Free Reprisal by Colin T. Nelson Page A

about the Qur’an. I’m sick of people telling me what it says. I can read it for myself, and I don’t need anyone to interpret it for me.” Her mother’s eyes softened, and she looked away. Zehra regretted her sharp tone. The new case, the jerk for a client, and the set-backs in the investigation—they all upset her. “Look, Mom. I’m sorry. It’s not you.”
    Martha avoided any more argument by going to the simmering pot. She stirred and added more spices.
    Zehra’s Casio watch beeped.
    Robert picked up her wrist in his limp grasp. “What’s this?”
    “Oh … Casio makes this watch for Muslims that goes off five times a day to remind me to pray. Stupid, but I like it.”
    Martha turned the heat lower on the rice and wiped her hands. She looked up at Robert. “You’re faithful? Join us. You can wash in the bathroom on the left, down the hall.”
    He nodded. “I’ll wash now. How ‘bout you, Zehra?”
    “I’m lucky to get in two prayers a day. I’m so busy.”
    “You should really be more faithful,” he said and walked away, his khaki pants bunched in puddles around his shoes.
    Zehra shook her head behind his back and followed her mother into the other, larger bathroom and performed the ritual ablution or cleansing to ensure they were in a state of physical and spiritual purity.
    They washed their hands and faces and arms up to their elbows. While they washed, Zehra also meditated to cleanse her mind and heart from worldly thoughts and concerns, even her recent argument with the odd man down the hall. Martha handed her a scarf to cover her head and hair.
    Together, they moved into the living room. Robert followed and stood next to Martha. They all raised their hands parallel to their ears with the palms facing out. Then they knelt on their knees, said more of the prayers, and bowed fully to the floor so that seven parts of their bodies touched the ground. They faced northeast, the shortest path to Mecca from North America. Robert stepped in front and prostrated himself until his forehead touched the carpet.
    Zehra felt stiffness in her back, so she relaxed as she knelt.
    “Allahu Akbar,” they recited. God is great.
    They stood upright, folded their hands over their chests, and repeated the opening discourse of the Qur’an.
    “All praise belongs to God, Lord of all worlds, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Ruler of Judgment Day. You alone do we worship and to you alone do we appeal for help. Show the straight way, the way of those upon whom You have bestowed Your grace, not of those who have earned Your wrath or who go astray.”
    Zehra and her mother completed the obligatory prayers and remained silent as they each privately petitioned Allah with their own requests. Robert moved off to the side by himself.
    Standing, Martha hugged Zehra and went back into the kitchen. Zehra knew she could escape this loser easily. She frowned at the thought of her mother’s machinations. But it was impossible to stay mad at someone who had just prayed with you.
     
     

Nine
     
    Running late for a full morning of court appearances, Zehra grabbed her purse and briefcase from her desk. As she hurried toward the door, her phone rang.
    Caller ID showed it was her boss, the Chief Public Defender.
    “Get up here right now,” he demanded.
    Zehra could tell from his tone of voice not to protest about her own late schedule. In five minutes, she sat before Bill Cleary. He’d been in the job forever and had gone from a crusading young lawyer to an overweight bureaucrat, protecting his position. He popped open what was probably his tenth can of Coke for the day and leaned forward.
    Everyone called him ‘Chairman Mao’ behind his back because of the way his face had exploded into a round moon, along with his body. Too many cheap hotdogs and fries eaten in the Government Center plaza, Zehra thought. She studied his face, trying to anticipate the problem.
    The moon face clouded over. “I just got off the phone with Judge