“Sultana-jan, I’m assuming,” he said, pointing to the chair across from his. He waited as she put her shoulder bag on the ground and flipped her brown cotton head scarf off her head, fluffed the top of her hair, and let it fall lightly back into place. She smiled politely, small dimples appearing at the corners of her mouth like apostrophes. She had no other makeup on her face and not a single piece of jewelry.
“Correct,” she confirmed. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Of course,” Yusuf replied. It was inherently uncomfortable for the two of them to be seated in a room—alone. It didn’t help matters that Yusuf felt stirred by her face, the way her cheeks tapered to give her a heart-shaped countenance. “I’m glad you’re looking into this place, actually. When you start looking into the cases of these prisoners, it tells you a lot about where the justice system’s priorities are.”
“Exactly,” Sultana agreed. “When we need the police, they throw their hands up and cry ‘what can we do without funding or training?’ It’s amazing how capable and resourceful they are in finding a woman who’s escaped from a deadly home. No criminal is worse than a woman who wants to live for herself.”
“It must be hard to report on this as a woman,” Yusuf commented. “Frustrating to watch this happen.”
“I suppose so. It’s not shocking, of course. Just a reminder of how things really are. I could easily be them, I think. Other women might choose to believe differently, but any one of us could end up here.”
Yusuf thought of the cases he’d reviewed with Aneesa: the woman who had strangled her husband after he’d prostituted her to strangers for money; the woman who had left the husband who had tried to stab her with a screwdriver; the woman who had refused to marry the man thirty years her senior. Yusuf thought of his own sister, who had dared to fall in love with a man his parents did not like. They’d shouted and protested, but in the end, it was her choice and they’d paid for her wedding and smiled when their friends congratulated them, never revealing how disappointed they’d been.
His sister could have been on the roll call of Chil Mahtab, Asma the guard watching over her and Qazi Najeeb deciding her fate over a cup of green tea. That was why Yusuf was here—because he could imagine his family or himself in every tragedy in this land. He could have been the ill-trained prosecutor, incapable of framing a true legal argument. His sister could have been locked up here. His brother could have been arrested for being caught with his girlfriend. Hell, Yusuf could have been arrested for the same. Even his parents could have been arrested for some conflagration of the truth.
“What kind of article are you trying to put together, exactly?” Yusuf asked.
“I want to talk about the specific crimes and the way women are locked up without a second thought. The problem is that none of the women want their names or faces in the news. They’d be happier talking to foreign press about it, but the thought of their stories anywhere in the Afghan news makes them want to run and hide. Of course, it’s impossible to get the judges or the police to talk about any of this. They’re all doing the right thing, in their own minds.”
“I don’t think Zeba’s going to want to talk either, to tell you the truth,” Yusuf admitted. “She’s got children she’s thinking about and doesn’t want her name smeared any more than it already has been.”
“I’m sure. That’s why I’m not really talking about highlighting any particular case. I’d rather make it about the system as a whole.”
“You know, I never asked you,” Yusuf mused. “Why did you call me? I mean, there are a lot of lawyers with much more local experience here.”
“Good question,” Sultana said, laying her hands on the table as if to come clean. “I’ve been asking around and it’s pretty hard to get anyone to talk. The attorneys who have trained here don’t want to speak to a journalist, especially a female journalist. I thought you might be different. Plus, Zeba’s case is fascinating. There aren’t many murder cases, but in the few I’ve come across, the motivation is pretty clear. The women offer up exactly what it is that drove them to kill. She’s not really given any kind of reason and”—Sultana’s pointer fingers rapped on the table in synchrony—“I’m sure she must have had one. The fact that she won’t reveal it only makes me more curious.”
Yusuf took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. There most certainly had been a reason, a very good one he wanted to say. Instead, he turned to her first reason for approaching him.
“How’d you know I came from abroad?”
“Ask enough questions, you eventually discover a few things. Simple as that. Speaking of which, where is home for you?”
“New York. Or Washington,” Yusuf answered, knowing it was all probably one big America to her. “I’ve lived in both places.”
She peered at him, divining something from the contours of his face.
“You were young when you left.”
“I was,” Yusuf admitted. “We went to Pakistan.”
“We did too for a while. But you . . . you were one of the lucky ones.” She smiled. “You went to America. We came back in 2003.”
Yusuf shifted in his chair. He was among the fortunate and knew it. It was the reason he felt uncomfortable around anyone his age in Afghanistan. They should have been peers, equals. They should have felt like countrymen, but they didn’t. It was as if they were all in the same car accident, but only Yusuf walked away without a scrape. Sultana must have sensed this.
“We were lucky, too. So many others were not.”
Yusuf rubbed the back of his neck. He was thankful for the drop in temperature, a hint that fall was approaching and bringing with it cooler winds from the north. After fall, winter would settle in with its bone-chilling temperatures. He’d be watching the street children shiver in their threadbare sweaters and thin-soled shoes. If summer was brutal, winter was death itself. Yusuf’s worst fear was that Zeba would be released from prison only to meet the justice of the outside world. Kamal’s family might choose to avenge his death. If they did, they would do it quickly, Yusuf knew. She would be dead before the first villagers’ toes turned white with chill. He thought of his grandmother’s funeral, the browned halwa his mother had made and folded into halved pita bread rounds. The crispness of the caramelized sugar was forever melded in his mind with the sound of his mother’s quiet sobbing and the feel of the masjid’s cold linoleum through his dress socks. It would be the same for Basir, Zeba’s son, he knew. Maybe it would be the snow. Maybe every winter’s snowfall would make him think of the day he lost his mother.
Yusuf kept his eyes on Sultana’s hands, her tapered fingers and slightly rounded nails. He was a good lawyer. He’d been told so by law school professors, classmates, mentors, and supervising attorneys. He had an appreciation for statutes, precedent, formulating arguments. He liked the inherent rationality of the procedural codes and the penal codes. They were guidelines, blueprints for how to approach and build a case. They were anchors, preventing a society from becoming a ship unmoored in wild waters.
But he had traveled to the other side of the world. Sometimes, it felt as if he’d traveled back in time. The laws and codes were changing. The judge didn’t have the full story; neither did the prosecutor. Sultana had an inkling that there was more beneath the surface, but she didn’t have a clue. As things stood, Zeba’s fate would not be based on facts—it would be based on the absence of information, which made it inherently unjust. Yusuf looked at Sultana and wondered if it just might be time to work within the set of unwritten codes that governed this land.
“What if I told you where you could find information about Zeba’s case?”
Sultana cocked her head slightly and blinked.
“What do you mean?”
Yusuf tried to ignore the dampness settling into his feet. His mother would have stripped his wet socks off long ago. You don’t know it now because you’re young, she would say, but you’ll have arthritic legs the rest of your life if you don’t get out of thos
e things. I know you’ve got all those diplomas, but there’s a lot you learn from living, too.
Yusuf tapped the tip of his pen on his notepad, then looked up. Sultana watched him, her shoulders even and poised. She knew not to push him. She only needed to be patient.
“You’re right. Zeba’s case is an intriguing one and there’s a lot more to it than can be found in her arrest register,” Yusuf said. A confidence bloomed in him that this was the right thing to do. It was, in fact, the only thing to do. “There’s been a lot of buzz in her village lately. Things people are saying about her dead husband that might shed a lot of light on what happened that day.”
“Really?”
“Yes. There’s a lot of talk about things he had done in the months before he was killed. It’s worthwhile getting to know what kind of man he was, I think.”
“You’re suggesting I go out to her village and speak to people?”
There wasn’t time for that. Yusuf knew just how long it would take to get there, knock on doors, and find the few willing to speak.
“Everyone’s been interviewed by the chief of police—a man named Hakimi. It seems the deceased had a penchant for alcohol.”
Sultana’s eyebrows perked with interest.
“Did he?”
“Yes. Among other vices. But the worst that came out of the police chief’s investigation was that he’d destroyed a page of the Qur’an. Seems he didn’t have much respect for God’s book. A man who does something like that with the holy book—well, you can just imagine how he might have treated his wife throughout their marriage.”
“I see,” Sultana said, her lips pulling together grimly.
“This information hasn’t really made its way outside . . . it’s not likely to weigh too heavily on the judge’s decision because he’s looking just at the physical evidence.”
“Is there proof the husband did these things?”
“It’s what a lot of people have been saying.”
Sultana said nothing. She leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes on the pen Yusuf twirled between his fingers.
“Anything else?” she finally asked.
Yusuf shook his head.
“It . . . it explains a lot, doesn’t it? I think it would make an interesting piece for the public to read about.”
“Which would then get back to the judge and force him to be lenient with Zeba because her husband was such an awful man that he dared to burn a page of the Qur’an.”
Sultana’s tone had a distinct edge to it. Her eyes were narrowed so that the kohl and lashes and dark irises meshed together into smoky half-moons.
Yusuf wiggled his toes. His legs were starting to ache.
“You know, I didn’t expect this.” Sultana pushed away from the table. Her face was stony with resentment. “I expected better from you, honestly. I’d heard you were trying hard to build a real case for your client. Really trying to defend her instead of moving from her file to the next dismal imprisoned woman.”
“What are you talking about?” Yusuf was thrown by her reaction. He leaned forward, stealing a glance toward the glass door to see if any of the guards might be eavesdropping.
“You want a reporter to do some dirty work for you? That’s not me. Rumors have done enough damage in this country—they’re a poison. Look at the women in this prison. You’ve seen their files, haven’t you? How many of them are here just because someone pointed a finger? I’m not going to be part of spreading another lie just because you’re about to lose your case. If Zeba doesn’t want to talk about her husband that doesn’t mean you can come up with something to justify another lynching like they tried to do in Kabul. I was there, you know. I covered the protests after that woman was murdered in the street because of a rumor. Thousands came out against street justice.”
“Look, that’s not what I was trying to do. Sultana, just let me explain.”
She stood from her chair and shook her head indignantly. She picked up the strap of her bag, nearly knocking her chair over in the process. Yusuf stood as well, his hands remaining planted on the table. This had gone all wrong.
“Just give me five minutes.”
“Good luck with your case, Yusuf. Sorry this has been a waste of time.”
CHAPTER 48
YUSUF BIT THE END OF HIS PENCIL, A RESURRECTED HABIT FROM high school. Qazi Najeeb had summoned both lawyers to return to his office on Monday for the verdict and sentencing. Both sides had presented their entire cases, and he had had ample time to deliberate.
Today was Monday.
Yusuf sat in the floral armchair with Zeba on a wooden chair beside him. The prosecutor took the seat opposite Yusuf with a nod. Yusuf stuck his gnawed pencil in his bag, the taste of metal and rubber still in his mouth. The prosecutor settled into the chair and placed a folder of papers onto the table. The two men looked at each other and exchanged half smiles.
“Whatever it is, it’ll be over today,” the prosecutor said, shrugging.
Yusuf nodded. He’d been utterly unimpressed with the prosecutor’s halfhearted approach, but he’d been judging the man by his own set of criteria.
“I . . . I have to tell you, the way you use the letter of the law . . . I’ve not seen anyone work so hard to defend a criminal.”
“She’s not a criminal yet,” Yusuf quickly corrected. “That’s the point.”
The prosecutor nodded deferentially. He would humor Yusuf for today.
“You know what I mean.”
Qazi Najeeb entered and moved past the two lawyers and Zeba to take his seat behind the desk. Both young men put their hands on their knees and started to rise when he entered. Zeba saw no point, given that the judge’s back was turned to her already. She remained in her seat.
“Salaam wa-alaikum.” Their greetings were synchronized.
“Wa-alaikum,” replied Qazi Najeeb. “Take your seats.”
The judge leaned back in his chair and grew quietly pensive. He slipped his hand into his vest pocket and pulled out his tasbeh and held it in the palm of his left hand. He stretched the moment as long as he could, wanting everyone to feel the importance of today’s meeting.
“It’s time to bring this matter to a close,” the judge said, turning his attention to Zeba. “The two attorneys here have argued about the facts of this case a great deal. We’ve taken a lot of time to be sure the proceedings fell in line with the letter of the law. Even if we are not Kabul, we were no less diligent.”
Zeba sat with her hands clasped on her lap. She watched the judge, but blinked and looked downward often so as not to appear too brazen. Qazi Najeeb sat back in his chair and considered her for a moment.
“You are not the same woman who was brought into this office months ago.”
Yusuf’s body tensed.
“You came in here months ago looking like you’d been overcome by djinns. You were like an animal, nothing human about you. I can see now that you feel differently. This has nothing to do with your guilt or innocence and everything to do with what kind of person you are.”
Yusuf felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. Zeba did not flinch. In fact, her shoulders pulled back a bit and her chin lifted. She did not appreciate being compared to an animal even if the judge talked of a transformation since then. She knew he was right, though. She’d been dragged out of his office kicking and screaming, feeling a wildness in her bones because she no longer knew what or who she was. What mother would not go mad if she were pulled away from her children just when they needed her most? Complacency in that moment—that was the true madness.
“You’re not saying much. You never have throughout this trial. All we know about you is your signed confession,” the qazi said.
“That’s not her confession,” Yusuf interjected, raising an index finger.
The judge raised his hand in Yusuf’s direction. Yusuf bit his lower lip.
“You think you control us, don’t you?” asked the judge. “You think, like your mother, that you can move the world
in whichever direction you’d like because you are who you are. You’re the granddaughter of a murshid who has sometimes been described as holy and sometimes as a spy for the enemy states. You’re the daughter of a jadugar—”
Zeba tried not to flinch, but the judge caught the way her muscles twitched at the mention of her mother’s sorcery.
“Oh? Did you think I didn’t know about her tricks? She’s been a crafty woman all her life.” Qazi Najeeb looked away and sucked his teeth. Why couldn’t he see Gulnaz as just another plotting, graying woman? He scowled and thought of the ungodly way she commanded attention.
“Qazi-sahib, the reputations or habits of her grandfather or mother shouldn’t have anything to do with this case,” Yusuf said in a controlled voice. Defending his client without infuriating the judge was an art form that required continued practice.
The judge didn’t bother to acknowledge Yusuf’s comment but resumed speaking without further comment about Gulnaz, who seemed just as important to him as Zeba.
“You, Khanum, have been arrested for murdering your husband. Is there a worse crime? Is there something worse than depriving your children of their father . . . of . . . of depriving his family of their brother? Is there something worse than taking the life of a person?”
Zeba felt her body tighten with resignation. In a matter of moments, few or many, he could declare her fit to be executed for Kamal’s murder. Her children’s faces appeared behind her closed eyelids.
Yusuf saw her withdraw and instinctively said a prayer. He wanted to put a hand over hers but resisted. She was not who the judge thought she was. She was the bravest woman he’d met, willing to submit herself to the judge’s mercy to save a young girl from having her life destroyed before it had even begun. He had profound respect for this woman whose behavior had maddened him at times.
“You’ve given me no explanation for why you killed your husband that day.”
Yusuf closed his eyes. He could not look at Zeba. Not yet. A smile broke out on the prosecutor’s face, his head bobbing ever so slightly in vindication. He was pleasantly surprised by the judge’s apparent decision.
A House Without Windows Page 36
