to take care of,” she replied as she gently closed the door on Yusuf.
The next four homes gave him the same response. The fifth refused to open the door. Yusuf was beginning to wonder if he’d wasted his time in coming out to the village. He’d learned nothing from visiting the house. Why was everyone so reluctant to talk about Zeba’s family? Where was the gossip mill when he needed it?
Two blocks away from Zeba’s home, Yusuf’s luck changed.
She was a sprightly, gray-haired woman who shouldn’t have come to the door herself but she’d been in the courtyard picking peppermint leaves and was probably happy to have someone to talk to. Yusuf crooked his neck to speak to her.
“Yes, I knew that family. For God’s sake, we all know that family! We almost live close enough to know when they’ve burned their dinner.”
Yusuf smiled brightly.
“What was Khanum Zeba like? Did you speak to her often?”
“Who are you? You’re not a police officer. Why are you asking so many peculiar questions?”
“No, and forgive me for not introducing myself properly. My name is Yusuf. I’m a lawyer working on the case.”
Yusuf found it better not to say, straight off, whose interest he represented.
“Oh, a lawyer. You’re not from the city, then,” she deduced, taking a closer look at him. “Good for you. Are you married? Where is your family from?”
Yusuf felt his potential being assessed. He half expected a dark-haired young woman to emerge from the house and bat her eyes at him. Had he imagined it or had the window curtains just fluttered?
“You’re a kind woman. You remind me so much of my aunt,” Yusuf interjected in an effort to redirect the conversation. “She was always friendly with the neighbors as well. Everyone loves her.”
“Is she dead?”
“No, no . . . God forbid. She’s very well.” Yusuf was thrown by her comment.
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Why?”
“The way you talk about her. People only say nice things about the dead, so you never know what the truth is. You can be a brute in life, but the moment you die, all is forgiven. It used to make me mad, but now that I’m old and know what people say about me, I’m glad for it.”
“I’m sure people have only kind things to say about you,” Yusuf offered politely. “But what did you think about Khanum Zeba—since she’s still alive—was she a good person?”
“I saw her from time to time. Enough to know she was a good woman—always polite. She knew God.”
“And what about her husband?”
“Eh, he was a man. Nothing special about him.”
“Do you know if they fought? If he beat her?”
The woman let out a sarcastic chuckle.
“Young man, I came out here to pick mint leaves,” she said, waving a fistful of greens in Yusuf’s face. “Do you see this? Half of this is weeds because my eyes can’t see the difference. Even if I’d seen those two with their arms around each other, I couldn’t tell if they’d been wild with passion or about to kill each other.”
“I suppose every family has its secrets.”
“Of course. And that man was up to no good. Even with these tired old eyes, I could see that.”
“What makes you say that?” Yusuf asked, intrigued.
“First of all, they moved to this neighborhood to get away from his family. They never said that was the reason, but I know it because I used to know his mother. My daughter-in-law’s sister is friends with his sister. No one in his family could stand him.”
“Do you know why?”
She shook her head and waved a hand in the air dismissively.
“Siblings are supposed to love each other but some people are so busy being jerks that they forget who their siblings are. They start being a jerk to everyone around them. I’ve raised my children differently, thank God. My own sons and daughters get along very well. When they were young, I used to tell them . . .”
“I’m sure your children are quite different,” Yusuf gently interrupted. “How was Zeba when they moved into the neighborhood? Did you ever speak with her then?”
“That was years ago. She was friendly, actually. She was always very polite to me. She told me once that I reminded her of her mother.”
“Really?” Yusuf did not see a bit of resemblance between this woman and Gulnaz.
“Yes, and the way she said it, I almost thought her mother might be dead. But I met her once when she came to visit her daughter and grandchildren. Her mother’s much younger than me. And I think her vision is just fine. Both of us have lost our husbands, though. Maybe that reminded her of me. I can’t imagine what else.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her and she’s an admirable woman, just like yourself.”
“I see. You’re one of those young men who knows all the right things to say,” she said with a smirk. “I like that.”
Yusuf laughed lightly.
“I hope I can ask the right questions as well,” he said, trying to stay on track. “When did you notice a change in Khanum Zeba? Did something happen?”
The old woman’s smile turned quickly into a scowl.
“She couldn’t take anymore, that’s what happened. Her husband would barely say hello to my sons when they passed him in the street. He would pretend as if he hadn’t seen them, but I would watch him from here and he would stare as soon as their backs were turned. He did the same with anyone on the street, especially the young girls. No decency. No, that man was not a good man, and I know the difference because I was married to a good man. Thirty-two years we spent together until God took him from me. Everyone in town knew him and he knew everyone. He would have hated Zeba’s husband. He told me once if a wife doesn’t love her husband, there’s a good reason for it.”
“Your husband, God rest his soul, sounds like he was a wise man,” Yusuf offered.
“He was.”
“What do you think was going on between Zeba and her husband?”
“Hmph.” The woman folded her thin arms across her chest. “You know, God made turtles with a hard shell. They’re born expecting to need that shell. Women are not born that way. A husband like Kamal can destroy them. He was a beast. Lately, I didn’t see her as much, and when I did see her, she was scurrying back home, afraid she’d been gone too long. She was nervous a lot. And her husband . . .”
But before Yusuf could ask his next question, a voice boomed from inside the house.
“Madar, who are you talking to?”
Her son entered the courtyard and looked at Yusuf with suspicion. Yusuf stuck out his hand, hoping to defuse the situation before he lost this opportunity.
“Salaam, brother. My name is Yusuf and I was just speaking with your dear mother—”
In a moment, Yusuf was back on the street, listening to the son admonish his mother for letting in a foreign spy.
With heavy feet, Yusuf headed down the street. He couldn’t bring himself to knock on any more doors—not for now. No, Yusuf was done for the day. He walked past the school Zeba’s daughters attended and opted not to stop the man pushing a wagon of fresh fruits and plump, enticing raisins.
CHAPTER 27
THE NEXT DAY, YUSUF STEPPED INTO THE VILLAGE MAIN STREET. The acrid smell
of diesel mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread. There was the clink of soft drink bottles in a crate as a man in a gray tunic and pantaloons set up his kiosk.
The young lawyer breathed it in, dust and all. It was the smell of opportunity, rebirth, and hope. He’d dreamed of this moment for years, imagined walking through streets just like this one and struggling to practice law here the way thrill-seeking doctors travel to field hospitals in Africa to test their skills.
It was stripping the profession down to its core. It was all guts. It was all glory.
He’d imagined drafting arguments and constructing defenses and finding ways to make the well-intentioned Afghan penal code live up to its potential. He would plow through the weeds of injustice and corruption and let righteousness see the light of day.
His time in Afghanistan had been nothing like what he’d imagined. He tried not to dwell on it. These were the obstacles that would make it all worthwhile in the end. These were the challenges that made him want to come to Afghanistan in the first place. If it had been easy, someone else could have done it. The lawyers here could have managed.
It wasn’t easy. That’s why Zeba needed him. That’s why this place called out to him.
Yusuf wanted to make a name for himself and he wanted to do that in Afghanistan. Was that vanity? No, he promised himself. Vanity was wanting a tailored pin-striped suit or a corner office in a skyscraper.
This was honor and legacy. This would give his mother something to boast about to her friends. This is what would save him from looking as disappointed as his father at the way life had turned out.
Still, Yusuf had to admit that this visit to the village was not as productive as he’d hoped. He’d confirmed that the police hadn’t gathered any evidence, something he could use in his defense argument though he could already imagine the qazi shaking his head.
The police didn’t have the time or resources to gather evidence, Aneesa had told him as he’d pored over the arrest registry for Zeba. As long as the officers had obtained a statement from the arrested person, there really was no need to waste time with evidence that probably didn’t exist or couldn’t be scientifically interpreted.
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