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Danny and I had always exchanged notes on dating, and he was intent on finding the right match for me, even after moving overseas. We took over the sand courts at the Alliance Française and played against each other long into the evening. (He was always forgetting things.) At the end of the last match, he threw himself across the court to save a shanked pass, winning the game for him and his team. Danny thought he’d be back at my house in Karachi from his interview by 9 pm. It seemed like an attempt to mock Danny, and I was instantly angry with myself for not having paid more attention to the nuances of the story he was chasing—had I seen that e-mail address, I could have warned him. After they made him memorize it, he said it in front of the camera. Mariane and I went to Los Angeles and Washington for memorial services, and then I moved to Paris with her. I wasn’t ready to process what had happened because at that point I still didn’t really know.
“I know this is, like, a war and everything,” he wrote me after 9/11, “but do you still want me to look for a husband for you . Danny stood up, wiped the sand from his new shorts, and flashed his crooked smile. At 10, there was no sign of him, so Mariane and I flipped open his laptop to look for clues about his meeting. I spent the night working the phone for leads, and the next day Pakistani policemen swarmed my home. She was seven months pregnant and didn’t have much family. What was comfortable to me, and what I felt was most productive, was my default: acting the detached, questioning reporter.
It’s May 5, 2012, the first time in three and a half years that KSM—as he’s known to American officials—has appeared in court, outside his prison cell.
After I told him I hadn’t gone to my high-school prom because my conservative parents forbade me to dance with a boy, Danny said, “We’ll fix that.” He helped me throw my first party ever, which we called “A Mid-Summer Night’s Prom.” I was 28 and wore a purple velvet bridesmaid dress.
On Mondays, we took salsa lessons at Planet Fred, a dive bar. .” Stabbing pains in my stomach woke me the next night. Mariane and a friend sped me to her ob-gyn’s hospital, the Maternité des Lilas, where I recounted the trauma of the last few months and asked if my child would be all right. She said I looked like “a pregnant zombie” and pressed me to go home.
A video system feeds sound and pictures to screens above us.
I’m about 30 feet behind KSM, and there are 40 of us in the gallery.Yet as KSM takes his seat, it feels for a moment as if we’re the only two people in the room. For the families of those who died on 9/11, the day marks the start of what’s likely to be a years-long trial for justice against KSM, the self-described architect of the World Trade Center attacks. KSM is the man who bragged about taking a knife to the throat of my Twelve years ago, on January 23, 2002, Danny left my home in Karachi, Pakistan, for an interview and never came back.