"Then how was the case lost?” asked Ranya.
Mona shrugged eloquently. “How do these things happen? Money is a powerful evil. Evidence disappears; weak-minded judges are unduly influenced. The trial was aborted and Samir was forced to leave the Zagazig Public Prosecutor's office. In fact, I hired him here. His brilliance was clear even then, for those who knew how to see it.” She gave a humble smile. “Now, please. Time is passing. Let us begin our prayers."
As they knelt side by side on their mats, Nermiin touched Ranya's arm. “Don't listen to her, Ranya. This is your chance. Try."
Ranya said nothing. And yet . . . if Ustaz Samir had overcome such a signal failure early in his career, maybe she could too.
* * * *
The afternoon passed as all days in the Legal Reference Department pass. The junior attorneys sat at their table, clad in shabby suits and well-worn patience. Some (those who could) translated case law from French or English. Others, including Ranya, made hand copies of court documents, for it was a sad fact that the salary of a college graduate was lower than the cost of using a photocopier.
Ranya, who had faced her first morning back at work with some trepidation, felt she ought to be satisfied to have survived. And yet she was not. In truth, she chafed to know what was happening in the Showkat Mohammed case, and could not kill the hope that Samir would call for her, if only to admonish her for her bumbling performance. Late in the afternoon she made several pointless trips to the ladies’ restroom, knowing she would meet one or two of the secretaries there. In this way she discovered that no investigators had yet been asked to review the information, nor had any of the deputy public prosecutors been assigned to the case. The consensus was that Ustaz Lutfy's continued absence was the cause of this delay. But, she was assured, Lutfy would be back the next day no matter what his condition, because he would be afraid to lose his place if someone more talented got the chance to show his stuff.
* * * *
At nine forty-five on Monday morning, Ranya left the Reference Department and headed for the walkway that encircled the open atrium on the fourth floor. No one asked her where she was going. No one noted her absence. Clutching a half dozen paper folders to her bosom, she took up a position behind a decorative pillar and glued her eyes to the marble stairs.
At five past ten Ustaz Samir appeared, flanked by an honor guard of two deputy prosecutors with briefcases in each hand. Ranya stepped out from behind her pillar, walking nonchalantly toward the research room—a route that took her directly across Samir's path.
"Ustaz Samir!” she said, feigning pleasant surprise.
"Miss Ranya."
"If I may, hadritak." She spoke with a deferential tone, but did not wait for his approval. “I prepared a report of the magistrate's hearing on the Showkat Mohammed case. I made some observations of the suspect's demeanor and remarks. I think I have it here.” She flipped through the folders and held one out. “If you think this may be useful . . ."
Samir stared at her a moment, then nodded to one of the deputies, who managed to take it from her, despite the briefcases.
"If I may, hadritak," said Ranya hastily, as Samir made as if to move away. “I was wondering if I should spend some time gathering further thoughts on the case, perhaps trying to determine the motive."
Samir frowned at her, and her heart sank as she saw the negative reply forming on his lips. Then he hesitated. “Do what you like,” he muttered. Then he turned and headed up the stairs to the fifth floor.
It was four o'clock when Ranya emerged from the mogamma. She purchased a chocolate bar at the kiosk on the corner and headed down a tree-lined side street. In the shade of the trees sat the orange car, and beside it stood the lanky young man, reading a newspaper.
"Yusef! I am very late!"
The young man looked up and smiled. “I don't mind. Especially since I see by your face that things did not go so badly as you feared.” He tucked the newspaper under his arm and opened the passenger-side door for her.
"I must learn to hide my emotions if I am to be a success in the courtroom.” She thought of Samir's perpetual scowl; perhaps that was his way of disguising his thoughts from unscrupulous defense attorneys.
Yusef took his seat behind the wheel. “Where shall we go today?"
"Some place where we can talk in private."
Yusef, who worked at El Akhbar, Benha's largest newspaper, was the son of the “family friend” Ranya had mentioned. It was his habit to give Ranya a ride to and from the train station almost every day. As it happened, though she got off work at three thirty, her train to Cairo did not leave till four forty-five. This situation suited them both, for it gave them an excellent excuse to spend time together—alone.
"It's not too windy today. Let's go to the Corniche."
A drive of three minutes brought them to the banks of the Nile, where the Benha Chamber of Commerce, in the hope of attracting some small sliver of the precious tourist trade, had put in a stone boardwalk and planted a row of date palms. They sat on a bench that overlooked the river and the rich green farmland beyond, and Ranya related her encounter with Samir.
"Of course it's unofficial,” she concluded, “but at least he is giving me a chance to prove myself. At first I could not understand why he left me alone with the magistrate, but I now see that it is because he has confidence in me."
"So it seems,” said Yusef.
"I believe I can assist in establishing the motive. It is the defendant's responsibility to prove his innocence, which is impossible, as the facts of the attack are clear. But since we are going for attempted murder rather than assault, it is important to prove intent."
"I see."
Ranya eyed his usually good-natured face. “You are the opposite of enthusiastic."
"I'm happy for you, of course.” Yusef reached for a cigarette. “I'm just wondering—why you? There are many other attorneys senior to you waiting for their opportunity. Now they are being overlooked in favor of the most junior attorney, and a woman."
Ranya's temper flared in tandem with Yusef's cigarette. “I thought you had a modern view of the necessity to improve women's role in society, Yusef."
"I do! Ranya . . . tch."
"I suppose you are threatened by the thought that I might have some success in my career,” Ranya continued. “Do you think I would have the same reaction if our roles were reversed?"
"Let's find out.” He blew a stream of smoke through his lips. “I've been offered a job at The Middle East Times, Cairo office. I'm going to take it."
Ranya looked at him in surprise.
With a glance to make sure they were alone, he took her hand. “Marry me, Ranya. It will be perfect. We'll live in Cairo, near your parents. You can join your father's firm. Or teach. Anything you want."
Ranya furrowed her brow. Yusef leaving? Yusef wanting to get married? Already? They had talked about having a life together, but she had always thought of that as something that would happen in the future. To be sure, both their parents approved. Yusef was not only sweet tempered, but also hard working and ambitious. And despite her accusation, he was more liberal than most when it came to the difficult issue of women's rights. The hours they spent together after work, talking over their jobs and discussing the issues of the time, were the highlight of her day. He would make a good husband—someday. When she had established her career.
"What I want,” said Ranya slowly, “is to win this case. I can't think about anything else right now. But I need your help."
It was Yusef's turn to show surprise. “What can I do?"
"You can drive your car. Are you free tomorrow morning?"
Yusef sighed and lifted his gaze. He watched an ibis float slowly down from the sky. “I am free until noon."
* * * *
The following morning, Yusef met Ranya at the train station and drove her to the center of “old” Benha. They wound through unpaved streets barely wide enough to accommodate the tiny car, forced at one point to ro
ll onto the front stoop of a tailor shop to let a donkey cart go by.
There was no sign in front of the couriers’ office, but a collection of rusty, fenderless bicycles convinced them they were in the right place. A receptionist regarded them from behind an extraordinary amount of mascara and, upon hearing Ranya's request, sprang up quickly to inform her superior of their presence.
"He is doing all right,” said the manager in response to their query about young Hosni's health. “My wife made soup for him, which I brought to his home last night."
"We hope he is soon able to return to work,” said Yusef.
The manager shrugged. “Unfortunately he lost the eye. That will take time."
Yusef blanched, but Ranya spoke in a firm voice. “I will see that the man who did this is punished."
"Insha'allah," said the manager.
"I have a question about the package Hosni was carrying. Do you know if it was delivered before he was attacked?"
"I did not wish to bother the boy about such an insignificance, under the circumstances. However, the recipient was no doubt contacted.” He called for his assistant, a small man whose worried expression turned to near panic as he stuttered that no one had told him to contact anyone.
The manager made a show of chastising the assistant, then offered to call the recipient at once, in person.
"I prefer to speak with him myself,” said Ranya. “If you would be so kind as to supply me with his name? And also the name of the sender?"
"Of course.” He signaled to the assistant, who retrieved the bill of lading. “Here it is. The package was sent by a Mr. Saied El Araky in Zagazig to Professor Doctor Ahmed Mohammed Naguib, Dean of the Faculty of Agriculture, Benha University."
* * * *
The campus of the Faculty of Agriculture was located south of the city on twenty hectares of agricultural land. The scene was peaceful and green. Day laborers in long galabeyas wielded short-handled hoes among the test plots. The concrete buildings were surrounded by rubber trees and glorious bougainvillea.
The dean, a large man with grizzled hair, listened to Ranya's story with the bare minimum of politeness, and got to the point before she was finished. “I'm sorry, Miss Ranya, I can tell you nothing about the package."
"You did not receive it?"
His expression gave away nothing. “Perhaps it was misplaced. May I offer you ahwa?"
"No thank you,” said Ranya. She did not want coffee; she wanted answers.
"Most of our deliveries are seed samples, nothing important,” said the dean.
"This one was from Mr. Saied El Araky of Zagazig,” said Ranya.
"Was it?"
Ranya felt her anger rising. The dean's words were empty and his manner was of barely veiled contempt. “Showkat Mohammed was raised in Zagazig. He was often in trouble there. It occurred to me that someone there might write to you with information disadvantageous to Showkat, and that Showkat might have attacked the messenger in an ill-conceived attempt to prevent this information from getting to you. Are you certain the package was not delivered?"
The dean narrowed his eyes, no longer bothering to hide his disdain. “Let me give you some advice, young lady. You are wasting your time. Your case will come to nothing."
"There is a witness to the crime. And today we begin to see a possible motive. There is no doubt he will be convicted."
The Dean leaned forward and curled his lip. "F'il mishmish, hadritik."
When the apricots bloom. Meaning “never,” since the apricots bloomed but rarely or so quickly that the blossoms were never seen. A quaint proverb, suited to the slow, easygoing lives of the average Egyptians, so accustomed to waiting that they made an art of it, not least because they knew full well that failure was inevitable.
"The case has been filed with the court,” said Ranya. “A trial date has been set."
"Papers. Talk. Words. Are you mad? Don't you know who Showkat Mohammed is?"
Ranya shook her head.
"Then allow me to enlighten you. Showkat Mohammed is the grandson of Abdullah Ahmed Zaki. Judge Abdullah. He has been a judge in Zagazig for thirty years, and now presides over the Court of First Instance.” The dean stood. “There is no more possibility that he will face trial than that he will be expelled from this university—no matter what he has done."
* * * *
"Samir must have known,” said Yusef on the drive back to the city center.
"I'm sure he did."
He twisted to look at her. “Then why didn't he tell you?"
"I think I know.” Ranya straightened in her seat. “Turn left up ahead."
"That is the wrong way."
"I'm going back with you to El Akhbar."
"It's after eleven. I have to cover the governor's speech."
"Just drop me off. I'll take a taxi back to the mogamma."
"Ranya, this situation is not straightforward, and you are getting too close. Stop before they make you stop."
"I will. But there is one thing I must know."
* * * *
The archive room of El Akhbar was a poorly lit, bad-smelling den. Someday, according to the modernization plan drawn up ten years before, the back issues would be scanned into digital format. Someday.
To be safe, she started with the 1983 binders and went backwards. Forty-five minutes later she turned to the legal section for June 14, 1982, and there it was. Reading back through the previous year gave her the tale:
Khalid Barsoum, retired sports hero living in Shobra, a suburb of Zagazig, was arrested following the stabbing deaths of his wife, Nadia, and her sister, Afaf. Upon physical examination, the wife was found to be malnourished and covered with knife and burn scars. Afaf had left a letter with the sisters’ aunt detailing a long list of abuse by Khalid, dictated to her and signed by Nadia. This was followed by a postscript explaining Afaf's intention to remove Nadia from her husband's home by stealth, and their mutual fear of what would happen if Barsoum should discover their plan. Upon the deaths of her nieces, the aunt took the letter to the police. Barsoum was arrested and charged, but in the intervening weeks the letter was lost and the supporting witnesses changed their stories. During pretrial motions the Public Prosecutor accused Barsoum of tampering, but the panel of three judges dismissed the case for lack of evidence. The principle judge was Abdullah Ahmed Zaki.
Ranya closed the binder and sat in silence for some minutes. How had Barsoum's people bought off Judge Abdullah? She didn't know—it was probable that no one knew—but she knew they had. For here was the explanation of Samir's haste, of his frustration the first time she had seen him. Some people might think he was only going after the son to wreak vengeance on the grandfather, but not Ranya. Showkat Mohammed was a danger to society. He would be put away where he would never harm anyone again. And Judge Abdullah would know that Samir would never be bought.
* * * *
It was two o'clock when Ranya arrived back at the mogamma. She was scarcely inside when one of the doormen told her Ustaza Mona was looking for her. She hurried up the marble stairs, not bothering to hold on to the railing in her haste.
Mona was lurking in the alcove to the Legal Reference Department. “There you are!"
"Yes, hadritik."
"Ustaz Samir advises me that you are to attend a meeting on the fifth floor. You are to bring all your notes pertaining to the Showkat Mohammed case. He directs that you go at once to the conference room and wait."
It was a quarter past three when the door opened and Mona entered, followed slowly by Ustaz Lutfy, his face mottled with purple bruises, teetering on a pair of crutches.
"Thank you, Miss Ranya,” slurred Lutfy in reply to her expression of concern. “I am fine.” He lowered himself into a chair and allowed Mona to take the crutches.
"So Miss Ranya,” he began. “I understand you have been gathering information on Showkat Mohammed. Please give me your materials."
Ranya handed him her notebook. “There are some details I have not had a chan
ce to note down. We must talk with Mr. Saied El Araky—"
"That won't be necessary.” He put her notebook in his briefcase. “You no longer have anything to do with this case. Do you understand?"
She was not surprised. “Yes, hadritak. I will write down his num—"
"There is no need. The case against Showkat Mohammed has been dropped.” Lutfy turned to Mona and gestured for his crutches.
"No!” Ranya rose in her place. “It can't be! Why? The boy is a menace!"
Lutfy's hands trembled as he rose. “No one is suggesting otherwise, Miss Ranya. It is most unfortunate. But the magistrate uncovered a critical mistake."
"There was no mistake. What mistake?"
"I am sorry to say that you neglected to hand over the charging document, Miss Ranya."
"No. I assure you I did. I had it ready in the folder, and I remember clearly handing it to the clerk."
"It is not advisable, Miss Ranya, to contradict those whose experience so completely overwhelms yours."
"Ustaz Lutfy. Please, I beg you!"
Lutfy spoke sternly, though his face was gray with pain. “We cannot fire you, since you have a contract. But you will be on probation—"
"I don't care about me! Ustaz! You can't let that boy go unpunished! I have established the motive! Please!"
"As I was saying, Miss Ranya. You will be on probation for one year. During that time, you will not be allowed to handle any legal documents, even those in the Reference Department."
Ranya turned to Mona, but the personnel secretary would not meet her eyes.
"Of course,” continued Ustaz Lutfy in a thoughtful tone, “should you decide to resign . . . Ustaz Samir tells me that he will give you a good recommendation. We would be sad to see you go, but under the circumstances . . ."
* * * *
Yusef lowered his newspaper, but his usual smile died on his lips. “Ranya, what happened?"
"Nothing."
AHMM, July-August 2010 Page 3
