The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  “You could see he was enjoying hassling us. He had caught a Moslem and was happy about it.”

  “And you observed all that while shivering with the snow coming in the window?” Jama said sarcastically. “You described him physically before and now you give me a psychological analysis.”

  “After Mohamed gave him his identification, the Officer was grinning a lot, Uncle Jama,” Mariam said quietly. “It didn’t seem that he had any reason to do so. He didn’t grin when he looked at John’s papers.”

  “Were you sitting behind Mohamed or John?”

  “Behind Mohamed, Uncle. I could see the officer very clearly.”

  “Wasn’t there steam on your window?”

  “No, Uncle. I guess because Mohamed had his window rolled down.”

  “Well, that is something,” Jama acknowledged. “Go on.”

  “He sort of leaned in the window,” Mohamed continued, “and said something like- ‘So Mohamed, except he dragged my name out, you mind if I search the car? And then he asked if it was my car and I told him no, it was my parents.’ He looked at the registration again and said, ‘Then you won’t mind if I take a look because your parents are good Moslems, and he dragged that out too so it sounded like Moosleems, and your parents wouldn’t do anything wrong, would they? I said it was ok and he asked me to pop the trunk. He looked around and came back with our back packs, John’s and mine. Mariam had hers in the back seat but he didn’t ask for it. He said he was going to have a look and asked us if we objected. I said no. Go ahead. And he started going through them.”

  “You mean outside in the snow?”

  “No. He took them back to his police cruiser.”

  “How did you know he went through your backpacks? The trunk lid would have blocked your rear view mirror, Mohamed. Do you remember? Did he leave the trunk open or closed?”

  “He must have closed it because it was closed when I drove off.”

  “I remember him slamming it shut,” Mariam said. “When he took the book bags out. It made the back of the car shake.”

  “What did John say when the Officer asked if he could go through your packs?”

  “I don’t remember John saying anything,” Mohamed replied, looking at the rug.

  “Mohamed,” Jama said sharply. “Mariam recalls John asking if it was necessary? That he hadn’t done anything wrong?”

  “Yeah, aabe, Now, I remember John did say that.” He looked at his shoes sheepishly.

  “What was Officer Bloehm’s response?”

  Mohamed thought a moment. “I think he said something like, if you haven’t done anything wrong then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Try to remember. It may be important. How long was he in his patrol car?”

  Mohamed paused. “Not too long. Maybe five minutes. He came back holding a plastic bag with a little dark wooden pipe inside from John’s knapsack and asked me, ‘Is this yours Mohamed?’ Again he sort of pronounced my name like it was a dirty word. I said no, it was John’s.”

  “How did you know it was John’s? The Officer could have planted it. Did John say anything while the Officer was in his patrol car?”

  Mohamed hesitated.

  “Mohamed,” Jama said sternly. “Now is not the time for a false sense of honor to protect your friend. He is the one who got you into this trouble. It is his marijuana pipe, isn’t it?”

  “I swear aabe, I’ve never smoked marijuana. I’ll swear on the Holy Koran if you want. It was John’s pipe.”

  Medina sobbed. “Our son is involved with drugs. What will we do? What will we do?”

  Mohamed hung his head, avoiding looking at his mother. “It’s not like that, hooyo. Don’t cry. I’m not doing drugs.”

  “What did John say while the Officer was in the patrol car?” Jama asked again.

  “He was moaning, ‘God damn it, God damn it, I’m in deep shit, my old man is going to kill me,’ stuff like that.” He glanced at his mother. “I’m sorry hooyo, I’m just repeating what John said. And I asked him why and he told me he had this pipe in his book bag.”

  “And by his old man, he meant his father?”

  ‘Yeah.”

  “Remarkable. Do you really think a father would kill his son for having a pipe to smoke marijuana?”

  “I don’t know, aabe. Maybe he just meant his father would severely beat him.”

  “Oh,” Jama said, feigning surprise. “I thought we were about to discover the American equivalent of honor killings. A son who brings such shame to his family by possessing a pipe for a common drug that the father is compelled to take his own son’s life to preserve the family’s honor. Of course, if that were the custom here, there would be a lot of dead sons and grief stricken mothers. Perhaps, this drug use is caused by a culture which allows sons to disrespectfully call their fathers ‘old men.’” he said, contemptuously. “Instead of respecting their elders. And to curse Allah in the same breath. These are the kind of young men you associate with, Mohamed?” He held up his hand like a traffic policeman stopping a car. “Do not answer. Think about your conduct and your choice of friends.”

  Amina shivered, knowing her daughter was exposed to these same bad influences at school, children who ran wild, unsupervised with cars and easy money, demanding their parents buy them things, smoking, rejecting the education being offered to them, making fun of those who studied. Mariam wasn’t like that. Not yet. How, as her mother, could Amina make her strong enough to resist the temptations of American culture? Amina felt caught in a vicious circle with her daughter. The stricter she was the more Mariam rebelled. And how soon would it be before Mariam would throw back in Amina’s face, her mother’s ultimate act of rebellion in marrying outside the faith?

  Jama ended the long silence and resumed questioning his son. “When you told the Officer it was John’s pipe, did John confirm it?”

  “Yes aabe, he did. John said it was his and Officer Bloehm went back to his patrol car and was there for a while. When he came back he said had taken some residue from the pipe and it sure looked like marijuana to him. He said he was keeping the pipe and ash as evidence and gave us back the book packs. Then he gave me the red summons and said I was lucky because he had forgotten the section for possession of drug paraphernalia and he was only going to write it up as possession of marijuana. I drove John home and he asked me and Mariam not to tell anyone what happened.”

  “Your friend John isn’t very bright, is he?” Jama said, more as an observation than a question. “Once the Officer served you the criminal summons, it is a matter of public record. John had marijuana paraphernalia in his possession. It will come out in the trial. But, if in court, John claims it was in your book bag and not his, he would not be in trouble with the law or his father, would he? And what do you think Officer Bloehm would say, Mohamed? Will he tell the truth or will he remember that the pipe belonged to the Moslem boy and not the one with the good Christian name of John?”

  Mohamed put his head in his hands

  “I just remembered something else the Officer did,” Mariam said quietly.

  “Yes, what is it.”

  “When the Officer returned to our car after examining the book bags, Mohamed had to roll down the window all the way. So they could fit in. We had kept it closed to stay warm. The Officer handed Mohamed’s bag in first. His arm was across Mohamed and he was holding it out for John. He said ‘Here you are son.’ John took it and then the Officer gave Mohamed John’s bag. I don’t think he said anything to Mohamed. Mohamed and John then exchanged the bags.”

  “Is that what you recall?” Jama asked, looking to his son for confirmation.

  Mohamed glanced quickly at Mariam and nodded. “I don’t remember what was said. I was in a daze. I can see John and me exchanging the bags. Yeah, it happened that way.”

  “I do not understand,” Medina interrupted. “Why would he give that summons to Mohamed anyway. Why our son? He’s done nothing wrong? It was the other boy.”

  “I do
not know,” Jama replied. “In Somalia, the driver of a car carrying contraband is chargeable under the Penal Code if he knew that a passenger had brought the contraband into the car. I do not know what the law is here. I suspect they will claim that Mohamed and John shared the pipe or that it was Mohamed’s.” He turned to Mohamed. “Your fate rests with the integrity of your friend John.”

  “But what about Mariam? She was a witness,” Medina said in desperation.

  “She is a young Moslem girl, living in the same household with Mohamed. I do not think her testimony will be given much credit.”

  “Why would the Officer tell Mohamed he was lucky to give him a summons for marijuana and not for the pipe?” Amina asked.

  “That is a good question,” Jama said, “Perhaps, because he was being clever. Possession of marijuana is probably worse than possession of a pipe to smoke it. He has charged Mohamed with the more serious offense and pretended to do him a favor.”

  Medina started sobbing again. Jama waved impatiently at her to stop and looked at the summons again.

  “The hearing date is for February 5th. We will need to hire an attorney, one experienced in criminal law, particularly drug cases. One who knows the system and the judges. I will ask at the Mosque.”

  “I will ask too,” Amina volunteered. “Maybe someone at work can recommend us to a good lawyer.” She thought she would talk to Josephine first. She didn’t want to reveal her family’s problem to anyone else at the Home.

  Jama stood and held his arms open. Mohamed rose quickly to accept his father’s hug. Jama kissed him on both cheeks. “I believe you. But my son, this is a very serious situation. Think of a northern Virginia jury watching you swear on the Holy Koran while Officer Bloehm and your friend John swear on their Christian bible. Think of the tv news. Every day stories from Iraq of Americans being killed by Moslems. Here they do not even know the difference between Iranians and Arabs let alone Shia and Sunni. To them all Moslems are terrorists.

  Do you think the jury will believe your story? I suggest you stay away from John until we get advice from an attorney what to do.”

  “Yes, aabe, I will,” Mohamed said quietly.

  The next morning, Amina hurried from the Metro to the Home. Her feet were cold through her thin boots. Snow and slush occasionally slid over the tops, down past her ankles and on to her already frozen toes. The sky was overcast. The weather forecast was for colder tomorrow with a possibility of more light snow on the weekend. To her snow was snow, light or heavy. She hated it. Last week, when the temperature had been in the 60s for a few consecutive days, the crocuses had optimistically stuck their heads up. Now, they were either covered by snow or wilted with their pathetic bent stalks barely visible above the icy crust. She felt like those flowers, misled by the promise of early spring and now worse off because of the few aberrational warm days. She had not slept well either, tormented by thoughts of Mariam being questioned by fat white policemen. In her dream, Mariam, wearing a brown hidjab, was being pulled out of the car screaming while Mohamed was handcuffed and a faceless white boy laughed and pointed. Amina was convinced that the only reason Officer Bloehm had left her daughter alone was because he thought she was African American and not Moslem. Thank God she had been able to persuade Mariam that it was enough just to cover her head with a scarf and not wear a hidjab.

  She arrived early to discover that Josephine was not coming today. She had called and said her husband had fallen and she was taking him to the hospital. The CNA supervisor, by her tone and facial expressions made it clear to Amina she thought Josephine didn’t feel like coming in because of the snow. With Josephine not there, Amina had cautiously asked several of the African American staff if they knew any criminal lawyers in northern Virginia, being intentionally vague about why she needed one. Most of them lived in Prince Georges County and couldn’t recommend anyone in Virginia. In desperation, she almost called Josephine but knew her friend had been telling the truth and would not be at home. Besides, if her husband had slipped on the ice, Josephine had enough problems. It would have been selfish of Amina to trouble her.

  They were shorthanded this Thursday. Another CNA besides Josephine had called in sick, and it wasn’t until just before lunchtime, that Amina managed to take her break. She went to the staff room, situated at the end of the hall of the bedridden residents. She hesitated to go in because the only person there was Maynard Lewis, the Registered Nurse for the third floor. She didn’t know him very well. He had been recently assigned to her unit. He seemed pleasant enough, got along well with the rest of the staff and didn’t lord it over the CNAs like the previous floor RN. Amina found him a little too convivial and familiar but he was competent and her interaction with him had been limited to brief conversations about residents’ medications. He was sitting in an easy chair, reading The Washington Post. Normally, out of modesty, she avoided being alone with a man, but she was tired. It would only be for a short time. She would have to help the residents soon with their lunch. She smoothed the white pants of her uniform and sat down sideways on the sofa, leaned back against the armrest and took off her left shoe. Her wet sock had been chaffing against her skin all morning.

  “I’m curious,” Maynard said, “why a quiet, proper person like yourself, suddenly needs a criminal lawyer.” He had a deep bass voice which gave him an aura of seriousness, even when he joked around with the CNAs, which was frequently. He uncrossed his legs and shifted in the chair to face her. The fluorescent ceiling light glinted off his moussed hair and the small gold earring in his right ear lobe. He placed his rimless glasses on the table, his dark eyes mischievously looking her up and down.

  “How do you know I do?” she said a bit too defensively.

  “Ms. Jackson,” he said, as if lecturing a child why it was wrong to play with matches. “This place feeds on gossip, lives on gossip, it thrives on gossip. There are no secrets here. It has been all over this building since you asked Amy Bedlow at the start of your shift.”

  She was surprised. While she hadn’t asked anyone not to say anything to anyone else, she had assumed they wouldn’t. Amina admitted to herself she had been naïve. She had heard gossip in the staff room before and had tried to ignore it. To her, it was immoral. It’s ironic. She could trust a resident, Helen, more than her co-workers. It all depended on whom you told your secrets to, she thought.

  “Well, Ms. Jackson?” Maynard asked. “Someone in your family an ax murderer? A serial killer? Head of a drug ring?” He stood up. He was a big man with a muscular chest which stood out in front of his gut, but with time, it looked like the reverse would be true. He pushed his glasses up on his forehead, let his stomach sag a little, hunched his shoulders and began deliberately pacing the room like a trial attorney. He hooked his thumbs into imaginary suspenders over his white shirt, which he wore like a large smock outside his pants. His white sneakers squeaked on the linoleum. He jutted his chin out, picked up The Post’s sports section, smacked it with one hand and whirled around confronting the imaginary jury. “I ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, could this woman,” he paused, turning and pointing to Amina with the newspaper, “could Ms. Jackson, be guilty of such a heinous crime, as alleged by my learned colleague, the District Attorney?”

  “It is not funny,” she said, annoyed at herself for noticing how gracefully and quickly he moved for a large man and even more for smiling at him, however slightly. She sat up stiffly. “I need help. My oldest nephew has a problem and the family is looking for a criminal lawyer.” Technically, Mohamed was not her nephew but she wasn’t going to explain extended Somali family relationships to Mr. Lewis.

  Maynard deflated from dramatic trial attorney, reverted to his amiable, husky self, folded his big boned frame back into the chair and readjusted his eyeglasses. The small round shaped lenses were not right for his large oval face, she thought, sizing him up as if for a fashion makeover. It gave him the appearance of a rhinoceros, large but with small beady eyes. His closely trimmed curly hai
r emphasized his long face. And instead of being cut straight across his forehead, which would have made his face seem broader, his hair line met in a curly point in the center, directing her eyes toward his nose, which she admitted was not badly proportioned, long, although not as aquiline as hers. His cheeks, chin and neck had a darker hue, not quite a stubble but enough of a growth to show, despite his morning shave. She could smell his aftershave, a subtle rather than splashy scent, which she found pleasant.

  “There are many kinds of criminal lawyers. It depends what kind of problem your nephew has. I assume we can eliminate white collar crime because of his youth. My guess is that you are in your late twenties maybe close to thirty. Your nephew is probably around twenty. Am I right?”

  Amina felt uncomfortable discussing her age with this man. She didn’t know what he meant by white collar crime but she did not want to prolong the conversation or encourage Maynard by asking for an explanation. “My nephew,” she said, hesitating to say it in public for the first time, “has been summoned to appear in court for possession of marijuana.”

  Maynard snorted. “So, you’ve been goin around to all us here Africaaan Amuricans and askin for lawyers because us folks certainly have had experience with our kids being arrested for drug charges? Is that why you’re aksing around?”

  “Why are you so angry? “She was confused. She didn’t understand why he was using a different accent, like some of the poorer educated CNAs. She had thought someone would quietly give her the name and telephone number of a criminal attorney, Jama would call that person and that would be that.

  “Because, Ms. Jackson, you have a reputation around here of thinking of yourself as better than the rest of us. Someone recently from Africa, with a British accent, aloof, above our every day struggles. Much better than today’s blacks whose ancestors came to these United States as slaves, crammed in the holds of filthy, rat infested ships who haven’t managed to fulfill the American dream in 200 years. You on the other hand, work hard, save every penny and in ten years, move on up the ladder. So what’s wrong with those American blacks, you say to yourselves.”