Borderline (10 page)

T
wo minutes later, there's a report that members of the Brotherhood of Martyrs are being detained at Toronto's Don Jail on security certificates. Dad's being held at the Rochester Correctional Facility, a state prison not far from here. There's no word on charges. That doesn't stop the networks from posting a video still of Dad's deranged face under the headline:
DR. DEATH?

I head upstairs to the linen closet. Sheets, blankets, towels, and pillowcases are strewn along the hallway; the floor looks like a miniature Thousand Islands made out of cotton and wool. I untangle a few blankets, haul them to the living room, and step up on a chair so I can hang them over the rod above the bay window.

“Sami, get down off your father's chair,” Mom calls from down the hall in the family room. She's watching my drapery antics on TV. I give the finger to whatever camera crew is filming me. “Sami!” Mom explodes.

TV aerial shots have made the street look like a parking lot. At ground level, it's even more jammed. Moms with strollers, kids playing hooky, and people who've detoured in from Oxford Drive—they've all decided our little crescent is a tourist spot. The Robinson twins from two doors down have even set up a lemonade stand.

No sign of Andy and Marty, though. I turn on my cell. They've left a gazillion messages. I call right away. They're freaking out in Andy's basement. After they went on TV, the FBI agents took them to a van and questioned them about being my friends and if they'd heard me talk about stuff.

“We said no,” Andy volunteers.

“What else did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay,” he confesses, “just that your dad's real strict, he's always praying, and a joke about the Prophet'll send him off his nut. Anyway, they took our addresses and phone numbers. Shit, man, cops at the door are one
thing, but if our folks find out the FBI's on our case, they'll kill us.”

“Right, so shut up, if you know what's good for you,” Marty hisses at Andy. “The agents said the interview was classified. We shouldn't be telling him anything.”

“
‘Him'
?”

“No offense,” Andy says, “but Marty's right. We shouldn't talk.”

“Suit yourself, dickhead!” I hang up, hoping they'll call back to say they're sorry. They don't.

There's a knock on the front door. I peek between my makeshift curtains. It's a couple of installers from Akmed Windows and Doors: at least, that's the name on their van. I hope Akmed appreciates the publicity.

Mom's not trusting anyone. Before she'll talk to them, she makes them go around to the backyard and give her our imam's name. Turns out they're legit. They measure the French doors and say it'll be Monday before they can get replacements. In the meantime, they bolt sheets of plywood over the busted frames. At noon, they break for Juma prayers. That's when I notice the paparazzi in the golf club's trees. Just what we need: Shots Of The Door Guys bowing to Mecca in our little backyard war zone.

I point the paparazzi out to Mom. “You should fire a
few line drives at 'em with your three wood.”

“Right.” Mom nods grimly. “Maybe wear a burka while I'm at it. Give the sons of bitches their money's worth.”

I'm so shocked, I laugh.

Mom's eyes mist. “What would I do without you?”

I look away, cuz I'm thinking the same about her.

The door guys leave as Eddy Harrison's crew shows up on lunch break. What with the crowd filling the street, Eddy parks the right side of his BMW on Mr. Hutchison's front lawn. He and his friends get out of the car and start feeding their faces with burgers, fries, and jumbo Cokes. Hutchison stands on his porch and swears at them. Eddy just laughs and tosses his food wrappers in Hutchison's bushes. Next thing you know, Hutchison's soaking Eddy and his gang with a high-power garden hose. Eddy goes apeshit, but the cops step in fast. The gang disappears.

Nothing new happens till four. That's when Mr. Bhanjee phones to say he's still trying to see Dad. He promises he'll be over right after. “Right after” turns out to be nine o'clock. Mom and I watch for him through the window blankets in our darkened living room. Outside, it's bright as day from all the camera crews, cars, and vans.

A police escort guides Mr. Bhanjee's Mazda to our
roped-off driveway. He's swarmed by press. As he backs toward our door, answering questions, he pats the air like he's taming lions at the circus. Lucky for him, he's on our side of the police tape, or he'd be eaten alive.

We lead him back to the family room. Mr. Bhanjee settles onto the sectional and wipes a hand over well-gelled hair. He's had a hard, sweaty day. He keeps his jacket on out of respect for Mom, but it's unbuttoned and his shirt's so damp you can see his undershirt. You don't want to. Mr. Bhanjee's one of those totally hairy guys who have to shave a crescent between their beard and chest so they won't look like the Wolfman. He's also waxed a gap in his unibrow.

Mom offers him tea.

Mr. Bhanjee adds four lumps of sugar, but passes on Mom's ginger snaps because, apparently, he's on a diet. He holds his cup and saucer under his chin. “I've spoken to Arman. He says to tell you both he loves you. And he's innocent.”

Mom presses her hands on her knees. “How is he?” she asks softly.

Mr. Bhanjee raises his shoulders as if to say, how do you think? “It's hard to know. I saw him less than five minutes. He was behind glass. There were guards.”

Mom's on her feet. “If he's being questioned, he has a right to a lawyer! Why weren't you there? Why
aren't
you there?”

Mr. Bhanjee sets his tea on the coffee table, adjusts the crease of his pants at the knee, and folds his hands. I focus on his lips, his mouth spilling words that make the air so thick I can't breathe: “Mrs. Sabiri, there's the law—and there's the law. In the case of an imminent terror attack, the government justifies violations of individual rights.”

“But Arman might say things that can be twisted against him later!”

Mr. Bhanjee shakes his head. “Prosecutors can't use statements made without a lawyer present. That's why I doubt they're asking him questions about himself.”

“They want him to lead them to Hasan,” I whisper.

Mr. Bhanjee lifts the left half of his giant eyebrow. “That's my guess, yes.”

Mom sits down again; squeezes the sides of the ottoman. “So what do we do now?”

“Courts are closed for the weekend, and your husband's under tight security,” Mr. Bhanjee says. “Monday morning I can fight for his release. He's being held in preventive detention as a material witness. But so far, he hasn't been charged.”

“What are your odds of getting him out?”

Mr. Bhanjee taps his lips with his napkin. “As you can understand, with terror threats, judges are reluctant to second-guess the government. Suppose someone with information about an attack is released and a strike follows. Imagine the outrage. Not to mention the consequences to the judge. They're elected, don't forget. Political rule number one: Avoid risk.”

Mom hesitates: “So how long could Arman be held?”

“Only God knows.”

Mom leans forward. “Mr. Bhanjee, I know things look bad, but I also know my husband. This thing is a mistake. All day we've heard ‘unconfirmed reports' and ‘off-the-record sources.' But where's the evidence? Why do they think Arman's involved?”

Mr. Bhanjee opens and closes his hands. “If a terrorist threat is believed to exist, evidence is kept secret. National security. When I apply for your husband's release, the government will give the judge a summary of its case. Any names, or details that could reveal those names, will be redacted.”

“Redacted?”

“Edited out. It's to protect the lives of informants. And to prevent terrorists from using the information to regroup.”

“So anyone can say anything, and we have no idea who's saying what,” Mom exclaims.

I start to sweat. “Without names and details, fighting for Dad will be like wrestling fog.”

“I'm afraid that's right.” Mr. Bhanjee nods. “And there's something else to understand: There are risks even if I win your father's release.”

Mom and I look at each other, bewildered, then at Mr. Bhanjee.

“Right now,” Mr. Bhanjee explains, “Arman's only being held as a witness. But if a judge sets him free, the government can decide to lay charges—any charges—to keep him in jail. Once he's charged, proving his innocence can take years and cost a fortune.”

Mom freezes. “Our home. Sami's education. We could end up on the street.”

“You can use a public defender,” Mr. Bhanjee says, “but their resources are limited.”

Mom waves her hand. “Forget the future. We have to make it through the now.” She tries to get up. She can't. She grips her knees. “My husband's lived here for more than twenty years. He's a loyal American.”

“Loyal or not,” Mr. Bhanjee says, “if he's found guilty, his citizenship will be stripped. He can be
deported to where he was born.”

“Iran!” Mom gasps. “But he fled Iran! If he's sent back, think what they'll do!”

“There's one hope,” Mr. Bhanjee says. “If I'm right, this terror threat caught officials off guard. Despite the detentions, no charges have been laid on either side of the border.”

“You think the authorities are simply fishing?” Mom asks. “Holding suspects while they investigate?”

“It's possible,” Mr. Bhanjee says. “If so, the apparent terror threat may turn out to be nothing. Or nothing as it relates to your husband.”

Mom closes her eyes. “Then let's pray that's all it is. Nothing, Mashallah. And that when the government sees that, Mashallah, all will be well, Mashallah.”

Mr. Bhanjee studies his hands. I watch him rub his left thumb against the meat of his right palm. Something's bothering him—and me too. I think of the FBI, the crowds, the press, the networks.

“Mr. Bhanjee,” I say, “a lot of time and energy's gone into making Dad look like a terrorist. If it turns out he isn't, some very important people are going to look stupid. Nobody likes to look stupid. Not at home. Not at school. Not anywhere.”

Mr. Bhanjee sees me hesitate. “Go on.”

I swallow hard. “So…suppose the evidence against Dad turns out to be nothing. Or suppose stuff shows up that proves he's innocent. As long as that stuff is secret, there'll be people who'll want to
keep
it secret. Important people—people with power. In that case, the truth won't ever get out. Dad will never be able to clear his name.”

Mr. Bhanjee turns to Mom. “You have a very smart son.”

M
om and I stay inside for the weekend.

The news—and I mean
all
the news—is still about Dad. You'd think nothing else was happening in the world. It's not like they have much to add, either. It's just the same old clips of Dad looking crazy as he's dragged away, the FBI sweep of Shelton Laboratories, and photos of the Brotherhood of Martyrs.

Well, okay, there's some new stuff. Canada's RCMP has released a few videos the Brotherhood took of their training exercises. There's shots of them firing off rounds in some farm field, and Tariq Hasan laughing about how they should take out the prime minister of Canada and his parliament too. And on CNN there's a segment with a
Rochester reporter that comes with footage of the Akmed door guys praying behind our house; an interview with Mom's boss at the drug store; and, truly embarrassing, news that “Sabiri's son, Mohammed, is a student at the exclusive Theodore Roosevelt Academy.” Like, what's the point? Terrorists educate their kids?

I have a flash of Dad enrolling me. I remember thinking I was in prison. But that's nothing like what he's going through now. I wonder how he is. The not knowing drives me crazy.

I phone Andy and Marty. They don't pick up or return my texts. In fact, the only calls I get have unidentified caller ID. Cranks. How did they get my number? From someone at school? Eddy? How did he find it? Who cares? I delete them all, without bothering to listen.

Andy and Marty. Why did I have to hang up mad? I want to talk to them. I need to. Don't they know that? Maybe they're scared because of the FBI. Or maybe their folks have said not to talk to me. I mean, who knows who's being bugged by now?

All the same, them cutting me off, it hurts. I want to bang on Andy's door and make him tell me what's happening. But there's still camera people around to record us. And I'm afraid of what he might say. As long
as I don't know, I can pretend the silence doesn't mean anything. But if he says we can't be friends anymore, I don't know what I'll do.

I try not to think about it. Saturday, I help Mom clean up. Sunday, I help her play host to visitors from the mosque. Mom's prepared tea and food for everyone, but the women have brought groceries and serving trays of their own. All afternoon, they work in the kitchen so Mom won't have to think about cooking meals till, like, forever.

Me, I'm sent to the family room with the men. They shake my hand, double-hug me, and pat my back. This is to give me strength for “the difficult days ahead.” Seeing as Dad's in jail, I'm supposedly the Man Of The House. Whatever that means. I suck it up and try to look tough, or however a Man Of The House is supposed to look. Not like an awkward geek anyway, which is how I feel. It'd be easier if I had a beard.

Imam Habib is seated in the recliner at the end of the room, in front of the plywood over the French doors. He rises to give a brief talk. His eyes are watery. I wonder if it's because of cataracts, like with Marty's grandma. His voice is old too. There's a little rattle at the end of his sentences, like his lungs aren't so good. It doesn't matter.
He's gentle without being a wimp, and knows all the right things to say. Mostly he talks about how this is a time of testing but we'll come out of the fire stronger, like steel; and how the prophet Musa—Moses—spent forty years in the wilderness, but God was with him.

The imam's words are comforting for most of us. But they're not enough for Mr. Ibrahim. He's never forgotten his strip search in Newark. “When Timothy McVeigh bombed the Oklahoma City building, the government didn't round up blond-haired, blue-eyed Christians!” he shouts. “When the IRA bombed London, the West didn't declare war on Catholics!”

I put a finger to my lips and point to the holes in the walls. There could be listening devices anywhere. Everything that's been said in private could be recorded. Probably is. For sure, everyone who's come through the door has been photographed.

Mr. Ibrahim settles himself with a cigarette. Considering the plywood over the French doors has turned the room into a tomb, I'm ticked. But if I say anything about smoking being haraam, I'll put Imam Habib on the spot, which'll make me a bad host, so I shut up, and pray that Mom's stocked up on air freshener.

She has. Incense, anyway. After evening prayers,
when everyone finally leaves, she lights four sticks of sandalwood, sets one at each corner of the room, and burrows into the corner of the sectional with
Golf Digest
. I leave her alone, heading off for some quiet time of my own.

I try downstairs, but my room feels empty without my computer. The living room's weird too, with the blankets over the windows to shut out the clusters of people who're still outside. Apparently, they haven't figured out the show's over, and they should maybe get a life.

Where I end up is in Dad's office. It's the one room in the house Mom and I left untouched when we cleaned up. I've hardly ever been in here: that time a few weeks back when I got into his computer; the time after Mary Louise, when he gave me an online tour of the Academy; and a few times when I was little. I mean, this is Dad's room. The room you only go into if you want to die.

I leave the lights off. The dusk is all I need.

Dad's carpets are heaved up and over. The family portraits and Dad's degrees are knocked off the walls. His desk's pulled forward, all its drawers missing. The computer, printer, scanner, and filing cabinets are gone too. His roll-chair is in the corner, the leather ripped open; ditto the cushions on the window seat.

I don't know why, but I have this weird need to snuggle into the empty space under his desk; it looks so safe and secure, like my cubbyhole at the Academy. I crawl under and curl up, arms around my knees, in the place where his feet would be. Dad. I imagine his hands on a keyboard over my head. I imagine him humming, or chanting a favorite verse from the Qur'an. Dad.

When I was in middle school, there was a kid who dropped dead in the middle of a volleyball game. Drew Lazar. Twelve years old, and he just dropped dead. His brother says their mom's kept Drew's room the way it was the day he died. The old posters are still up. The bed's unmade. There's a sneaker on the desk. He says the room is cold.

It's like that here, now. This cold. This strange cold. Like Dad's gone and he's never coming back. And this room will stay exactly the same, the way it was the night he left and our world changed, forever.

In the near-dark, Dad smiles at me from the small framed photo of him and me—the one where I'm maybe six and his beard is tickling my cheek. It's on the floor now, across the room. It must've been knocked off the desk and kicked aside during the raid. Somehow it's landed upright, propped against an overturned wastebasket.
The glass over the picture has broken into five pieces, but the metal frame is still keeping everything together.

I want to reach out, to take it, to hold it close. But I'm afraid to touch it. What if the shards of glass dislodge and slice the photo? Still, if I leave it lying on the floor, sooner or later it'll get wrecked for sure. I crawl over, carefully cup my hands under the frame, and bring the picture to my room, setting it on the table by my bed.

I rest my head on my pillow and stare at it. Dad. What's the truth, Dad? Did you do something wrong? If you didn't, why are they holding you? Why are they saying those things on TV?

What's going to happen to us?