don’t seem well? Don’t worry. It is part of Allah’s plan for all of us.”
He hoped the Arab would never be able to find him, later. But it was a risk he was willing to take for the sake of Nicky. “What will you do with this?” From behind Vladimir, the crows suddenly rose from the scimitar in a cawing clatter and circled twice before heading toward the sea to the west.
“That is beyond what you need to know.”
Twelve
Zehra and BJ stopped before the security checkpoint at the Hennepin County Government Center in Minneapolis. The courtrooms and the prosecutor’s office occupied most of the space above them.
“Why are you working so hard on this one?” BJ asked. “The guy’s a scumbag.”
“I know and I hate everything he stands for, so I’ve got two good reasons to coast. Except for a couple points: if he’s convicted and appeals, he’ll allege inadequacy of counsel—they always do. I’ve got to protect my butt. Also …” Zehra stopped walking while the flow of people continued around them toward the elevators. “I guess, well, I guess it’s my sense of justice. What if he’s really innocent? I’m not saying he deserves it, but if I slack on this I’ve lost my chance to work for a just system.” She looked at the African-American standing next to her and knew he understood.
They arrived at the County Attorney’s floor and asked to see Steve Harmon, the assistant county attorney prosecuting the Ibrahim El-Amin case.
He burst through the door in the lobby, shook both their hands. “Zehra, BJ, two of my favorite defenders.” He invited them through the open door. “Can’t talk you two into coming back to work with the ‘good guys’?”
“Well … there are days …” Zehra said and looked back at BJ, who laughed with her.
After filing into his small office, they sat. “Coffee? Water?” Harmon offered. His blue eyes sparkled.
Zehra shook her head. “You should drink tea, Steve. Better for you. How are things going with the ‘crime fighters’ here?”
Harmon, jacketless, leaned back in his chair and lifted his hands behind his head, where he locked his fingers. Harmon was in his mid-forties—the hardest kind of prosecutor to work against because he was very experienced and clever but young enough to still have energy and drive. Dark hair thinned over his head, which was balanced by a close-clipped beard. The silver flecks throughout shone against his tan skin.
Zehra never forgot how generous he had been to her, when she worked as a prosecutor a few years ago and needed his advice. However, his nickname was “Hardball Harmon” and he wouldn’t offer help now. She looked behind his shoulder and saw the family photo with his teenage kids—a boy and a girl. His boy wore a sweatshirt that named St. Thomas, a local college. Her eyes lingered for a moment because he looked about the same age as the victim in her murder case.
Harmon interrupted her thoughts. “You remember how things are around here. Between my boss, the cops, victims, and the press, I don’t have much time to prosecute!”
“Both sides have their problems,” BJ said.
“And my problem is,” Zehra started, “El-Amin hates women and particularly, me—a Muslim infidel. In the end, I’ll have to try the case anyway.”
“Yeah … the hardest for me are always the ‘not-so-innocent’ victims,” Harmon said.
BJ laughed in recognition of the problem. “Yeah, I remember. Before I worked here, when I was a cop, we’d arrive at the scene of a shooting. Two coked-up dudes fighting over a woman. The first one to pull the gun became the defendant. They’re both strapped so it could’ve just as easily been the other way around.”
Steve dropped his arms and leaned forward over his desk. Energy popped off him. “And you should hear ’em demand their rights! The truly innocent victims—the kids, the rape victims, the old people who get mugged—that’s what bothers me. That’s why I keep
He hoped the Arab would never be able to find him, later. But it was a risk he was willing to take for the sake of Nicky. “What will you do with this?” From behind Vladimir, the crows suddenly rose from the scimitar in a cawing clatter and circled twice before heading toward the sea to the west.
“That is beyond what you need to know.”
Twelve
Zehra and BJ stopped before the security checkpoint at the Hennepin County Government Center in Minneapolis. The courtrooms and the prosecutor’s office occupied most of the space above them.
“Why are you working so hard on this one?” BJ asked. “The guy’s a scumbag.”
“I know and I hate everything he stands for, so I’ve got two good reasons to coast. Except for a couple points: if he’s convicted and appeals, he’ll allege inadequacy of counsel—they always do. I’ve got to protect my butt. Also …” Zehra stopped walking while the flow of people continued around them toward the elevators. “I guess, well, I guess it’s my sense of justice. What if he’s really innocent? I’m not saying he deserves it, but if I slack on this I’ve lost my chance to work for a just system.” She looked at the African-American standing next to her and knew he understood.
They arrived at the County Attorney’s floor and asked to see Steve Harmon, the assistant county attorney prosecuting the Ibrahim El-Amin case.
He burst through the door in the lobby, shook both their hands. “Zehra, BJ, two of my favorite defenders.” He invited them through the open door. “Can’t talk you two into coming back to work with the ‘good guys’?”
“Well … there are days …” Zehra said and looked back at BJ, who laughed with her.
After filing into his small office, they sat. “Coffee? Water?” Harmon offered. His blue eyes sparkled.
Zehra shook her head. “You should drink tea, Steve. Better for you. How are things going with the ‘crime fighters’ here?”
Harmon, jacketless, leaned back in his chair and lifted his hands behind his head, where he locked his fingers. Harmon was in his mid-forties—the hardest kind of prosecutor to work against because he was very experienced and clever but young enough to still have energy and drive. Dark hair thinned over his head, which was balanced by a close-clipped beard. The silver flecks throughout shone against his tan skin.
Zehra never forgot how generous he had been to her, when she worked as a prosecutor a few years ago and needed his advice. However, his nickname was “Hardball Harmon” and he wouldn’t offer help now. She looked behind his shoulder and saw the family photo with his teenage kids—a boy and a girl. His boy wore a sweatshirt that named St. Thomas, a local college. Her eyes lingered for a moment because he looked about the same age as the victim in her murder case.
Harmon interrupted her thoughts. “You remember how things are around here. Between my boss, the cops, victims, and the press, I don’t have much time to prosecute!”
“Both sides have their problems,” BJ said.
“And my problem is,” Zehra started, “El-Amin hates women and particularly, me—a Muslim infidel. In the end, I’ll have to try the case anyway.”
“Yeah … the hardest for me are always the ‘not-so-innocent’ victims,” Harmon said.
BJ laughed in recognition of the problem. “Yeah, I remember. Before I worked here, when I was a cop, we’d arrive at the scene of a shooting. Two coked-up dudes fighting over a woman. The first one to pull the gun became the defendant. They’re both strapped so it could’ve just as easily been the other way around.”
Steve dropped his arms and leaned forward over his desk. Energy popped off him. “And you should hear ’em demand their rights! The truly innocent victims—the kids, the rape victims, the old people who get mugged—that’s what bothers me. That’s why I keep
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