Fatal Convictions

60

Alex woke up at three o’clock to the annoying sound of his BlackBerry alarm. He felt like he had been run over by a Mack truck. He had been sleeping so hard there was drool on his pillow.

He staggered out of bed and into the bathroom. He had the air conditioner set as cool as it would go, but he had still been sweating in his sleep. He brushed his teeth, showered, and threw on a fresh pair of shorts and a T-shirt. When he got to the lobby, Nara was waiting for him.

“Good nap?” she asked.

“Like I was drugged.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were walking on the Corniche-the concrete walkway along the coast atop the cliffs of the Mediterranean. It wasn’t quite Virginia Beach, but Alex had to admit that this place had its charms. People lined the railings along the Corniche-talking, fishing, or just hanging out watching other people. Some folks were dressed in conservative Muslim garb and others wore next to nothing. Runners would occasionally pass by. Small groups of people smoked something through a long hose attached to a decorative bowl sitting on the sidewalk.

“What’s that?” Alex asked.

“It’s called sisha,” Nara replied. “They’re smoking fruit-flavored tobacco through a water pipe.”

“Sounds awful.”

“I’ve tried it a few times,” Nara admitted. “Tastes like perfume.”

As they strolled along and took in the sights, it seemed like Nara was walking closer than normal, their arms occasionally brushing against each other. Alex had an urge to reach for her hand, but he remembered the uproar created the last time they had touched.

They talked about Hamza Walid’s deposition. Alex explained how the process worked. He and Taj Deegan would both be there. Walid’s own attorney would also be present. A court reporter would take down the testimony, and a videographer would tape the entire deposition. Though Nara couldn’t go in the room, she could wait outside, and Alex promised to consult with her during breaks. He also knew that it would probably help fortify Walid if he realized that Khalid’s daughter had made the trip.

“There’s a lot riding on his testimony,” Alex said.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Nara suggested.***

A few hours later, Alex and Nara got out of a serviz at Martyrs’ Square. The statues there were riddled with bullets and missing large chunks where mortar blasts had ripped them apart. Nara pointed out a nearby shell of a building that had been decimated by bombs during the civil war.

“That was a Holiday Inn,” Nara explained. “We’re standing in the Green Zone-the epicenter of the fighting. That building became the headquarters for one faction and then another, depending on who controlled this area.”

“How many years ago was that?” Alex asked.

“1980.”

“And they haven’t rebuilt it?”

“There are some things left as a reminder,” Nara said. “But in most areas, Beirut rebuilds quickly. My people are a resilient people.”

They sat on the concrete at the base of a statue, and Nara started talking about her family. “I was very young during most of the civil war, but I’ve heard the stories. My mother’s brother was killed not too far from here. It made her bitter and angry, in part because my father didn’t harbor the same level of hatred that she did.”

Nara leaned back and shook her hair out of her face. The sun was beating down on them, unhindered by clouds. “I can hardly remember a time when my parents didn’t fight at home. In public, my mother played the silent and obedient wife. But in private, she questioned my father’s commitment to the Muslim faith. When I grew up and rebelled against the oppressive rules in our home, my mother blamed it on my father.”

“I’ve never really seen your parents fight,” Alex said.

“That’s because you didn’t know them before the accident.”

Nara leaned forward, picked up a pebble, and tossed it absentmindedly. She gazed into the distance. “Any other Muslim man would have divorced my mother twenty years ago. That’s why this whole thing seems so bizarre and unfair. My father is the last person who would try to hurt a woman.”

“I know that.” Alex said. “And I intend to prove it.”

Spending time in Beirut seemed to be relaxing for Nara, causing her to open up more than usual. She talked about losing both of her brothers. Omar had been working in a refugee camp when he was killed by an Israeli bomb. “Naturally my mother blamed the Jewish infidels, even though it was Hezbollah who instigated the hostilities and stationed their soldiers among innocent refugees.”

Less than two years later, Ahmed was killed as part of a Hezbollah raid north of the border. “He was only sixteen,” Nara said sadly. “I felt like I never had a chance to tell him good-bye.”

Nara’s mother again blamed the Israelis. But Nara held Hezbollah and the radical imams responsible. “They brainwashed him, Alex. They had him running missions that they didn’t have the guts to do themselves.

“My mother rejoiced that her son had been found worthy to be a martyr. But after that, she was never the same. She had lost both sons, and she was left with a rebellious teenage daughter who despised her.”

Alex listened in silence. He sensed that Nara hadn’t been this vulnerable in a long time. Perhaps ever.

“I more or less left the Muslim faith when my brothers died,” Nara admitted. “Not physically, but emotionally.”

Alex had never heard Nara state it so bluntly.

“I studied your Jesus for a while, but I ultimately decided I should work within my family’s faith to help women find a voice,” Nara continued. “I believed then, and I believe now, that radical groups like Hezbollah and the Taliban have hijacked a faith that could have been a great blessing to the world.”

“A lot of Americans agree with that,” Alex said.

Nara turned to him. The contemplative look was gone. Therapy over. The spark was back in the almond eyes. “Yes,” she said with a tinge of sarcasm. “The enlightened Americans. How many female presidents have you had?”

“None. They’re too emotional.”

She swatted him.

“Case in point.”