A House Without Windows

  “They’re frightened because she’s unstable. I was there, sir, and I can tell you that she is not in her right mind. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of what happened when she was last here in your office. If you think that was bad, you would be horrified to see her now.”

  Yusuf stole a quick glance at Gulnaz, who had drawn her lips together tightly as she listened. Her eyes were lowered, staring at the floral motif of the small rug beneath their feet. She seemed neither shocked nor saddened to hear of her daughter’s condition.

  “It makes no difference. We can continue with the case, as the qazi has said,” the prosecutor agreed with a wave of his hand. “It shouldn’t take long anyway. We have a signed statement from the day of her arrest and we’ve got a dead husband. Let’s wrap this up, and we can move on to the sentencing.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple,” Yusuf said. He braced himself for the reaction he was about to get. “I don’t think Khanum Zeba is in her right state of mind and, thus, is incapable of standing trial.”

  “What are you talking about? What do her senses have to do with anything?” The prosecutor was incredulous. The qazi leaned forward as if he may have misheard Yusuf’s words.

  “Are you suggesting we delay this again?”

  “Qazi-sahib, I am simply stating that she’s not competent to stand trial, which means we cannot try this case now. It’s not really a postponement as much as it is allowing for a proper procedure to be followed.”

  “Proper procedure? What you’re suggesting is anything but proper procedure,” the prosecutor roared.

  “She’s upset,” the qazi agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that we can ignore what happened.”

  “She’s more than upset,” Yusuf explained. “From what I have seen, she is suffering from mental disease, and I do believe this mental incapacitation began before she was brought to Chil Mahtab. I believe it existed in her well before the day her husband was killed. I think she was not in her right state of mind, and we can all see that she is not in her right state of mind now, either. I think she should undergo a formal evaluation and obtain treatment for her condition. That’s what the law prescribes for situations like this one.”

  The truth was Yusuf wasn’t fully convinced of Zeba’s insanity. He’d made a case for it, but given what she’d been through, he imagined the way she’d been acting to be almost rational. She’d been living with a man who drank and beat her. She’d raised four children with him lording over them. She’d walked into her own backyard to find her husband violating a child in the worst way imaginable. Maybe this wasn’t the first time. And their three daughters—had he violated them as well? Two of them were close in age to the girl the raisin vendor described. If the thought crossed Yusuf’s mind, it must have boiled with horror in Zeba’s.

  In all honesty, she probably had killed him. Yusuf had to admit that given her motive and the scene of the crime, little else made sense. She would have been out of her mind to do nothing. Yusuf, had he been in her shoes, would have gladly slammed the hatchet into the man’s skull.

  It was his job to defend her, and he didn’t have much in his arsenal to use. If this was a stretch, so be it.

  Gulnaz watched the men’s faces. They all seemed to have forgotten she was in the room, which was fine by her. She only needed to hear what they were saying.

  “The law? Listen, I haven’t objected to much until now, but it’s clear that you’ve come here with some kind of American agenda.”

  Yusuf gritted his teeth. The prosecutor’s case was a handful of handwritten documents, composed mostly of Zeba’s “confession,” which had been written by a police officer. It wasn’t a case at all. Anywhere else in the world, the prosecutor wouldn’t be able to call himself a lawyer, and yet here, sitting in a ridiculous armchair, he could accuse Yusuf of representing foreign interests.

  “I’m here to defend a woman who’s been accused of a horrible crime and had her children taken away. I’m here because if we want the Afghan judicial system to have any kind of integrity, we have to follow the procedural code and give accused individuals their due process. I know you don’t care much for due process but it’s important.”

  “I do my job. You have no right to question my professionalism.”

  “Don’t I? My job is to question how well you do yours. And I have lots of questions for you.” Yusuf’s voice cut through the room like the sound of glass breaking. Even Gulnaz was impressed.

  “What questions?”

  The prosecutor was still in the armchair but barely. He had both hands on the armrests with elbows bent, as if he were about to lift off the seat. He looked at Qazi Najeeb who sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

  “I’m interested to know what questions you have as well,” he said quietly.

  Expecting the judge to intervene and squash the discussion, the prosecutor huffed with annoyance.

  “To start, I wonder if you conducted any kind of real investigation. Article 145 of the Criminal Procedure Code states: ‘Investigation is required for all felony and misdemeanor crimes and it is performed in the presence of the accused person’s defense lawyer by the prosecutor in accordance with the provisions of this law.’”

  “Investigation? We have a signed statement from Khanum Zeba!” the prosecutor insisted, waving a folded piece of paper in the air.

  “She did not write that statement. She’s a literate woman—her mother can attest to that and she can prove it herself. If that were her statement, it should have been written by her own hand.”

  “From what I was told, she was hysterical and so the police officer making the arrest did his job and transcribed what she recounted to him. That’s her thumbprint on the bottom of the page,” he shouted, his finger jabbing at a blot of blue ink. “Why would she sign it if it weren’t her statement?”

  “She was hysterical when she was arrested? By hysterical do you mean crazy? That’s exactly my point, friend. I’m glad you agree.”

  “That’s not what I said. You’re trying to put words in my mouth!”

  “Let me continue. Article 145 talks about a few more requirements for an investigation. Did the police go to the scene of the crime to collect evidence? Did the police interview any one of their neighbors? Did you try to ascertain if there was any possible motive for this crime? Did you have any experts speak with Khanum Zeba to assess her mental status? Has he, Qazi Najeeb?”

  “If anyone’s mental status needs to be assessed, it’s yours. The police are the ones who conduct discoveries. It’s a simple, black-and-white case, and I’m sure Qazi Najeeb will tell you that.”

  “I’ll speak for myself!” Qazi Najeeb interjected. He hadn’t expected today’s trial proceedings to be so animated, especially with Gulnaz present. Gulnaz, as far as he could tell, did not seem bothered by the shouting match. She remained composed, listening intently.

  The judge continued. “Let’s move on. There was as much investigation as there typically is for a case like this. Your client’s been charged with the crime. We know the crime happened. We’ve got a written statement in which she confesses to killing her husband.”

  “Your Honor, on that piece of paper is a confession of a woman who hit her husband on top of his head with a hatchet.”

  “Yes?”

  “Kamal died from a hatchet wound to the back of the head, low enough that it was near his neck. If she did confess, she would know where his wound was, wouldn’t she?”

  “On top of the head . . . back of the head . . . you’re really reaching.”

  “Why are we wasting our time on this?” the prosecutor asked.

  “I don’t consider it a waste of time to do my job,” Yusuf shot back. “Maybe you should ask yourself if you’re doing yours.”

  Qazi Najeeb stroked his short beard and felt a few crumbs between his fingers. Of course, a case involving the murshid’s daughter would not be straightforward. He could let these two lawyers take cheap shots at each other but he had to do it in a
way that would save face for him.

  “Go ahead, Yusuf.”

  The prosecutor huffed and sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest.

  “This is what happens when we let foreigners stick their noses in our affairs,” he muttered.

  “Article sixty-seven of the penal code of Afghanistan states,” Yusuf recited with his eyes set on the prosecutor, “that ‘a person who while committing a crime lacks his senses and intelligence due to insanity or other mental disease has no penal responsibility and shall not be punished.’”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” the prosecutor said, chuckling.

  Both the judge and Yusuf noticed Gulnaz square her gaze on him.

  “And I’ve never had such a case,” Qazi Najeeb explained. “Yusuf, this is not the type of defense I was expecting to hear. Maybe you want to reconsider. Khanum Zeba is obviously distressed, but that could be because she’s thinking about the day she plunged a hatchet into her husband’s head. Women have gone mad over much smaller matters, I’m sure we can all agree.”

  The qazi took a sip of his tea. The biscuits, though delicious, were dry and seemed to have caught on the inside of his throat. Still, he found himself reaching for another.

  “These are delicious, Khanum,” he said absently. “My own mother’s biscuits were not this good, God rest her soul. What did you put in these?”

  “May you eat in good health, Qazi-sahib,” Gulnaz replied politely. “They are nothing but flour, butter, and sugar.”

  “Mm, delicious.” The qazi wiped the crumbs from his mouth before he spoke again. “I have an idea that might help us in this odd situation. I have a good friend who provides treatment for the insane. He’s been quite successful curing some very seriously affected people. Maybe we can ask him to evaluate Khanum Zeba. Why not follow the letter of the law in this case? We might make a name for ourselves here.”

  “Make a name for ourselves? Your Honor, I thought we’d have this case decided today or in the next week. If he were asking for mercy because she’s a mother or if she stated her husband tried to kill her, then maybe there would be something worth talking about but this . . . this . . . insanity excuse . . .”

  “It’s the law,” the judge said with amusement. “We cannot argue with that.”

  The prosecutor was astounded. Qazi Najeeb had a reputation for being objective and difficult—though not impossible—to bribe. Still, this was unexpected behavior.

  “Qazi-sahib, this is a great idea!” Yusuf said excitedly. If Zeba remained in her current state, the evaluation would provide a quick answer in their favor. “Your friend is a doctor? Is he at the hospital in the city?”

  “He’s better than a doctor,” Qazi Najeeb said proudly. “Doctors can’t do anything for the poor people who’ve lost their minds. They can barely fix a broken leg. He’s a mullah with a special talent for healing the insane. I met him years ago when I was living closer to my father’s home.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s the best person for this.” The judge looked quite pleased with himself, as if he’d personally solved the mystery of who had murdered Kamal.

  “With all due respect, Qazi-sahib, this is not something that requires evaluation. Was she crazy? She killed her husband in their own home—of course she’s crazy! But that doesn’t mean that she isn’t guilty.” The prosecutor turned his attention to Yusuf. “And if you’re saying she’s crazy, are you saying that she did kill her husband or are you still maintaining that she didn’t?”

  Yusuf took a deep breath. That was the question he had been hoping the prosecutor wouldn’t ask. The judge intervened just as he opened his mouth to try to answer.

  “It’s been too long since I last spoke with my friend. I believe this is a sign that I should reach out to him. God is great, my friends. We will reach a conclusion soon. I know the victim’s family is waiting and trusting that we will make the right decision.”

  “Exactly!” exclaimed the prosecutor. “What are we supposed to tell them? That the murderess might have had a temper? That some djinn had taken control of her body and turned her into a bloodthirsty husband killer?”

  “We won’t tell them anything,” said the judge. “We’ll take Khanum Zeba to the shrine and have the mullah look at her. If he thinks she’s not crazy, there’s nothing more to it. She’ll be brought back to Chil Mahtab and we’ll decide on her guilt based on what we have here.”

  Yusuf fanned himself with his notepad. The opinion of some shaman was not what he’d been hoping to pin his defense on.

  “What about a hospital? There are mental health professionals that we can work with. With all due respect, Your Honor, there are doctors in this country to tell us what we need to know.”

  “We’ve never done anything like this before, Agha-jan,” the judge explained with a hint of condescension. “The nearest hospital is nearly two days’ travel from here and is always filled to capacity. The community trusts this mullah. We’ll get his expert opinion quickly.”

  Yusuf feared pressing the judge too much and losing this narrow opening. He had to bend, he realized, if he wanted Zeba to have any chance at all.

  “Khanum Gulnaz, did your daughter have any mental problems as a child?”

  Gulnaz rubbed her hands together. Dust had clung to her skin on the long journey from home to the qazi’s office.

  She thought of all the things she could say. Zeba talked to herself as a small child. She’d once woken in the night screaming that she’d seen a djinn in her bedroom. She’d claimed to see letters in the flames that licked at an aluminum pot. She could’ve used everything Gulnaz had taught her over the years, but she chose to live without power. Even now, she would not say exactly what had happened in that courtyard. Were these not the signs of a mentally defective person?

  “She was a plain and ordinary child, Your Honor,” she said mournfully. “But she is not the same now. Something terrible has happened to my daughter and I cannot imagine what it is. It’s as if her mind was poisoned.”

  “I can’t believe we’re actually considering this. Tell me, what happens if she is deemed crazy?” the prosecutor asked.

  Gulnaz looked at the judge and spoke before he could.

  “But this is wrong. Let her go to a hospital. My father would tell you what some of those mullahs do in the name of treatment is un-Islamic.”

  The judge met Gulnaz’s eyes and felt the moisture of his palms again, the tickle at the back of his neck.

  “The mullah is a remarkable healer and I trust his assessment. Zeba would be in good hands.”

  “And if she is crazy and he is able to heal her, then she can be tried and found guilty. Fine. You can let me know when you want to reconvene,” the prosecutor said impatiently. “Whether it’s today or next month, Zeba will be found guilty.”

  Yusuf and the prosecutor stood. Gulnaz picked her handbag off the floor and brought the strap over her arm. The judge felt his face warm to watch her, as if he’d spied her slipping a dress over her bare shoulder instead.

  Did a man ever grow too gray and wrinkled to have such thoughts? He was helpless.

  Qazi Najeeb picked up his tasbeh and began thumbing; the beads felt cool and reassuring against his clammy palm. He would think of her later, he knew, when he met his wife’s dull eyes and ready scowl. How different his story would have been, he thought, had Gulnaz become his bride all those years ago. They would have been content as husband and wife. She, the daughter of a respected murshid and he, the ambitious son of a hardworking man. The judge uncrossed his legs and stole a glance at the clock on the wall, the second hand ticking ever forward. There was no way to go back in time.

  Despite all his efforts, there wasn’t much justice in this world.

  CHAPTER 30

  “RAISINS, WALNUTS, ALMONDS! THE RAISINS ARE GOOD FOR YOUR diabetes, the walnuts will cure rheumatism, and the almonds will cool your wife’s temper! Pine nuts, roasted chickpeas, and dried ap
ricots! Pine nuts so fresh you’ll be knocking on my door in the middle of the night asking for more!”

  Walid’s throat felt gritty. He coughed a bit and took a sip of water from a crumpled plastic bottle he kept tucked next to the bags of walnuts. He shouted the same pitch he’d been using for years, and it no longer drew the smiles it once had. People didn’t chuckle or make conversation. It seemed everyone was too tired for any of that anymore.

  Walid walked in a cloud of dust, spun into the air by the wheels of his cart and a light wind coming down from the mountains to the west. He was nearing their block for the third time today. Usually, he only passed through a street once.

  “Ramadan is coming! Don’t go hungry a day before you’re supposed to!”

  Two school-age boys raced by him, passing an underinflated soccer ball back and forth. Walid brought his sleeve to his nose and mouth. He’d always had bad lungs. His mother told him it was because she’d been caught in one of the worst dust storms in history while she was pregnant with him. He’d grown accustomed to feeling like he was sucking air through a straw, but today was particularly hard.

  He set his cart down and placed his hands squarely on his hips. He was in front of their house. Where was the little girl? Was she in school? Was she just a few feet away from—close enough to hear him call?

  Walid coughed and felt something loosen in his chest. The dust settled a bit, and he took a long breath through pursed lips.

  Why had he, a wheezing street vendor, been charged to hold her secrets? He could barely feed his own family. He was a man of faults. He had gossiped and cursed. He had been short-tempered with his wife and children. He had done nothing when his sister begged him to talk to her abusive husband on her behalf. He had cheated nearly everyone in the village at one time or another, charging some more than others when he didn’t like the way they looked at him or if they hadn’t purchased anything from him in a long time. He lied about where his walnuts came from and how fresh they were. When he’d found maggots crawling between them, he’d simply plucked the intruders out and returned the lot to the cart, thinking of the many hungry bellies waiting on his return at home. He prayed and taught his children to do the same. He was not a very learned man and feared his family suffered for it. He was nothing of use.