The Terrorist’s Son by Zak Ebrahim Read Free Book Online

trial. Sometimes, Kunstler and his team camp out in our apartment and strategize with my mother until all hours. Other times,we visit him in his office in Greenwich Village. He has a statue of Michelangelo’s David on his desk. Whenever we stop by, out of respect for my sister and mother, he takes off his tie and drapes it around the little guy’s neck to cover his private parts.
    Kunstler hopes to convince the jury that Kahane’s own people murdered him in an argument over money, then framed my father. My mother believes the story herself—her husband has assured her that he’s innocent, and there must be some explanation for the assassination—and we all get swept up in my father’s cause. $163,000 is reportedly donated for Baba’s defense. Ammu Ibrahim reaches out to Osama bin Laden, who contributes twenty thousand himself.
    We visit my father at Rikers again and again. I see him in a prison uniform so many times that it will color my previous memories of him. Over two decades later, I will picture my family around the dinner table in Cliffside Park, a year or more before my father’s arrest. I’ll imagine him talking to us cheerfully, passing a platter of lamb—and wearing an orange jumpsuit.

6
December 21, 1991
New York Supreme Court, Manhattan
    My father’s supporters sit on one side of the courtroom, Kahane’s on the other, like at a wedding. The factions have broken out into fights on the sidewalk during the trial, so there are thirty-five police officers in court today. It’s a Saturday. The jury has been deliberating for four days. They’ve heard the state argue that El-Sayyid Nosair was a hate-fueled man, acting alone. They’ve seen the lead prosecutor hold up the .357 Magnum, stare at my father, and then turn to them and say, “This gun took one life, wounded two others, and scared an awful lot of people. Tell them by your verdict: not here, Nosair, not here.”
    Jurors have also heard Kunstler’s team contend that Kahane was murdered by enemies within his own entourage, and that the killers framed my father by placing the murder weapon next to him as he lay bleeding on Lexington Avenue. They’ve been reminded repeatedly that, thanks to the mayhem at the Marriott, not one witness remembers seeing my father shoot Kahane.
    By the time the jury returns with their verdict, it’s late in the afternoon and we’re at home in Jersey City. Thephone rings. My mother answers. It’s Uncle Ibrahim’s wife, Amina. She’s shouting so loud that even I can hear her: “He’s not guilty! He’s not guilty!”
    The courtroom erupts after the verdict. There are screams of fury from one side and cries of relief from the other. They’re like two opposing storm fronts. As for the judge, he is appalled by the jury’s verdict. He tells them it’s “devoid of common sense and logic.” Then, as if he fears he hasn’t made himself clear, he adds, “I believe the defendant conducted a rape of this country, of our Constitution and of our laws, and of people seeking to exist peacefully together.”
    The jury has found my father guilty of lesser charges: criminal possession of a weapon, assault (of the postal officer and the elderly man) and coercion (in the hijacking of the taxi). The judge sentences him to the maximum sentence permissible by law, seven to twenty-two years. But the courtroom is still roiling, even as the jurors file out. One of Kahane’s followers points to the empty jury box and shouts, “That was no jury of our peers!” Still more are chanting, “Death to Nosair! Death to Nosair! Arab dogs will die!”
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    The fact that my father’s been found not guilty of murder gives my family just enough hope to end up hurting us. His lawyers vow to appeal the convictions. I’m eight years old now, and I am convinced that Baba will be