Chapter 15: Another Cup of Coffee
“You know, I think I will have some coffee,” Mrs. Ebrahim said.
“Sure, let me get it for you. What kind do you want?”
“Oh, whatever you had. I’m not in the habit of coming to Starbucks and I’m not familiar with the menu.”
“This is very sweet.”
“That’s fine. Cookie?”
“No, thanks.”
While Clare ordered and waited for the drinks, she wondered where to go next in this rambling interview. She hadn’t asked some of the more obvious questions. In some ways Starbucks wasn’t the ideal place for an interview or private conversation, it was small and public, but on the other hand, it was always noisy with grinders and blenders, which could conceal conversation. Maybe she should have gone to the independent coffee shop just across the street, which was also busy and noisy, but Starbucks had more comfortable chairs. She carried the drinks over to their little table.
“Thank you so much. I am getting thirsty. And … may I call you Clare?”
“Of course.”
“Call me Jennifer.”
Clare nodded, noting that she offered her American name. Of course her car was registered in that name, so presumably she’d never legally changed it to the Persian name Jannat.
“What are your children doing this summer now that school’s out, Jennifer?”
“Ali — well, you know he’s making trouble. But he goes to various activities at the mosque, and is taking a class at Akron U. He will be a sophomore in the fall. From what he tells me, some of the professors, Americans, talk about politics in class and seem to be rather anti-American. Not just anti-government or against this administration. It doesn’t help.”
“And your daughter?”
“She’s staying with relatives. My relatives. In another state.”
“A summer vacation?”
“No, I sent her there when my husband died.”
“That’s was just this spring, right?”
“Yes.”
Clare waited.
“She’ll be a junior in high school this fall.”
“You must miss her. Or were you having teenage troubles with her too, like Ali?”
“No, but as I said, her father had been getting more … demanding about things, he wanted her to give up her American friends and school activities, wear the hijab, and Ali was talking about arranging a marriage, the same one his father had started. There was a lot of fighting. When Mo went back to Iran to … for a visit, he wanted us all to go, but I wouldn’t, and Adeleh stayed here with me. Ali went with him.”
Clare would have interrupted to say “My aunt’s name was Adela!” but kept quiet so as not to interrupt the flow.
“So Mo died over there and Ali came back, with ideas about taking over where Mo left off, I guess. In terms of being head of the family, that is. And things got so bad that I sent Adeleh off to stay with relatives, but I told Ali that she ran away. Of course he wanted to report it to the police, but I had to keep it secret. He would have been even more furious at me. So I explained to the detective that she was with relatives, and I wouldn’t tell him who or where. They are relatives that Ali has never met and doesn’t even know about. I hinted that Ali was abusing his sister. I’m sure they assumed it was sexual abuse, but it was not. I was vague.”
“And the police let it go at that?”
“Yes. I got the impression that they’d seen similar situations before. Or worse. So, she and I have new passwords for out computer accounts, e-mail and Facebook and everything. I’m very careful. I don’t even use a computer at home to communicate with her. I use the library’s computers. I have no idea how long Ali could maintain this obsession. Why he won’t just leave the girl alone. He thinks it’s his duty.”
“I hesitate to even suggest this … but I’ve read about so-called honor killings here in the U.S.”
“Well, a few years ago there was that girl in Ohio who ran away from home. Rifqa Bary was her name. She converted to Christianity and was afraid her father would kill her. I don’t know where she is now.”
“Did you think your husband would have gone so far?”
“It’s hard to sort out what might be possible from what is probable. Hard to know what a person really is, deep down, even after living with him for so long. And the same is true for my son. People change so much, and an emotional boy like Ali is susceptible to influences, and moods. Anyway, I want to go visit my daughter sometime. If I can get away without him knowing it. Well, here I am telling you everything, and I’m trusting you.”
She looked at Clare.
“I guarantee you I won’t spread this around. But if I can help you, I will.”
“Just keep that helmet locked up.”
“That I can do. By the way, your husband died in Iran?”
“Yes.”
“How did he …”
Suddenly the door opened and someone rushed in — a young man that Clare recognized as Ali.
“What are you doing here? Where is your hijab?” he shouted at his mother, reaching for the scarf in her lap.
Both women gasped, as did just about everyone else in Starbucks.
He snatched the scarf and wrapped it around his mother’s head, trying to tie it on her again, but it slipped and started to choke her. She screamed and reached for the scarf to try to loosen it. Clare jumped up and reached for the boy’s hands and the scarf to pull it loose. He pushed her away and Clare lunged again, this time slapping at his hands and then his face, to distract him. Most everyone in the café was frozen, as if they didn’t understand what they were seeing, but one man ran up to them and gripped Ali’s arms from behind and wrenched them back.
Then Clench ran in, pulled a pair of plastic handcuffs from his pocket, and put them on Ali’s wrists as the other man held on.
“Son, you’re under arrest.”
“Oh, no, don’t arrest him!” Jennifer cried.
“Why ever not?” Clare said. “He would have choked you to death.”
“I’m calling the locals, and we’re going to take him downtown and talk to him. You need to come along. And Clare, you come along too, as a witness, all right?”
“Of course.”
Fortunately Ali had decided not to struggle when the cuffs were on, but Clench kept a grip on him.
“Why don’t you phone 911, Clare, so I can keep two hands on him?”
“I can hold on,” said the man who’d pulled Ali’s arms behind his back.
“I appreciate what you did, but I’m a police officer. I’d appreciate it if you’d stick around, though.”
“Sure thing.”
Clare dialed 911 and said someone had attacked a woman in Starbucks and tried to choke her, but he had been subdued, and a police officer arrived and needed backup. She thought that sounded pretty official.
Within a few minutes two Akron police cars pulled up and four officers came inside. Clench explained the situation as two of the Akron officers put Ali in one of their cars.
“Would you like to ride with me to the station?” Clare asked.
“No. I’m all right. If they let him go … he can come home with me,” Jennifer said.
“Why don’t you ride with me then?” Clench asked Clare.
“Well, OK.”
They got into his truck as Jennifer Ebrahim got into her new Escalade, and followed the police cars to downtown headquarters.
“Mo Ebrahim must have done all right for himself,” Clare commented.
“Yeah, he had an import business.”
“So were you sitting outside all that time in your truck, watching?”
“I was in the coffee shop across the street watching. Saw the kid pull in and then I went over. He looked mad before he even got inside.”
Again, Clare wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or not. He had helped her, and if it hadn’t been him, she still would have needed the help of the other man who grabbed
Ali’s arms, or someone. She was pretty fit but not up to physical confrontation with a strong young man.
Clare gave her statement to the police, including Clench, but didn’t go into detail about what Mrs. Ebrahim had told her. They probably knew most of it anyway.
“So you’re not charging Ali with anything?” she asked.
“Well, his mother doesn’t want to press charges, of course. We just made it clear that he can’t lay hands on her. She can wear or not wear what she wants to. And if he does it again, he will be charged. If he does anything again. These little things can add up. He insisted the helmet is his, but legally it’s his mother’s, or was, and she was free to throw it out. Oh, and we told him to stay out of Greenline.”
Later, Clench told her that the police had reminded Ali that this is, after all, America, not Iran.
“Maybe he’s just psycho.”
“Some things that seem psycho to us are normal in other places and, um, realities. That’s what we call diversity,” Clench said wryly.
“Well, the ACLU will have something to say about that, no doubt. I mean, stating the facts is no defense.”
“Since he wasn’t charged with anything, he didn’t have the opportunity to call a lawyer, and he wasn’t even in there very long. We have a little more privacy that way.”
“This won’t be in the paper, will it?”
“I don’t know if they’ll put it in the daily police report. But you know how it is, there’s always someone with a cell phone camera, even a video might pop up on YouTube or something. We asked that guy who pulled Ali off his mother not to talk to reporters if anyone should get wind of it, out of consideration for his mother. I think he’ll be OK. And it all happened so fast, maybe nobody got any pictures.”
In the parking lot, at Clench’s truck, he said, “Well, I’ll drive you back to your truck.”
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot it was still at Starbucks.”
“You want to get something to eat before you go back to your parents’?”
“Sure. But I’m going to my friend’s house tonight. Roxy Barbarino. Then I’ll go to my parents again tomorrow. You’re supposed to have dinner with us, you know, before I go back to Greenline.”
“Right.”
“What do you call a mid-afternoon meal anyway?” Clare said. “If it’s between breakfast and lunch, it’s brunch. But between lunch and supper? Slunch?”
Clench laughed.
“I did get a room at the Quaker Oats hotel and they have a couple of restaurants there, if you want to go there. We’re practically right there anyway.”
Clare hoped he did not intend to invite her to his room. But he didn’t.