AHMM, July-August 2010 Read online

  Ranya Mostafa, a plump young figure in a royal blue pants suit, emerged from the car and bestowed a cheery shokran to the driver, a lanky young man in a gray suit. She entered the mogamma and crossed the deserted atrium at a brisk pace, then headed up a sweeping staircase, careful to keep one hand on the railing, for the marble treads were treacherous, smooth as glass and fluted by the daily passage of countless feet.

  She passed the public registry on the second floor and the passport office on the third. On the fourth floor she turned into the east wing, going down the hall till she reached an alcove furnished with a standing lamp and a couple of vinyl chairs. This was the antechamber of the Legal Reference Department, which occupied the lower of the two floors dedicated to the Office of the Public Prosecutor.

  Ranya opened her briefcase and pulled out a copy of El Ahram, bought that morning at a newsstand in Cairo, and opened it to the legal section. On other days, Hussein, the teaman, would have materialized with a smile and her morning coffee, but it was eight thirty on the morning of the twenty-fifth day of Ramadan, and neither Hussein nor his kettle would be putting in an appearance.

  The Mansoura arson trial was dragging on, with defense counsel arguing (with unparalleled rhetorical magnificence, according to El Ahram) that the bakery owner could not possibly have set fire to his own establishment because his wife and youngest child would swear that he was at home with a thunderous headache—a malady that had afflicted him on a regular basis for thirty-five years and which left him utterly prostrate and virtually blind with shooting pains behind his eyes.

  Ranya imagined how swiftly she would counter that pathetic rhetorical indulgence: And does learned counsel truly mean to suggest that the testimony of those whose simple duty it is to protect their husband and father could ever carry enough weight to counter the unassailable evidence of two eyewitnesses and the official receipt for the purchase of two liters of benzene the day before? She would relish the battle.

  Not that she was likely to have the chance any time soon. Though the Egyptian government guaranteed a job for every college graduate, the number of candidates entering the job market each year was inversely proportional to the number of jobs available. Ranya, the ink still wet on her Baccalaureate of Laws degree, might have secured the historically prestigious job title of Assistant to the Public Prosecutor, but the reality was that she spent her days seated at a table with twenty other attorneys with the same title, carrying out various menial tasks and contemplating the hard truth that there were thirty-six others ahead of her in the queue, each steadfastly waiting (at pitiful wages) for that same chance.

  She returned her attention to the newspaper with some effort. Patience, that ancient pillar of Egyptian culture, had never been her strong suit.

  ". . . an unprovoked attack on a bicycle messenger outside Benha University.” That was only a couple of kilometers away. She read on, her curiosity piqued, and as she read indignation rose in her breast, accompanied by the desire to avenge all such great evils.

  Footsteps clattered on marble stairs, then fairly ran down the hall. Who could that be at such an hour during Ramadan?

  A small man with an egg-shaped head bounced into the antechamber and struck an aggrieved pose. Ranya's eyes widened: Ustaz Samir Hafez Abd El Moneim, the honorable Public Prosecutor himself. A formidable man in his mid sixties, famous in Benha (if nowhere else) for a twenty-five-year career in which he had failed to get his verdict only once; openly fawned over and secretly despised by nine-tenths of his underlings for refusing to do the decent thing and retire. Once you got a top position in Egypt, you didn't easily let it go.

  Ustaz Samir went to the door of the main reference room and pulled at the knob. When nothing happened, he shook it till the door rattled on its hinges.

  Ranya rose, making a faint noise.

  He whirled, pinning her with his angry eyes. “What are you doing here?"

  Ranya cleared her throat. “My train arrives at eight fifteen, hadritak. I prefer to sit here until the office is unlocked, rather than wait at the station. I took the approval of Ustaza Mona.” Mona was secretary to the personnel manager.

  Ustaz Samir's scowl deepened. “You work here?"

  "Yes, hadritak."

  "Since when?"

  "Since eight months."

  "Where is Lutfy?"

  Ustaz Lutfy, one of nineteen deputy prosecutors, was Samir's right-hand man.

  "I didn't see him today.” That was putting it mildly. During Ramadan, when all Muslims fasted from dawn to dusk, no one arrived before ten. Or twelve. If at all.

  Ustaz Samir pulled at his face. “This is not possible."

  On the day she had graduated Ranya had vowed that she would always be the first to put her hand up, no matter how many times it was slapped back down. That was the only way to prove that she was different. So she took a step forward and asked: “Any service, hadritak?"

  "I must appear before the magistrate in three hours to present the charges in a most important case. I must meet with defense council in two hours. What can you possibly do? Tch."

  Ranya clutched her hands against her rose chiffon blouse. “I could prepare the charging document. And I could take them to the court."

  Surprise flickered across his face. “You're an attorney?"

  "Yes, hadritak."

  He took in her coiffed dark hair, the frills of her lilac blouse peeking out from beneath her suit collar, the gold bangles around her wrists, and the cinnamon polish on her nails. He reminded her of a butcher sizing up a side of lamb.

  "What's your name?"

  "Ranya Mostafa."

  "Well then, Miss Ranya Mostafa. Follow me."

  Ranya grabbed her briefcase and hurried after him.

  * * * *

  The inner sanctum of the public prosecutor's fifth-floor office showed the inevitable signs of disrepair but was, like everything else in the mogamma, enormous.

  Samir sat behind his desk and picked up a police report. “The case involves a fifteen-year-old boy who was attacked outside the Faculty of Agriculture the night before last."

  "The bicycle messenger.” Ranya sat on the less decrepit of the two chairs in front of the desk. “I read about it in the paper."

  "Did you.” He treated her to another scowl, but not so fearsome this time. “So. The perpetrator was identified as a student at the Faculty of Agriculture: one Showkat Mohammed El Razi. Showkat was located by the police the next morning in his dormitory. They found a blood- spattered shirt on the floor. Here—read it yourself."

  Ranya skimmed through the handwritten report. The victim, one Hosni El Fareed, was out delivering a package on behalf of the courier service for which he worked. It was after midnight, but that was not unusual; during Ramadan, much of the day's work was done in the evening after iftar. Hosni was peddling along a dirt road behind the agronomy building when an assailant sprang from behind a rubber tree and struck him repeatedly about the head and shoulders with a short-handled hoe. The attack was witnessed by one of the University boabs, who had been sitting in his kiosk smoking a cigarette and enjoying the late-night holiday quiz shows. The terrified boab ran for help and oversaw the transport of young Hosni to the hospital. Interviewed the following day in his home (for the boy was too poor to be able to afford to stay in the hospital), Hosni told the police he had never heard of Showkat Mohammed El Razi.

  "Why would a university student do such a thing to a boy of such humble means?” asked Ranya.

  "I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. I care only that he is brought to task for this heinous act. It is imperative that I enter the case before the magistrate today!"

  "Is it so critical?"

  Samir treated her to a mighty frown. “You said you were an attorney. Tch. Didn't they teach you that a suspect must be formally charged before the magistrate within two days of his arrest?"

  "Of course.” Ranya felt her cheeks warming. “But it is the end of Ramadan. El Eid begins tomorrow. I have heard that in such ca
ses the two-day rule is relaxed in the courtroom as it is in society in general. I believe it is considered normal to—"

  "To wait? You wish me to wait? Until after the feast? Is that your professional advice?"

  Ranya's face grew hotter. To think that she should be accused of preferring delay! “No, I—"

  "Let me explain something to you. The boy Showkat is the devil's spawn. He is twenty-four, but he is only in his second year of university. Why is that? Because no less than six times in the past ten years he was expelled from various educational facilities for fighting, cheating, stealing, and other disruptive behavior. In Zagazig, where he was raised, he is known as a drug user and suspected distributor. Last summer he was arrested for the rape of a fourteen-year-old shopgirl."

  Ranya's eyes widened. “Then why is he not in prison? Certainly he was convicted!"

  "Certainly not. The girl changed her story—and then moved to another city, to a very nice villa with her parents, who were later seen driving a very nice car they could not possibly afford. You see?"

  The desire for justice ran hot through Ranya's veins. This was why she had become an attorney. Just for this. “He must be punished."

  "Exactly. And I will not risk any irregularity in the proceedings that could be used as an excuse to have this case thrown out. This is my chance, and I will take it. Though why it comes today, of all days in the year when there is no one here . . .” He eyed her again, weighing her in the balance. “Where does your family live?"

  "Six October City."

  "Cairo?” His eyebrows rose like the two sides of a drawbridge. “That is a ride of one and a half hours. And you take the early train, though you are entitled to come an hour late during Ramadan. You possess initiative.” He patted his jacket pocket for cigarettes—an instinctive gesture seen a hundred times a day during Ramadan, when fasting meant no smoking too. “What does your father do?"

  "He is an attorney in private practice."

  "Ah, I see. We rarely hire female attorneys, as they always leave when they marry. I was wondering how you got this job."

  "My father did not assist me. He did not even want me to be an attorney.” She stirred uncomfortably. “A family friend of my mother's brother lives in Benha, and he was kind enough to recommend me."

  "Connections, connections. Don't blush, Miss Ranya, we must all have connections. It is only when they thwart the cause of justice that we can condemn them.” He tapped his fingers on the desk for a moment, then roused himself. “It is time to begin. Here is the form for the charging document. You will fill it out. Then I will instruct you on how to prepare the justification of the complaint. I must leave at ten o'clock to meet with opposing counsel, so, if Lutfy is not here by eleven thirty, you must bring the documents to the court."

  Ranya took the form. She had filled out many such documents while at university. But that had been practice, and this was the real thing. Date, name of suspect . . . She could do this. Specification of charge . . . She looked up. “Assault and battery?"

  "No. Not for this dog. The charge is attempted murder."

  * * * *

  Three banks of fluorescent lights dangled from the courtroom ceiling, their harsh light illuminating each streak of dirt on the benches and every pile of dust on the floor. The sulfurous smell of cheap cleaning fluid could not cover the underlying odor of stale cigarettes. It might have helped, thought Ranya from a seat at the back of the room, if they had considered opening the windows once or twice a century.

  It was quarter past one, but the tiny courtroom was empty. In the hour Ranya had been waiting, she had seen no one save a bleary-eyed man in a faded galabeya and floppy sandals. He had shuffled over to the waste basket next to the judge's desk, emptied its meager contents into the sack he carried, and left. Ranya opened the Showkat Mohammed file for the fourth time. She would be ready to assist Ustaz Samir and Ustaz Lutfy should they require it.

  Shortly before two, the court clerk wandered in, carrying a sagging stack of paper folders, which he deposited on the judge's desk. Next, the stenographer arrived to check her apparatus. They moved with the lethargy of people who have had little sleep and nothing to eat or drink since dawn. Ranya sympathized. Her stomach was growling and there was a dull pain in the back of her head.

  At two thirty, half a dozen young men in suits arrived, talking in loud voices about their travel plans for the upcoming holiday. The court clerk reappeared. Ranya dabbed her forehead with her handkerchief. There was no sign of either Samir or Lutfy, and she did not know when their case would be called.

  "Ustaza?"

  She looked up to see Samir's driver, his pencil thin body lost in a heavy gray jacket, regarding her with an ingratiating smile.

  "Ramadan kariim, Mohammed,” she said. “Can you assure Ustaz Samir that I have saved him a seat?"

  "Yes, hadritik; of course, hadritik. You are very considerate.” Mohammed nodded, still smiling, over his clasped hands.

  "Also please assure him that the complaint printed perfectly. I have all the necessary documents here."

  "Yes, hadritik. I will do as you ask. But first let me give you a message from Ustaz Samir. He expresses his most profound regrets. Another case requires his immediate attention. Of course you know the Public Prosecutor has many responsibilities."

  "I see.” Ranya frowned. “Where is Ustaz Lutfy?"

  "We have heard from his wife that Lutfy fell from his balcony after eating his supper this morning. He broke his nose and badly bruised his knees."

  "Impossible!” exclaimed Ranya.

  "God knows all,” said Mohammed.

  "But—"

  "Ustaz Samir is confident that you will do your best, and does not doubt that your initiative will lead to success. God willing."

  "But—"

  The sound of a gavel being struck galvanized Ranya's being. The court clerk's voice called those in attendance to their feet. The judge, a weasel-faced man in dull black robes, entered and seated himself at his desk.

  The clerk continued to speak, but Ranya didn't hear a word. She stared at the folder in her hands. What was Ustaz Samir thinking? To send her, unprepared, into the fray?

  "Showkat Mohammed El Razi, step forward."

  Ranya turned and saw him enter—a lithe young man in expensive clothes, his too-long hair drooping across his too-handsome face. But neither clothes nor good looks could disguise the underlying expression of selfishness gone mad.

  The judge peered over his bifocals. “Who speaks for the Public Prosecutor?"

  * * * *

  At sundown, a cannon boomed from the walls of the mosque by the river, and in its wake came the call to prayer, a hundred voices raised from a hundred minarets gathering power in slow crescendo till they covered the city like a cloud of sound. For five days the shops and banks and offices remained closed in celebration of Eid El Fitr, the time of prayer and charity that marked the end of Ramadan. In the evenings, the Ramadan lanterns hung from trees and balconies, shining yellow and green in the warm night.

  * * * *

  Shortly before eleven thirty on the following Sunday (the first day back to work after the five-day feast), some dozen women—secretaries, receptionists, research assistants, and two attorneys—drifted into the secretaries’ cloakroom for noon prayers. On other days, they might have talked about the just-ended holiday and caught up on family news as they waited for the latecomers to arrive after washing their feet. But on that day, there was only one topic of conversation:

  "It's a real compliment to Ranya. She should be honored."

  "You think so? Who else was there to go?"

  "And that is the disgrace. Three dozen attorneys and not one of them bothered to appear before noon."

  "Nonsense. What was the rush? The magistrate would have taken the case today. Never in twelve years have I heard of such a thing! There is something behind this, mark my words."

  "There she is. Ranya! Don't hide . . . come, tell us what it was like!"

  "I'm
not sure I can.” Ranya, dressed in subdued brown, turned to take her prayer mat from the shelf. “Since I made such a fool of myself, I am doing my best to forget it."

  "Don't feel sorry for yourself, Ranya,” said a cool voice. “The charges were filed in the end, weren't they? Some of us would give an arm for the privilege of being foolish before the magistrate."

  Ranya raised her eyes to the speaker. Nermiin had graduated six years before her, and had yet to see the inside of a courtroom.

  "Now you must try to use this chance to your benefit,” Nermiin continued.

  "Yes, Ranya, you will be assigned your own case in no time!"

  "She may be appointed a deputy prosecutor!"

  "Ladies!” said an authoritative voice. “You do Ranya no favor by putting such ideas into her head. She will just be disappointed.” The women fell silent as Mona El Gindy, a full-bosomed woman decked in enormous gold earrings and bangle bracelets, entered the cloakroom. Mona had been secretary to the personnel manager for thirty years. “Honestly. Why don't you just tell her she will be appointed Egypt's second woman judge?"

  "Certainly not,” said Nermiin. “Second? By the time Ranya is old enough to be considered for such an honor, there will be dozens of women judges."

  Mona arched a heavily penciled eyebrow. “Very clever, Nermiin. You are always very clever. Nonetheless, I recommend that you keep quiet on this topic. Others in this office are not as understanding as you. It is not every attorney who must ask the advice of one of the drivers while in court."

  Ranya winced, concentrating very hard on finding her Quran in her purse.

  "Now Ranya, I know you did your best, and really, they should be grateful. Just keep to your place and wait patiently. In time the unfortunate details will be forgotten."

  "I think that is too much to hope for,” said Ranya.

  "Ustaz Samir himself stumbled at the beginning of his career,” said Mona.

  Ranya looked up. “Are you speaking of the case he lost?"

  "Yes.” Mona allowed a nostalgic expression to smooth her face. “It was twenty-five years ago, when he was a young assistant prosecutor in Zagazig. The case was horrific: A man of forty, who achieved fame in his youth as a soccer player, murdered his wife and her sister. Khalid Barsoum.” She grimaced. “There was never a doubt that he did it."