A House Without Windows (26 page)

“Did you talk with anyone else in my village?”

Yusuf tapped a finger on the table, the ticking of a metronome.

“I didn't talk to the girl's family, if that's what you're asking me.”

Zeba hoped, for the sake of the girl, that it was humanly possible to forget something so horrible and pretend it had never happened. She needed that to be true.

“Why don't you want to let the judge know what happened? This girl could be the way for you to—”

Zeba's face hardened. She stared directly at Yusuf and spoke with absolute clarity.

“She is just a girl and I won't do that to her. Listen to what I'm saying, Yusuf. There was no girl.”

Yusuf lowered his voice. He understood, somewhat, that Zeba was trying to protect the girl, but he couldn't let her sacrifice herself unnecessarily.

“I'm sure we can do this in a way that won't bring attention to her or cause her any problems. We may not even need to talk to her. But we've got to share some of this information if we're going to make any kind of reasonable defense for you. There's no other way to get you out of here. A man was killed.”

Zeba scowled.

“Anything I say will ruin her. I don't know if her family knows. What if they don't know? What if she's okay now? That possibility is everything to me. I know what they might do to her if they find out. You may not, but I do. Every woman in Chil Mahtab knows. Every woman and girl in Afghanistan knows!”

Yusuf bit his lip. Zeba was right about that. It was a truth he understood the moment his foot hit this soil. It was all about honor. Honor was a boulder that men placed on the shoulders of their daughters, their sisters, and their wives. The many stories in Chil Mahtab were evidence of that fact. This girl had lost her father's honor in Zeba's courtyard. If he knew that something had happened to her—the details hardly mattered—she might not be forgiven, even though she was an innocent child.

Whatever Kamal had done to that girl might have been just the beginning of her woes.

Zeba's eyes drifted off. A guard was slowly walking past the interview room, with a step so heavy that it had to be deliberate. Zeba watched her, her eyes going glassy again. The path was simple to her. She looked utterly unconflicted in that moment.

“Do you think Kamal was the only person killed that day?” she asked in a hollow and monotonous voice. “He wasn't. I was dead the moment his blood spilled. That girl was dead the moment she was
alone with him. There were three dead bodies in my home, though only one had a decent burial and mourners to pray for his soul. They prayed for him. They are still praying for him. They have marked the fortieth day of his passing as if he were some decent soul to be missed. They will shake their heads and talk about what a shame it was to lose their brother, their cousin, their uncle. They don't know what shame is, nor do they know that there are lots of ways to take a life.”

Yusuf was silent. The guard outside had disappeared around the corner for a few moments only to return. She glanced into the room and continued to stroll past them, stopping briefly to adjust the belt on her uniform.

Yusuf could not argue that defiled girls were worth very little. If something were to happen to that young girl, Yusuf did not want to be responsible either. But there was the possibility this girl's family would be different.

“Did you hear about the nine-year-old girl who was raped by their local mullah about a year ago? Her parents were paying him to instruct her on how to read Qur'an. Her parents tied him to a chair and cut off his nose and ears. Then there was the case in Kunduz. That ten-year-old girl testified before a judge, and her rapist was sentenced to twenty years in prison. Not every family considers this a shame they can't recover from. There can be justice.”

“You're talking to me about two cases in a land of millions. How can I burden that girl with such a risk?”

Yusuf stood, frustrated. He walked the short length of the room and returned helplessly to his seat.

“I don't know how else to defend you,” he admitted. He ran his fingers through his hair brusquely, feeling his professionalism slip away from him. Maybe Aneesa had been right to warn him against taking this case. He'd pushed it further than anyone else probably would have, and all that had gotten him was information he couldn't use.

“I did nothing for too long,” Zeba whispered. “I lived with my eyes and ears closed when I should have been paying attention. I should
have known sooner. But I was not vigilant. If I did nothing then, I can do nothing now. I will do nothing and I will say nothing. I refuse to bring any more shame to my children.”

Yusuf's elbows sat on the table, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled back. She wouldn't budge, he knew, but he wasn't quite ready to give up on her altogether. Knowing about the girl only made him want to defend her more. He could only imagine what the little girl had been through. Too bad the world wouldn't stand and applaud Zeba for what she'd done.

“Are you saying to me that you killed your husband?”

“Looks that way, doesn't it? Why would you doubt it if everyone says it's so? I've even confessed to it according to my arrest record. You should drop this case.”

“I won't do that,” Yusuf said defiantly. “I've got to find a defense that will stand up to the prosecution's case.”

“God is great and you are young, Yusuf-
jan,
” Zeba said as she pushed her chair back and stood to leave. “There are plenty of innocent people to defend. Stop wasting your time on the guilty.”

“A DEFENDANT'S MOTHER HAS NEVER BEEN PRESENT FOR THESE
proceedings,” the
qazi
said. He rubbed his palms on the end of his tunic and wondered why they were so sweaty. The prosecutor shot him a curious look.

Gulnaz sat with her back as straight as the chair itself. Her eyes were lightly lined in kohl, which made Qazi Najeeb want to touch her cheek as he stared into their green depths. He cleared his throat and reached for the
tasbeh,
the string of amber prayer beads on his desk.

“I am sure I am not the first mother to be concerned about her daughter's case,” Gulnaz said as she set her purse on the floor next to her.

“No, you are not,” the prosecutor agreed, reaching for a biscuit from the table in the middle of the room. He bit in and felt the buttery cookie crumble in his mouth. By the nod of his head, Gulnaz could tell the taste of it agreed with him.

“These are delicious, Khanum,” the prosecutor declared.

“Yusuf-
jan,
you haven't tried one yet, have you?” Gulnaz asked gently.

Yusuf shook his head.

“No, Khanum, I've just eaten, but thank you,” he said tightly. A plate full of biscuits was a far cry from bribery if that's what Gulnaz was trying to accomplish.

“Maybe later then,” Gulnaz suggested.

“You don't have to ask me,” Qazi Najeeb said before Gulnaz even offered the cookies. The prosecutor held the plate out and watched as the judge took two and placed them on a napkin before him. “When I was a boy, there was nothing I enjoyed more during Ramadan. Before the sun came up, my mother would make me a mug of sweet tea and cream and let me eat as many of her homemade biscuits as I could stuff into my stomach. Part of me looked forward to Ramadan for that very reason.”

“I made these for my family during Ramadan as well. They would tell me it would have been difficult to survive the hours without these.”

Gulnaz had asked for nothing more than to be present for the discussion, especially since it had become clear that Zeba could not be. Hearing of her recent collapse in the prison hallway, the judge had decided to leave her out of the proceedings.

“I hope that Zeba will be back to herself soon. We'll have to continue in her absence, and I don't think anyone wants to delay this case any longer.”

“She wanted to be here,” Yusuf offered. “But she hasn't spoken in two days. I checked on her again this morning, and she is not improved at all. She's actually gotten worse, in my opinion. The director of the prison told me that she's been moaning and rocking in her cell. Her roommates complain that they wake to find her whispering to herself and they are frightened.”

“What are they frightened of?” asked the judge as he brushed crumbs off his desk.

Yusuf had watched Zeba leave the interview room the day he'd confronted her about the girl. She'd walked as if each step had been a great effort. She'd drifted to the wall and leaned against it, her fingers looking for something to grip on to. Again and again, Yusuf had asked her to talk to him, but her eyes had gone wild. Her words were incomprehensible, and those that he could make out didn't make sense anyway. Her roommates had been quite shaken up at the sight of her.

“They're frightened because she's unstable. I was there, sir, and I can tell you that she is not in her right mind. I'm sure I don't have to remind you of what happened when she was last here in your office. If you think that was bad, you would be horrified to see her now.”

Yusuf stole a quick glance at Gulnaz, who had drawn her lips together tightly as she listened. Her eyes were lowered, staring at the floral motif of the small rug beneath their feet. She seemed neither shocked nor saddened to hear of her daughter's condition.

“It makes no difference. We can continue with the case, as the
qazi
has said,” the prosecutor agreed with a wave of his hand. “It shouldn't take long anyway. We have a signed statement from the day of her arrest and we've got a dead husband. Let's wrap this up, and we can move on to the sentencing.”

“I don't think it's that simple,” Yusuf said. He braced himself for the reaction he was about to get. “I don't think Khanum Zeba is in her right state of mind and, thus, is incapable of standing trial.”

“What are you talking about? What do her senses have to do with anything?” The prosecutor was incredulous. The
qazi
leaned forward as if he may have misheard Yusuf's words.

“Are you suggesting we delay this again?”

“Qazi-
sahib,
I am simply stating that she's not competent to stand trial, which means we cannot try this case now. It's not really a postponement as much as it is allowing for a proper procedure to be followed.”

“Proper procedure? What you're suggesting is anything but proper procedure,” the prosecutor roared.

“She's upset,” the
qazi
agreed. “But that doesn't mean that we can ignore what happened.”

“She's more than upset,” Yusuf explained. “From what I have seen, she is suffering from mental disease, and I do believe this mental incapacitation began before she was brought to Chil Mahtab. I believe it existed in her well before the day her husband was killed. I think she was not in her right state of mind, and we can all see that she is not
in her right state of mind now, either. I think she should undergo a formal evaluation and obtain treatment for her condition. That's what the law prescribes for situations like this one.”

The truth was Yusuf wasn't fully convinced of Zeba's insanity. He'd made a case for it, but given what she'd been through, he imagined the way she'd been acting to be almost rational. She'd been living with a man who drank and beat her. She'd raised four children with him lording over them. She'd walked into her own backyard to find her husband violating a child in the worst way imaginable. Maybe this wasn't the first time. And their three daughters—had he violated them as well? Two of them were close in age to the girl the raisin vendor described. If the thought crossed Yusuf's mind, it must have boiled with horror in Zeba's.

In all honesty, she probably had killed him. Yusuf had to admit that given her motive and the scene of the crime, little else made sense. She would have been out of her mind to do nothing. Yusuf, had he been in her shoes, would have gladly slammed the hatchet into the man's skull.

It was his job to defend her, and he didn't have much in his arsenal to use. If this was a stretch, so be it.

Gulnaz watched the men's faces. They all seemed to have forgotten she was in the room, which was fine by her. She only needed to hear what they were saying.

“The law? Listen, I haven't objected to much until now, but it's clear that you've come here with some kind of American agenda.”

Yusuf gritted his teeth. The prosecutor's case was a handful of handwritten documents, composed mostly of Zeba's “confession,” which had been written by a police officer. It wasn't a case at all. Anywhere else in the world, the prosecutor wouldn't be able to call himself a lawyer, and yet here, sitting in a ridiculous armchair, he could accuse Yusuf of representing foreign interests.

“I'm here to defend a woman who's been accused of a horrible crime and had her children taken away. I'm here because if we want the
Afghan judicial system to have any kind of integrity, we have to follow the procedural code and give accused individuals their due process. I know you don't care much for due process but it's important.”

“I do my job. You have no right to question my professionalism.”

“Don't I? My job is to question how well you do yours. And I have lots of questions for you.” Yusuf's voice cut through the room like the sound of glass breaking. Even Gulnaz was impressed.

“What questions?”

The prosecutor was still in the armchair but barely. He had both hands on the armrests with elbows bent, as if he were about to lift off the seat. He looked at Qazi Najeeb who sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

“I'm interested to know what questions you have as well,” he said quietly.

Expecting the judge to intervene and squash the discussion, the prosecutor huffed with annoyance.

“To start, I wonder if you conducted any kind of real investigation. Article 145 of the Criminal Procedure Code states: ‘Investigation is required for all felony and misdemeanor crimes and it is performed in the presence of the accused person's defense lawyer by the prosecutor in accordance with the provisions of this law.'”

“Investigation? We have a signed statement from Khanum Zeba!” the prosecutor insisted, waving a folded piece of paper in the air.

“She did not write that statement. She's a literate woman—her mother can attest to that and she can prove it herself. If that were her statement, it should have been written by her own hand.”

“From what I was told, she was hysterical and so the police officer making the arrest did his job and transcribed what she recounted to him. That's her thumbprint on the bottom of the page,” he shouted, his finger jabbing at a blot of blue ink. “Why would she sign it if it weren't her statement?”

“She was hysterical when she was arrested? By hysterical do you mean crazy? That's exactly my point, friend. I'm glad you agree.”

“That's not what I said. You're trying to put words in my mouth!”

“Let me continue. Article 145 talks about a few more requirements for an investigation. Did the police go to the scene of the crime to collect evidence? Did the police interview any one of their neighbors? Did you try to ascertain if there was any possible motive for this crime? Did you have any experts speak with Khanum Zeba to assess her mental status? Has he, Qazi Najeeb?”

“If anyone's mental status needs to be assessed, it's yours. The police are the ones who conduct discoveries. It's a simple, black-and-white case, and I'm sure Qazi Najeeb will tell you that.”

“I'll speak for myself!” Qazi Najeeb interjected. He hadn't expected today's trial proceedings to be so animated, especially with Gulnaz present. Gulnaz, as far as he could tell, did not seem bothered by the shouting match. She remained composed, listening intently.

The judge continued. “Let's move on. There was as much investigation as there typically is for a case like this. Your client's been charged with the crime. We know the crime happened. We've got a written statement in which she confesses to killing her husband.”

“Your Honor, on that piece of paper is a confession of a woman who hit her husband on top of his head with a hatchet.”

“Yes?”

“Kamal died from a hatchet wound to the back of the head, low enough that it was near his neck. If she did confess, she would know where his wound was, wouldn't she?”

“On top of the head . . . back of the head . . . you're really reaching.”

“Why are we wasting our time on this?” the prosecutor asked.

“I don't consider it a waste of time to do my job,” Yusuf shot back. “Maybe you should ask yourself if you're doing yours.”

Qazi Najeeb stroked his short beard and felt a few crumbs between his fingers. Of course, a case involving the
murshid
's daughter would not be straightforward. He could let these two lawyers take cheap shots at each other but he had to do it in a way that would save face for him.

“Go ahead, Yusuf.”

The prosecutor huffed and sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest.

“This is what happens when we let foreigners stick their noses in our affairs,” he muttered.

“Article sixty-seven of the penal code of Afghanistan states,” Yusuf recited with his eyes set on the prosecutor, “that ‘a person who while committing a crime lacks his senses and intelligence due to insanity or other mental disease has no penal responsibility and shall not be punished.'”

“I've never heard of such a thing,” the prosecutor said, chuckling.

Both the judge and Yusuf noticed Gulnaz square her gaze on him.

“And I've never had such a case,” Qazi Najeeb explained. “Yusuf, this is not the type of defense I was expecting to hear. Maybe you want to reconsider. Khanum Zeba is obviously distressed, but that could be because she's thinking about the day she plunged a hatchet into her husband's head. Women have gone mad over much smaller matters, I'm sure we can all agree.”

The
qazi
took a sip of his tea. The biscuits, though delicious, were dry and seemed to have caught on the inside of his throat. Still, he found himself reaching for another.

“These are delicious, Khanum,” he said absently. “My own mother's biscuits were not this good, God rest her soul. What did you put in these?”

“May you eat in good health, Qazi-
sahib,
” Gulnaz replied politely. “They are nothing but flour, butter, and sugar.”

“Mm, delicious.” The
qazi
wiped the crumbs from his mouth before he spoke again. “I have an idea that might help us in this odd situation. I have a good friend who provides treatment for the insane. He's been quite successful curing some very seriously affected people. Maybe we can ask him to evaluate Khanum Zeba. Why not follow the letter of the law in this case? We might make a name for ourselves here.”

“Make a name for ourselves? Your Honor, I thought we'd have this case decided today or in the next week. If he were asking for mercy because she's a mother or if she stated her husband tried to kill her, then maybe there would be something worth talking about but this . . . this . . . insanity excuse . . .”

“It's the law,” the judge said with amusement. “We cannot argue with that.”

The prosecutor was astounded. Qazi Najeeb had a reputation for being objective and difficult—though not impossible—to bribe. Still, this was unexpected behavior.

“Qazi-
sahib,
this is a great idea!” Yusuf said excitedly. If Zeba remained in her current state, the evaluation would provide a quick answer in their favor. “Your friend is a doctor? Is he at the hospital in the city?”