Reprisal (16 page)

“Don’t you understand? Anyone associated with this case, me included, could be a target for them. Who knows what they’ll do to keep their secrets.”

Zehra thought briefly of telling Paul about the gold car. Changed her mind. “Okay, thanks, Paul. Thanks for the warning.” She clicked the phone off and sat still for a long time.

By that afternoon, Bj, Jackie, and Zehra stopped in front of the mosque on Riverside Avenue, next to the University of Minnesota complex of buildings.

Zehra answered her buzzing cell phone. “Hi, Dad.”

“Zehra, I know you don’t want us to interfere, but I had to introduce you to Michael at the party,” Joseph said.

She sighed. “Don’t worry. He seemed nice. Tell me a little about him.”

“He’s got a doctorate in bio-medical engineering. He always dresses beautifully. He’s very intelligent, modern. I’ve gotten to know him somewhat at the office. He seems kind. Of course, his real name is Mustafa, but he’s Americanized totally. Maybe you should … see him again.”

“I probably will.” Zehra could never turn down her father. “But I won’t meet him at home with Mom hanging around. If he calls, I’ll meet him.”

As the three approached the front door of the mosque, several men sat around it, dressed in colorful African clothing. Two women walked by, covered from head to toe, even in the warmth of the afternoon, in long, dark skirts that ended just above their sandaled feet. Over the robes, they wore shawls of red, green, purple, and yellow that covered their entire heads.

Zehra noticed that across the street there was a bar—the Nomad Bar.
How appropriate
, she laughed to herself.

She desperately needed the testimony of the Imam, the alibi witness. Had to make sure he’d cooperate.

At the door of the mosque, she reminded the others to remove their shoes and set them next to a pile of over twenty other pairs of shoes, mostly sandals. As they moved past the front entryway, the mosque opened into a large, quiet room.

Zehra brought a scarf with her, and, in respect, she flipped it over her hair.

Jackie lifted the back of her sweater up on her head. She glanced back and forth. “Don’t I look beautiful?”

As they started into the open area, a man in a long tan robe came from the left and stepped in front of them. “I’m sorry, but it is not permitted to have women in the main prayer area.” He nodded at a small balcony on the second floor to the right. “That is reserved for women.”

Zehra bristled. On one hand, she wanted to remain respectful and get the information they needed, but this discrimination made her furious. Images of El-Amin yelling at her crowded into her mind. She tried to ignore them. Zehra stood in front of the man in the robe. “We have an appointment with the Imam, Hussein Moalim.”

The man searched Zehra’s face, only glancing at the others. “Wait here,” he said.

Zehra looked into the open area. Many detailed Persian rugs covered the area. It was designed for prayer, and all faithful Muslims prayed from their knees on the floor if at all possible. BJ and Jackie moved to either side of her.

“I’ve never been in a mosque,” Jackie whispered. “Who are those guys over in the corner? They look like they’re sleeping.”

“They’re praying or meditating,” Zehra explained. “A mosque is a place of worship of course but also for meditation and learning. The back side of this is probably a community center.” She pointed to an ornamental arched niche set in the wall on the eastern end of the big room. “That’s called a
mihrab
and reminds the faithful of the direction of Mecca. And that bench on top of the wooden steps next to it is the
minbar
. It’s like a pulpit in Christian churches. The imam will deliver sermons from it on Fridays. As we have to perform ablutions, cleansings, before prayer, there have to be areas near here with water to perform the acts.”

“It’s so peaceful,” BJ said in a hushed voice. “Tranquil. I can understand why people like it. It’s actually relaxing.”

“That’s the idea. You have access to Allah here.” She turned to him. “Remember why we’re here. We’ve got to focus.”

Jackie said, “I’ve been in Jewish synagogues before, and, you know, it’s funny, but they look similar in many ways.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I mean my Catholic church looks like a circus with tons ornamentation. The mosque and synagogue are really pretty plain inside.”

She turned to Zehra. “By the way, is an ‘imam’ a priest?”

“No. Islam doesn’t have a priestly class. Every believer has direct access to Allah. We don’t need anyone to intercede for us. Imams are people specially trained in the religion and act as leaders and teachers.”

“Welcome to our mosque,” a voice said from the left.

They all turned to a man walking toward them. He wore a white robe from his shoulders to the floor. A gray beard hung over his chest, and he wore a pair of modern, stylish plastic glasses. He smiled to show huge white teeth.

“I am Imam Moalim.” He bowed slightly.

In response, they bowed also.

“Let us go outside, It’s a glorious day.” He led them out the front door and down the sidewalk to a small patch of grass. “What may I help you with?”

BJ said, “We talked on the phone. Ms. Hassan here is defending Ibrahim El-Amin. You told me he was here the night of the boy’s murder, right?”

The imam bowed, his head covered by a red skullcap. Then he said, “Yes, that is true. As you know, the mosque also serves as a community center, and Mr. El-Amin came here often for social purposes. I knew him, not well, but I saw him several times.” His black face shone in the sun.

Zehra asked, “You definitely remember that on March nineteenth—a Thursday—he was with you?” She smelled the fragrance of flowers on the breeze.

The imam looked at her with his soft eyes for a long time. He said, “Yes. He arrived shortly after sunset, and we had tea in the community room. We talked of many things until late into the evening.”

“You understand the murder occurred just around the corner from here?” BJ said.

“Unfortunately, yes. But Mr. El-Amin was here.”

“He never left until the early morning?” Zehra asked while she thought of the DNA proof. “Because other evidence in the case points to him as the murderer.”

“He never left,” he said in a gentle voice.

They talked for ten minutes but the imam never wavered in his insistence of El-Amin’s presence at the mosque. Later, he told them about the community he served. “We are poor, as you can see. Most are from Somalia and have suffered unbelievably. We offer religious training for everyone, especially the children, to keep them law abiding and faithful. We provide food, money, and homes for new immigrants. So many of the Somali people are misunderstood. The worst thing for us was the American movie,
Blackhawk Down
. It detailed the battle in Mogadishu between U.S. forces and a minority of crazy Somali fighters.”

He raised his arm and swept it over the street before them. “Look at these people. They only want to live peacefully. They love America and everything it offers them. Although we miss our homeland, this is our new homeland.” He smiled at each of them.

Back at his car, BJ said, “Seems believable to me. I watched his facial movements, and this guy seems like the real deal.”

“I know. But what about the DNA? And the fact the murder was just a few blocks away. El-Amin could’ve slipped out for a minute.”

“If he did, he’d have returned covered in blood. The killer hit both of the arteries in the boy’s neck. Even if he jumped back at the right instant, there’d still be buckets of blood flying all over.”

Zehra’s training as a trial lawyer came forward. “Well, he’ll make a great witness. Totally believable to a jury.” She let BJ hold open the door of his Chevy Bronco for her.

BJ popped in his jazz group’s new CD. “I got a friend hooked up with a company in Israel. They do testing on DNA results. Check them for accuracy. Maybe we should do our own, independent test.”

“Why?” Zehra asked. “Our BCA is one of the best in the country.”

“I know. But what would it hurt?” He turned to Zehra. “Can you get the money for a test?” He smiled that beautiful smile that always melted Zehra.

“Aw … Denzel, for you, baby, anything. How soon can your friend do it?”

“As soon as he gets a sample from the BCA—maybe a day. I’ll tell him to rush.”

“Get on it,” Zehra said. She thought of Paul. “BJ, did you ever tell Paul Schmidt from the FBI about the alibi witness?”

“Huh? About Imam Moalim? No, why would I talk to them about anything?”

Eighteen

Carolyn Bechter cruised the Seward neighborhood of Minneapolis in her Mercedes, feeling completely out of place. Although the area showed many sign of revitalization, it wasn’t rich by any means, and her car attracted way too much attention. She turned a corner, parked it and got out, careful to make sure it was locked.

A warm breeze blew up the street carrying the smells of spices and cooking meats. Dressed in a baseball cap, loose sweater, and running shoes, Carolyn wished she’d changed the tight jeans for something more modest. She put on a pair of sunglasses and started up the street.

She purposely came alone. If her instincts were right, this story was big enough to save her career, and she didn’t want to share it with anyone else. Her editor thought she was at the Government Center, covering the court appearance of the guy charged with the murder, El-Amin. Carolyn knew she could get that information from any of the other media sources and feed it back to her editor. He’d never know. In the meantime, she could pursue this lead.

When she saw the Johnson Deli on the corner, it made her laugh. The Scandinavian name didn’t fit, because now it served Somalis and other immigrants in the neighborhood. Probably owned by new people, too. Ben Mohammad worked part time there, and Carolyn meant to interview him.

She stood across the street for a long time, looking at the people in the street—a mixture of white and colored. The whites looked poor, and the colored looked Middle Eastern or African. Carolyn marveled at the difference in clothing. The whites dressed in faded blue jeans and gray or tan sweatshirts for the most part. The other people looked like walking rainbows. Every imaginable color of cloth covered them.

The women, especially, reveled in bright greens, yellow, blues, deep purple. Most wore the head covering but not the young girls.

Many of the men wore beards and small white skull caps.

Carolyn crossed the busy street and walked to the deli. She looked through the large plate-glass windows. A sign inside offered
halal
meat—whatever that was. She didn’t like spicy food much, but the odors of the store drew her in the door.

Carolyn didn’t understand any of the babbling people at the counter. The deli sold an interesting collection of American junk food, organic food, and foreign things she didn’t recognize.

Several women stood at the counter arguing with one of the clerks. A few glanced over their shoulders at her. Some white women came in and ordered sliced beef from the second clerk.

Where was Ben Mohammad?

Carolyn waited until the American women left. She approached the clerk and removed her sunglasses. “Hi. I’m looking for Ben Mohammad. Is he here?”

The clerk frowned. “Ben … ? No one here named—”

“That’s probably the name he uses at school.”

“Oh, you mean Moses Mohammad. Yeah, he works at a school.”

“Is he here?”

“He’ll be back in a minute.”

Twenty minutes later, Carolyn still waited. She looked at her watch. Put her shades back on and pulled the strap of her purse up on her shoulder.

Ben came through the front door.

She intended to cut him off before he had a chance to get to the back and avoid her. Carolyn stepped in front of him. His head jerked up when he saw her. “Hi, Ben. I’d like to talk with you some more.” She spread her legs the width of her shoulders and stared at him. That usually worked with most people. Surprise was a good weapon also.

“Uh … what do you want?” he stammered.

“Just to talk with you. The people I met at the school speak highly of you.”

He didn’t seem to understand what she said. “I don’t have anything …”

“This won’t take long. If you talk to me now, I’ll go away.”

“What do you want?” He had a puffy black face that looked soft, unlike his eyes that were hard, like black marble.

Carolyn heard a shuffling behind her. “I want to know what you do with the young Somali boys at the school. What’s your job there?”

His eyes darted back and forth like they had when she’d met him at the school. “I’m an outreach worker to the Somali community.”

“But you take these young boys on trips, don’t you?” Suddenly, she noticed the store had gone quiet. She sensed more movement behind her. Saw the reaction in Ben’s face. Then the clerk was at her back, shoving her toward the door.