Motley - Lawless: a lawyers unrelenting fight for justice in one of the worlds most dangerous places

Certain names and details have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike.

First published in 2019

Copyright Kimberley Motley 2019

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Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100

Email:

Web:www.allenandunwin.com

ISBN 978 1 76063 303 5

eISBN 978 1 76087 185 7

Set by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Cover design: Christabella Designs

Cover photo: Kiana Hayeri (Kimberley Motley in Darul Aman Palace, Kabul)

For my beloved Deiva, Seoul, and Cherish.

I hope that one day youll understand.

Court is in session on the Spanish island of Mallorca. Im sitting with my client, a young British man accused of selling drugs on the neighbouring island of Ibiza, when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I quietly slide it out and read the message sent by another client, Laila, who was recently kidnapped from Vienna to Afghanistan.

I dont know if they have guns, the message says.

I scan the courtroom. Its not good form for lawyers to send text messages while the court is in session, but Laila needs a quick reply. I begin to type, casually, trying not to draw any attention to myself.

Are you wearing the black clothes?

I hit send and get an instant response.

Yes.

When you get in the car, we have a burqa for you. Put it on.

Okay.

I think back to the first time I saw a burqa in 2008 when I arrived in Afghanistan. I had found the ghoulish blue head-to-toe coverings both terrifying and maddening; a visible sign of the oppressive culture of misogyny that was rife in the country. Ironic, then, that Im now using the burqa to try to free Laila.

I listen as our witness is being questioned by the prosecutor. If found guilty, my client is facing nine years in a Spanish jail and a lifetime stain on his record as a convicted drug dealer. I turn to him and offer a reassuring smile. He listens nervously as the prosecution continues their cross-examination.

Relax, I whisper.

I watch the prosecutor as he works our witness. Our witness is consistent, assured, confident. Good man, I think to myself. Hes answering all the aggressive questions perfectly. Just as I would answer if I were in his position. I try to concentrate, but my mind keeps darting back to Laila. What is she doing? I wonder.

Keeping my phone out of the sight of the judges, I check it again. Nothing at first, but then it vibrates in my hand, almost making me jump. I open the text. Its from one of my guys; theyre outside the house in Afghanistan where Laila has been imprisoned for months. The coast was as clear as it was going to get.

I text Laila again.

The gate is unlocked. The car is outside. Get in it.

I send the message. I can feel my heart rate rising. Another text.

Im scared.

I know. Get in the car Laila.

One of the judges from the three-judge tribunal eyes me disapprovingly from the bench. I smile back and return my focus to the witness. My phone buzzes again.

I cant, texts Laila.

Fuck.

Like many trafficked victims whom Ive rescued over the years, Laila is showing signs of psychological confinement. She has a small opportunity to escape, but fear has taken over. Frozen in Afghanistan, she was terrified to make a move. I have an idea.

Do you have the headphones with you?

Yes.

In two minutes go to the bathroom. Put the headphones on. Ill send you a voice note.

I had had a sleepless week, what with locating Laila, setting up her rescue and preparing for the trial in Mallorca. And now, for the first time in six days, when we only have a few precious minutes to rescue this young woman, shes lost her nerve. If we dont act now, shell disappear to Pakistan and we may not find her again. Its now or never.

Back in the courtroom the prosecutor droned on with her cross-examination. I start coughing. I cough as hard as I can until the whole court has stopped what its doing and everyone is looking at me. I hold up my hand as I cough harder. A little concerned, the judge who stared at me earlier raises an eyebrow as if to say, Are you okay?

We are going to take a quick break, she says, eyeing me suspiciously, but also probably hoping Im not going to cough up a lung.

I nod to her, wait for the judges to leave the court, then run out of the courtroom to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

Laila, I say, into the phone, listen to me very carefully. You have five minutes to get in the fucking car. If you dont, we will be gone forever. I will not look for you in Pakistan. I will not help you anymore. I will never answer your calls. Five. Minutes.

In the ten years Ive been based in Afghanistan, Ive represented multiple clients from different countries with vastly different backgrounds, who have had challenging legal issues, many in intensely dangerous situations. I know this territory now like the back of my hand, and although for me it has become just another days work, I know that for Laila every second could be the difference between life and death.

My phone vibrates.

Ms Motley, please dont leave. Laila texts.

I text back.

Four minutes.

In 2007 I was living and working in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Milwaukee is where I grew up. Its where I went to school. Its where I started my life with my husband, Claude, and its where we had our three kids, Deiva, Seoul and Cherish. I know Milwaukee better than I know myself. Although that doesnt mean I have to like it.

Ever since I was a kid, Milwaukee has been the most segregated city in the United States.

These may seem like just another set of grim urban statistics to you, but they are more than just numbers to me. They represent the experiences Ive had my whole life.

I grew up in the projects. When I was seven, my best friend was a girl named Janine. I would go to her house every day to play, and I can still remember her mother, a beautiful woman who was always kind to me. I remember how sometimes she would bake us cookies. One night I was lying in bed when suddenly the street was lit up by the lights of ambulances and police cars. The sirens rang out and I could hear voices shouting outside my window.

The next day I found out that Janines mother had been murdered by her father. She had tried to get away, banging on peoples doors, crying for help, but no one opened up their door for her. Her husband beat and stabbed her to death in the street and threw her body in the green dumpster that I passed when I walked to school every day.

When I was nine, my two brothers and I were playing baseball in the neighbourhood playground and an older teenager came over to borrow our bat. He took the bat from us and beat the shit out of another kid in the middle of the street right there in front of us.