Borderline (17 page)

T
he case against Dad turns into confetti. The FBI never says who the “unidentified terrorist” tried to contact, or how or when. That information remains Classified For Reasons Of National Security. Also For Reasons Of Nobody Wants To Look Like An Idiot.

What matters is, as soon as the authorities see my affidavit and interview me, they search the hard drive history in Dad's computer and the one I used at the Academy, to see how I figured out Tariq's phone number and address. Then they check the places and times I called him. Suddenly, the “unidentified terrorist” is downgraded to a “person of interest.” And within a week, they announce that the “person of interest” has been
cleared, and that whole part of the case disappears—as if everyone decides to have amnesia, and they're on to other things.

Such as the official investigation at Shelton Laboratories. The lab has reopened, so the report must have been completed. The press wants to know when it'll be released. The government says, “No comment.” But the press demands to know what materials went missing, and what was found on the surveillance tapes. The government's answer: “Sorry. Top secret.”

“If anything was missing from the inventory, we'd have heard about it,” Mr. Bhanjee tells Mom and me, leaning against the desk in his office. “The fact that we haven't means that every last petri dish has been accounted for. Which proves your father didn't take anything from the lab for Tariq. That, coupled with Tariq's letter, makes your father's explanation of his e-mail airtight.”

“So why don't they admit it?” I say. “Why do they keep holding him? It's like they know Dad is innocent but they don't care. They're going to hold him forever just so they won't have to admit they made a mistake.” I want to smash something big time. But then
I'd
be in trouble, only for something real, and that's the last thing Mom needs.

“Breathe,” Mr. Bhanjee tells us. “They can't hold Arman forever. The press will keep pushing to get that report released. I'll do the same in court. Sooner or later, pressure will force out the truth, and the prosecution will find that pursuing a case without evidence is more embarrassing than your father's release. The longer a wrongfully accused is held, the greater the public outrage.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Call someone a terrorist and nobody gives a shit.”

“Sami!” Mom exclaims.

“It's true, Mom, and you know it. Especially for people like us.”

Mom squeezes my hand. “It's hard, I know. But it's just a matter of waiting. I've taken a second mortgage on the house. The money will see us through till this is resolved. Don't worry.”

I'm not worried. I'm angry.

 

To keep my mind off things—not to mention because I have to—I go back to school. This time, I'm with Andy and Marty at Meadowvale Secondary. It feels strange in the halls sometimes, people staring at me and pretending not to, but the guys keep me sane. After class, we like to hit Mr. Softy's. The city's drained the water from the
fountain across the street for the winter, but on sunny days it's still warm enough to sit out on the ledge.

That's where we are now, eating ice cream, sharing stupid secrets. Like the one about my name. “Remember when we first met?” I say. “I was so ashamed of who I was, I let you think my name was English: Sammy, spelled S-A-M-M-Y. Well, it's not. It's Arabic: Sami, spelled S-A-M-I.”

“Some secret.” Andy laughs. “You think we never saw the class register?”

I feel so dumb I burst out laughing. It's good to laugh. It makes the crap disappear, if only for a second.

Marty's ice cream drips down his cone and over his fingers. “Hey,” he licks his hand, “what's with those guys over there in the BMW and the SUV?”

I look across the street. And feel sick. I've tried to forget about the Academy. But it's not like it disappeared. It's not like Eddy Duh Turd's disappeared either. He and his gang are staring at us.

“You know the Academy thugs I told you about?”

Marty's cone crumbles; his ice cream falls to the pavement. “One of those guys is Eddy Duh Turd?”

“You got it. Driver's seat, BMW.”

“What do they want?”

“Guess.”

Andy gets up nice and slow. He sticks his hand in his jeans. Fishing for the keys to the Deathmobile, I figure. “Want to make a run for it?”

I shake my head. “You guys can. It's me they're after. I'm not running. Not anymore.”

“But there's six of them.”

“There'll always be six of them.”

Eddy sees us looking at him. He and his goons pile out of the cars.

“Yo, sand monkey, I've been looking for you,” Eddy calls out as they swagger across the street. “You trying to hide? Your ass may be expelled, but you still answer to me. Got it?”

I step forward. “Get off my case, Harrison.”

“Or what?” Eddy mocks. “You'll cry on me? Figures we'd find you here. Mr.
Softy
's. Perfect.”

Andy and Marty move beside me. I motion them back.

“This your crew?” Eddy sneers. He casually kicks a stone in my direction. “How's your daddy? He like the showers at the jail? You should maybe introduce him to your pal, Bernstein.”

Eddy's friends make kissing sounds.

“You gonna take that?” Eddy dares. “You pissing your pants, maybe?” He glances at Andy and Marty. “Did your girlfriend ever tell you he had his head in a shit bowl? Yeah, he's a regular shit-for-brains.”

His buddies laugh.

And out of nowhere, I'm filled with this weird tingling, this power. I can't describe it. All I know is, I'm not afraid. I'm not mad. In fact, I'm scary-calm. “Yeah, Eddy, I had my head in a toilet,” I say. “But I didn't put it there. You did. Only the crud of the crud would do a thing like that.” I look Eddy square in the eye. “As long as you live, you'll remember that day. You'll know what you did to me. And you'll know what that makes you.”

Eddy rears his head back. “What, you think you're better than me? You got expelled. Your dad's Dr. Death. The stink of your name will follow you forever. Me, I've got it made. I'll be at my old man's Ivy League. Or go straight to the family firm.”

“That's the other thing. No matter how big you get, you'll never know if it's because of you or your dad. That's gotta hurt. I feel sorry for you, Eddy.”

“What?” he sputters. “You don't get to feel sorry for me!”

“Can't help it.” I shrug.

“Oh, you'll help it all right,” Eddy says. His buddies close in around us. He raises his fists.

“Go ahead,” I say. “Beat the shit out of me. What'll that prove? Nothing. Except I'm right about you. So go ahead, Eddy. Prove me right.”

Eddy doesn't know what to do. It's like he's facing a crazy person or something. He drops his fists. “Asshole,” he says. “Come on guys, these pussies aren't worth it.” He backs across the street, giving us the finger. Then he and his crew jump into their cars and take off, horns blaring.

“Good luck, Eddy,” I murmur. “You'll need it.”

I
t finally happens late one Friday afternoon. Mr. Bhanjee calls from the jail. “They're letting Arman go. I'll drive him home.” The FBI has prepared a brief statement of apology, like they did with the man in Portland who was falsely accused of being a member of Al Quaeda based on a quarter of a fingerprint. The apology is nice, but all I care about is Dad.

His release has been kept quiet, “out of respect for the family's privacy,” according to the authorities. “The real reason,” Mr. Bhanjee says, “is because the truth makes them look bad. Late Friday is when officials dump stories that could embarrass them. Offices are closed or closing, so the press has a hard time getting reactions for
the evening news, and hardly anybody pays attention to things over the weekend. By Monday the world's moved on; if there's any fallout, it's diluted.”

I wish the media was as loud about advertising people's innocence as it is about accusing them. Still, I have to admit, the last thing I want right now is a bunch of cameras in our face.

The street's totally quiet when Dad arrives. Mom and I stay by the bay window, afraid to do anything to cause a scene. Dad gets out of the car. Mr. Bhanjee waits to leave till he's made his way to the front door.

Dad moves stiffly, as if he's frozen and the tiniest move will break his joints. He closes the door behind him.

Mom's suddenly beside him. She holds him tight, stroking his back with her hands. They rock together, whispering each other's names.

Finally Mom steps aside. “Your son,” she says.

Dad stands there, lost.

I take a step toward him.

He raises his arms to hug me, then looks away in shame.

“I never wanted this for you,” he says.

“I know, Dad.”

“I never wanted that you or your mother should know.”

“I know.”

His voice breaks. “I wanted to be a good father. A perfect father. I wanted to save you from my mistakes. My weakness. Forgive me.”

“Dad,” I say. “You're Dad. That's all I want. Dad.”

And I go to him, wrap my arms around him.

“Sami. My son. My Sami.”

 

Apart from school, I stay close to home. Dad's taking a long vacation before returning to work, and I want to be near if he needs me. He's good during the day; at night, not so much. I keep my door open, so I can hear when he's up with nightmares. Those times, I go to the kitchen and sit with him while he has his warm milk and molasses. What happened to him in jail was rough. The reaction of former friends hurts too.

“We'll get through this,” he says, like I'm a friend as well as his son. “The neighbors didn't want us when we first came here. That went away. It's back again. But not forever. We're Sabiris. We don't run.”

I'm glad Dad's my dad. He's brave. All things considered, we have it lucky. Not like the Brotherhood. It takes more than a year for them to even get to trial. In the end, there aren't any terror charges, but the video
evidence gets them convicted of smaller things, like illegal discharge of a firearm and uttering death threats. The ones on expired student visas get deported; the ones who were landed immigrants get their status revoked; the rest get time served.

Tariq takes a bigger hit. When he turned himself in, he not only got nailed for all the small stuff, but for public mischief and interfering with a police investigation as well; he gets six months on top. His girlfriend and a buddy go down for harboring a fugitive; they get a year's probation.

The scary thing is what happens to Erim Malik. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Prosecutors never go back on a deal; they're afraid if they did that informants would stop talking. So despite the fact that Malik is obviously a public menace, he gets a free pass. He'll be watched, but for how long? And sure, his uncle's copy shop is closed, but who knows what happened to all the fake passports he fenced before the cops came calling? Maybe some went to harmless illegals: nannies or day laborers. But the others? Thinking about it gives me chills.

Anyway—Tariq. We've visited him in jail. Mom too. I thought it'd be weird, but Mom has a heart that won't
stop. “I hear you're my stepson,” she smiled. And it was like he'd been family forever.

Tariq will never live near us or anything. With his record, I don't think he can even get into the country. But I like the idea of having an older brother. I'm so glad we met.

I dream of the day that he's free.

I picture Dad, Mom, and me renting a cottage near Toronto. We invite the guys. We invite Tariq too. I picture us having a barbecue, kicking back, and teasing Dad into the lake for a swim. I picture us watching the sun go down, laughing and talking around a campfire, till my folks go to bed and we fall asleep on the sand.

It's a beautiful dream.

And one day, I know it's going to happen.

I
am filled with enormous gratitude to the many people who helped me with the cultural and legal details in
Borderline
.

Within the Muslim community, I am particularly indebted to members of the Noor Cultural Centre in Toronto, especially executive committee member Faizal Kayum and his wife, Laila Baksh, and their son, Azeem Kayum; and to the former Noor Chair at York University, Professor Timothy Gianotti. I am also grateful to Yassir Hakim, science teacher at Collège français, Toronto, and to journalist and documentary producer Sadia Zaman.

On legal matters, I consulted New York attorney Stephen Watt of the American Civil Liberties Union;
Stephen M. Perlitsch, an attorney engaged in American immigration law; and Paul Copeland, who argued the law on detention certificates before the Canadian Supreme Court.

I am also grateful for the time and assistance of Barry Rosen, press attaché to the American embassy in Tehran during the 1979–1981 hostage crisis; Margaret McPhedran Axford, regional manager with Canadian Border Services; former private investigator Stephen Dow; TASC's Michael Behrens; American educators Frances Shoonmaker and Liesl Bolin; Reverend Gene Bolin; and the
Toronto Star
's editor emeritus Haroon Siddiqui, international affairs columnist Thomas Walkom, and national security reporter Michelle Shephard.

Last, but not least, my deepest thanks to my editors, Lynne Missen, Susan Rich, Sarah Howden, Beate Schaefer, and Catherine Onder; and to my reading circle: Daniel Legault, Louise Baldacchino, Christine Baldacchino, and Vickie Stewart.