Avoid legal punishments as far as possible,
and if there are any doubts in the case then use them,
for it is better for a judge to err towards leniency than towards punishment.
Prophet Muhammad, Sunan al Tirmidhi
Adnan was convicted on Friday, February 25, 2000, of first-degree murder, kidnapping, robbery, and false imprisonment. After the jury had passed their verdict, we shuffled out of the courtroom and I ended up in the elevator with Aunty Shamim and Gutierrez. It was tense and silent. No one said a word until the doors opened. Before exiting Gutierrez said, “I’ll need $50,000 for the appeal,” and walked away, leaving us stunned.
On Monday, February 28, three days later, I visited Gutierrez’s office with Tanveer and Adnan’s mother. Until this time I had not just taken a back seat, I hadn’t even really been involved in Adnan’s defense. Busy with my studies, I had just been there for moral support, trusting that this very expensive, experienced lawyer had it all under control. But I could no longer stay on the periphery, I had to figure out how to fix what had just happened. So as loathe as I was to see Gutierrez, I went along. It would be the last time I ever saw or spoke to her.
March 2000 memo written by Rabia to mosque committee.
I left Gutierrez’s office disgusted with her, but not only because of the way she treated Adnan’s family, or her incessant demands for more money, or her lack of humility at having lost this case. But also because by this time I’d had a conversation with Adnan that made me suspicious of what, if anything, she had done to prepare for his defense.
* * *
Adnan and I remember that time completely differently. My memory is that, having taken a couple of hours to gather myself after the verdict, I went to visit him where he was being held for the duration of the trial, at the Baltimore City Detention Center (BCDC). I remember a plastic or mesh divider, which meant you had to stand to see each other and talk.
Adnan remembers that he called me the weekend after the verdict.
Either way, we talked.
“The prosecutor’s closing remarks,” I said to him, “they were all about the twenty-one minutes after school that day. They said Hae was dead by 2:36 p.m. Where WERE you, Adnan, how could you guys not figure out where you were for that little bit of time?!”
Adnan began explaining, beginning a conversation we had never had before. In the year of his incarceration, as he awaited trial, I had never probed him about the facts of the case. I knew that calls were recorded, and that he might be prohibited by his attorney, but I also didn’t want to talk about serious things. He was a kid, a seventeen-year-old kid. When he called or we visited we kept things light, caught up on what was going on with family, on TV, joked around, teasing him about getting a break from school.
But now I had to figure out what had just gone wrong.
“So what happened? How was Gutierrez not able to find out where you were for just half an hour that day?”
By the time Adnan had been arrested, he explained, almost six weeks had passed since Hae disappeared. The police questioned him and he told them what he remembered: he was at school all day, though he had gone to give Jay his car and then come back after lunch. He stayed at school the entire time because he had track practice, and then Jay picked him up, and they went out so he could get some food and break his fast.
At 2:36 he was still at school, he had never left. He had until 3:30 to get to track practice, so he usually hung out with friends, went to the library to check e-mails, did some schoolwork, or would sometimes pop over to his house to change and come back. But that day he didn’t because he didn’t have a car.
“Do you remember specifically where you were right after school?” I asked.
Adnan explained that at first he wasn’t sure, but then soon after he was arrested he received two letters from a classmate, a girl named Asia McClain.
Asia, he said, had a really clear memory of seeing him at the public library, where he often hung out along with other Woodlawn kids. She remembered talking to him as she waited for her boyfriend to pick her up. The letters jogged his memory; he had a clear recollection of running into her and even speaking to her boyfriend when he showed up.
“So why wasn’t she at the trial?”
He had given the letters to Gutierrez and over the course of the past year, before the trial started, asked her and her law clerks a few times about Asia. At some point Gutierrez told him she had contacted Asia, and Asia didn’t have her dates right—she had seen Adnan a different day, not on January 13th.
After that Adnan dropped it; he never wrote Asia back because of Gutierrez’s instructions, and never asked anyone else to contact her.
It must have been my skepticism and distaste for Gutierrez, the way she treated the family, her erratic performance in court, that made me want to check Asia out myself.
“Do you have copies of her letters?”
Adnan said yes.
“Ok, send them to me as soon as possible.”
A couple of weeks later I got the letters.
Either one of the letters or the envelope had Asia’s grandparents’ phone number—she apparently lived with them at the time she wrote the letters. I called and spoke with someone but was told Asia was away at college and would be around on the weekend.
What happened next is another example of the fallibility of human memory. I recall speaking with Asia and arranging to meet her, but she recalls me showing up at her house. Saad was definitely with me, but today Asia doesn’t recall him being there.
Nonetheless, we met on March 25, 2000. I remember I simply asked her what she recalled of January 13, 1999. She recounted much of what she had said in the letters, her memory still sharp about that day for a number of reasons—her boyfriend got mad she was talking to Adnan, there was a big storm that night, and school was closed the next two days. She was sure that her boyfriend and his friend would probably remember the incident.
I asked her why, if she remembered it so vividly, did Gutierrez say she had her day wrong. She blinked at me. She didn’t know who Gutierrez was.
Adnan’s attorney, the lawyer who contacted you, I pressed.
Asia shook her head.
“No one contacted me.”
I thought I heard her wrong and asked her to repeat that.
“No one, not a lawyer, not his family, not Adnan, not the police, NO ONE contacted me after I sent those letters.”
I have felt a lot of anger over this case, but certain moments of absolute rage stand out. This was one of them. Gutierrez had not only utterly failed to do what a first-year law student would have done immediately—contact an alibi witness—she had also lied to Adnan about it.
I felt panic. I had no idea how to handle the situation or what could be done now. I was just wrapping up my second year in law school in Virginia and didn’t know how the criminal process actually worked, much less worked in Maryland. But I figured I should at least, at least, get it in writing that no one had ever contacted Asia. To me, a failure this big should be remedied by a court of law; there had to be some mechanism.
I pulled out a yellow legal pad, wrote the word “Affidavit” across the top, and handed it to Asia to write down what she had just told me. I asked her if her boyfriend and his friend would be willing to talk to me and give me affidavits too, but she hesitated. She asked me not to contact them just yet, but assured me, if her affidavit got the case reopened and Adnan’s lawyer summoned them to court, they would definitely come. I didn’t want to push the issue so I said ok, let’s just get this affidavit down for now.
It was a Saturday, banks were closed, and we didn’t have smart phones to track down the closest notary back in those days. Saad remembered a check-cashing place across from Security Mall, right next to the Best Buy, and he was pretty sure they had a notary.
We drove to this little square building covered in bright signage. It cost a few bucks, we paid, Asia notarized the affidavit, and then we dropped her off back at her house.
I immediately went to Adnan’s parents’ house with the affidavit and discussed it with them. We had no idea what to do. Aunty called Gutierrez’s office and left a message, but it was a weekend so there was no response. She had gone to visit Adnan a few weeks prior to discuss appeal options, but since then no one had heard from her.
It just so happened that Adnan called his parents while I was with them and I told him what I had just learned—that Asia had never been contacted. He sounded perplexed at first, and then incredulous when the monumental nature of what I was saying sunk in.
“She’s filing a motion for a new trial, Rabia,” he said. “We have to get her to include this.”
We tried in vain to reach Gutierrez, but she wouldn’t return our calls. So I told Adnan to write her a letter and I drafted one on behalf of his parents to send along with the affidavit.
We waited after the letters were sent but still heard nothing. Frantic that the clock was ticking and she was clearly done with Adnan, we knew we had to do something. I felt strongly that she needed to be fired, but Adnan’s parents weren’t so sure. They feared her and thought if they fired her she would sue them—she had continued to harass them for money, threatening to take their house away.
After a long discussion with the family and some of the community members, it was decided that Gutierrez had to go. I drafted a letter for the family to Gutierrez, firing her, and then we sent one to Judge Wanda Heard.
Nothing came of our frantic flailings to get Asia included in the motion as a supplement. The sentencing was postponed, however, and Judge Heard accepted Adnan’s request to dismiss Gutierrez. Adnan now had to get a public defender to represent him at the sentencing.
The sentencing was scheduled for June 6, 2000, at which time the judge would also rule on the motion for a new trial filed by Gutierrez.
We already knew what was coming but it was hard to internalize. A part of everyone hoped against hope that the judge would show some leniency, take into account Adnan’s age and clean record.
Adnan had prepared remarks expressing grief for Hae’s family but maintaining his innocence. The public defender, Charles Dorsey, who had met with him only briefly, advised him not to do so.
“Show remorse for what you did,” he said.
Adnan said he couldn’t; he didn’t do anything.
“Fine then,” Dorsey said, “you’re fucking yourself.”
Hae’s mother began by giving an impassioned plea to the court through an interpreter:
“I’m the mother of Hae Min Lee. In Korean proverb there is a saying that parents die, they bury in the ground, but when children die, they bury in their hearts.… [O]ur daughter, my daughter, our daughter was so precious to us and everybody surrounding us … [H]er hope and aspiration was my hope and aspiration, and her dream was my dream, and she always wanted to be a good person in her life as her society … I would like to forgive Adnan Syed, but as of now, I just don’t know how to do that, and I just cannot do that right now. When I die, my daughter will die with me. As long as I live, my daughter is buried in my heart…”
* * *
Urick followed the statement, focusing on the potential Adnan had in his life. That he came from a good family, had religious instruction, medical training, but used his “skills that he had as a paramedic and used them to kill.” He said that during Ramadan, a holy time, instead of following religious practices, Adnan planned to kill Hae. He argued that there were no mitigating factors, that Adnan committed a “deliberate adult act that was reprehensible.” He recommended the maximum sentence.
Dorsey then began, and much to Adnan’s horror, threw him and his innocence under the bus.
“Your Honor, my client was 16 at this, when this happened, in a relationship and in love … my client comes from a quality family of quality religion. He made a bad decision, and I ask this Honorable Court to have mercy on him, consider possibly a sentence within the guidelines that would give this young man an opportunity to somehow make up for his mistake in his life.”
Dorsey then turned to Adnan and asked if he had anything to say to the judge.
Adnan, showing remarkable composure for an eighteen-year-old facing the rest of his life in prison and having just been screwed over by two attorneys, said, “Since the beginning I have maintained my innocence, and I don’t know why people have said the things they have said that I have done or that they have done. I understand that I’ve been through a trial, and I’ve been found guilty by a jury, and I accept that. Not because I agree with what they did. I respectfully disagree with their judgment; however, I accept it and there’s nothing at this point that I can do except to be sentenced and to go on with the next step, which is to file my appeal.
“I have maintained my innocence since the beginning and to my family and to those who have believed in me since the beginning, I would just like them to know that it is for a reason. I can only ask for the mercy of the court in sentencing me, and I can only remain strong in my faith and hope that one day I shall have another chance in court.
“I’m just sorry for all the pain that this has caused everyone.”
* * *
Despite Adnan’s claims of innocence, and our prayers, Judge Wanda Heard showed no leniency, no mercy, no compassion. Her cruel words, as she sentenced Adnan, were like a knife to the hearts of all who loved him, all of us there.
“This wasn’t a crime of passion. The evidence, as I recall it to be and the jury found by its first degree conviction, meant premeditated with malice aforethought, as we say in the law. That means you thought about it. The evidence was, there was a plan, and you used that intellect. You used that physical strength. You used that charismatic ability of yours that made you the president or the—what was it, the king or prince of your prom? You used that to manipulate people. And even today, I think you continue to manipulate even those that love you, as you did to the victim. You manipulated her to go with you to her death.”
* * *
We were reeling from the sentence. It was not just life and not just life with thirty years concurrent. It was life plus thirty years to run consecutively. My parents later asked me, what does life mean? Twenty years? Twenty-five years? In Pakistan that was what life meant.
I explained to them that in the State of Maryland, life meant until you died.
After Adnan was convicted and sentenced, the ISB community quietly faded away. His family stopped talking about him with others. They didn’t know how to explain the case or conviction, and were going through so much internally that they didn’t have the additional strength to deal with the community. People in the community didn’t know what to say either; how do you console the parents or siblings of a convicted killer? They whispered among themselves but otherwise stopped mentioning him at all.
The only exception was my mother, who unabashedly took up for Adnan, fought with anyone who had anything negative to say about him, never stopped talking about him with Aunty Shamim, and prayed for him with the intensity of a thousand burning suns.
I watched, over the years, my mother stay up many nights saying special prayers for him, fingering her prayer beads 120,000 times, reciting the prayer of the Prophet Jonah when he was trapped in the belly of the whale.
She collected the pits of dates, sacks and sacks of them, and commandeered groups of women to gather and say a prayer on each pit, counting tens of thousands in a number of hours.
She vowed to read the Quran, in its entirety, dozens of times, to send blessings Adnan’s way, and she did. She copied and clipped prayers out of booklets and pamphlets to send to Adnan, ordering him to follow the prayer instructions exactly to make sure they worked.
And most importantly, about a year after his conviction, she went all the way to Mecca and prayed there for him during a pilgrimage. She told us she prayed more for him than she did for any of her children, more than anyone she has prayed for in her life.
While there, she had a dream.
Dreams, you see, are not just overworked imaginings of a tired, dozing mind in Islam. They are doors to the spiritual realm, found in scriptural parables, remnants of prophesy. If you are spiritually pure, of good and kind character, and sincere, your dreams have meaning.
My mother dreamt that she saw Adnan emerge from an underground chamber after having been held captive there for a long time. He was shining, she said, he looked “brand new” even though he had aged. He blinked, looking around, smiling slightly. My mother had a good feeling about the dream; she said it meant he would be exonerated and freed from incarceration. She also said he looked like he was in his mid-to-late thirties.
At the time she told us this, Adnan was around nineteen years old. Instead of feeling uplifted, I got angry. Muslims believe that dreams come true once they’re told to others. We don’t relay bad dreams, she shouldn’t have told us about it.
Letter from Adnan written after sentencing
“No,” my mother said, “it was a good dream. You just don’t know.”
I guess I didn’t.
* * *
After being sentenced, Adnan was moved from the Baltimore City Detention Center to the Maryland House of Corrections in Jessup, Maryland, a prison notorious for its violence. The blessing here, though, was that he could have been moved hours away, making it hard for his loved ones to visit. Jessup was only about twenty minutes from his parents’ home, with fairly generous visitation hours and enough corruption to give the inmates more freedoms than regulations otherwise allowed.
There was a tremendous amount for Adnan to process: being in a new prison, with new inmates, knowing this would likely be his entire life, and struggling to figure out what the hell had happened. He still tried to keep things light for us on the outside, and his letters were mixed, full of jokes with moments of sadness and infrequent glimmers of his emotional turmoil.
Shortly after writing this letter he wrote me again, saying he had decided to reach out to Stephanie. He would send her a short note to see if she responded. If she didn’t, he would send a longer letter, a plea to her based on their years-long friendship, to tell him anything, anything that could help him. He would keep trying.
She never responded.
Adnan’s family was preparing, financially and otherwise, to hire an attorney to file a direct appeal to his conviction. That would take time, years even. In the meantime he had to just get by in a place where he encountered people and situations he never could have imagined.
Adnan’s family suffered greatly, each of them falling to pieces in their own way.
Yusuf was in elementary school, nine years old, when Adnan was arrested. When he was convicted he was ten. He had seen the police take his brother away in cuffs, he saw the story all over the news, he heard it in the hallways at school. But his parents did their best to shelter him, not taking him to the trial, not discussing it in front of him.
But the day Adnan was convicted, his mother and Tanveer came home and told him. The three of them went to tell their father, who was in his bedroom, in bed, together.
Adnan’s father has largely been missing from the story, but not because he was missing from their lives. Uncle, more than two decades older than his wife, simply couldn’t bear to see what was happening to his son.
Adnan is his father’s spitting image, just a foot and half taller and twice as broad. When Adnan was born, his father, who told the story to my mother, had wanted to name him “Qurat-ul-Ain,” a beautiful Arabic name that means “coolness of the eyes”; it is a blessing found commonly among Muslims upon the birth of a child; we say “may this baby be the coolness of your eyes,” meaning may the child bring you joy and contentment. He had a dream, though, in which he was told to name the baby “Adnan” after an ancestor of the Prophet Muhammad. Adnan means “one who abides or settles in an area,” who has characteristics of stability and fortitude.
If their firstborn Tanveer was his mother’s favorite, Adnan was the apple of his father’s eye. He took great pride in his second-born son, in the fact that they had similar upbeat natures, that Adnan was talented, kind-natured, and hard working. Yusuf, a chubby boy with a curly head of hair, was pretty enough to be a girl when he was born and was everyone’s darling.
Adnan’s arrest emotionally debilitated his father, who was already approaching retirement age at sixty-three. He went to visit his son but could not bear to see him in a court of law, to see him being brought in and out of the room in shackles. Over time he became increasingly frail, and today, at eighty years old with a white wizened beard, he looks like a slight, small Father Time.
On the day the verdict was rendered, Uncle didn’t leave his bed. When his wife and sons came to him, he sat up, looking at them expectantly. They broke the news to him and he didn’t say a word. His eyes, Yusuf remembers, went wide.
“Something in him died right then,” Yusuf says.
Something died in all of them. There were no second chances after the conviction, they knew what was going to happen at the sentencing.
Tanveer, who was so close to his mom he often took her out for dinner and took her to events, began withdrawing from the family. He spent less and less time at home until one day he just disappeared. For years they weren’t sure where he was, though once in a while he would call the house to tell them he was ok, but he never told them where he was.
If the loss of Adnan was heartbreaking, the loss of their eldest, who should have been shouldering the tremendous collective family burden, was perhaps harder. They knew where Adnan was; Tanveer, they felt, had abandoned them.
Adnan’s mother, father, and brothers all grieved in different ways. While Uncle turned slowly into a hermit, and Tanveer simply vanished, Aunty did her best to keep up a chipper exterior. She continued to run her home-based daycare center, and would sometimes show up at parties or prayer gatherings or the mosque. I had watched her sit through a verdict and sentencing no mother could reasonably bear, stoically. She would smile at Adnan, reassuring him that she was ok, and he would do the same.
But at home, at night in particular, she would come undone. Yusuf recalls too many nights to count when he found his mother weeping alone in the dark. Some nights, he said, “she totally checked out.”
She would tell him to leave the lights on so Adnan and Tanveer wouldn’t have to return in the dark. Or she would tell him that when Adnan and Tanveer got home, to tell them to turn the lights off before going to bed.
If her older sons were physically gone, her youngest son was emotionally lost to her. A mere child when his brother was sentenced for murder, he was regularly approached by a fifth-grade girl named Latoya whose older sister attended Woodlawn High. She would taunt him mercilessly, saying the entire high school thought Adnan was a killer. He wasn’t safe at the mosque either, where he’d be approached by kids asking nonchalantly, “Hey did your brother do it?” or teasing him, “We all know he’s guilty.” Once Yusuf warned a kid that he had five seconds to run before he would get pummeled.
A number of kids got pummeled by Yusuf, who ended up moving from school, to school, to school.
He left his elementary school during fifth grade because, along with becoming sullen and depressed, uninterested in school work, he had become belligerent and quick to anger. Toward the end of sixth grade this anger got him kicked out of the next school he attended, Al Huda, a private Islamic institution about twenty-five miles away.
He remembers how much he missed Tanveer in those days. Thinking back on it, he is full of both sadness and rage at his big brother. There were days, he said, he would call Tanveer twenty times with no response. On other occasions Tanveer would promise to come pick him up and take him to the movies and he would wait two, three, four hours for him, right by the phone, and Tanveer wouldn’t show.
Tanveer dropped out of college with a year remaining; his parents had no idea where he was working or what he was doing. Yusuf says they thought maybe he had become a junkie. Once, after Uncle tried repeatedly to go see him, Tanveer capitulated and gave him his address so his father could see where he was living.
It was snowing that day, and Uncle spent much of his time wandering around in the cold, asking people to help him find the address. The address didn’t exist, Tanveer had made it up.
A few years after he was imprisoned, Adnan, frustrated with Tanveer’s lack of responsibility, had a talk with him. He urged him to finish college, to get his degree, to take care of his parents and little brother. He told him that it was his job to be there for him. According to Yusuf, that was the last time Tanveer ever visited him.
The anger Yusuf has toward Tanveer is palpable and relentless.
“It’s not just about me, it’s about my parents. They needed him. Our mom needed him.”
What about Adnan, I asked him.
“Adnan,” he said, “was the one who kept it together the most. He was selfless, he never let us feel like he was sad or upset. We’d go visit Adnan at the prison and leave laughing. Who leaves a prison laughing? That’s because he worked so hard to keep our spirits up.”
Yusuf attended two more schools, first a rough local one close to Woodlawn called Southwest Academy where many of the students came from broken families. Yusuf said he could relate to them, as lots of them had screwed-up home lives and he didn’t feel out of place there like he did at the Islamic school.
Next, he went to a private Christian high school but was asked to leave after a year. He was fifteen and his family was running out of options.
They then decided to send him to a madrassah in Karachi, Pakistan, where he would study and memorize the Quran for the next three years.
The madrassah was a boys-only institution, with many students from around the world. Someone had recommended the school to his parents, and a friend of Yusuf’s was already studying there. It would be hard for him to leave his mother. In their loneliness they only had each other, but he knew it was the right thing to do.
The curriculum was all in Urdu and Arabic, languages Yusuf didn’t know. The school had a dark, seedy side with drug and alcohol abuse, and even sexual abuse of younger kids by older students. He managed to steer clear of all of that and in his more than three years there, he also met a lot of wonderful young men who became like brothers to him. At the end of his time there he had memorized the Quran, but upon returning to the United States he wanted nothing to do with religion anymore.
Yusuf had suffered from depression since his early teens, but he went into a black depressive spiral after coming back home. All of his former friends had forgotten him, and he missed the friends he had back in Pakistan. The only exception was a young man named Hasan, who would check in on him every so often, pick him up to go grab something to eat, go see a movie. No one else called him, ever.
He was eighteen and had no idea what to do. Once, out of sheer angst, he slammed his head into a dresser mirror, splitting open his head and passing out. Other times he went online to search for ways to commit suicide but out of fear of going to Hell forever, desisted.
“It was the only thing that stopped me from doing it,” he said.
Eventually he took his GED, passing after the second time, and joined a community college. From there he went on to Towson University where he began feeling suicidal again. A close friend of the family, Dr. Atique Rahman, reached out to him, and they then spent many hours together. He was prescribed antidepressants, which, he says, turned him back into a human being.
All this time, as every man in the family was breaking into bits, in the center of the storm was Aunty Shamim.
There were times when, unable to keep the pain from spilling into ugliness, Uncle would tell her it was her fault that Adnan was gone, her fault that all her sons were gone. And most of those times she believed him, even when he later said he didn’t mean it.
Aunty, says Yusuf, suffered the most. “She had to deal with my crazy ass, her husband was depressed, one son left her, her other son was in prison and she had to be there for him, for all of us. She was there for everyone. Like there were five of her. But no one was really there for her. The biggest regret I have is that I wasn’t there for her.”
* * *
Adnan’s family wasn’t the only one going through turmoil. My marriage was bad, deeply damaging to me emotionally, for many reasons.
I also didn’t have a job in 1999, which made things difficult. My husband gave me a tight allowance for groceries but that was it. I was on my own for other expenses, including the expense of calls from the prison.
The cost of collect calls for inmates, which many prisons utilize, are a disgrace and a crime in and of themselves. The charges associated with them were not routine calling charges, they were exorbitant. At the end of the month, having spoken to Adnan six or seven times, I would end up with hundreds of dollars of additional billing. This added up for me and for my parents, and there were months when my ex told me that I had to tell Adnan to stop calling. But I could not.
I kept drawing money from my student loans to help cover costs, to send him things, to every so often put small amounts into his commissary. About a year after his arrest, I had begun an internship at a local immigration law firm. I had been offered an internship at the public defender’s office in D.C., but declined. The hours were too difficult to manage with a young child and family obligations. I have always regretted that decision because I wonder how much better positioned I would have been to help Adnan if I had taken it.
It was a strained existence. The core of my world was my daughter, and I tried to distract myself by staying busy, but as time went on my misery increased. I was desperately lonely and sad, felt unvalued and indeed loathed. After five years, the marriage unraveled dramatically one night, when circumstances forced me to leave with nothing but a suitcase and my ancient computer. I was devastated, but I was finally free; the only problem was I had to leave without my daughter.
* * *
I was broken, broke, bewildered. My marriage had ended both spectacularly and at the same time with barely a bang. One day I was married and the next I was on my own.
I moved in with my parents as I prepared to fight for custody of my daughter. Her father was ten steps ahead of me. The week before I left his house he had gone to Child Protective Services (CPS) and filed a complaint against me, alleging that I gave my daughter drugs.
I found this out when I went to file a custody petition for her and the judge told me, to my astonishment, that CPS would have to conduct a full investigation taking a number of months to investigate the allegations. I stammered to the judge that I had never touched drugs in my life. It didn’t matter; once a complaint was filed it had to be investigated for the welfare of the child.
In hindsight, as painful as it was to be separated from my only child, in those few months I gained back some confidence. I began going to the gym, found some contract work, began studying for the bar again, and began focusing on the appeal that Adnan was about to file.
As concerned as he was about his appeal, Adnan was even more concerned about me. I remember the first time I told him that I was now separated, that I had moved in with my parents, and that I didn’t have my daughter. He was silent for a while and then full of grief at the news.
He told me he couldn’t imagine what I was going through and I recalled thinking, as I held the phone, that this boy is serving a life sentence in prison and he is telling ME that he can’t imagine my pain? I was floored by his compassion. Floored. I took courage from him. If he felt his situation was manageable, who was I to complain?
I got myself together and managed to outmaneuver my ex in the custody proceedings. I had been cleared, after extensive interviews with friends, family, and colleagues, of the CPS charges and our permanent custody hearing was approaching. I wanted the judge to see the family that my daughter would be living with if I didn’t get custody. The people whose immigration status was questionable, the chain smoker, the compulsive gambler. So I marched into the family court and subpoenaed every last one of them a few days before the hearing.
Letter written by Adnan after he learned of my separation
Within a few hours of being served, they called and said I could have her. They weren’t going to contest custody anymore.
Those eight months until I got my daughter, and the moment that phone call came, truly turned my backbone into steel. Going forward I would become a single working parent, one of the hardest jobs in the world, but I wasn’t afraid anymore. If I could handle the thugs that were my ex-in-laws, I could handle anything.
I had my daughter and my freedom and was ready to start my life over.
At the same time, Adnan and his family were ready to fight for a new trial.
Adnan had strong legal issues and he had something else on his side—the very public disbarment of Cristina Gutierrez the year before. In June of 2001, facing record-breaking client complaints, Gutierrez agreed to stop practicing law. For someone who had lived her life and career fighting every step of the way, her concession was uncharacteristic, but telling.
That was the first that any of us realized what had been going on with her during Adnan’s trial. She had been sick and overworked, neglecting and hurting dozens of clients including Adnan. Her disbarment was no secret in the legal community and when Adnan’s appeal would be filed, the court would certainly notice that he had been represented by someone who was unfit to represent anyone.
The family had begun preparing for an appeal, a direct appeal where technical issues from the trial could be challenged. New evidence, like Asia’s affidavit, could not be raised in direct appeal; it could only be raised in post-conviction relief (PCR), on which Adnan wanted to hold off.
He was surrounded by hundreds of fellow inmates, all giving him the best legal and strategic advice they could muster. They advised him to give the direct appeal a shot before going straight for PCR; better two bites of the apple than one.
Attorney Warren Brown, well known in Baltimore’s legal community, was hired after some consultation with community members. Brown filed an appeal with the Court of Special Appeals (COSA) of Maryland based on three issues, two of which were objections to the admission of Hae’s diary and her breakup letter by Judge Heard.
But the main issue raised was Jay’s plea deal and the circumstances surrounding it: that the State had committed prosecutorial misconduct, violated Brady, and violated Adnan’s due process when it suppressed favorable material evidence of a side agreement with Jay, and that the trial court committed reversible error in prohibiting Adnan from presenting this evidence to the jury.
Adnan sent me his lawyer’s brief and I thought, as an inexperienced law graduate, that it made very sound arguments. I felt hopeful and told Adnan so.
The brief was filed with the court on February 27, 2002, and not long after, oral arguments were held. Adnan was deeply worried about how things would go. All this time he had never spoken with Brown. Brown had never taken his collect calls and never visited him. An associate in the firm was handling Adnan’s case, and he had no idea how this person would do.
5/6/02
Asalaamualaykum. Bismillah’irrahman ir’raheem
What’s up sis? Not much over here. I got the states brief (answer to mine). I don’t know what to make of it. They don’t seem to be denying that they withheld the evidence (1st pt. of Brady), but they’re arguing that 1. The information was before the court/judge in other ways [and] 2. That it wasn’t that important anyway. I’ve read some Stork Briefs (responses) before, and this one seemed like they put quite a bit of work in it. They cited a lot of civil cases, which of course the case law still apply to criminal but nonetheless I still think it’s pretty weird. Allah knows best …
Inshallah I’ll send you a copy as soon as I can. The copying machine here has been down, on & off. So Inshallah as soon as I can.
Eh, I talked to my pops, and he said he’d call Uncle Patel. The Oral Argument is scheduled for June 3, 2002 in the Court of Special Appeals. I don’t know exactly how that works; if I’m there or not, but I think I heard somewhere that each side only gets 5–20 mins. My dad said he’d go, but that he wouldn’t know what’s going on. I wanted to ask you if you could go? You know more @ law then anyone else, and could follow what’s going on. My a#hole lawyer probably won’t even tell me what happened, he’d probably just say wait for the decision!
Man, I really need you Rabia. I got to know how he rebuts their arguments and what he says. I can always get the transcript, but they won’t be ready till months later. I also need to know what the state throws in the game, cause if the judges affirm my conviction, their opinions will essentially mirror the states arguments. That way, I’ll have a head start on my writ of Cert to the higher court.
If you can, Inshallah, I’m gonna try to get the info @ the hearing from Brown, & have my father contact him for it. His #’s 410.576–3900. If you call him, he may/may not give you the info./Or he might just be the jacka$$ he is and refuse to talk 2 u.
Eh, I know you’re really busy, w/ your custody hearing & your bar & job-hunting. If you got some prior commitment/too busy, it’s cool. I know you’d do it 4 me if you could …
Inshallah let me know when you get a chance. Take care.
Love, Adnan
Adnan knew life was a bit crazy for me then as a single working mom, but he requested that I attend the hearing, one of the few times he’s ever really asked me for anything.
He didn’t have to worry, I wasn’t going to miss this for anything.
That morning, Aunty Shamim and I were the only people to attend the oral arguments before a panel of three judges. Adnan’s attorney did a good job. I thought she was prepared, professional, and courteous to the family. But winning a direct appeal is a near impossibility; the odds are completely against the defendant.
A year later, on March 19, 2003, COSA denied the appeal, upholding every ruling of Judge Heard’s in relation to Jay’s plea, discovery of the plea, and the admission of the documents at issue.
No one was surprised. Adnan least of all. He had now been in prison for four years and knew enough stories of the cases of other inmates, denials of even stronger appellate issues, that he was expecting to be denied. As such, he had already begun mentally preparing for the next step: submitting a Petition for Writ of Certiorari, also referred to as a writ of cert.
This petition is granted on even rarer occasions; in essence it is an appeal to the highest court in Maryland, the Court of Appeals. Adnan had seen this coming and, knowing both the extreme unlikelihood of winning and the cost associated with another appeal, decided to draft the petition himself.
He sent it to me to review, as if I knew anything about Maryland law, but I looked it over anyway for grammar, style, structure; he had written a better petition than many attorneys I knew.
Adnan had little time, so in accordance with court rules he filed an original and seven copies within fifteen days of COSA’s ruling. The Court of Appeals took little time to return their answer: on June 25, 2003, they denied the petition.
There was only one shot left now, post-conviction relief. Adnan, however, wasn’t quite ready.
* * *
I think it was the first real fight I ever had with Adnan. Gutierrez had not only been disbarred but she had died from a heart attack after being ill with multiple sclerosis. We had Asia’s letters and affidavit. Why couldn’t we move on the PCR immediately? It was the end of 2004, and his last appeal had been denied almost eighteen months prior. But Adnan wasn’t having it. He had been burned too badly. And despite trying to get recourse for what Gutierrez had done to him, he got nowhere with the Attorney Grievance Commission and the Client Protection Fund. They had both denied him relief, with the Grievance Commission directing him to the Fund to file a claim, and the Fund stating that while Gutierrez had consented to be disbarred, she “did not admit to any theft of monies” so they couldn’t help him. They told him he had a malpractice problem and his only recourse was probably to sue her estate.
It was one more truly low moment for Adnan and his loved ones. He had been failed over and over again, by every part of the system that should have protected him. He knew he had one last chance and was willing to wait as long as he had to, to make sure all of his bases were covered.
My sense of urgency, the desperation of his family, all of it paled in comparison to his very astute grasp of reality. This last time, it had to be done exactly right.
I knew there was no arguing. Adnan had to handle his business the best way he thought, though I worried that he was influenced by his fellow inmates. I also realized he was full of fear. As long as the PCR was out there, he had hope. If he filed early and then lost, it was over.
I decided to back off, and also backed down on something else I had been bugging him about for years—going to the media. On that issue he also told me no, it wasn’t the right time, though at moments he faltered and gave me a “maybe.”
I understood his concern, though. Asia was our ace, an alibi witness the State had no idea existed. Going to the media before the PCR meant giving them all the time in the world to come up with a way to discredit her or otherwise interfere with her. That certainly wasn’t worth it.
All we could do now was wait, wait until he felt ready.
* * *
I was wandering through the bazaar in a large, annual Islamic convention, holding a cardboard box with a hole on top, a stack of flyers under my arm. Every so often I would approach whoever made the mistake of making eye contact with me, hand them a flyer, and begin telling them about Adnan, hoping to get a few dollars out of them before they cut me off.
I was raising money for his PCR appeal—though not imminent, it was going to happen at some point. After a few days of intermittent begging, I managed to raise $178. But I also managed to hand out hundreds of flyers with Adnan’s address on them, asking people to write and support him, the address where they could mail checks to help with legal fees, and my own personal e-mail address in case they had any questions.
One of the people who got a hold of this flyer reached out to me. His name was Irfan Aziz, a twenty-three-year-old from Toronto who happened to be at the convention. Irfan had recently returned from England where he’d finished an “aalim” program in Islamic scholarship. He was now getting accredited as a chaplain. I was impressed. He e-mailed to ask about whether he should try and raise some funds for Adnan or organize his friends to write letters to him and I thought it was a great idea. I said sure and thanked him profusely.
* * *
In 2003, I was living with my five-year-old daughter back in Virginia and working at the General Counsel’s Office of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services in D.C. Things had smoothed out for me and I was starting to enjoy life again.
At twenty-eight, I was free and loving it.
Every so often I would connect with Irfan online. At some point I mentioned my daughter, taking him by surprise. When he asked me about my husband I told him I was divorced. Not long after that he asked if I was interested in getting remarried.
“No,” I said unequivocally.
He had some friends, he said, in case I was interested.
Thanks, but no thanks.
A few months later he finally got around to saying what he had been wanting to say—what did I think of him? Would I consider him for marriage?
Now, to be clear, all this time we only chatted online infrequently. I didn’t even remember what he looked like. When he proposed over instant message I was exasperated. Was this his agenda all this time?
I shut the door to his romantic aspirations in 2003 but still kept in touch and once, when he was visiting the area to lead a prayer service, I finally got to meet him properly. He was, I grudgingly and internally admitted, pretty good looking.
But still, I wasn’t ready to be married.
Adnan, on the other hand, totally was.
* * *
Kandra is tall, mocha-skinned, and beautiful, exceedingly sweet and gentle, with a radiant smile and warmth you can feel even in her voice. A native of Indianapolis, she’s lived in North Carolina for over two decades now.
She’s in the insurance industry, highly educated, a consummate professional.
The first time she ever laid eyes on Adnan she was at the Jessup prison, visiting a friend in Maryland who had a loved one at the prison. The friend had asked Kandra to tag along, which she reluctantly did.
The Maryland House of Corrections in Jessup had an extraordinarily bad reputation—for violence, corruption, and extreme laxity. Inmates were able to “earn” the freedom to do things, albeit not officially, which they wouldn’t ordinarily be allowed elsewhere. Visitation was also fairly relaxed and didn’t require you to be on a predetermined list to pop in and see someone.
As Kandra sat in the visitation room, slightly bored, a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man entered. His eyes went directly to a small woman with a head scarf who was smiling up at him as he walked her way.
Aunty Shamim was there to visit her son.
Kandra, now completely distracted, was thinking, “Hello, this man is gorgeous. Just gorgeous!”
“I’m not a stalker,” Kandra says to me, “I’m very shy, and old-fashioned when it comes to relationships. I don’t approach men, I’m not that person.”
She reached over to her friend and whispered, “Isn’t he cute?”
The man they were visiting heard it and turned around to see who she was talking about.
“I know him! We call him Saaaeeed.”
“Do you want to talk to him?” the friend asked.
Kandra squirmed. She did want to talk to him, but this was all just too weird. She knew there were women who got involved with incarcerated men, but she never envisioned herself to be one of them.
But there was something about this man that compelled her to say ok, yes, I’d like to speak to him. At the time she wasn’t looking for a relationship; she was busy in her studies in nutrition and health care administration along with her twin sister. But in that moment she stopped acting like herself.
Her interest in Adnan didn’t go unnoticed. Aunty Shamim saw this strange woman staring at her son and glared at her. The situation was tense, and Kandra certainly wasn’t going to make it worse by asking to be introduced right then and there.
She left but only after giving her number to the man they were visiting to pass along to Adnan if he was interested in talking.
It turned out Aunty Shamim wasn’t the only one who noticed her.
A couple of days later, before she left Maryland, she got a call from Adnan.
“He was just sweet,” she remembers. His radar had picked up the beautiful woman with the big smile sitting in his periphery. Even in prison, he was deeply aware of not disrespecting his mother. Kandra and he connected immediately and spoke for a couple of hours, sharing their backgrounds.
“I laughed a lot,” Kandra says. “He’s got a great sense of humor and just makes you feel like you’ve known each other a long time.”
Even though she was still in Maryland, she didn’t swing by the prison to see him before leaving. She wasn’t ready to do that and she wasn’t quite sure what she was getting into; instead she returned to North Carolina.
It was the fall of 2008, and for those first few months they spoke incessantly over the phone, connecting daily, multiple times a day. The rapport was instant, and they quickly grew attached to each other. Even in prison she wasn’t the first woman he had “spoken” to. But this woman was different.
Prison is not exactly a conducive environment for love—those inmates who have a partner, a romantic relationship, a spouse on the outside who stick by them are very, very lucky. Many relationships die off after a person gets locked up. But the moral support and hope you get from someone who cares about and loves you gives you a reason to dream about a future outside bars. In all these years Adnan had not met anyone who made him feel like he did now.
He told her, “I’ve never had feelings like this since I’ve been locked up. I don’t know what I’m feeling.” Kandra really did “like” him and cared about him but wasn’t head over heels. He was funny, sweet, attentive, smart, handsome, but he was also serving a life term for murder that he said he was innocent of. She believed he was innocent. But how would they ever actually have a future together? And how on earth do you tell your family about a relationship like this?
For Adnan there was little caution, and the feelings came much faster. “This was the second time I fell in love in my life,” he says.
They still hadn’t spent any time together in person, but she was planning on making a trip up to Maryland to see him soon. Adnan began to worry a bit. He knew where this was going, but he couldn’t quite go there. Over the years his juvenile posturing about Islam had turned into a serious commitment. He knew he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be physically close to Kandra unless they were married.
A few times a year the prison held “family days” when inmates, family, and friends openly mingled either in the yard or inside a large gymnasium. I’d been to a couple of the events and it was actually quite wonderful. There were no cages, no barriers. Inmates were in charge of the festivities, barbecuing, playing a live band. Everyone hung out as if they were at an actual picnic. Lots of things changed hands on these occasions. Once, when I went with Saad and our sister, he had a new pair of sneakers on for Adnan. We sat at picnic-style tables and as we casually chatted, they traded shoes under the table.
Family day was coming up and Kandra was going to be there, and while neither of them expected any physical intimacy, not to that extent, Adnan at least wanted the chance to hug her, hold her, kiss her. But he not only wanted to do what was right by his religion, he also wanted to do what was right by her.
She was struggling in some ways back then; her finances weren’t strong, and she had run out of money to finish her degree. Adnan wanted to take care of her and he wanted a relationship that gave her the right to expect to be cared for.
He asked if she would marry him in an Islamic ceremony, a “nikkah.”
“The ceremony would be real, a legitimate marriage in Islam,” she said, “but just not on paper.”
She felt how conflicted he was, that he wanted a romantic relationship with this woman but his faith was preventing it. After thinking about it she agreed. After all, it was a verbal ceremony with two witnesses, nothing legal. It would put him at ease and not be any kind of a burden on her.
He began discussing a dowry with her.
“A dowry?” she asked, perplexed.
Yes, he explained. In Islam a man must give a woman a dowry, the “mahr,” when they marry, as a gift, and for some, as a form of financial protection. The dowry was an obligation, the nikkah wasn’t complete without it. He wasn’t just posturing, he was doing this for real, as real as it got in his religion.
“What did Adnan give you?” I asked.
“Ten thousand dollars,” she responded.
I balked.
How the hell did Adnan have ten thousand dollars? I laughed, joking with Kandra.
It turned out that by working small hustles, like making photocopies, trading items, getting other inmates things they needed like medicine, books, and other “contraband” over the past eight years, he had managed to save up quite a stash. There was an elaborate system set up with the inmates in which they managed to get prepaid Visa cards to send to the outside world, and Adnan managed to send Kandra her dowry before she arrived for the ceremony.
Kandra first met Adnan formally on the same day they got Islamically married, sometime in the winter of 2008. It took a total of five minutes, with another inmate officiating and two others standing witness.
I had to ask.
“Did you have a chance to … er … be close after the marriage?”
“No. We never consummated the marriage.”
There were some rules about physical touching during family day, as guards stood in the perimeters. No prolonged hugging, no kissing, no funny business. Despite the rules, funny business was routine. With the right incentives there were always guards willing to look the other way as a couple would find a corner, or duck under a table, for a quickie. Some were so brazen that they would have sex while sitting openly—the woman having come prepared in an easy-access skirt, she would sit in her partner’s lap, often at the table where others were eating, for a few minutes until the deed was done. Kandra filled me in.
“Are you telling me people are shagging on family day?”
“Yes.” Kandra laughed. “All over the place they’re shagging. The guards know what’s going on.”
But she wasn’t raised like that, she was shy and she wasn’t going to be doing any public shagging, married or not. Adnan was fine with it. “He knows me, he knows I’m a private person, he never pressured me,” she said.
Adnan tried to get a private room arranged for them but wasn’t able to. Barring that, it was not going to happen. And it never did.
She went home, now a duly married woman, and Adnan finally felt like he had the freedom to speak to her affectionately, intimately. He constantly sent her gifts, mostly thanks to Saad.
“Yeah, any time he needed flowers or candy or gifts sent, he’d ask me. I helped out with her smaller bills sometimes, and would do the travel arrangements for her. He’s my boy. Of course I’d do that for his wife,” Saad said.
When Adnan told me he had gotten married I was shocked but genuinely happy. I could hear the levity in his voice and I knew what it meant to find someone he could dream of having a life with.
He wanted me to talk to Kandra. She was interested in Islam and he wanted to foster that interest, though whether or not she became Muslim wasn’t paramount. He asked me to answer any questions she had, give her any support she would need. He also asked me to talk to his mother—he had broken the news to his family and, forever the traditional Pakistani mother, Aunty Shamim wasn’t happy that he made the decision independently. Marriage, where we’re from, is a family affair.
I spoke to Kandra and she was lovely. I could see why Adnan had fallen for her. She had tried visiting a mosque and didn’t feel comfortable because she didn’t know anyone there. I, admittedly, did not encourage her to go again unless she could go with someone. I didn’t want her feeling like an outsider and frankly, I knew too many converts who had left Islam thanks to the judgment and dysfunction of other Muslims. She didn’t need to be around us en masse just yet.
Adnan wanted his family to get to know her, so his father and Yusuf spoke to her a number of times.
“They were very nice and friendly, really welcoming,” she recalls.
But Aunty Shamim wouldn’t speak with her. I tried to work on that.
“Aunty. Come on. There is no reason to object to this, he is allowed to marry who he wants to in Islam, and he can marry a Christian woman, and you know it.” But I got nowhere. She just repeated, “It’s not fair, he can’t make a decision like that without asking.” It was the first time she seemed truly hurt.
Kandra visited Adnan four more times before he was abruptly moved in 2009 from Jessup, which was shut down and eventually demolished, to the North Branch Correctional Institute (NBCI) in Cumberland, Maryland.
After his move to this supermax facility, an institution of legendary security housing the most violent criminals in Maryland, and hours away from Baltimore, she never saw him again.
“He’s done more for me than any person I’ve ever been with. He took care of me. He made sure if I needed money for anything I got it. He had flowers and chocolates sent to me all the time. He made sure my travel was paid for, my rental car, my hotel, the best hotels, when I went to visit. He had it together, he knew what he was doing. But once he was moved, everything changed. He changed. For the first time I heard him depressed.”
I could tell too. He wrote to me on June 20, 2009.
Dear Rabia,
I pray that everything is well w/you + Arfan [sic] and the girls, inshaAllah. I have been transferred to the Cumberland area. Everyone who is maximum security status was transferred to this region over the past two years. I was part of the last load, mashaAllah. The rules are stricter up here … but … it’s not that big of a deal. It’s a 2 ½ hour drive from Baltimore, so it’s kinda far away.
Alhamdulillah other than that, everythings pretty much ok. My mother’s still beefin about my marriage, but not so hard as before. InshaAllah, she’ll come around. My wife is alright … our relationship is long-distance to begin with. She’s been helping me out a lot, doing some computer searches and making copies for me. We don’t get a chance to talk as much because I’m using the regular phones now, but we write everyday.…
I’ll be honest, I’m very nervous about this appeal. I’ve spent all these years researching & praying. I really hope Allah will grant it. I’m so anxious about this, cause I’ve been waiting so long … all these years I’ve been waiting for this. This Post Conviction Petition was the event I was working towards. And it was steadily coming closer, I had it to look forward to this past year. It seems like this incarceration has finally started to wear me down. My heart feels so heavy. Having this life sentence, I feel like there’s no light at the end of this tunnel. And that’s what I need; some light. Even if I don’t go home now, if they were to cut my time. I have 10 ½ years in, with a good record and no past criminal history. If I could get a sentence that would get me an expiration date, it would change my whole perspective.
Kandra and Adnan remained married only for a short while longer, until Adnan told her it was better if they ended it, though they could always remain friends. He was hitting rock-bottom in Cumberland. In Jessup he had an active life with some semblance of normalcy. He had an extraordinary level of freedom, working in different parts of the prison, having an excellent relationship with the staff and guards. Once, while he was assisting the prison librarian, she asked him to go drop off some books in her car. She handed him her keys and he walked out to the lot where her car stood. He was outside the prison, free and clear, in the employee parking lot. If he had wanted, he could have gotten in her car and driven away.
Instead, he put the books in her trunk, turned around, and went back to his imprisonment.
He had a cell phone at Jessup for a number of years, thanks to an elaborate scheme in which one of the maintenance workers would bring in a few phones at a time inside the cavity of a drill handle and leave the designated drill in a shop for inmates to retrieve. The doors of their cells were solid, so guards couldn’t see inmates speaking on their phones. Some of them knew but looked the other way, not wanting to come down hard on those they had developed friendships with, to the extent they could be called friendships.
The freedom and hope he felt at Jessup all faded at NBCI. Gone were all his relationships, his gigs, his routine, his friends, his community. There were no more family days, no more mingling with his loved ones. Here he was on level ten, state-of-the-art, supermax lockdown. He was surrounded by crewcut white guards who didn’t give the inmates, mostly men of color, the same kind of leeway the mostly black guards at Jessup gave.
And he was far, so far from his family. His visiting hours were shrunk, his phone access cut to a fraction.
Kandra sensed the change in him, a despondency that he hadn’t ever shown before. There was another reason for the despondency, though: it was high time to hire an attorney for the PCR, but there was no money for it.
7/14/09
Dear Rabia,
Asalaamualaykum wa’rahmatullah wa’barakatuhu [peace, mercy, and blessings of God be upon you].
… I got the message from my mom, and I tried to call you, but I guess it got your machine. Right now, there really isn’t a set phone schedule, but inshaAllah it may improve soon. I don’t know when’s the next time I can call, but I think I can catch you soon, inshaAllah.
You know one of the 3 law firms I mentioned was the one Christopher Flohr recommended, Larry Nathan. You + him both contacted that firm back in 2004. I just received a letter last week after I had sent him the # of pages my transcripts were, and asking his fee. He wrote back and mentioned that you both had contacted him regarding my case in 2004. Anyway this guy said that the review fee (because I have so many documents) would be $30,000! And that wouldn’t include the separate fee of litigation. Bair wanted $20,000 for the review fee, and I think the firm of Byer Warnken is just as much as Nathan if not more. In fact, he sent me a booklet, in it are his prices. He charges $15,000 for 2 issues and $8,000 for each additional issue. That’s his litigation fee. I’m pretty sure his review fee would be between $20,000-$30,000. Allah knows best but I think they are financially out of the question.
You know I was completely blind-sided by the “review fee.” Everyone I spoke to and read about, all the info I compiled. I realize now was about the litigation fee. And you know what sucks? My transcripts are full of crap. It is 6300 pages of nothing, with a little bit of substance.… It’s frustrating, cause that’s what is driving the price up so much.…
I think I found this one lawyer, his name is Justin Brown. He was the point man at Larry Nathan’s firm, specializing in Post-Conviction Petitions. About 2 months ago he started his own firm. I know 2 guys who have dealt with him—their appeals are still pending. They spoke highly of him, and they felt that he was very thorough in his research and preparation. One thing he said was that when he started his own firm, he would charge less because he wouldn’t have as much overhead as the bigger firms. He responded to my initial request with a questionnaire which I mailed back last week.… The thing is that, at trial and my appeal, we had big firms and look where that got me, mashaAllah. They treated me like a case #, and I truly feel it was all about $$ to them. Maybe I need a lawyer that believes in my innocence.…
I really hope now is my time, it’s just been getting to me. I just want some Daylight, inshaAllah.
Adnan had heard from other inmates about a number of attorneys who specialized in PCR petitions. Some were big names and came with big fees. He knew he had to hire someone who was very, very good at this (often measured by how much they charged) because it was his last shot.
He had spent the last five years studying the law, poring through his case files and keeping up on recent Maryland court decisions. He already had a good sense of what issues would be most important.
He sent me a list of attorneys he was interested in so I could check them out. He was particularly curious about one who had just recently started his own law firm, breaking away from a larger firm.
C. Justin Brown was based in Baltimore, and Adnan asked if I would be willing to meet with him at some point. I said sure. At this time I was no longer living in the area; in 2006 I had remarried and moved to Connecticut.
Irfan had turned out to be rather persistent. It took a few years before I felt ready to get remarried and when I did I told him, “Look, I know you’re young, but I’m not that young and if you want to get married, it’s now or never. I don’t know how your family is going to take an older, divorced, single mother (the perfect trifecta to give any potential Pakistani mother-in-law heart palpitations) and if anyone in your family, or my family, objects to this, I’m out. You have thirty days to give me your answer.”
I was thirty-one, my daughter was eight, I had been alone for four years, and I had no time to waste.
Within the month he had spoken to his parents and within another month two vans crammed full of his family, extended and nuclear, arrived from Toronto. They brought sweets, roses, and an engagement ring.
On December 9, 2005, I married Irfan in Toronto, with my daughter present (unthinkable in Pakistani culture), and together we moved to Hartford, Connecticut, where he began a master’s degree in Christian-Muslim Relations at the Hartford Seminary.
It was a relief to start a new life in a new place, though it meant leaving behind my immigration practice in Virginia. I didn’t mind, and was energized by the interfaith community that surrounded the seminary.
As my new husband studied, I got busy setting up my immigration law practice and also immediately got involved in a local nonprofit focused on charity and interfaith outreach, the Muslim Coalition of Connecticut (MCCT).
In the years leading up to 2009, when we began preparing for the post-conviction appeal, my life had been transformed by that move and by the political landscape of America. After 9/11, anti-Muslim sentiment grew each year, and counterterror policies steadily encroached on our civil liberties. The widespread surveillance of mosques and Muslim student associations by local and federal agencies was common knowledge.
I found myself representing about a dozen immigrants who were being leaned on by federal law enforcement to become informants inside their mosques; this was not happening in response to any imminent threats, instead it was a sweeping fishing expedition in Muslim communities nationwide. My clients were being backed into a corner through extreme coercion; if they didn’t cooperate they were threatened with deportation or having their immigration cases denied.
Publicly, I worked through the MCCT to better relations between local communities and law enforcement. The fact that this work was being undermined by troubling surveillance and infiltration policies—coupled with news of horribly bigoted anti-Muslim training in the FBI, Pentagon, and local jurisdictions—was deeply frustrating. But it also created an opportunity for change, which I began to think about while, from hundreds of miles away, keeping an eye on the upcoming PCR.
On a trip to Baltimore I went to meet Justin; Saad joined me. Justin was enthusiastic, polite, and smart. He had not only read through Adnan’s court filings but had actually traveled hours to meet him, and he believed Adnan was innocent. I’d already done some research and knew he was a former war reporter in Bosnia during the horrendous ethnic cleansing in the early 1990s. I liked that he had been exposed to a world outside of the law, because many lawyers I knew became cynical and jaded over their years practicing in silos, and that he also presumably had experience with Muslim communities.
I had a good feeling about Justin, and I had a good feeling about our issues. After all, we had Asia in the bag. I told Adnan over the phone that I liked the guy, and Adnan did too, so after some fee negotiation, Justin Brown was hired to represent Adnan in his PCR petition with the Circuit Court of Baltimore.
* * *
The first order of business was to find Asia McClain. She no longer lived in the Baltimore area but Justin had a private investigator on the case, and she located Asia on the other side of the country.
Justin had already attempted to reach her by letter to let her know we were looking to speak to her about her 1999 letters and 2000 affidavit, but he had heard nothing back. So his PI eventually went to her home. A man answered the door, and the PI explained who she was and asked him to pass along her card to Asia. When she didn’t hear back, she tried again. This time the same man told her to leave them alone, and Justin never heard from Asia.
This was terrible, literally the worst thing that could happen after all these years. Why was Asia stonewalling us? We desperately needed her for the PCR; otherwise all we had were those three documents and my testimony about what she had told me, which didn’t count for much as hearsay. Adnan had waited so many years for this, and we had all banked on the moment when Asia could finally testify for him. There were a lot of tears, prayers, and shock as we realized that we had lost Asia, the most vital aspect of this appeal.
Justin had to make a strategic decision. He could definitely subpoena her and force her to come all the way to Baltimore to testify. But she could end up being a hostile witness, he said, hostile meaning hurtful to the case. Adnan remembered her as a really nice girl, but he didn’t know her that well, and many years had passed since. Anything was possible if we forced her to testify.
Justin conferred with Adnan and decided it was best to move forward with the letters and affidavit and not call Asia. The documents alone sufficed, he believed, to prove that Gutierrez failed in a basic duty to call an alibi witness, prima facie ineffective assistance of counsel. And he was raising another strong legal issue: Gutierrez had failed, despite Adnan twice asking her, to approach the State to see if they would offer a plea deal.
There was strong legal precedent in Adnan’s favor on this; numerous courts had ruled that when a client asked, his or her attorney must at least find out if the State would negotiate a plea. It doesn’t matter if the client, upon being offered, would have said no. It also doesn’t matter if clients maintained their innocence; there is no dearth of literature on innocent people taking plea deals, and even innocent people expressing remorse before a parole board. The system incentivizes this convoluted and unjust dynamic, where nearly 95 percent of criminal cases are pled out.
To prove to the court that Adnan had indeed asked Gutierrez for a plea, Justin submitted Adnan to a polygraph test, which he passed.
On May 28, 2010, Justin filed the petition for post-conviction relief with the Baltimore City Circuit Court, just making the ten-year deadline. It would be more than two years, with multiple continuances and motions, until the hearing date was scheduled.
* * *
We had a wonderful life and community in Connecticut but after five years we needed to move. Irfan had immense trouble finding work in chaplaincy, at least work that could sustain a family, and had begun working in IT consulting. But all of the consulting jobs he got were far from home. After trying for three years, we finally had a beautiful baby girl, bringing my beautiful daughter count to two. Since the little one was born, I was only working part-time and juggling taking care of the house, the girls, my work, and my activism, all while Irfan was working out of town.
After six years in Connecticut, during which time I barely saw Adnan, I moved back to Maryland in August of 2011, roughly a year before the PCR hearing.
Once back, I began transitioning out of legal practice and into national security work. My experiences—making me aware of law enforcement coercing immigrant clients into unconscionable situations, even coercing Imams to spy on their congregations—weighed heavily on my heart. I spent my first year back in the D.C. area studying national security policy, with a particular focus on a framework the White House called “CVE,” or Countering Violent Extremism. The idea behind CVE was to engage and include the Muslim community on issues of violent extremism and create a space outside of counterterror operations for prevention of recruitment by terrorists, particularly online. The problem was that CVE totally ignored the greatest extremist threat to the homeland as articulated by the FBI itself: homegrown, right-wing, sovereign-citizen militia groups.
In January of 2012 I founded the Safe Nation Collaborative, a firm focused on training law enforcement on how to work with Muslim communities respectfully and providing accurate information about Islam and Muslims. We (myself and a team of trainers) also delivered community trainings on violent extremism, because this was an issue we couldn’t and shouldn’t ignore even though it’s a miniscule problem among American Muslims. More importantly for them, extremist recruiters target our kids in particular, online, while parents have no idea what’s going on.
As the hearing date approached in October 2012, Justin told me I would have to testify about how I got the affidavit from Asia. I wasn’t too worried. My credentials and credibility were strong, I had already worked with hundreds of law enforcement officers and even conducted an FBI training, I was a Truman National Security Fellow, and my legal career was unblemished. I felt confident the court would believe my testimony.
Adnan was also going to testify, but as luck would have it, he suddenly found himself in a bit of a bind once the hearing dates were finalized.
7/13/12
Dear Justin,
Please thank Melissa for faxing the letter to the prison about the postponement. I received my copy as well.
I’m writing you because I have a problem with the Oct. court dates. I don’t know if you remember but about 18 months ago I had asked you to write a letter to the prison regarding my foot injury. I had not received any medical attention at the time, but upon receipt of your letter I was evaluated. Subsequently it was determined that I would need surgery. But as it was not life threatening I was placed on the medical waiting list. I’m constantly in a lot of pain, I don’t take the painkillers they prescribe because of the adverse side effects. I don’t want to destroy my liver just so my foot feels better. I’ve been waiting 18 months now …
Anyway about a week ago, I found out my surgery is scheduled for the same day as the first hearing in Oct. This presents 2 problems:
#1 if I miss the surgery (due to court) I immediately go back to the bottom of the list. They do not stagger patients. So I would have to wait another 18-24 months.
#2 The only reason I know my surgery date is because a nurse was nice enough to tell me. The problem w/that is that inmates aren’t supposed to know their surgery dates in case someone plans an ingenius you-know-what. The great irony of that policy is I know my court date months in advance, and it’s the exact same trip/method. Leave Cumberland → Hagerstown layover → Jessup. Whenever I go to court, half the guys on the bus are medical trips … The point is that you/I couldn’t try to reschedule […] because their first concern would be, “Whoa, how did inmate Syed know about his surgery date??”
[…] I’ve given this a lot of thought, cause I know you have a very busy schedule and you have witnesses lined up to testify, etc for what its worth. I was gonna tough it out. But it is a very painful injury & in the end I’d rather wait a few more months for another court date than to wait another 15–24 months for another surgery date.
If you could get a postponement w/out telling the Judge about the surgery, could you please do it? […] But if you can’t get a postponement, or if you feel it’ll be detrimental to the case, then it is what it is, and I’ll just have to tough it out.
The hearing date wasn’t postponed, though, and Adnan just had to forgo his surgery. Justin still had to put Adnan on the stand, in spite of his condition, to testify about Gutierrez’s failure to take action after telling her about both Asia and the plea. I was a little worried; he had never testified before, he was in pain, and I heard Kathleen Murphy, the same prosecutor from the first trial, was going to be arguing for the State in the PCR—she would fight hard to keep her conviction. It turned out Adnan was not the one I needed to worry about.
The first day of the hearing a small group of us—Aunty Shamim, Yusuf, Saad, Irfan, a few community friends, and myself—arrived at the courthouse.
A mild-looking and mild-mannered judge, Martin Welch, presided.
Adnan shuffled in, constrained in five-point shackles. Having never seen him like this, I choked up. We were all a bit taken aback.
Justin had let me know that I’d be called as a witness that day, and I said ok, I had all my prayers in order and was ready. But first he called Kevin Urick.
He questioned Urick about the plea deal, who testified that he had never been approached by Gutierrez about a plea. What we didn’t expect was that he would bring up Asia.
We were surprised to hear that Asia had called Urick, and then shocked at what she had to say to him.
Urick testified, “She was concerned, because she was being asked questions about an affidavit she had written back at the time of the trial. She told me she had only written it because she was getting pressure from the family. And basically wrote it to please them and get them off her back.”
Adnan:
Although I experienced a great deal of worry and frustration when I was arrested, I expected that everything would work out. I thought people would see I had no reason to kill Hae, and certainly there could be no evidence to say I did. I had complete faith that I would never be held responsible for a crime I did not commit. But by the end of that year, the exact opposite happened. It seemed everyone thought I had reason to kill Hae, and that there was hard evidence to prove I did.
To be convicted and sentenced to prison for Hae’s murder was one thing. But it was even worse to feel that the whole world believed I was a liar and a manipulative person. Because I did not kill Hae; there was nothing for me to feel bad about. I was angry and sad, but there was no internal conflict taking place. To be accused of being an evil person, however, was a whole other thing. Because I did lie to my parents about different things. And while I never manipulated my parents into giving me money or material things, I did manipulate them into thinking I was not messing around with girls and stuff which I was not supposed to do. So with Hae’s murder, I had no culpability; but as far as the State saying I was a bad person? Well, maybe they were right … It was a really tough time for me, emotionally.
When I arrived at prison, I decided that I was going to try and better myself; specifically, strive to become a better Muslim. And you know Islam has some pretty strict tenets, if you take it literally. No cursing, listening to music, watching TV, taking pictures, dealing with the opposite sex, etc. For several months, I did my best to adhere to what I thought was right. And I felt as if I was making some progress, but I was also a bit miserable at the same time. I still had a desire to do certain things, and I had never been a very disciplined person. So I began veering back and forth; it was a real struggle. I would do good for a couple of days, but then fall back into old habits. It became an emotional roller-coaster I could not handle. So I decided to just give up. I told myself that I was who I was, and that I did not possess the fortitude necessary to better myself.
There was only one issue of contention that I could resolve in my life. And that was the desire I have to never be accused of being a liar and manipulative again. I knew I had lied to my parents about things. But on the other hand, it was never with evil intentions. And I never really had a reason to lie to other people. Sure, my friends’ parents didn’t know we were doing things, but I never attempted to make it seem as if I was someone that I was not. So I did not really know how to avoid being perceived as manipulative when I felt like I was not ever being manipulative in the first place. I came to the conclusion that the only way I could protect myself from ever being accused of being manipulative again was if I never interacted with people from the outside world. I mean people from the street, school, the mosque, etc. Because if I never wrote or called anyone, then no one could ever accuse me of having evil intentions. So that was the deal I made with myself. I decided I would not write to or call anyone except my parent’s home or Rabia and Saad and their family. It was a brutally simple understanding; no one could ever accuse me of ulterior motives for an interaction, if there never was any interaction. So I stuck to that for all these years. I decided to just live in prison, and that would be enough. I would mind my own business, not request anything from anybody. Initially, I worried how I would deal with someone reaching out to me; however, that turned out to be an unnecessary concern.
After coming to terms with that, next I had to figure out what to do with my life. I saw a lot of people who had succumbed to substance-abuse, joined gangs, and engaged in very self-destructive behavior. Looking back, I realize how easily I could have ended up going down one of those paths. I was extremely fortunate, however, to meet some people who helped me. They saw a scared and lonely teenager, and instead of trying to take advantage of me, they embraced me and helped me deal with the hardest time of my life. They stopped me from going down the terrible road most people in here end up on. My values come from my mother and father, but the man that I am today (or at least try to be) is thanks to them. They refused to allow me to be miserable and give up on trying to better myself.
The thing which troubled me the most was that I felt everyone thought I was an evil person. It bothered me because I tried to be a good person growing up. Did my best to treat people with respect, and be there for others. It really caused me to question myself, and it was very difficult to deal with. I read a lot, and I came to realize a good Muslim is someone who has good character. And it was something I could work on and achieve. I decided to dedicate myself to improving my character, and becoming a better person, the best that I could be. Not for anyone else, but for me. Maybe I could not prove I did not kill Hae, and maybe I would spend the rest of my life in prison. But at least I could prove I was not a bad person. Not to anyone else, but to myself. I know this all probably sounds ridiculous, but it was the only thing I had to grab ahold of. So that was how I began living my life in prison.
I read any books I could find about becoming a better person. Self-help books, religious books, just about anything I could find. And it turned out to be way more complicated than I had anticipated. I would have long conversations with individuals that I had come to respect, but I never really attained the blueprint for how to better myself. But as I closely observed the people I looked up to, I began to notice the things that I respected about them. And I decided to incorporate those same characteristics into myself. One guy was someone who always greeted people first, and with a smile. And when you talked to him, he always gave you his full attention, no matter who you were. Another guy would always have the same positive demeanor, day in and day out. Another guy would always lift weights in the yard; rain, snow, or sunshine, he’d go out and exercise. One guy was never able to be baited into an argument. Even if someone was rude to him, he’d still maintain his composure and continue speaking in a calm manner. One guy seemed to know something about everything. I asked how he knew so much, and he answered very simple, “I read the paper.” He meant the newspaper, so I started reading the newspaper every single day. I mean, I could go on and on. At the same time, I witnessed the negative consequences people experienced as a result of reckless living. They served as a cautionary tale, in a way.
So ever since then, I have just tried to better myself and treat others well. Whether I interacted with guards, inmates, staff, anybody; I tried to always exhibit a positive and upright character. It was not easy, and can still be difficult at times. But it was very beneficial for me, emotionally. I began to have confidence in myself again; I felt like I had my dignity back. I did not feel like a piece of trash the world threw away anymore.
And it turned out to be my saving grace. As I look back now, I realize there were only 3 things I wanted after I was convicted: to stay close to my family, prove my innocence, and try to be accepted as a genuine person again. I have been blessed to stay close to my family (physically in Jessup), and I have been able to find a sense of self in prison. People in here know me as a stand-up guy. Guards, inmates, staff; people I have been around for almost 17 years and who have seen me every day, recognize me as someone whose word can be trusted. I try to help people if I can, and I never throw it in anyone’s face. If someone confides in me, I never break that trust. I try to always be respectful to anyone, and I make sure to be a voice of calm in potentially volatile situations. I try to maintain the ties of friendship with the people I care about, and try to be considerate to strangers.
I guess what I am trying to say is that I was able to find the peace of mind in prison that I lost at my trial. I have lived my life entirely within these walls, not dealing with the outside world. I was able to become someone people trust, and it was not based on any falsehood or manipulation. The one thing about prison that I really appreciate so much is that you really get to see who someone is. When you are around someone 24/7, 365 days a year, you get to see exactly who they are, and how they feel about you. I appreciated that so much because when I was home, I thought people cared about me. But I would come to find out they did not. And I am not saying anyone had to care about me; it was a naïve assumption on my part … So in prison, people see exactly who I am, and treat me accordingly. To have the reputation that I have over all these years is because I earned it …
People (guards, inmates, staff) express sentiments like that to me. They share with me stories about their children, families, personal things. They may be asking for advice; not because I have any particular knowledge on these subjects but because they trust I will keep their confidence. And this takes place over years. It humbles me and inspires me to be better, because I owe it to the people who feel that way about me. And I owe it to God, who helped me get to a point in my life where I no longer wonder if people think I am evil, or just some horrible person. The people in here know I am not a liar or manipulative because they have been around me for almost 17 years, and I have never exhibited those characteristics.
I have also worked hard at becoming a spiritual person. Not religious; my dad is the most religious person I know. He follows Islamic laws in a very disciplined manner. He is strict with himself, but not with others. That is one of the reasons why I respect him so much. So many people are only as religious as the number of opportunities they get to look down/chastise others. Or be harsh with others. My dad has never been like that. He has always been very kind and compassionate with others, never chastising them. I am more like my mother. She is a spiritual person, but not so much religious. She has her morals & principals, but she also has a lot of fun. She has a strong belief that we are not perfect, but if you treat people well, God will love you. And that if good comes your way, it is from Him. And that if you experience hardships, that may be a means to draw nearer to Him.
So my dad is the type that prays all the time, whereas my mom prays when she needs something. But to her, her worship is the way she treats people and tries to help others. I try to incorporate the things from them I can, and I feel as if I have arrived at a place of understanding the balance. And I can bear witness that since I have been incarcerated, God has protected me from harm and blessed me with so many good things. I feel He’s always protected me because He knows I am innocent. And I believe I earn His blessings through trying to be a good person. I am not saying that I earn all the good things in my life, or even that I earn any of them. I am just saying that I believe that if I do good, I receive good. And if I do bad, then I receive bad. I think if you ask anyone of any religion, they would pretty much say something similar. And they may have experienced the same thing. I do not know if this makes sense, but I can share with you something that may illustrate my point.
As Muslims, we are not supposed to have relationships outside of marriage. So when I arrived at prison, I decided that I was going to try and honor that particular tenet. It was fairly easy at first, because I did not communicate with anyone from outside. But I soon came to learn that living in prison does not preclude someone from having a relationship with a woman. Whether it was a woman working in the prison or from outside, I have seen many relationships occur. There are pen-pal websites, friends of friends, etc. I had several opportunities where I could have chosen to pursue something with a woman, but I always declined. I did my best to abide by that particular tenet of my faith. And then one day, I met Kandra. She had initiated contact with me, and I explained to her that as a Muslim man, I cannot have a relationship with a woman unless there is an intent to consider marriage. To my surprise, she expressed a shared view. We spent time becoming acquainted with each other, and then we decided to get married. We had an amazing relationship and we still care about each other a great deal, and are very close years later. She is such a beautiful and compassionate woman. To me, I feel that I respected the tenets of my faith, and God blessed me with a wonderful experience.
As far as my case, I just studied my transcript and would go to the library and read legal books. It was very hard, but I did my best. And I never really could find anything that proved my innocence. But I was confident that as long as I persisted in trying to better myself & researching my case, God would bless me with something beneficial for my appeal.
As you know, I waited 10 years to file my post-conviction petition. In Maryland, State law provides a 10-year time limit to file it, beginning from the day of sentencing. As I was sentenced June 3, 2000, I had until June 3, 2010 to file this appeal. It was filed on May 29, 2010, 4 days before the expiration date. I had my Direct Appeal, which was denied in 2003. As a matter of procedure, I could have filed my Post then, but I did not. Well, it is not that simple. My family had exhausted their savings on my trial. So there was no money to hire a lawyer. I wrote to several appellate attorneys in Baltimore City, and each price quoted was between $20-$50,000 just to read my entire case file. Obviously, I did not have any money. And the Public Defender’s office does not handle Post-convictions, they only were obligated to handle Direct Appeals. Rabia and Saad would tell me to write the mosque and ask people, but I would have rather died than do that. I never wanted to ask anyone for money. When I was arrested, I was asked to write a letter to the mosque. And I did. But other than that, I never called anyone or wrote anyone asking for anything. Even when I was a kid, I never liked asking for something. I would do it myself, or just do without. And after my trial, I never asked anyone for anything, because I did not want to be accused of manipulating anybody. My parents even offered to sell their house but I told them no.
When I told Rabia & Saad I was not going to ask anyone for anything, that was the first time we got into an argument. I explained that on one hand, if God wanted me to go home, I just had a trial and an appeal. Those did not work out, so it was probably not meant to be for me to go home at that time. I told Rabia I wanted to learn my own case and the law applying to it. I did not want to be completely unaware in court. I never wanted to feel that way ever again. And I wanted to trust in God that He would send me help when it was meant to be … Rabia told me I should re-examine the situation because I was making the wrong decision. But that was what I truly believed, and at the end of the day it was my decision, and my life. I was the one sitting in here. This was not a one-time conversation; it took place over years. I tried really hard to convey my gratitude to both Rabia and Saad for standing by me, while at the same time trying to express my reasons for waiting. I know they were coming from a place of love, but how do you handle people thinking you are not fighting for your life, when you are actually fighting for it every single day, the only way that you know … I prayed about that decision, and it was not as if I made a decision to wait the entire 10 years, day for day. I was just waiting for something to happen.
But nothing really happened for all those years, and the 10th year was approaching. I researched and researched, but was unable to find anything which proved I was innocent. It was coming close to the expiration date, and I really started to become nervous. Other than the Asia McClain alibi issue, I had not really discovered anything significant in my case. And in the last few months of 2009, I grew really worried. I had never communicated with Asia, not once since I had been arrested. We had no way of knowing where she was, or if she would ever come to court. Or even if she remembered anything from so many years ago.
Anyway, you know how the post went. Even though it was denied, I was still at peace. Upset for my family’s sake because I knew it hurt them, and for myself too. But I had peace, as I reflected on how God had taken care of me. He provided me with an opportunity, and I had to be grateful for that. I was able to testify on the witness stand in court, and was finally able to say I did not kill Hae. And if no one believed me, it did not matter. I just wanted to say it. I had a lawyer who was sincere and treated my family in a genuine way. And I was grateful for that. I do not know if Rabia remembers, but we spoke on the phone around the time I got the denial, and she asked me how I was feeling? She was concerned I may have been having a really difficult time, emotionally. But I was not, and I could try to explain why.
So all these years later, my best chance at getting my conviction overturned failed, and I realized I might never make it home. But I had 2 out of 3 things I wanted from the day after my conviction. I was still close with my family, and I had achieved some semblance of being a good person. I do not mean with the outside world. I mean in my world, in here. No one could ever take away all the work I had put in over the past 15 years. All the people in here who care about me (and whom I care about); I am still the same person to them. I can be trusted without betraying that trust, and depended upon. No one in prison has ever accused me of being manipulative or a liar, and that meant everything to me. Maybe more than anything else. And no one from the outside could accuse me of trying to manipulate them because I never dealt with anyone from the outside world anymore. I had made that deal with myself when I was a teenager, and I kept it for all these years. I never asked anyone for anything. To be honest, I never even asked Rabia. Rabia has always cared about me and supported me more than anyone other than my parents. If you re-read every letter that I wrote her, you’d be unable to find anywhere where I’m asking her to advocate for me. It was always just me letting Rabia know I was okay, like religious stuff and funny prison stories, or things like that. I just never wanted her to worry about me.
It used to drive Rabia crazy, and she even cussed me out several times. She had a lot of ideas for the media, reaching out to people, lawyers, etc. But I would always say no. I did not want Rabia to worry about me, or to have to take time away from her own family. She would leave it alone for a while, but inevitably it would come back up, and I would say no. I just wanted to wait for God. I prayed He would not just leave me in here, and as I reflected on all the situations I had witnessed in prison, I always felt His Love and Mercy. But I did not know how to convey that to her. It would really upset Rabia, and it hurt me to understand the negative impact my decisions were having on her. But I felt as if I had no other choice but to wait.
A lot of it was that I did not want to put myself at the mercy of the world. Maybe it sounds crazy, but I could never describe the pain of how it felt to believe that everyone thought I was a murderer. And not just of anyone, but the murderer of one of my closest friends. Someone who loved and trusted me. I never wanted to revisit that. Because when people say I am a manipulative, lying murderer, they are not just saying that I killed Hae. They are saying that I left her body lying in the dirt like garbage, and went about my life as if it was nothing. As if she was nothing. That I made her mother and family’s life a living hell for all those weeks they did not know where she was. And that I did not even care that her death would destroy their lives. They are saying I destroy people’s lives …
I just never wanted to go back to any of that. And without any way to prove my innocence, I was just content to live in prison. Minding my own business; I did not want anything from the outside world. I only wanted to be left alone. I would always work on my case, going to the library and continuing to keep up on cases that were overturned and see if any legal precedents applied to mine. We filed the Leave to Appeal, and I researched how I could try to get one of my issues into federal court. I was just doing my best to be grateful for what I had, and not worry about the things I did not have …
And at least I had the peace of mind that I did everything I could. I stayed out of trouble in prison, educated myself to the law & my case to where I could help my lawyer. And I had prayed and tried really hard to become a better person. One of the worst things for me at trial was to feel helpless. I did not know what to do, or understand what was going on. But this time (at my Post), I was able to advocate for myself, in a way. I was able to come to a firm understanding with my attorney, and I spoke up for myself in court. So at the end of the day, I could at least look back and say I did everything I could, and I was grateful for that. For whatever else lay ahead, it would be what it would be. I accepted that, and it gave me peace. And I had some contentment with the circumstances of my life.