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  When he arrived at his office, it was ten in the morning, about an hour later than usual. He had a bad hangover and a message on his church answering machine. It was from a corrections officer at the Prince William County Adult Detention Center, asking him to visit Muhammad Bayati.

  CHAPTER 8

  Muhammad Bayati was on a hunger strike and the jailers wanted Harley to meet with him. But why? The baker was a Muslim and Harley didn’t even know him or his family. What he did know was that he wasn’t going to figure things out by sitting at his desk, so he picked up the phone and called the Prince William County Adult Detention Center.

  “Officer Reddick, please,” Harley said to the receptionist, rubbing his temples to try to ease the pain. “Reverend Harley Camden, returning his call.”

  “Thank you, Pastor, for returning my call,” said the young cop. “We have a situation here that we think you might be able to help us with. One of our inmates, Muhammad Bayati, has been on a hunger strike for several days. He is protesting his incarceration, and objecting to the time it will take to get him to trial.”

  “You do know that he is a Muslim, don’t you?” asked Harley. “I’m Methodist.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So why are you not calling an imam?”

  “We did, sir,” said the officer. “An imam was here the day before yesterday, but he was not successful in getting Mr. Bayati to eat.”

  Great, thought Harley. “So why me?”

  “We went online and found that your church was the only congregation in Occoquan,” explained the officer. “We thought that you might have some influence as a neighbor and a clergyman.”

  Harley wondered if there was going to be any way out of this. “I need to tell you that I do not know Mr. Bayati. I have only lived in Occoquan for a few weeks.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer replied. “We would still like you to come in. We do not want to have to arrange for a doctor to force-feed him. That is a tough process, and it always leads to a lot of publicity.”

  Harley leaned back in his chair, thinking. In the Washington area, most people wanted publicity. But not the jail, of course. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll come in. I’ve never been to your jail, so give me the procedure.”

  After hanging up, Harley thought about the many bizarre situations that he had been forced into as a pastor. Once, he spent an hour counseling a distressed stranger on the phone, and after hearing several grunting sounds realized that it was an obscene call. Another time, a homeless guy came into his office and said that he had seen Harley’s wife at a local diner with another man. Turns out the woman was a heavyset blonde, quite the opposite of his thin, brunette wife. And then there was the time that Harley was asked to visit a man who had grown up in his church but then moved to another town to become a police officer. The guy was in a tough spot, Harley was told, and really needed support. When he asked for the man’s address, he was given the address of the Fairfax County Jail. The police officer had been arrested for robbing a store. Now Harley was going back to jail, to visit a Muslim accused of murder.

  Harley got up, straightened his tie, and headed for the door. He knew he needed a cup of fresh coffee, so he walked across the street to Auntie’s and bought a large. Sipping the steaming, black coffee, he looked around the pie shop, smelled the fragrance of the cooling baked goods, and wished that he could hang out there all day and write a sermon. But he knew that pastors were both called and sent, and right now he was being called to the Prince William County Adult Detention Center. There was no way around it. It felt like the irresistible call of God. And as someone who had been feeling distant from God, he knew he had to respond.

  Most days since the deaths of Karen and Jessica, Harley felt impotent and powerless. But not when he was driving, oddly enough. Getting behind the wheel of his new Volkswagen Passat, he punched the gas, leaving Occoquan through the woods along Tanyard Hill Road, getting a rush from the acceleration. Harley’s gray sedan didn’t attract much attention from police officers, nor from anyone for that matter, but he loved its power as he darted into traffic or blasted along an interstate.

  Harley had purchased the car the previous summer, needing to replace his ten-year-old Honda Accord but also wanting to drive something that didn’t remind him of Karen whenever he looked at the passenger seat.

  The GPS took him along a route he had never driven before, with most of the mileage being on the heavily wooded Prince William County Parkway. Harley sensed that he was running parallel to the Occoquan Reservoir, although the water was completely out of sight. He entered the city of Manassas and found the adult detention center in the center of town, an imposing brick building that was far larger than he expected. After parking, he passed through a metal detector, identified himself to an officer behind a bulletproof window, and was buzzed through a series of heavy metal doors, each of which locked with a decisive clank. Harley’s heart beat faster as he moved deeper into the jail. After reaching a sparsely furnished reception area, he took a seat, closed his eyes, and calmed himself with deep breaths while two officers fetched Muhammad Bayati.

  Harley had reached a visitation area with ten rooms for private conferences, each with a heavy door with a window. He realized that he was dressed casually for a jail visit, wearing khaki pants, a short-sleeve, button-down blue shirt, and a blue-and-brown patterned tie. In the cooler months, he might have worn a sport coat. On a visit like this he should have worn a clergy collar.

  Finally, a short, slender man entered the room with his hands behind his back. He was followed by two guards, one of whom stopped him and unlocked his handcuffs before ushering him into a visitation room. The man glanced at Harley before entering, then turned his eyes forward and walked to a chair on the far side of a table in the middle of the room. He sat and rubbed his wrists to soothe them after being released from the cuffs. The guard turned to Harley.

  “Pastor Camden, this is Muhammad Bayati. You have twenty minutes. Good luck.”

  Harley walked cautiously into the room, jumping slightly when the guard closed the heavy steel door behind him.

  “Mr. Bayati?” he asked, putting out his hand for a shake. “I’m Harley Camden, the pastor of Riverside Methodist Church in Occoquan.” The inmate looked him in the eye and offered his hand but didn’t say anything. “May I sit down?” Harley asked. Muhammad nodded.

  “You probably wonder why I am here,” Harley continued. “I was called by a corrections officer since I am the only clergyman in Occoquan.”

  “I’ve heard about you,” said Muhammad. The man had a brown face with deep lines, bushy eyebrows and large brown eyes that were as dark and deep as the inky water of the Occoquan River at night. Muhammad was balding, with a fringe of gray hair around the back of his head. His orange jail jumpsuit hung on his slender frame, and his long fingers continued to massage his wrists.

  “I understand that an imam visited you a couple of days ago,” Harley offered. Muhammad nodded. “Was that helpful?” the pastor asked.

  “We prayed together,” Muhammad said. “Prayer is always helpful.” He looked Harley in the eye and said nothing more. He seemed comfortable with awkward silences.

  “So, you pray five times a day?”

  “Of course. I am Muslim.”

  “And how does it help you?”

  Muhammad squinted. “You should know how. Prayer reminds me of who God is, and where I stand in relation to God. Allahu Akbar.”

  “Which means what?” asked Harley.

  “God is the greatest.”

  “Indeed,” said Harley. “God is the greatest. Have you been able to keep up with your prayers here in jail?”

  “Of course,” Muhammad answered, with just the hint of a smile. “There is not much else to do.”

  Harley realized that he had asked a stupid question, so he changed the subject.

  “Let me tell you a little about myself.” He described how he had served churches in the Washington area for thirty years before being assigned
to Occoquan, always trying to help people to live their faith and to serve the needy. Realizing that Muhammad might not know anything about the Methodist Church, he talked about the denomination’s openness to interfaith relations with Jews and Muslims. He concluded by becoming more personal and telling him that he had recently lost his wife and daughter. Looking Muhammad in the eyes to gauge his reaction, he said, “They were killed by terrorists at the Brussels airport.”

  Muhammad’s eyes welled up, which was not the reaction Harley expected. “I was informed of your loss when you arrived in Occoquan,” he said. “You have my sympathy.”

  Harley thanked him but felt a little off balance. Why would this guy feel any emotion about the killings of two people that he didn’t know, by terrorists he didn’t know, in a country that he has probably never visited?

  “You may know that the Qur’an says that whoever kills a person unjustly, it is as though he has killed all mankind. I condemn the killers of your wife and daughter.”

  “The killers deserve condemnation,” Harley said. “They are not men of God.”

  “Nor is the person who killed my daughter,” Muhammad said. Harley wondered, How do I know that you did not kill your daughter? He looked long and hard at Muhammad, trying to pick up on any expression or body language that might signal guilt. Muhammad simply sat there silent and grief-stricken.

  Harley refrained from judgment. “I think we have much in common,” he said. “We serve the same God, a just God.”

  Nodding, Muhammad said, “God has judged the killers of your family. May he do the same to the one who murdered my daughter.”

  “Do you have any idea who he is?” asked Harley.

  “A suspicion, yes. I learned that my daughter was seeing a man, an American, a non-Muslim.”

  “And why do you suspect him?”

  Muhammad leaned back. “Women are not killed in their beds by strangers. The one who murdered her knew her. Perhaps they quarreled. I do not know.” His words were calm and measured, and Harley guessed that he was either innocent or in complete denial.

  “So why are you here?” Harley probed.

  “Some neighbors heard me arguing with Norah. The day of her death, we had a fight about her relationship with this American. It was a bad fight, a loud one. I lost my temper, I admit it. I grabbed her by the shoulders, and she took hold of my arms, scratching me deeply with her fingernails. We struggled until I pushed her away. After her death, the police heard about the argument, saw my wounds, and made me the suspect. It didn’t take them long to find my DNA under her fingernails.”

  “People are calling it an honor killing,” said Harley.

  Muhammad’s eyes flashed with anger. “Absurd. Such killings are barbaric. I am an American. I left Iraq to escape such brutality. I came to America because it is a land of justice, and now I am getting no justice.”

  “I’m not being accusatory; it’s what people are saying.”

  Muhammad’s expression changed from anger to sadness. “I know.”

  “So why have you started a hunger strike?” Harley asked.

  Muhammad ran a hand across his bald head. “To bring attention to my case, and move it more quickly to trial. My lawyer says they have to begin a speedy trial within seventy days, but that does not sound speedy to me! I think Norah’s death was a priority for the police until I was arrested. Now, no one cares. The prosecutor is going to take his time and build a case around the idea of an honor killing. But nothing could be further from the truth. I need to get to trial, prove my innocence, and return to my work at the bakery.”

  “But you are going to destroy your health by starving yourself.”

  “God will take care of me,” Muhammad said. “My incarceration is unjust, and God is a God of justice. He will help me get through this.”

  Harley thought for a moment about what his next move should be. “What do you think Jesus would want me to do? After all, we both honor Jesus, right?”

  “In my faith, he is a great prophet,” said Muhammad. “And as an Iraqi, I cannot forget that the Wise Men came from the east, maybe even from my homeland, to visit the baby Jesus.”

  “Exactly,” Harley said, a little surprised that Muhammad knew that Bible story. “Jesus is a prophet for you and the messiah for me. He teaches that we should help the hungry and the thirsty, and visit people in prison.”

  “Indeed he does,” Muhammad agreed.

  “So perhaps you are the hungry one in prison that I am supposed to help.”

  “Maybe,” said Muhammad, “but I don’t know what you intend to do.”

  “The Bible says that when I help a person like you, I am really helping Jesus.”

  Muhammad looked at him quizzically. “So I am Jesus for you? I do not see how that can be. I am not a prophet.”

  “We don’t have to get too spiritual about it,” said Harley, backing off a bit. “But I think I should help. What can I do for you?”

  “Anything to get my case some attention,” suggested Muhammad, “and move it more quickly to trial. I am angry that I am locked up and forgotten, falsely accused of a crime that I did not commit. I came to this country because of its rule of law, and now look at what is happening to me.”

  Harley pondered for a moment, and then thought of Henry Kim, the husband of his colleague Emily in Sterling. He wrote for the Metro section of The Washington Post. Maybe Henry could do a story on Muhammad.

  “If I could get a journalist to write a story on your case, would you be willing to stop your hunger strike? It won’t get you out of jail, but a big story might get the wheels turning a little faster.”

  “A big story?” asked Muhammad. “Not just in the county paper, but in a big paper like The Post?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  Muhammad thought for a moment and nodded. “I would agree to that.”

  “I’m sure your family would appreciate it,” said Harley. “They must be worried.”

  “They trust God, as I do. God is merciful and just.”

  “God is also love,” added Harley. “Our Bible says that God is love.”

  Muhammad cocked his head slightly. “That is different from our understanding. We have many names for God, but love is not among them.”

  “For Christians, love is at the core of who God is,” explained Harley, offering an insight that had been at the center of many of his sermons. “God reveals his love by sending Jesus to bring us forgiveness and new life. And the response we are supposed to make is to love one another—a love that should be extended to friends, enemies, blacks, whites, Muslims, Jews, fellow Christians. It is all supposed to come down to love. In fact, the Bible insists that those who say, ‘I love God’ but hate their brothers and sisters, are liars.”

  “I would agree with that,” said Muhammad. “Loving God does require that we love the people around us.”

  “Of course, it’s easier said than done,” observed Harley. At that moment, the heavy metal door opened behind him, and the guard said, “Time’s up.”

  That night, Harley slept soundly and had the most vivid dream. He was walking along a dusty road in the Middle East, with the sun burning brightly in a cloudless sky. Ahead of him were two women with headscarves and flowing clothing, carrying baskets and walking toward a town perched on a hilltop. He tried to catch up with them, but he couldn’t do it—they stayed ahead of him and never turned around to reveal their covered faces. They passed a field where sheep were grazing, then an orchard filled with olive trees, and finally reached the outskirts of the town. It looked to be a town out of the Bible, with people in robes walking the streets and doing their business in sunbaked shops and residences. As they entered the town, a group of eight Roman soldiers marched past them, looking powerful and dangerous with their swords and shields. But Harley and the women kept their heads down and avoided any trouble.

  The soldiers exited by a paved road that passed through the main gate of the town, and the women led Harley along this street, which was lined wi
th colonnaded buildings. After a few blocks, the street crossed the city’s main road, which was paved with limestone blocks and full of people with animals pulling wagons. The buildings along this road had grand columns and entrances covered in finely crafted mosaics, and people were doing business in shops all along the route, gesturing wildly and making a lot of noise in their negotiations. There were many people in tunics, which was typical Roman dress, but there were people in robes as well, which Harley associated with Judaism. He saw a stone on the street with a carving of a seven-branched candelabrum, a clear sign that this was a Jewish town—or at least a town with a Jewish community.

  The two women led Harley to a large building with a huge mosaic floor, one that contained scenes from the Nile, colorful depictions of plants and animals and people. He wanted to linger and look at it closely but sensed that he needed to stay with the women, so he kept walking. The two guided him to a large public building that was the city’s market, and there they stopped at a shop and talked with a merchant in a tunic. Harley moved closer and saw that one of the women was entering into an intense negotiation. The other became distracted by two Roman soldiers standing nearby. Although Harley could not see the women’s faces, he had a clear view of the expressions of the shopkeeper and the soldiers. The shopkeeper shook his head and scowled as he bargained with the first woman, while the soldiers broke out in smiles. It seemed that the second woman was teasing them, maybe even flirting. Harley realized what an unusual place this was, with Romans and Jews coming together for business and pleasure. Weren’t they sworn enemies? Didn’t the Jews mount revolt after revolt against the despised Roman Empire? He recalled that when the Romans put down the first Jewish revolt, they destroyed much of Herod’s temple in Jerusalem, leaving only the large foundation stones that remain standing to this day as the cherished Western Wall. During the Bar Kokhba revolt, the Romans destroyed almost 1,000 villages and wiped out most of the Jews of the land by killing them, selling them into slavery, or forcing them to flee.