Remember Me

Chapter 3: I Am Released On My Recognizance(Part II)

We remained in the car for about half an hour more. I spent that time anxiously looking at the soldier whom I gave the money, wishing he would give me a signal, or let me do my phone call. Despite thinking my whole situation over and over with obsessive minuteness, I never thought of how he'd do it. I just assumed that the moment it suited his fancy, he would, and that it was quite the normal thing. What induced me to glance so easily over this detail was perhaps my naivety in thinking that every prisoner is entitled to a phone call; therefore, since I asked nicely, I'd get one.

Even though that was a mistake, it was a blessing that I made it. I was, by then, feverish and trembling. I was injured and my chest sent one bang after another, punishing me for moving, or staying still in a posture that disagreed with its injuries. Thinking this extra problem would have surely been the final straw in an otherwise, albeit only slightly, rational mind. Prisoners doing phone calls was pretty common, but, unbeknownst to me, this required several factors to be in place. The most important of which, was that an officer shouldn't be present, and to find a soldier who agrees to do it. Officers, there were four, one from each station, came and went as they pleased; at times going into the questioning room with the convict, at others hung around in the hall outside, or stood outside smoking. The soldiers didn't just agree to phone calls at will. They had to, first, get something out of it and, second, ensure they won't be reprimanded.

Soon my wait was over. They began calling us two by two to come out of the van. They would handcuff each one to a soldier, and he would lead him to the courthouse. I was called third or fourth, and was handcuffed to the man I had handed the money. He walked with me towards the courthouse, behind the first inmate who was handcuffed to another soldier. A little along the way, I noticed there was a little kiosk selling cigarettes, biscuits, and the like, and that we were heading towards it, not towards the entrance of the courthouse. When we reached the kiosk, the soldier said:

"Halim, phone."

The man working the kiosk, whose name that was, a young man in his twenties, looked at me with knitted eyebrows and handed me an old mobile phone that he attached with a string to a nail inside his kiosk. He was a thin young man, square-faced, with cigarette stained teeth and a lot of gel on his hair.

"What's with him?" Halim said, gesturing with his head to me, doubtless remarking my appearance. The soldier shrugged and didn't answer. At that time, I remembered I didn't ask the soldier for his name, which Haitham had instructed me to do. I hadn't, as yet, spoken to him at all since I got off the van.

"A thousand thanks! A thousand thanks!" I said while dialling the number Haitham gave me, affecting gratitude.

"What's your name, boss? I didn't have the honour of knowing it." I asked gently.

"Hassan." He answered.

"All right, Hassan boss." I said, as I waited for someone to answer. No one answered. I tried to remember if I dialled a wrong number, but I was sure of what I dialled. I tried again, but the call went unanswered as well.

"No one else?" Hassan asked, after the third time. I didn't have anyone else to call, who could have been of any use at this time. I shook my head, so he took the phone from me and gave it to its owner. I felt, as I handed it to him, that I'm letting go of the most valuable thing I had.

We proceeded to the courthouse, went up some stairs to the first floor where the prosecutor's room was. There were three men inside. One of them was immediately recognizable as the prosecutor, and one I guessed to be the recorder of this hearing. I didn't know who the third person was, and he didn't speak throughout the questioning. The prosecutor was a man in his mid-forties; he was seated but I could see he was lithe, and looked elegant in a simple dark blue suit and a dark grey tie; he had elegant frame-less glasses, thick eyebrows, and a face that showed slight signs of ageing in small wrinkles around the mouth and eyes. His mouth bore a mixture of cruelty and boredom often noticeable in men in his profession. He looked at me for a moment, then began the questioning.