His neck looked too thin to support the intricately wrapped turban on his head.
“You admit to this, hamshira?” he asked again in a tired voice. “I do,” Mariam said. The man nodded. Or maybe he didn't.
It was hard to tell; he had a pronounced shaking of his hands and head that reminded Mariam of Mullah Faizullah's tremor.
When he sipped tea, he did not reach for his cup. He motioned to the square shouldered man to his left, who respectfully brought it to his lips.
After, the Talib closed his eyes gently, a muted and elegant gesture of gratitude. Mariam found a disarming quality about him.
When he spoke, it was with a tinge of guile and tenderness. His smile was patient.
He did not look at Mariam despisingly. He did not address her with spite or accusation but with a soft tone of apology.
“Do you fully understand what you're saying?” the bony faced Talib to the judge's right, not the tea giver, said.
This one was the youngest of the three. He spoke quickly and with emphatic, arrogant confidence.
He'd been irritated that Mariam could not speak Pashto.
He struck Mariam as the sort of quarrelsome young man who relished his authority,
who saw offenses everywhere, thought it his birthright to pass judgment.
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