by Thomas Ryan
Jeff nodded. ‘A mutual friend introduced us. I’m interested in purchasing bulk wine and possibly investing in a vineyard. Mr Shala said he could offer both. I arranged to meet with him here. But when I booked into the hotel last night I was told he left more than a week ago. So I telephoned his wife who gave me your contact details. She said you were his lawyer.’
A second or so of thought, then Mema took a sip of his coffee. ‘It is true that Mr Shala came to see me. His family owned a property in a region near the city of Gjakova. It had been sold by his father and Mr Shala had not been told of the sale. He did not believe such a thing would have occurred without his father telling him. This is why he came to see me – to dispute the legitimacy of the new ownership. He showed me his documents and I made some enquires on his behalf. Then he stopped coming. I thought nothing of it. My fees are high. I assumed he found a new lawyer.’
‘You’ve heard nothing from him since?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Had Arben visited the property?’
‘Yes, of course. As you can imagine it was very upsetting for him. Two brothers, the Xhihas, are the new owners. They expressed an interest to sell to Mr Shala, but he was adamant that he was already the legal owner. He wanted back what he considered rightfully his.’
Jeff screwed up his face into a pissed-off expression he hoped looked convincing to Mema. ‘I don’t mind telling you I feel let down. I’ve travelled a long way and I don’t want it to be a wasted trip. You said these owners are keen to sell? I’d like to meet with the brothers if possible. Give it the once over. Can you arrange it? I’ll pay for your time.’
Mema continued to sip his coffee, eyes cool as stone. ‘Yes, I can arrange it. When would be convenient for you?’
‘Today. This afternoon, if possible?’
‘I will make a phone call.’ Mema stood and pulled a mobile phone from his jacket. He squinted at it and held it up above shoulder height. ‘The signal is very bad right here. I need to make the call away from the building. Will you excuse me a minute?’
‘Sure. Go ahead.’
Jeff turned his attention to the comings and goings of the people around him. Young boys moved between tables offering cigarettes, watches and phone cards. When they looked in his direction he waved them away. Jeff took up his teaspoon and tapped the side of his cup. He gazed across at Mema. The lawyer stood on the pavement some distance away. His back and forth pacing looked somewhat agitated. Jeff tried not to be too obvious as he observed the lawyer’s actions. Mema’s free hand found constant release in gesticulation. His voice had risen too, although he was too far away for Jeff to make out what was being said. He assumed it would be in Albanian anyway.
Minutes later Mema returned all smiles. ‘That’s all set, Mr Bradley. The owners will meet you at the Pastriku Hotel in Gjakova and take you to the vineyard. I will ask the hotel manager to make the introductions.’ He took out a small notebook and scribbled down directions, then ripped out the page and passed it to Jeff. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I must get to court. Please, stay and finish your coffee. I have taken care of the bill. Good luck for the rest of your stay.’
Jeff watched Mema until he disappeared from sight. To his mind the man appeared professional enough, but the circumstances of that phone call bothered him. Was the raised voice only about Mema being heard over the traffic noise? Or was there more going on?
He’d worry about it later. Right now he needed to get back to the hotel and ask Sulla to drive him to Gjakova.
9.
Court. You must hurry.’
Arben raised his head. Bleary eyes stared with little comprehension at the guard. ‘What?’
A hand shook Arben’s foot. ‘Court. You must go to court. Hurry.’
‘Okay, okay.’
Arben rolled his legs over the side of the bed and bent to pull on his shoes. ‘Toilet?’ he said, looking up at the guard. The guard nodded and hurried him through to the toilet block.
Bladder emptied, Arben shuffled across to the stainless steel basin. No mirror. Fingers rasped across days of stubble. From the time of his arrest he had had no change of clothes. No shower. Now he was on his way to court. Should his appearance be a concern? Despite Mema’s promise that he’d be released, Arben fretted that once the judge viewed the smelly, scruffy man before him, he would order him locked up and the key tossed away.
He splashed water onto his hair and face and rubbed a finger across his teeth. No way of telling if any of this made a difference. And his teeth still felt furry. After his release he’d book into a hotel and spend an hour under a hot shower and use up a tube of toothpaste.
He nodded that he was ready and two guards walked him to the waiting vehicle.
Thirty-odd people crowded round the entrance to the two-storey Municipal Court. When the police vehicle stopped, curious eyes turned Arben’s way. He was helped onto the pavement where a court officer took charge of his arm and guided him forward. Another walked ahead, pushing a passage through the throng. A big man, similarly unshaven and dressed in dirty trousers and a long grey overcoat, turned and yelled abuse as he was elbowed aside. The officer scowled and levelled his face to within centimetres of the protestor’s. The man hesitated then backed away. His wife, emaciated and possessed of a leathery face that attested to a lifetime of hoeing cornfields, glared back at the officers. She flicked her head towards them, hissing like a viper through pencil-thin lips.
Inside the courthouse, police, court staff and Prishtina citizens stood in lines or walked about with pieces of paper and busy expressions. Arben’s escorts moved him quickly across the foyer and up a flight of stairs and along a corridor. The courtroom was the second door on the left.
Tomi Mema sat at a table, an empty chair beside him. With sore wrists relieved of handcuffs, Arben took the vacant seat.
Mema patted him on the knee. ‘Try to be positive. This won’t take long.’
Arben’s nod belied the apprehension he was feeling. He made an anxious sweep of the room. A woman clad in a severe business suit sat behind a desk on a dais at the far end, perusing a document. Black-framed glasses hovered on the end of her nose. Arben had imagined the judge would be in robes. Without them, she looked no more important than the clerk seated in front of her.
‘Over there is the public prosecutor, Avni Leka.’
Mema nodded in the direction of a grey-haired, square-faced man attired with just a little less elegance than Mema himself. The steely eyed prosecutor displayed scant compassion when he glanced Arben’s way. His assistant, a pretty young woman, looked like she should still be in school. She giggled when the prosecutor whispered in her ear. For some reason, Arben took an instant dislike to both of them.
The judge put her document aside. ‘Mr Mema. Are you and your client ready to begin?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘Mr Prosecutor?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
The court recorder, a woman in her fifties with bleached blonde hair gathered in a bun, asked Arben some personal details. There was a delay after each question as she typed his answers into a computer. She nodded to the judge when she had finished.
The judge glanced at Arben over the top of her glasses.
‘Mr Shala, this is not a trial. It is a hearing to assess evidence and arguments to determine whether you should remain in custody. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Good. Mr Mema, you can start.’
Arben tried to concentrate as Mema presented his opening statement. Mema demanded that the charges be dismissed, arguing that the prosecutor had produced no evidence to show his client had knowingly obtained a stolen mobile phone.
‘Mr Shala is now a resident of New Zealand and wishes to return to that country and his family as quickly as possible.’
Although it had not been with the greatest of passion, Me
ma had presented all the facts relevant to Arben’s alleged crime – as far as Arben could ascertain. And Mema seemed on track in emphasising that no evidence had been presented to support a charge for the possession of stolen goods. Surely the judge must release him.
Prosecutor Avni Leka rose to speak. He looked directly at Arben. Something in the look caused Arben’s hands to tremble. He squeezed them between his thighs to stop the shaking.
‘Your Honour. The argument as to whether Mr Shala knowingly obtained a stolen mobile phone has no bearing here. A different set of protocols than those pertaining to this hearing will apply when that matter is finally dealt with by the court. The only argument possible today is whether or not Mr Shala broke the conditions of his bail. Mr Mema may have presented compelling evidence that his client is innocent of the mobile phone charges. However, in the matter of breaking the condition of his bail, which was that the defendant remains in Kosovo until the police finish their investigation, no evidence at all in exculpation has been adduced. Thus, the court has a right to conclude that when Mr Shala was arrested at the Macedonian border, carrying luggage, passport and money, his only intention could have been to escape the jurisdiction of this court. Because Mr Shala has a New Zealand passport he seems to believe that he can leave Kosovo without any concern for our legal processes. Mr Shala’s actions prove beyond doubt that he is a flight risk. Your Honour, I seek an order that Mr Shala continue to be held in custody until the police investigation regarding the initial charge is completed.’
With a flourish the prosecutor flung his notes onto the desk before him. The theatrics drew a look of disapproval from the judge. Leka, unmoved, resumed his seat. All eyes turned towards the judge. She leaned forward to whisper something to the court recorder then straightened. The crack of her gavel split the silence.
‘I will give you my decision in an hour. Hearing adjourned.’
One of the court officers gripped Arben’s arm and hauled him upright. His eyes remained on the judge who was sitting back and speaking on a mobile phone. Perhaps sensing Arben watching her, she swivelled her chair away.
As the cage-gate of the court’s holding cell clanked closed behind him, Arben noticed there was no furniture but the wooden bench sitting on brackets bolted into the wall. A door at the rear of the cell was secured by heavy iron stays. A small window above it afforded a glimpse of the uneven and broken terracotta-tiled roofing of adjacent buildings. Vertical bars ran floor to ceiling along the front of the cell. A female court officer sat at a desk reading a book. Arben slumped on the floor in the corner farthest from her, leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes. A flood of images of home filled his mind and hot tears spilled through eyelids squeezed tight.
A tap on the cell bars snapped Arben back to the present. The court officer was holding up a document and a pen and signalling him to come forward. Tomi Mema stood beside her. Arben shuffled towards them. He reached through the bars and took hold of the document and pen, then looked to Mema for an explanation.
‘You need to sign the top copy.’
Arben scanned the top sheet. ‘I don’t understand this. What is it?’
‘It is the court order.’
Mema pointed to a spot. Arben signed and passed the top slip back to the court officer, then looked at Mema for some kind of lead. But Mema’s face disclosed no particular sign of reassurance.
‘The judge ruled against us. You are to be held another fifteen days or until the investigation is completed, whichever is the sooner.’
Arben’s eyes rounded like saucers. ‘I . . . I have to go back to the police station?’
‘It’s out of my hands.’ Mema glanced behind him. The court officer was out of earshot. ‘You know what you have to do. The people you have upset want the money you promised and the original documents for your land signed over.’
Arben gripped the bars between them so hard that his wrists hurt. It all became clear to him now: Mema’s inept defence, the judge’s apathy. Everything had been orchestrated. Everyone was in on the swindle, including the police. If he could have reached far enough through the bars, he would have strangled this corrupt lawyer. His anger fuelled a last attempt at defiance.
‘I will ask the UN to help,’ he spat. ‘Someone will listen.’
Mema shook his head with an expression Arben took to be of pity. ‘This is the Municipal Court. The UN ceded control to the interim Kosovon government. However much you protest, they will not interfere. You have no other options, Arben. No one cares.’
‘They can’t hold me for ever. Eventually they’ll have to release me. I’ll find a way to get the UN to help. So fuck you, Tomi. I will keep my land.’
Mema leaned closer.
‘Listen to me carefully. You are not going back to the police cells. They are taking you to the detention centre. You will be with other prisoners. I can do nothing to protect you in such an environment.’ Mema’s teeth bared in a semblance of a smile. ‘When you change your mind, tell the guards to call for me.’
Arben held Mema’s gaze for a matter of seconds, then turned away. Three slow steps took him back to the corner. He dropped to his knees. When he looked up again, Mema had gone.
10.
Why should we go to them?’ Sulla’s voice had raised a decibel or two. ‘Why could these people not come to Prishtina? It will take an hour and a half to drive to Gjakova. Three hours, the whole trip. Four hours with the meeting included. Maybe longer.’
The aggression in Sulla’s attitude took Jeff by surprise. ‘Money’s no object. Name your price, for God’s sake, Sulla.’
‘Jeff. Please. I know you do not intend to insult me. This is not about money. What is money to me in this? It is a matter of principle.’
‘Okay. Sorry, Sulla. I do understand. But I also do need to see the property.’
Sulla’s hands spread palms-up to the heavens. ‘What difference does that make? These sons of dogs are stealing Arben’s land. We should not run around after them. They are peasants.’
Jeff’s powers of persuasion were severely tested over the next ten minutes. But in the end Sulla finally agreed to drive him to Gjakova. And although he continued to complain from behind the wheel, Jeff just sat quietly and let him talk his frustration out. It was when they had passed the turnoff to the airport that Sulla finally tired of hearing his own voice and lapsed into silence. A grateful Jeff sat back and confined his comments to uncontentious remarks about the landscape.
An hour later, Sulla announced that the billboard in the distance that advertised a local construction company marked the turnoff to Gjakova. As they left the main road, Jeff caught sight of several bombed-out buildings. Charred roof-framing jutted into the sky like the steepled fingers of children at prayer.
‘In this region it was very bad during the troubles.’
Sulla’s tone sounded subdued. Jeff had certainly read the news reports. The NATO bombing raids had gone on for three months. Not a building, factory or bridge deemed strategically important was allowed to remain standing. He wondered how farm buildings fitted into the category of strategic. But his military training had taught him that the more comfort you can deny the enemy, the quicker he will collapse. Battles, he knew, were often won in the minds of armies before even the first shot was fired.
After another twenty minutes, they crossed the Bardhe River and entered wine country. Vineyards stretched across the rolling landscape for as far as Jeff could see. Vines in need of pruning sagged on wires no longer taut. The majority of wooden posts were unable to support the weight and had fallen. Plastic bags and paper wrappings blown down the rows by prevailing winds were wrapped round vine roots. Not even the cover of melting snow was enough to hide the signs of general neglect.
‘Gjakova is round the next bend.’
Before Jeff’s eyes a long, sloping road stretched down into the city. On either side women and children dressed
in parkas and woollen hats manned makeshift stalls of wooden shelving and cardboard boxes. Waves and hopeful smiles greeted the approach of Sulla’s car. Everything appeared to be for sale, from stolen hubcaps and motor oil to portable radios, fridges, televisions and bottles of Coca-Cola. As the road levelled out, Sulla steered his car onto a bridge over the bed of a stream. Broken glass glinted along the mudflats in the early afternoon sun. Plastic rubbish bags festooned the trees along the banks.
Into view came a sandbagged wall that encircled a compound opposite the bus station. Razor wire extended along the top.
‘Italians,’ Sulla said. At the next set of traffic lights he pointed towards a pyramid-shaped building. ‘That’s the Pastriku Hotel.’
Like the Grand Hotel in Prishtina, the Pastriku was a remnant of more opulent times. But even from a distance it was clearly a lot more dilapidated.
Jeff glanced at Sulla.
‘It doesn’t look busy.’
‘Not any more, Jeff. Gjakova was once a major industrial town. Companies from all over Yugoslavia had factories here. It was very prosperous. During the war NATO bombed the factories and the Serbs burnt much of the rest of Gjakova to the ground. The old part of the city was totally destroyed. Many people were massacred. Now there is nothing. No work. No future. No one comes to Gjakova any more and no one comes to the hotel.’
Sulla pulled into a space in front of a Western Union office.
Once inside the hotel entrance it became clear there was no artificial lighting. The place made do with the sunlight that streamed through the door and skylights. There was no heating. Sulla appeared impervious to the chill. Jeff wrapped his arms across his chest and rubbed the tops of his arms.
‘It’s cold in here. Feels like the inside of a bloody freezer.’
‘Electricity cut. Maybe they do not have a generator.’
A sign in English told guests to follow the arrow to the dining room. Bare wires looped through gaps where ceiling tiles were missing. Another sign announced that the basement boasted a swimming pool and a hairdresser. Jeff doubted anything existed in the basement other than damp walls and cobwebs.
