Fatal Convictions

96

“Do we have any housekeeping items before I bring in the jury?” Judge Rosenthal asked. It was the same question he asked every morning, a perfunctory inquiry that always generated a “No, sir” from the lawyers. But this morning, Alex had a few surprises.

“There is one thing, Judge.” Alex handed a two-page document to Rosenthal and gave a copy to Taj Deegan.

“It’s on a related case,” Alex explained. “It’s a motion to nonsuit the civil case of Ghaniyah Mobassar v. Country-Fresh, Inc., et al. ”

Rosenthal looked at Alex as if the lawyer had lost his mind. “You want me to sign an order to nonsuit your civil case?”

“Yes, sir,” Alex said, as if this type of thing were done every day.

“Do you mind telling the court why?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Rosenthal tilted his head back as if Alex had just taken a swing at him. But on this point, Alex knew he was entirely within his rights. Under a unique aspect of Virginia law, every plaintiff in a civil case had the opportunity to nonsuit the case one time as long as the request was made before the judge granted a motion to strike or the jury retired for deliberations. A nonsuit was a voluntary dismissal, after which the plaintiff was entitled to start fresh by refiling the case anytime within the next six months. It was one of the many things Alex loved about Virginia. Judges had no choice in the matter; they had to grant a nonsuit if the plaintiff requested one.

“It seems a little peculiar, but I guess my hands are tied,” Rosenthal said as he peered down his nose at Alex. He grabbed a pen and scribbled his signature on the order. He handed it to the bailiff, who in turn gave it to Alex.

“Is there anything else?” Rosenthal asked. “And maybe this time it could have something to do with this case.”

“Just so the record is clear, Your Honor, my firm no longer represents Mrs. Mobassar. Because of a perceived conflict of interest, we have given her a letter of resignation that became effective once the court granted our nonsuit.”

“That’s fine,” Rosenthal said. “But it makes no difference to the court in this case. Bailiff, bring in the jury.”

When they were seated, Rosenthal turned to Alex. “Call your next witness, Counsel.”

“The defense calls Ghaniyah Mobassar.”***

Hassan arrived at the Virginia Beach Courthouse at 9:25. He was wearing a gray suit under a long overcoat and carrying a black leather briefcase. As he approached security, he flashed a Virginia bar card he had created several months earlier and a Virginia driver’s license. The deputy waved him into the line for attorneys, and he placed his briefcase on the belt for the scanner. Hassan passed through the metal detector without incident, picked up his briefcase, and told the deputy to have a nice day.

“By the way, what’s all the commotion about?” Hassan asked.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Hassan shook his head.

“Big murder trial on the third floor. A Muslim imam accused of ordering honor killings.”

“Sounds interesting,” Hassan said.

He rode the escalators to the third floor and found his way to Courtroom 8, where the trial of Khalid Mobassar was under way. The courtroom had reached capacity, but Hassan explained to the guards that he was there to represent Fatih Mahdi, who had been subpoenaed as a witness. Hassan flashed his bar card and was allowed to pass through the metal detector that had been set up outside the courtroom doors.

Once Hassan entered the courtroom, he kept his head down. He didn’t think anyone would recognize him, but he didn’t want to take unnecessary chances. He found a spot against the back wall next to a TV cameraman and placed his briefcase on the floor. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall to assess the situation.

His mother, Ghaniyah Mobassar, was on the witness stand. She was dressed in her traditional hijab and head covering, though she was not wearing a veil. She looked tired and haggard and was answering softly enough that the judge told her to speak up. Alexander Madison was prowling around the well of the courtroom, asking questions.

There were two deputies stationed against a wall toward the front, not far from Khalid Mobassar’s counsel table. The larger one watched everything in the courtroom like a hawk. There was a third deputy by the door Hassan had just entered through, but he was preoccupied, whispering to a man who looked like a lawyer. Each of the deputies had a Taser, handcuffs, and a pistol on his belt.

The gun used by the courthouse deputies was a Glock 17, a lightweight pistol that chambered 9 mm bullets. Hassan would have preferred larger-caliber bullets, but he liked the fact that the magazine capacity was seventeen rounds. The only safety on the gun was an internal trigger safety designed to prevent accidental discharge.

The spectators all seemed transfixed by the testimony on the witness stand. Ghaniyah was focused on Alexander Madison, and Hassan was not in her direct line of sight. Fatih Mahdi sat in the second row right behind the prosecutors. Hassan had been told that the lawyers had sequestered witnesses until after they testified. If Fatih was now allowed to watch the rest of the trial, his time on the stand must be over.

Hassan was pleased by his own calm demeanor as he sequenced the best plan of attack. He had trained for this moment; he was ready. His heart was not racing, and he felt entirely clearheaded. But it was more than just his training; his serenity came from a sense of destiny. He had been a dead man walking for years, ready to sacrifice his life for the sake of Allah at a moment’s notice. Finally, that day was here.

The Islamic Brotherhood had adopted a Trojan horse strategy for America, the idea that the best attack always came from within. They had infiltrated the country and were using America’s arrogance and sense of invulnerability against her. Hassan had used the same approach to infiltrate this courtroom.

Americans considered the open court system a great cornerstone of their democracy. Today, Hassan would exploit that openness. He was already in the same room with every person who knew the truth about the honor killings and could therefore deal a crippling blow for the cause of Mohammed. He calmly determined the minimum number of rounds he would need. Three for the deputies. One for Taj Deegan. One for Alexander Madison. One for Shannon Reese.

And one for the man he once thought was his father-Khalid Mobassar.

Hassan listened to the testimony of his own mother. He was concerned that Madison may have discerned the truth. Hassan reached down to his briefcase and removed a yellow legal pad and a pen. He began writing his final note. My name is Ahmed Obu Mobassar, the son of Ghaniyah Mobassar and the stepson of Khalid Mobassar. Several years ago, my stepfather orchestrated events to make it appear as if I had died so that I might become an anonymous agent for the cause of Allah. I have always been the Sent One-the messenger who restored honor to families when their women rejected the Muslim faith. I have done so at the order of my stepfather, a prophet who has promised to lead us in a new direction. But first, he said, we must purify our ranks. As this trial has unfolded, I have sadly learned that my stepfather cares nothing about the glory of Allah. Instead, his desire is to elevate his own name above the name of Mohammed. On this day, as a messenger of Allah, I have come to restore the honor of my own family.