After a quick lunch downtown, they took another taxi to an office building near the courthouse. Paul had a meeting with Hassan to discuss the charges filed against him. This was not an area of the city where Paul's bodyguards wanted to hang out on the street, nor did they feel comfortable entering a building filled with Muslim lawyers. So they agreed to pick up Paul in half an hour and drove off, after he was safely inside the building.

The lobby of the building was finished in white marble and the floor was covered with thick carpets. Obviously the lawyers in this building made a good deal of money. Paul knew that Hassan was a corporate lawyer, not a criminal lawyer like Javed. But he hadn't realized fully what that meant.

The elevator had mirrors on the inside walls, making it seem larger than it actually was. Quickly and silently it took him to the fifth floor. When the elevator doors opened, Paul found that he was facing the entrance to Hassan's law firm. He pressed the bell and waited, watching the surveillance camera, until he heard the buzzer indicating the lock release had been activated. Then he pushed open the door and went into the office.

Paul gave his name to the receptionist, a middle-aged woman who greeted him very formally, and then sat down to wait for Hassan to receive him. The walls of the office were painted a light beige color that provided a soft contrast to the dark, mahogany wooden desks and ceiling beams. On the receptionist's desk was a new computer. Everything is state of the art, Paul thought. Across from him on the wall hung a massive painting of a stern-looking old man. He was light-skinned, like Hassan, but heavier, and his hair was absolutely white. His eyes were striking, but looking into them filled Paul with a sense of sadness.

"Mr. Hassan will see you now, Rev. Gill," the receptionist said.

Paul looked once more at the painting and then followed the receptionist through a heavy wooden door, down a hall, and then into a large corner office with windows on two sides. Paul had never seen such a good view of Karachi, and he had to force himself to look at Hassan rather than out the windows.

"Good morning, Rev. Gill," Hassan said.

"Good morning, Mr. Hassan." Paul didn't know if Hassan was using his official title and surname because the receptionist was in the room, or if he was more comfortable being formal. Paul didn't know Hassan personally. He had known Javed for years, and they were on a "first name basis," which in Pakistan generally meant calling a person by his last name without using any title. In Paul's case, however, it meant calling him "Paul," which was short for "Father Paul."

Hassan got up from behind his desk and walked to the window on his right. "I noticed that you looked out of the window when you entered. It's quite a view, but I've become so accustomed to it that I no longer notice. Please, come here and take a moment to look."

Paul quickly joined Hassan at the window. They could see the center of Karachi with its fifteen and twenty story buildings, but they could also see the bay with the ships anchored in front of the docks. In between there was a mish-mash of highways, housing developments, commercial buildings, and even a few parks. And in the air over everything hung a reddish-brown cloud, created by the exhaust of cars, trucks and buses and the dust stirred up by the traffic and the wind.

"In the ten years I've been in this building," Hassan said, "the smog has gotten much worse. Development is such a mixed blessing here. It provides jobs for a lot of people, and lawyers like me benefit greatly. But it creates congestion, more pollution, and few opportunities for the very poor."

The rich get richer and the poor get poorer, Paul thought bitterly to himself. He felt completely out of place in this office, standing next to this wealthy corporate lawyer. Why had Hassan agreed to help him? Why was he involved at all in their struggle?

"Please sit down, Rev. Gill." Hassan motioned to a couch beside the window and then took a seat in one of the two chairs across from the couch. On the dark, low mahogany table between them stood a teapot and two cups, with sugar and cream on the side. "And please help yourself, as you like," Hassan said, carefully pouring tea into Paul's cup and then filling his own cup as well. Paul noticed that Hassan didn't take any sugar in his tea, which was very unusual for a Pakistani, and added only a little cream. How lovely to have cream, Paul thought to himself, as he stirred two teaspoons of white sugar into his tea.

He reached for a biscuit from the plate on the table, putting it on the white cloth napkin before him. He wanted to sip his tea first, but he couldn't pass up a wholemeal biscuit like the kind he'd enjoyed in Birmingham at high tea in the seminary.

Hassan took a sip of his tea and then put the cup and saucer back on the table. "How are you holding up?"

Paul was surprised by the question. He had expected only a formal conversation about his legal problems. "Well, I was chewed out by Bishop Rawlings this morning. And yesterday someone threw a grenade into my home. It was a dud and was probably meant just to scare me, but I got the point. Not everyone is happy right now with what I am doing."

Hassan laughed lightly, covering his mouth with his hand, as if to keep Paul from seeing his teeth. The gesture was quite feminine. In fact, the way that Hassan held his tea cup, with his little finger curled and separate from his other fingers, was also very feminine.

"I'm sorry, Rev. Gill," Hassan apologized. "I shouldn't laugh, because your situation is no laughing matter. But you seem to be taking the problems in stride and even finding a little humor in your plight."

Paul smiled. "I'm doing my best. Do you have any news that will really cheer me up? Or is it just more of the same."

Hassan took another sip of his tea before replying. "Nothing has really changed. The charges of murder, disorderly conduct in a public place, and the destruction of property are still on file. The authorities are unwilling to drop them, but they are not requiring that you turn yourself in. I've arranged bail. You only need to sign the documents before you."

Paul picked up a stack of papers from the table. "My father advised me to read carefully anything I sign, but I'll be here all morning if I do that. Just tell me what these papers say."

"They acknowledge the charges against you but deny any guilt. They also agree to the bail set by the magistrate and commit you to remain in the country in order to be available for further hearings. Finally, they appoint me as your attorney in these matters."

"That sounds fine, however, I don't have any money for the bail or your fees, Mr. Hassan."

Hassan laughed lightly, once more raising his hand toward his mouth. "I don't expect you to pay me. I'm taking this as a pro bono case. And friends have put up the bail."

"I'm very grateful, Mr. Hassan." Paul bit into his biscuit, savoring the sweet taste. Then he picked up the pen on the table and signed the documents in the places marked by paper clips on the side of the pages. "What do you think my chances are of staying out of jail?"

Putting his cup back on the table, Hassan leaned back in his chair, obviously ready to talk a bit about what he knew best. "Clearly these charges against you have been filed as a way of diverting attention from the police, who caused the riot and the destruction that followed and who shot and killed your colleague. They can't prove these cases against you and the others, who have been charged, but they can keep them active as a threat to try to prevent the Christians from pushing to hold the police responsible for their misconduct. Probably, at some point, the authorities will offer to drop these charges, if the Christian leaders agree not to press for punishment of the police who were involved."

"But we have to push for an inquiry into the death of Matthew and the injuries and arrests of so many demonstrators, just as we have to demand an inquiry into the attack on Shantinagar! We've got to try to get justice for our people from the courts!"

"I know that, and they do as well. That's why they brought charges against you and some of the others. They have to have something to force you to negotiate with them."

"So, I'm trapped between my people and the police," Paul said. "To maintain credibility in the Christian colonies, I have to push for an inquiry into the attack on us. If I do that, however, the police may revoke my bail and arrest me. Then, even if they don't bring me to trial, I'll be stuck in jail. On the other hand, if I negotiate with the police and persuade the Christian leaders to give up their campaign for an inquiry leading to charges against the police who were responsible for the violence, then the charges against me will be dropped. But my people will know that I've done a deal with the police to get off free, and they will desert me."

"That's their strategy. Whatever you do, most likely the Christian community will be divided, which is always good for the establishment."

"How will our petition against the blasphemy law affect all this?"

"I don't honestly know. They hadn't expected that move on our part. It makes the game much more interesting."

Paul was irritated that Hassan saw this as "a game." Paul's life and the wellbeing of his people were at stake. Yet this fat cat lawyer was just moving them like pawns in a chess match.

"So, how do we win 'this game,' as you call it," he retorted, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.

Hassan rose suddenly from his chair and began to pace back and forth in front of the window. "I'm sorry, Rev. Gill. I can see that I've offended you. Of course, this isn't a game. I only think of it that way to keep control of my emotions. It's a technique that many lawyers use so they don't become too involved in their cases."

He turned to face Paul and then sat back down in his chair. "Do you play chess?"

"Not really, but I know the rules."

"Well, permit me to use chess as a metaphor. With the petition against the blasphemy law, we are moving with our queen to put their king in check. It's a strong move with great risks. It we are successful, we may even achieve checkmate. But if we fail, then we may be exposed to greater risks, for then they may move aggressively against us. We've gone beyond defensive strategies and the exchange of pawns in an attempt to win the game. It's exhilarating, but very dangerous."

Hassan stood up again, his light skin flushed with blood, his hands gesturing as he talked, and began to walk once more back and forth in front of the window.

"If we don't get a hearing by the Supreme Court on the substance of the petition, then we'll know that our opponents control the Court. In that case, it will be in our best interest to negotiate a return to the status quo before the petition was filed. Otherwise, we will pay a heavy price. On the other hand, if we get a hearing by the Supreme Court on the substance of the petition, that will probably mean that the Court feels sufficiently independent to make a decision. Then we are out in the open and will have friends that we didn't know we had. It will be a new game with new rules and new moves."

"How will the public seminars affect all this?"

"If you are successful in holding a number of these hearings and involving major Muslim political leaders, that will make it much harder for the Supreme Court to dismiss the petition against the blasphemy law without a hearing on its merits. On the other hand, if you fail to get permission to hold these hearings or they are held and broken up by the police or by mobs instigated by the extremist mullahs, then the Court will likely be too intimidated to grant a hearing on the merits of the petition."

"What if there's a lot of international publicity? Won't that create pressure on the government?"

"To some extent, but what happens will depend on how the governing elite assess the situation. They will choose the course of action that will least undermine their power. Therefore, we have to help them see that more openness in the society will not weaken their position overall, even if it allows greater protection legally for minorities within Pakistani society."

Hassan had stopped pacing and was now staring out of the window. He turned back toward Paul with a look in his eyes that reminded Paul of the painting in the front room.

"Why did you get involved in this, Hassan?" Paul blurted out. He sensed that Hassan wanted to tell him something more, that there were personal reasons for his decision to play this dangerous game. "You're putting your law practice at risk by helping me fight this cause. You don't have to do this. Why are you?"

Hassan had returned to his chair. He sat still for a moment, with his hands folded in his lap, before responding. "As a priest, you are sworn to keep conversations confidential. Is that right?"

"Confessions, yes. And also anything that a person tells me confidentially."

Hassan paused and took a deep breath, before resuming. "When I was ten years old my older sister fell in love with a Christian she met at the University. They secretly began seeing each other. When my father found out, he forbade her to have anything to do with him and arranged for her to marry a Muslim. My sister was kept at home for several months, but then she ran away with her lover. A week later my father found them and brought them back."

Hassan swallowed. His voice was very quiet now. "In our home my father and his brothers forced me and my sister to watch, as they beat and finally killed her lover. They took their time. They broke his nose and his jaw, then smashed his teeth in, and then broke his arms and his legs, before castrating him and finally cutting his throat. My sister cried out as they began, begging our father for mercy. But when they continued, she grew silent, tears pouring from her eyes. She never spoke again. That night she hanged herself in her room."

Hassan stood up once more and returned to the window. Paul thought he saw tears in Hassan's eyes.

"My mother went insane with grief. She cried and cried and then became distracted and disoriented. Although my father was not an old man, within a year his hair turned white. He outlived my mother, but he died shortly after I finished law school. Before he died, while I was standing by his bedside, he called out my sister's name. That's all he said. Just her name. He didn't ask for forgiveness from Allah, nor did he ask me to forgive him. He just called for her. Then he died."

Hassan was silent for a moment, composing himself. Then he turned to face Paul. "When I was ten I swore to avenge the death of my sister. I cut my hand, placed it on the Qur'an, and before Allah said that I would try to right the wrong of my father and my family. I've waited a long time for an opportunity to try to live up to my oath. Thank you for giving me the chance to fulfill my obligation."

Paul stood and walked over to Hassan. He extended his right hand and when Hassan took it, Paul put his left hand on Hassan's forearm. No words seemed appropriate, and Hassan also remained silent. They stood for a moment, holding hands, two men brought together by the tragic relationship between Muslims and Christians in their country. Then Paul turned and walked out of the office.