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.
"Is your name Omar (..)?" He asked. He spoke quickly, as if words were trying to escape his stern mouth.
"Yes." I answered.
"Is your address (..)?"
"Yes."
He went through three or four more routine questions before he asked:
"It says here that you assaulted an officer on duty. Is that true?" He asked looking at me intensely. I had decided I wouldn't play anything down. I would describe as precisely and correctly as possible what happened. It wasn't out of bravery, foolishness or despair, it was simply because I didn't wish to lie. There was no use, I reasoned, in denying the charge, for there were witnesses to the incident, both civilian and from the force. I also feared that, in case there was an exaggeration by the officer I had beaten about his injuries or some other distortion of truth(for example, that I tried to escape apprehension), that my honesty in admitting the whole incident could corroborate my version not theirs.
"Yes." I answered, looking at him, my heart beginning to throb faster.
"Why?" He asked with an experienced look. He seemed to be giving me the freedom to narrate my version first. I felt a cool chill of mixed relief that he did, and anticipation of whether I will be able to deliver.
"I will be brief, sir. I was going home from college, and I saw a Facilities soldier wrestling a piece of crockery from a woman who was selling them on the pavement. I felt angry because he was cursing her with the most foul of languages, and she looked old and feeble. I intervened, asking him to let this one go, but he struck my hand and broke the piece of crockery. I was momentarily furious and in my fury I struck him on his face. Three times. I was then apprehended by other soldiers, and woke up as you see me now." I said, my voice slightly trembling at first, but growing calmer and clearer.
For a moment he looked at me silently, while I dreaded what he would say next. I was certain he would say:"So you admit to striking a soldier on duty?". It was what I feared most despite not knowing what my legal stance was. I definitely was admitting that, and had used no words to hide it.
"You slapped him." He said leaning his chin on the back of one hand cubbing his other fist. I was silent for a few seconds. I thought I misheard him.
"You said you struck him. I have it on good authority that you, specifically, slapped him." He reiterated.
"Yes, I did." I said, then couldn't help but add: "Is there a difference?"
"No. It's only peculiar." He said still looking at me as if trying to solve a mystery.
"Why?" I asked cautious not to cross a line. This was my second question. He stayed silent for a while, then unfolded his fist, grabbed a pen and wrote something on the paper in front of him saying:
"It seems like an appropriate manifestation of the emotion you claim to have had at that situation." He said this so quickly and so negligently, as if dismissing it, that I heard it without understanding it, until after I was motioned away by him and dragged by the soldier.
We went outside into the street, and Hassan lead me to the van. I asked him what's next and he said that they'll tell me the verdict when it's out. When we reached the van there was an air of casualty in the place. Two more soldiers were smoking and chatting with inmates, and there were people smoking inside the van as well.
The peculiarity of the prosecutor occupied my thoughts for a while, until I realized, now that there was nothing in my hands any more, I was in desperate need of sleep. My eyes were heavy and my thoughts kept dissipating. I couldn't focus on one thing, and soon my head fell to my chest and I started drifting in and out of sleep. My tiredness kept me from staying awake, and my anxiousness kept me from sleeping.
I stayed in that condition for what seemed to me to be an hour or two, I had no watch, when I awoke with a start to the sudden jerk of the van's motor starting to run. The van was still stationary, and the door was still open, but everyone was inside again. I was sitting next to the door now, so I frantically searched with my eyes for the solider that I knew. I spotted him standing not far away and I called to him.
"Hassan! Hassan!"
"What do you want, boy?" He said, a little gruffly.
"What did I get?" I asked, my voice a little hoarse.
"Out on recognizance." He said. I hadn't known what "recognizance" meant previously, but I didn't care for it, for my thoughts were fixed on "out". I felt a chill run through my chest, and my heart danced a little not knowing how else to express its joy. It wasn't freedom, or rather it wasn't only freedom, that I was delighted to have, but I felt that I'm regaining some part of my humanity back. I felt so deprived of it under the effect of the inhumane treatment that is so normal in prison, manifested in everything and everywhere you look, that I felt I was beginning to be a worse person just by being there. A more callous, exploitative one, with only my interest in front of me, and only thinking of ways of achieving it. The handcuffs and bars weren't the problem, it's the maltreatment that weighed much more on me.
I leaned back and rested my head on the wall behind me, sighing. I spent the long drive back to the station trying to keep from smiling visibly.
At the same time, Halim was in his kiosk, rearranging cartons of cigarettes, and making a cup of tea for someone, when his phone rang. He finished stirring the cup of tea, and quickly dried his hands in a dirty piece of cloth, and picked the phone up.
"A'lo?" He said.
"A'lo, did you call me from this number a while ago?", a young woman's voice asked him.
"I don't know, Miss, people come and call from this phone all the time. Maybe someone did." He answered quickly.
"Oh, ok. Sorry to bother you. Bye." The young woman said, and hung up.
Halim, put the phone down, and got out of his kiosk to deliver the tea to the man who ordered it. As soon as he returned, he picked his phone up, fiddled with it for a while and his face brightened. He dialled the last calling number.
"A'lo?" A young woman's voice said.
"A'lo. Miss, there was a person who came and called you between nine thirty and ten. Is that the same time?" He asked, sure of the answer.
"Yes." She said.
"Ah, he was one of the prisoners who came in the van. I'm next to the courthouse so they use my phone sometimes." He said, quite proud of his deduction.
"Do you know who he was? What did he look like? What station was he from?" The young woman asked with interest.
"I don't know, miss. He came and called you only, then went away. He was young, and his face was beaten and he had blood on his cheek. He was holding his chest with his arm too, and his collar was torn." Halim answered, trying to remember and making gestures with his free hand over his face, as if he could describe the injuries to his speaker.
"What did he look like? Describe him to me." She asked again.
"He was tall, thin, very thin, a little dark skinned, and had short hair." Halim tried to describe as best as he could, but he was evidently having trouble, gesturing with his hand whenever he couldn't find words to say.
"Anything distinctive about him?" She asked, apparently not recognizing from this very generic description who the caller was.
"Err, yes! He had a scar over his left eyebrow. An old scar. It looked like a white line going through his eyebrow." Halim said.
"Ok. Thanks for your help." The young woman said, after he had finished.
"No problem, miss. If I see him again, should I call you?" Halim asked, felling he didn't help much.
"Yes, sure. Thank you. Bye." She said, then hung up. Halim went back to his work, and after a little while stopped thinking about it.