YOU’RE GOING TO READ YOURSELF BLIND.
Yusuf took off his glasses, the echo of his mother’s voice in his mind. Reading in the dim light of the evenings did strain his eyes. He knew full well even as he rubbed them that he was only making matters worse.
His apartment was on the third floor of a three-story building. Off the living room was a balcony big enough to fit one folding chair. It boasted an unenticing view of another apartment building with curtained windows and clotheslines strung from balcony to balcony. There was a galley kitchen tucked to one side and a bedroom behind that. The bathroom was functional and simple. For Yusuf, who’d spent years with his siblings and parents in a cramped, two-bedroom Flushing apartment, these quarters were more than he needed.
Yusuf had set up a small table with two chairs in a corner of the living room. The set doubled as his kitchen table and home office. His living room had a glass coffee table and a threadbare sofa. The walls were bare except for a plastic framed picture of Mecca that had come with the apartment.
Kind of like hotel Bibles, thought Yusuf when he’d first seen it and not because he had any disdain for his religion. Rather, he believed, he’d developed a certain objectivity to the world around him because he’d lived elsewhere.
He pulled a leather toiletry bag from the hall closet.
There were four bottles of eyedrops left. He cursed himself for not bringing more. He hadn’t anticipated the effect the wind-spun dust would have on his eyes.
So much for being a native.
He shook the tiny white bottle and decided to save what remained. It would be months before he returned to the United States, and the air wasn’t going to get any better.
Yusuf was accustomed to bouts of insomnia. Big cases kept him up, and he would go weeks at a time, sleeping just three hours a night. That was Yusuf’s way. He made lists of precedents to look up, holes in his arguments, and research he still needed to complete. Statute by statute, point by point—it was a meticulous process, like extracting pomegranate seeds one by one. His restlessness was not entirely because of Zeba, though. Yesterday’s conversation with Meena had taken him by surprise. He was doing his best to put it out of his mind and focus on the work at hand.
Yusuf poured himself another cup of black tea. Tea replaced coffee here, not because coffee couldn’t be found but because the Afghan taste for tea had come back to him quickly.
A much needed draft slipped in through a half-open window. It carried the faint smell of blood from the butcher shop below the apartments.
Yusuf was only fifteen minutes away from the prison by taxi. Just fifteen minutes between him and Zeba, his reticent client. He was close enough that he could see her on a daily basis if he chose to, but he didn’t bother. He thought that if he pulled back, she might realize how badly she needed his help. He wasn’t usually a fan of playing games, but defending Zeba required creativity on all fronts. Her chances of beating the charges were slim, at best.
Since he wasn’t with his client very often, Yusuf spent his days digging up what statutes he could and poring over law books. Afghanistan’s legal infrastructure had been destroyed over the years, but a team of international players had taken on the rebuilding of it. They’d created a reasonable set of laws for the country—a playbook he understood. The real justice system, though, was much different. People didn’t play by the rules. Even some of the higher courts judged without jurisprudence. Outside of the major cities, there was no true rule of law.
Yusuf’s colleagues in the main office understood his frustration, though they had little patience for it. Sometimes, his huffing incited anger in those who had been diligently doing this work before he showed up. Aneesa was the head of the legal aid group. She was a bold woman in her early forties who had lived in Australia for the worst years of the war. She’d returned after the fall of the Taliban, determined to put her foreign law degree to good use. Yusuf had been immediately impressed by her when they’d first met.
“Yusuf-jan,” Aneesa began firmly, “the justice system, if you can even call it that, is as twisted as a mullah’s turban. There are ways to work with what we have, but it takes creativity and patience. You cannot expect this country to have its house in perfect order the moment you decided to walk through the door. There’s a lot to be done. And even more to be undone. Yes, in many places the authority of the white beard prevails. What the elders say is law. Lucky for you that your client is facing a judge, not a community trial. And from what I’ve heard about the judge overseeing your case, you should be very thankful. You could be at the mercy of someone much, much worse.”
Yusuf thought of the qazi. Maybe Aneesa was right. The judge hadn’t yet brought up execution. Others probably would have by now. He flipped to a new page on his notepad and made a reminder to learn what he could about the judge. There could be an angle he could use to his advantage.
YUSUF WAS IN THE OFFICE BY NINE O’CLOCK THE FOLLOWING morning, earlier than everyone except Aneesa. When he entered, she waved to him from her desk and adjusted her head scarf, a thin mocha-colored veil in perfect harmony with her pantsuit. Aneesa had quietly pleasant features, soft brown eyes, and a delicate chin. She pursed her lips just slightly when she was thinking. She had a sharp legal mind, Yusuf had learned quickly. Well versed in both Sharia and constitutional law, she could glide between Dari and Pashto and had built a reputation as one of the city’s most formidable lawyers since her return to Afghanistan. Yusuf could only imagine what kind of force she’d been in Australia, the salary she must have turned her back on to return to her homeland.
Yusuf greeted her and sat at his desk on the opposite side of the office. They were separated by two putty-colored filing cabinets.
Aneesa took a hard look at him—hard enough to make Yusuf uncomfortable.
“Have you been sleeping?”
He nodded.
“I’m fine. The dust here, it’s . . . I’m fine.”
“How’s the case going?” She spoke to him in English, a faint Aussie accent that somehow made the conversation feel more casual.
“It’s not,” Yusuf admitted. He ran his fingers through his hair just so he wouldn’t rub his eyes. “I’m defending a woman who doesn’t want to be defended. She thinks it’s better for her children if she doesn’t put up a fight. When she’s not screaming like a lunatic, she doesn’t talk. She’s given me nothing to go on. How am I supposed to make a case out of that?”
“We work with what we have,” Aneesa said matter-of-factly. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve learned about the case against this woman? Maybe we can come up with something together,” she suggested. She pulled a chair over and propped her elbows on the desk. It shifted. Without a word, Aneesa tore a page off a newspaper lying nearby, folded it, and wedged it under the lopsided leg. Yusuf pretended not to notice. He’d been meaning to do the same. He cleared his throat and began laying out what he’d learned thus far about the day of the murder.
“Did the police note any bruises on Zeba? Did she say anything about him beating her?”
Yusuf shook his head.
“Some bruises on her neck but someone had tried to choke her just before she was arrested. I know what you’re getting at. I was hoping to somehow use that defense, but she’s not even hinted that her husband had done something awful to her. I know there’s something there, though.” Yusuf pictured Zeba, her face solemn as a tombstone. She was always so careful with her words. “I can’t believe this woman would slam an ax into her husband’s head without reason. She doesn’t strike me as that type of person. She’s too controlled for that.”
“Controlled? The woman who screamed her head off in the judge’s office and then slept for two days?”
“That might not have been her most controlled moment,” Yusuf conceded. “But I’m telling you, this is not a woman who loses it so easily.”
“Maybe. What has her family said? What did they think of her husband?”
“Her family hasn’t been around. Her brother, Rafi, hasn’t said much about Zeba’s husband, just that he wished his sister had never been married off to him. It’s obvious he feels guilty for letting her marry that man. He wouldn’t say anything specific. ‘Talk to my sister,’ he kept saying. ‘She knew him better than anyone.’ He did say his sister did not deserve to be in prison—that her children needed her and wouldn’t fare well living with their father’s family. I believe him.”
“And no one else from the family is coming forward?”
“There’s nothing recorded in the arrest register,” Yusuf said, tapping his pen against the notepad. “The chief of police said only that there were no witnesses to the murder, but then nearly the entire neighborhood was there to see the body and Zeba sitting there, covered in blood. There doesn’t seem to be much room for doubt.”
“Talk to the neighbors. Someone must know something. The sun cannot be hidden behind two fingers.”
Yusuf bit his lip. He’d taken the arrest report at face value, but Aneesa was right. He had no choice but to make a trip to Zeba’s village. Why not, he thought, looking at his cell phone and seeing that no one had called.
THE QUIET OF HIS APARTMENT WAS BROKEN BY THE SOUNDS OF traffic and daily life filtering through the window. Mischievous boys chased after a dog in the alley, just as Yusuf had done as a child. The bustle of the market had settled as the skies turned hazy and aromas from food carts swirled into the evening air. Yusuf considered shutting his window to block the noise, but he found that the passing voices both comforted him and helped him focus.
What were Zeba’s children thinking? Her son was old enough that he would have known if something was amiss at home. Would he be willing to speak about his father? Was it at all possible that Zeba hadn’t killed her husband? Yusuf closed his eyes, trying to imagine his client burying a hatchet in the back of her husband’s head. How tall had her husband been? Was he thin and wiry or heavyset? How close was the nearest neighbor’s house?
Yusuf began to pace. Aneesa had given him some ideas today, some direction. He would need to see Zeba. They had much to talk about.
He pulled out his yellow pad and made a few notes. He circled some thoughts, scratched out others. He rubbed his eyes.
His phone rang. He looked at the number and saw Meena’s name flash on the screen. Should he answer? They’d spoken on the phone several times, each conversation more comfortable than the last. Three days ago, though, Meena had surprised him. Her tone had been polite and reserved. When Yusuf asked her what was wrong, she’d told him she was not honestly sure if they should continue their phone calls. Yusuf had been taken aback and abruptly asked her why. He wondered if she was uncomfortable spending so much time on the phone with him. Maybe she wanted confirmation of his intentions. But Meena had hesitated, leaving his question unanswered but promising to call him in a few days.
He pressed the talk button.
“YUSUF,” SHE STARTED, HER VOICE SMALL AND SERIOUS. “I DON’T want you to think badly of me. I didn’t know my mother had given my number to you. She likes you so much . . . both my parents do. My whole family loves yours, actually.”
“Meena, what’s going on?”
“I need to tell you something. I’ve been trying to find a way around it, but I can’t come up with anything and I feel like you deserve the truth.”
Yusuf leaned forward, elbows on his thighs.
“Go ahead, Meena-qand,” he urged, wondering if he was going too far by using endearments. “Tell me what it is.”
“I . . . I’ve been in love with someone for the last year. My parents are not happy about it because they don’t like his family but . . . but that doesn’t change anything for him or me. I’m so embarrassed to tell you this.”
In love with someone else. Yusuf blinked rapidly. He’d thought Meena had pulled away because she wanted more from him when the truth was that she wanted less.
“Oh, I see,” he said, wavering between anger and sadness.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make it seem like . . .”
“Listen, Meena, you don’t have to explain.”
“My mother was hoping that seeing you . . . talking to you . . . the possibility of going to America . . . that it would change me. You know what I mean?”
He’d been a ploy—an unwitting pawn in Khala Zainab’s strategy.
“Listen, Meena. You should follow your heart,” Yusuf replied curtly. “No hard feelings. Thanks for letting me know. I’ve got lots of work to do here so . . . good night, okay?”
“Oh, sure. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your work. I just . . . yes, good night.”
With a click, it was over, and Yusuf was more disappointed than he should have been. They’d only spoken on the phone for a couple of weeks. They’d never held hands or talked over a cup of tea or brushed shoulders as they walked down the street. Why should he feel like he’d lost the girl he was meant to be with?
Yusuf groaned angrily, rolled onto his belly, and buried his face in his pillow. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he did need to get married.