Fatal Convictions

26

If Alex thought the furor would die down on Tuesday, he was badly mistaken. Commentators speculated endlessly about honor killings and whether women who converted from Islam faced danger. That question focused the attention on Ja’dah’s husband-Fatih Mahdi-and the mosque that he attended.

By early afternoon, cable shows were reporting links between the Islamic Learning Center and Hezbollah. Unnamed sources confirmed that the mosque, which cost an estimated $13 million to build, had been indirectly funded with Hezbollah money.

One show aired an old clip of Khalid Mobassar from 2006, during the heat of the conflict between Hezbollah and Israel, showing Khalid arguing that Israel had overreacted. He bemoaned the destruction of Beirut and the loss of innocent lives and then asked a series of rhetorical questions. “Where will the Lebanese go for medical assistance? Who will help them rebuild? Who will feed the refugees who have lost their homes? Hezbollah. The Lebanese will go to Hezbollah hospitals. Eat Hezbollah food. Rebuild with Hezbollah funds. Israel’s bombs have forced the Lebanese into the arms of Hezbollah.”

The clip spread like wildfire from one show to the next. By three o’clock, a desperate Khalid was on the phone with Alex. “They’re taking it out of context,” he said. “I was lamenting the fact that this conflict would only strengthen Hezbollah. Let me talk to them. How can it be any worse?”

But Alex held his ground. If Khalid wanted Alex to be his lawyer, then Khalid needed to heed Alex’s advice. No interviews. Period.

“We look like a terrorist cell,” Khalid protested. “I can set the record straight.”

“Will they be able to trace any Hezbollah funds to the mosque?” Alex asked.

A moment’s hesitation told Alex all he needed to know. “It is impossible to say,” Khalid stated. “Hezbollah is like the vines in a jungle. It is a political party. It funds charities. It recruits soldiers and trains doctors. Hezbollah is your neighbor. Most of the Shiite mosques in Beirut take two separate offerings. One for the mosque. Another for Hezbollah. Who can say whether none of the money that helped us build has ties to Hezbollah?”

“No interviews,” Alex said. He had heard enough to keep a gag order on his client until this whole thing blew over. “This is a lose-lose situation.”

“This is why Americans think all Muslims are terrorists,” Khalid responded. “Because the media wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Granted. So let’s not feed the beast.”

“Unfortunately, the beast has already been fed.”***

By late afternoon, Alex had stopped watching television and tried to get some work done. So far, his own name had been kept out of the coverage. Khalid Mobassar wasn’t a suspect, so Alex rationalized that there was no need to inject himself into the story and make it look like Khalid had “lawyered up.” Instead, Alex hoped to lie low for a few days until the story went away. Hopefully, Ja’dah Mahdi and Martin Burns would show up in some other corner of the country and do a round of interviews about how unsafe Ja’dah felt after converting to Christianity, and the whole story would soon disappear.

At which point, Alex and Shannon could go back to representing the Mobassars on the case that really mattered-Ghaniyah’s closed head injury. If-and it was a big if -Shannon ever located the trucking company that started the whole thing, the firm could be looking at a big payday.

The thought prompted Alex to call his partner. “See anything?” he asked when she answered her phone.

“No… well… maybe.” Shannon sounded pretty exasperated. “I don’t know, Alex. This whole thing is probably stupid. There are trucks that come by with red cabs and white trailers, but nothing that has pictures of produce on the side. But then again, Ghaniyah didn’t even sound very sure about the produce part.”

“How long do you plan on staying out there?”

“Every day but Friday. I’ve got hearings on Friday.”

Alex knew what he was supposed to say next. She was waiting for him to volunteer. He checked his Outlook calendar. It was open Friday. He started typing an appointment.

“Can you cover for me Friday?” Shannon asked.

Alex finished making the entry. “I’m booked all day,” he said.

“Doing what?”

He should have known she wouldn’t give up so easily. “Sermon preparation.”

“Good,” Shannon said. “You can do it out here.”***

Chief Stargell scheduled the press conference for 5 p.m. so the local networks could run it live. Alex and Sylvia watched on a television in the firm’s small conference room.

A woman at the anchor desk said they would be switching to Sandbridge for the press conference, and Alex felt his stomach drop. An announcement from the site of the search could mean only one thing-they had found a body.

Stargell stepped to the microphones with Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney Taj Deegan behind him, just over his left shoulder. Ms. Deegan looked as somber as Stargell. “I will be giving a brief status report about some developments in the case of Ja’dah Mahdi and Martin Burns,” the chief said. “I will not be taking questions.”

He drew a deep breath and faced the reporters. No notes. Weary eyes.

“Approximately an hour and a half ago, at 1535, with the help of state police canine units, we were able to locate the bodies of Ja’dah Mahdi and Martin Burns. The two bodies were buried on a sandy beach on a federal preserve approximately 1.2 miles south of Sandbridge. The site was accessible only by boat.”

The chief paused to survey his audience, seemingly apprehensive about the firestorm his next line would unleash. He set his jaw and continued.

“The head of Mrs. Mahdi was severed from her body in an execution-style killing…” Alex could hear a collective gasp from those in attendance. “Mr. Burns was buried next to her. We have not yet been able to confirm an official cause of death for Mr. Burns, but indications are that Mr. Burns may have been buried alive next to the headless body of Ms. Mahdi. We have requested an expedited autopsy and will fill you in as soon as we have the final results.”

Cameras clicked and Stargell remained stoic. He informed them that he had no hard leads on a suspect. He gave a phone number for people to call with any information. He thanked the reporters and walked away, their shouted questions following him off-camera.

Coverage switched back to the live news desk, where the anchors struggled to put the developments in perspective.

Alex was no longer listening.

A beheading. A live burial.

He dialed Khalid’s cell number. Alex had no long-term plan for his client, but the short-term plan was painfully obvious.

“Lock the doors,” Alex said, “and don’t answer the doorbell. Shut the blinds. Don’t go outside under any circumstances.”

Alex rubbed his temple, a headache spreading like fire over his eyes. Double murder. An honor killing.

And all roads were leading to his client’s mosque.