The Garden of Burning Sand

by Corban Addison

  Niza answered for all of them. “Make the call.”

  At six o’clock that evening, Joseph arrested Darious outside his father’s house in Kabulonga. It was an event Zoe wished she could have witnessed, just to see the look on Darious’s face when Joseph put him in handcuffs. But she couldn’t be there; she was an American, a woman, and an attorney. There were protocols to follow. And there was the matter of her safety.

  Joseph conducted the interrogation at the police post in Woodlands. Zoe heard from him after he had placed Darious in the lockup.

  “He denies all of it, of course,” Joseph said. “He claims he was with his father on the night Kuyeya was raped. We searched the SUV and didn’t find anything. Bella was right in naming him Siluwe. He’s extremely calculating.”

  “You sound like you’re enjoying yourself,” she replied, sitting on the couch in her flat.

  “I’ve been waiting a long time for a case like this. Listen, I have to write the report. I’m going to deliver the docket to the police prosecutor’s office in the morning. I have a friend who’ll make sure it’s indicted and sent to the Principal Resident Magistrate right away. We should get an initial hearing by the end of the week.”

  “I take it Darious will get out on bond?”

  “It’s already been arranged.”

  “Did he hire Benson Luchembe?”

  Joseph chuckled. “Of course. He’s coming down here in a few minutes.”

  “So this is the beginning.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but don’t get too excited. We have a long road ahead.”

  Joseph was right. The wait for an initial hearing lasted only three days. On Thursday morning, Zoe climbed into Maurice’s Prado for the short trip to the Subordinate Court. Niza joined her in the back seat and Sarge settled in up front.

  The magistrate’s court complex, built in 2005 at the behest of President Mwanawasa, a former lawyer, was a thing of uncommon beauty in a city dominated by drab, Soviet-style architecture. The stately brick edifice had a vaulted lobby with glass block windows and a dozen courtrooms that were reached by way of a covered arcade.

  They entered the lobby and met David Soso, the police prosecutor assigned to the case. Clad in a chalk-stripe suit and purple tie, he looked more banker than lawyer. “Hi, Sergeant,” he said, shaking Sarge’s hand. “We’re in Courtroom 9. Magistrate Thoko Kaunda.”

  “The judge, who is he?” Zoe asked Niza, walking behind Sarge and David.

  “He’s young,” Niza replied. “He was hired straight out of school.”

  Zoe shook her head. “Excellent. A new member of the bar deciding the fate of Darious Nyambo. Cue the puppet show.”

  They strolled down the arcade between patches of grass and open-air skylights. Zoe saw a group of young attorneys waiting outside the courtroom along with two men who looked like elder statesmen. The first was Benson Luchembe. Tall and corpulent with a mane of white hair, the lawyer carried himself like a village chief at a political rally—a figurehead who persuaded with pageantry. The second was Frederick Nyambo. He was taller than Zoe recalled from their brief interaction at the Intercontinental, but his face was unmistakable. In contrast to Luchembe, he had the aloof look of a monarch who ruled by divine right.

  Luchembe tilted his head, and Frederick turned to watch them pass. Zoe met his eyes and smiled wryly. We remember each other, but you can see I’m not impressed.

  Sarge led the way into the courtroom and set down his briefcase. Niza and David Soso sat next to him at counsel table, and Zoe took a seat in the front row of the gallery. Designed in the British style, the courtroom had high ceilings, wood trim and benches, and a dock cordoned off by a railing. Zoe doodled on a legal pad until the defense team sauntered in. Cocking her head, she saw Frederick Nyambo take a seat at the back of the courtroom alongside a handsome woman in a jade chitenge. That must be Patricia, she thought.

  Joseph slid in beside her and whispered, “The jackals have gathered.”

  “Along with the lion and lioness,” she replied, gesturing with her head toward the Nyambos.

  He nodded. “Must be expecting a feast.”

  Suddenly, the door to chambers opened and Thoko Kaunda climbed the steps to the elevated bench, lugging a raft of binders. He took a seat and placed the binders in piles like a student arranging pencils at an exam. He was no older than thirty-five, with a high forehead and wireframe glasses. Zoe felt a churning in her stomach. Unless you are tougher than you look, Luchembe is going to eat you for lunch.

  Kaunda waited until everyone was seated and then read the docket so quietly that Zoe strained to hear. He waved a hand toward the courtroom deputy who summoned Darious from a holding room. Darious was thinner than Zoe remembered. She looked at him closely and saw the blemishes on his skin. He took his place in the dock, staring at the magistrate with feline eyes. Like his father, he had the insouciant bearing of a superior being.

  After dispensing with a preliminary matter, Kaunda called their case. He held up the charge sheet so that it obscured the bottom half of his face and read the statutory description of defilement in a monotone. Then he looked at Darious and raised his eyebrows almost apologetically.

  “Do you admit or deny the charges?” he asked.

  “I deny them,” said Darious without a flicker of concern.

  The magistrate turned to the lawyers seated at counsel table. “In light of the defendant’s plea, we must schedule a trial date.”

  Sarge and Luchembe stood at the same time. Kaunda motioned to the defense attorney, giving him the first word.

  “Your Worship,” Luchembe began, choosing the honorific usually reserved for appellate judges, “I must apologize to the Court. My trial calendar is booked until December of next year.”

  Sarge shook his head. “Your Worship, this case involves the testimony of children. Their memories diminish rapidly over time. We don’t need more than five or six months to complete our preparations. There is no excuse to delay this case beyond April of next year.”

  Kaunda shuffled his papers, then opened a notebook. “If you can try the case in one day, I have dates in June. If you need more time, I will give you a date in December. It is your choice.”

  As Luchembe gloated, Sarge conferred with Niza. “If the Court will allow us to bring witnesses into the evening,” he said, “we can try this case in one day.”

  The magistrate frowned. “The Court will adjourn no later than seventeen hundred hours.”

  Sarge looked deflated. “Then we ask for two days in December.”

  Kaunda nodded and wrote something in his notebook. “This case will be set down for trial on the twelfth and thirteenth of December, 2012,” he intoned. “Do we have any other matters to deal with at the present time?”

  “The defense is satisfied,” Luchembe replied.

  “There is another issue,” Sarge replied, handing Luchembe a stapled document. “We wish to test the biological evidence acquired by Dr. Chulu on the night of the incident against a sample of the defendant’s DNA. We have prepared an application for an order requiring the defendant to provide a blood sample. I respectfully suggest that the matter be brought for mention immediately.”

  Luchembe scanned the document and puffed out his chest. “Your Worship, this application intrudes upon my client’s constitutional rights. There is no precedent for this request in Zambia—”

  “There is, indeed, Your Worship,” Sarge interjected. “Such samples are routinely ordered in paternity cases where the accused wishes to prove that he did not father a child. In addition, the courts of Britain and many other countries permit this sort of testing in rape cases. We agree that it is a matter of first impression in Zambia, but we submit that the question has a straightforward answer.”

  This exchange seemed to paralyze Kaunda. He sat motionless on the bench, and then flipped through paperwork. “The samples from the victim,” he said at last, glancing at Darious, “have they been preserved according to protocol?”

  “Y
es, Your Worship,” Sarge replied.

  “Where are they currently?”

  “In Dr. Chulu’s possession.”

  At this point, Luchembe made a last ditch appeal. “Your Worship, my client is a man of considerable reputation in Lusaka. This prosecution is a farce perpetrated by a British organization that doesn’t believe Zambians have the ability to enforce our own laws. This Court adjudicates defilement cases all the time. There is no need for DNA.”

  Kaunda looked at Luchembe over his wireframe glasses. “If an application is before me, I have no choice but to hear it. Even if it has disturbing constitutional implications.” He studied his notebook again. “The election is scheduled for the twentieth. I believe this matter can be resolved before then. Does counsel object to a hearing on the fifteenth?”

  “No, Your Worship,” Sarge said.

  Luchembe’s eyes smoldered. “The defense objects to this whole proceeding.”

  “Duly noted,” Kaunda said. “I am placing the case on the docket for the fifteenth of September at ten o’clock. This matter is adjourned.”

  As the lawyers gathered their briefcases, Zoe turned to Joseph and managed a hesitant smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frederick Nyambo speaking to Patricia in a whisper. Zoe shuddered. They didn’t have a chance to corrupt him before now. But they see how easy he will be to manipulate.

  As if intuiting her thoughts, Joseph said, “I’m worried about the judge.”

  “That makes two of us,” she replied. “He’s out of his depth.”

  When she glanced toward the Nyambos again, they were gone.

  Chapter 10

  The next week passed in a blur. In five business days, Luchembe’s legal team produced a rebuttal memorandum attacking the constitutionality, rationality, and morality of DNA testing in a rape case. Ignoring the weight of foreign authority in favor of DNA, Luchembe cherry-picked and misconstrued a South African decision questioning the efficacy of profiling where only small samples were used. Worse, Luchembe referred to Kuyeya as a “mentally disturbed child,” playing upon the African suspicion of people with intellectual disabilities. The memorandum was a masterpiece of misdirection and prejudice—just the sort of charade that could fool Thoko Kaunda into ruling against them.

  After reading the brief, Sarge looked as angry as Zoe had ever seen him. “The only way to fight this warped rhetoric is to give Kaunda something enticing, something to feed his ego.”

  Niza’s eyes lit up. “Why don’t we dress him up as a freedom fighter? I bet he’s spent most of his life wishing he were related to Kenneth Kaunda, hero of Zambian independence. Let’s turn DNA into a weapon of reform.”

  Zoe laughed. “Brilliant.”

  Sarge tossed the memorandum on his desk. “I have no idea if it will work, but I like it.”

  Two days before the hearing, Zoe drove out to St. Francis for Kuyeya’s psychiatric evaluation. Dr. Mbao met her at the entrance to the children’s home. A garrulous middle-aged woman with a megawatt smile, she pumped Zoe’s hand as if they were dear friends. They found Kuyeya sitting under the giant acacia tree, watching Sister Irina put on a puppet show.

  “Hi, Kuyeya,” Zoe said, sitting down beside her. “How are you today?”

  Kuyeya made the balloon sound. “Hi, Zoe. I like your music.”

  Sister Irina grinned. “Especially your collection of Johnny Cash.”

  “Johnny plays the guitar,” Kuyeya said.

  Zoe laughed. “You have good taste.”

  Throughout this exchange, Dr. Mbao stood in the background. Now she stepped forward. “I’m Margie,” she said cheerfully, sitting on the bare earth beside Kuyeya. “I’m so happy to meet you.” She pointed at the toy monkey. “Does your friend have a name?”

  “He’s Monkey,” the girl replied, holding him against her chest.

  The psychiatrist looked at Sister Irina. “Zoe says you’ve been keeping a journal of her words. Have you detected any themes?”

  “She talks a lot about noise,” the nun said. “When the children are playing, she sometimes says things like: ‘The children are loud. The children are not happy.’ Or: ‘The children should be quiet. I like quiet.’”

  “Does she mention her mother at all?” the psychiatrist asked.

  The nun nodded. “When I give her medicine, she says, ‘Medicine is good. Mommy gives me medicine.’ But when I ask her about her mother, she shuts down.”

  “What about her pain? Does she talk about it?”

  Sister Irina shook her head. “The other day she stumbled over a rock and started to cry. I could tell she was hurting by the way she pressed down on her inner thighs. But when I asked her about it, she didn’t talk. She made a sound—a bit like a groan—over and over again.”

  “Mmm,” the doctor said. “I’d like to see your notebook. But before that, I need to spend some time alone with her.”

  Sister Irina stood and walked with Zoe to the breezeway. “Sister Anica says you made an arrest,” she said. “What kind of man is he?”

  “He’s from a very powerful family,” Zoe replied.

  Sister Irina looked across the courtyard. “Is he sick?”

  “He might be. We’re not sure.”

  Tears came to the nun’s eyes. “I’m praying she will be well. When will the trial be held?”

  Zoe grimaced. “Next December. The defense attorney succeeded in delaying things.”

  “I think she will talk by then,” Sister Irina said. “I think she will tell her story.”

  “According to Joy Herald, Dr. Mbao is the best. Perhaps you’re right.”

  The morning of September 15, five days before the national election, Maurice drove Zoe, Sarge, and Niza back to the Subordinate Court. The streets of Lusaka were thronged with political demonstrators, waving banners and flags. Green-clad supporters of the Patriotic Front yelled angry slogans, denouncing President Banda, while blue-clad devotees of the incumbent MMD shouted, “Boma ni boma!”—“Government is government!”—and sang raucous songs.

  Zoe searched the sea of green T-shirts for a sign of the young man in the bandana but didn’t see him. It had been three and a half weeks since the confrontation in Kanyama. Her shock after the incident had sublimated into a perpetual unease hovering at the periphery of her consciousness. Most of the time she thought nothing of it, but occasionally when she saw a PF cadre cruising the streets, she felt the fear again.

  When they entered the courthouse lobby, Zoe saw Joseph talking with David Soso, the police prosecutor. She hadn’t seen Joseph in over a week. Mariam had told her he was tied up in meetings at police headquarters, but Zoe had texted him and received no reply.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said, touching his arm. “What’ve you been up to?”

  Joseph shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Sorry I didn’t make it to the braai on Saturday. I heard it was fun.”

  “We missed you,” she replied giving him a curious look. “The impala was a hit.”

  They walked down the arcade to Courtroom 9. As before, Benson Luchembe and his retinue stood in a huddle outside the entrance, but this time Frederick Nyambo was absent. Luchembe frowned at Joseph when he and Zoe passed by.

  “What was that about?” Zoe asked after they entered the courtroom.

  “Darious isn’t the first of his clients I’ve put in jail,” he replied.

  They sat together in the gallery and watched Sarge and Niza unpack their briefcases at counsel table. The CILA attorneys were as serious as Zoe had ever seen them. The hearing was critical, and even the unflappable Sarge looked tense.

  Magistrate Kaunda appeared a few minutes after ten o’clock. He made himself comfortable on the bench and gave the lawyers a thoughtful look. Zoe glanced around and realized that the Nyambos were not in the courtroom.

  “I’ve read your application,” the magistrate said to Sarge. “And your submission in opposition,” he said, turning to Luchembe. “And I’m prepared to hear argument. I plan to take the matter under advisement and i
ssue a written decision. I will hear from the applicant first.”

  Sarge stood and held out his hands. “Your Worship,” he began, “DNA is not a Western phenomenon. The science of genetics is not only valid in lands where people’s skin is white. DNA is here is Africa, in this courtroom. And in it dwells the truth. The truth offered by DNA is more credible than the testimony of eyewitnesses who can misunderstand and forget. The truth of DNA is more compelling than the testimony of the most competent investigating officer. It is a truth that exists apart from passion and faction, a truth that respects nothing but itself. And in a court of law, where truth and impartiality are paramount, DNA deserves an audience.”

  He fixed Kaunda with a righteous stare. “Today, fifty years after our country gained its independence, girls in our cities are not free. They live in fear. They are afraid because they are targets, because some men consider sex with the girl of their choosing to be a moral right. It is up to us—lawyers, judges, keepers of the law—to liberate our children from fear.”

  As Sarge took a theatrical pause, Zoe regarded him in admiration. He spoke as if inspired.

  “It would be one thing,” he went on, “if the weight of authority stood against the use of DNA in the context of rape. But exactly the opposite is true. Courts in many nations have embraced DNA, and rapists have been sent to jail. The same will be true in Zambia. It would be one thing if the laws of Zambia prohibited the taking of a blood sample from an accused. But they do not. The only thing that separates children like Kuyeya from justice—and freedom from fear—is indecision.”

  Sarge raised his voice in emphasis. “Mark my words. One day a decision will be made. One day in this very courtroom DNA will be used to convict the rapist of a child. The only question before this Court is whether today is the day.”

  Sarge returned to his seat in the silence of a spellbound courtroom. Benson Luchembe took his time standing up, and his tone, when he began to speak, was unsteady.

  “Your Worship, I’m reminded of an old saying. If something is not broken, there is no need to fix it. The crime of defilement has existed in Zambia for decades. The law offers this Court many tools to prosecute it. DNA is not one of them. Our system may differ from the rest of the world, but it is our system. And the system is not broken. There is no need to fix it.”