Fatal Convictions by Randy Singer Page A

tried to find labels that would work on manila envelopes. He searched his desk drawers, then Sylvia’s. There were labels for file folders but no labels for large manila envelopes. He wanted to punch something. He had been working for nearly two hours on a simple task that should have taken thirty minutes. Sylvia’s migraine was spreading.
    Alex’s BlackBerry buzzed again—the same unknown number as before. It had to be some kind of crisis. Reluctantly, he picked it up.
    “Alex Madison.”
    “Mr. Madison, this is Khalid Mobassar. Thank you for answering my call.”
    “No problem,” Alex said, still searching for the labels. The imam sounded a little tense. Maybe something had happened to Ghaniyah.
    “There are two detectives from the Virginia Beach Police Department at my front door,” Khalid said, his voice nearly a whisper. “They want to question me about a woman in our mosque who disappeared over the weekend. I told them I needed to call my lawyer first.”
    Alex stopped searching and focused on the phone call. It always made him nervous when the police wanted to question a client. “What do you know about this woman?”
    “Her name is Ja’dah Fatima Mahdi. She is the wife of one of our leaders at the Islamic Learning Center. She has been missing since Saturday night.”
    “Are you a suspect or a person of interest?”
    “I do not know.”
    Alex looked at his envelopes and second-guessed his decision to pick up the phone. It would probably be fine for Khalid to talk with the detectives. They probably just wanted information about the victim’s family. But what if there was more to it? What if Khalid was a person of interest?
    “Do you know anything about why she’s missing?” Alex asked.
    Khalid hesitated for a moment. “Not really.” His voice became softer. “Nothing other than what I might have learned in confidence from Ja’dah or her husband.”
    “Which is what?”
    “As their spiritual advisor, should I not keep that confidential?” Khalid asked.
    Now it was getting complicated. “Maybe,” Alex said. “Would it help them locate the woman?”
    Khalid hesitated again. “I don’t think so. But I don’t actually know.”
    Alex sighed into the phone. This was not what he needed. Khalid might have information that would help the police. But there were issues of priest-penitent privilege involved, or whatever you call that privilege when it’s a Muslim imam. And those issues tended to get messy. “Tell them you can’t speak to them without your attorney present. Ask them to wait outside until I get there.”
    The next call, which came less than three minutes later, was not from Khalid but from a man who identified himself as Detective Sanderson. “Is this Mr. Madison?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you represent Mr. Mobassar?”
    Not really, Alex thought. But this was no time for technicalities. “Yes.”
    “Good,” Sanderson said, as if that would solve everything. “We’re in the critical first forty-eight hours of a missing person investigation. We have reason to believe that the potential victim was taken against her will. And we think your client might have valuable information to help us find her kidnapper, but he says he can’t talk to us—”
    “Is he a person of interest?” Alex interrupted.
    “At this stage, Mr. Madison, most everyone who knows the victim is a person of interest. But we’d like the opportunity to clear your client. And more importantly, we think he can help us find her before it’s too late.”
    Alex thought about this for a moment. The line about clearing Khalid was something the cops said every time . . . just before they finagled a confession and slapped on the cuffs. But the part about helping them find this woman might be legit. Could he really sit by and tell his client to withhold information that would help the police find a kidnapped woman?
    “I’ll be there in half an hour,” Alex said. “I’ll want to talk with my client first. And I’ll