Red Hatchet Falls by Susan Clayton-Goldner

Author:Susan Clayton-Goldner
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: post 911, 911 terror attack, devastating truth, islamic racism, murder in orgeon, muslim racism, severed limbs
Publisher: Tirgearr Publishing

Chapter Nineteen

Ahmed gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He stared straight ahead, barely blinking as he continued down 6th toward the Dairy Queen. When the police car’s siren wailed, Ahmed took the first right-hand turn, trying to find a safe place to pull over. When he found nothing, he made a left onto Washington Boulevard, stopped the car and turned down Garth Brooks on the CD player.

Daria prayed her husband would remember his own advice.

It was a residential area and there did not appear to be anyone else on the street besides the cop car and the Azamis’ Camry.

The police officer turned off the siren and parked behind them. He left his high beams on and the blue and red lights flashing.

Her husband watched in the rear-view mirror as the officer stepped out of his car and walked toward them. In the bright light from the car, Ahmed’s face darkened and his spine went straight.

The officer, who carried a flashlight, stepped up to the driver’s window and tapped on the glass.

Ahmed pressed the button that rolled the window down.

The officer showed his badge.

Daria made a mental note of the number, 641.

He flashed his light into each of their faces. He lingered a moment on Daria’s niqab which revealed only her eyes. “Take that…that... rag off your head.”

Daria froze. She held her breath and looked to Ahmed for guidance. No man except her brothers, her father, and her husband had ever seen her face and hair. "I am a Muslim. I cannot do that."

Ahmed’s brow furrowed. He blinked rapidly, unable to hide his shock. “This is our religion. Muslim women must keep themselves covered. It is part of our faith.”

The officer set his jaw and glared at Daria. “I said, take it off.” He turned his gaze on Ahmed. “How do I know she’s not hiding a weapon under that thing?”

For Daria, time became fluid and unfamiliar—a hard thing to judge as it passed.

Kareem cried softly in the back seat. "Don't hurt us, mister policeman, sir. Please, don't hurt us."

Daria turned slightly to look at him. "It is okay. The nice boliceman isn't going to hurt us, Kareem jan."

When Ahmed nodded, Daria lifted her niqab, shook it out and held it up for the officer to see. “I hide nothing. May I put it back on now?”

“Yes.” He seemed to be satisfied that she was not harboring a weapon and returned his attention to Ahmed. “May I please see your driver’s license, vehicle registration and proof of insurance?”

Daria breathed. The police officer was being polite now—a good sign. He was young, white, and about six feet tall, well built with dark hair visible beneath his uniform cap. He was not smiling.

Ahmed broke one of his own rules and spoke without being spoken to. “Tell me why you stop us? Why you shame and humiliate my wife? I am careful to wait for green light. We did nothing wrong.”

After replacing her niqab, Daria rummaged through the glove compartment for the requested documents.

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