She never told us she had a child. You will see from her letters that she told us nothing about what she was doing in Lusaka. All I know is that she sent us money until Godfrey graduated from secondary school. Without her we would not have had food to eat, and we would not have been able to pay our school fees. She was like a mother to us.
Zoe set the letter on the table, struck by the convergence of her own suspicions and those of Charity’s grandmother. She thought back to her visit with Field and Agatha in Livingstone—the packets of tu jilijili on the floor, Field’s incoherence on the porch, Agatha’s agitation, and Joseph’s words in the darkened truck. “Agatha didn’t want her. She thinks Charity’s family is bewitched.” Another memory came to her: the way Agatha had fingered her wedding ring. Cynthia’s use of the word “hurt” was almost certainly a euphemism for “rape.” It made perfect sense. Agatha had tried to get Charity to move out, but Field had intervened to prevent it.
Then there was the matter of Charity’s “love relationship with a man.” Charity’s grandmother, Vivian, had suspected a man at the nursing school. Had she seen Charity’s journal, she would have been more specific. Charity was in love with a doctor—Jan Kruger. But what had prompted Vivian to ascertain that she was with child? Who did Vivian think was the father?
Charity’s letters did not tell her much. In them, she wrote about the past and encouraged Cynthia and Godfrey to take care of their grandmother. What references she made to Lusaka were devoid of detail. The only useful insight offered by the letters was a glimpse into Charity’s psyche. When she left Livingstone in 1996, she still had a capacity for delight. In this respect, the letters contrasted dramatically with the third volume of her journal. The penmanship was the same, but by April of 2004 her joy had died.
Zoe stuffed the letters back in the envelope and walked to Joseph’s desk. For all that Cynthia had disclosed, she still couldn’t explain the genesis of Darious Nyambo’s hatred. Joseph took one look at her face and set aside the report he was reviewing. He read Cynthia’s letter, reserving comment until the end.
“This is interesting,” he said, “but it leaves gaps. We still don’t know what happened when she got to Lusaka.”
“Precisely. We need the housekeeper.”
Joseph nodded. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“I’ve been thinking about updating my wardrobe.”
He laughed. “I like the thought of you in chitenge.”
Early the next morning, they drove to the City Market in Zoe’s Land Rover. Before leaving the Prentice property, Joseph removed the GPS unit from beneath her bumper and put it with its twin in his truck. If Dunstan Sisilu was paying attention to their movements, he would think they were enjoying a Saturday morning at home. Nevertheless, Joseph took an indirect route and made two stops to ensure they were not followed.
They entered the market by the main gate and walked slowly toward Chiwoyu’s stall.
“I’ll meet you there,” Joseph said suddenly, ducking down an aisle.
Zoe shuffled along and watched the crowd, trying to suppress her nervousness. She passed Chiwoyu’s aisle and didn’t see the housekeeper. She turned down the next aisle and stopped beside a display of bags, looking toward the entrance to the market. She saw a flash of black sunglasses, and her heart jumped into her throat. But the man wearing them was rail-thin and had a mane of silver hair.
She took a breath and walked the length of the aisle. She met Joseph on the other side.
“If he’s here, he’s invisible,” he said.
Zoe nodded. “It looks like the shoe vendor could use some company.”
As before, she took a seat on the vacant chair and watched the aisle. This time they didn’t have long to wait. At twenty past nine, a slightly hunched figured emerged from the exit. Zoe immediately recognized the housekeeper. She stood quickly and moved in the old woman’s direction. The housekeeper saw her when they were twenty feet apart. She lowered her head and tried to get past, but Zoe stepped into her path.
“Please listen to me,” Zoe said, knowing her time was limited. “Darious raped Kuyeya because he has AIDS and she was a virgin. His crime was not random. He hated her mother and he feared her. He was certain she’d cursed his family. The mystery is why. What happened between Frederick and Charity fifteen years ago?”
The housekeeper didn’t speak, so Zoe went on. “I’m convinced Frederick met her in Livingstone and offered her a job. I know she left nursing school and came to Lusaka. I know something painful happened. But I don’t know what it was. Somehow Charity ended up on the street as a prostitute. Somehow a girl who had all the promise in the world died of AIDS.”
To Zoe’s astonishment, the housekeeper began to cry. “What you say is true,” she said. “But I am old and have no one to protect me.”
“I can protect you,” Zoe said quickly. “I have friends in the diplomatic community. I can get you a new job.”
The housekeeper hesitated. “I must think about this.”
Zoe pulled a fifty-pin note out of her wallet, along with a pen. As she had done at Shoprite, she wrote her mobile number on the margin of the bill. “You can call me or send a text. The trial is the first week of April. We need the information soon.”
The housekeeper stuffed the money in her bag and headed toward the chitenge stall. Zoe watched her walk away. Would I take the risk? she asked herself honestly. Would I defy the Nyambos and trust a stranger to keep me safe?
Seeing Joseph approach, Zoe said, “She knows the whole story. But she’s still afraid.”
“I can’t say I blame her,” he replied.
“Neither do I.”
Chapter 24
Lusaka, Zambia
February, 2012
In the middle of February, the legal team began in earnest to prepare for the trial of Darious Nyambo. Zoe collaborated with Sarge and Niza in compiling a witness list and assembling signed statements and affidavits, and she worked with Joseph to confirm the willingness of each witness to testify at trial. Soon, Sarge convened a meeting to discuss the evidence.
They went through the preliminary witnesses chronologically—the teenage girl, Given, who saw the silver SUV in Kabwata, not far from Doris’s house; the adolescent, Wisdom, who saw the SUV heading down the lane at midnight; the boy, Dominic, who saw Darious and Kuyeya outside Agnes’s house; Agnes, who heard the sound of an engine and doors closing; Abigail, who found Kuyeya on the street; and Dr. Chulu, who examined her at the hospital.
When they got to the subject of Joseph’s testimony, Sarge sat back in his chair. “We’ll run through your investigation, the arrest, and your conclusions about Darious’s health. We’ll wrap up with your discovery of the nganga, Amos.”
“Is the good doctor still in Lusaka?” Niza interjected.
Joseph nodded. “I saw him a week ago. He’s still there.”
“That brings us to Doris,” Sarge said. “She can talk about Bella’s history with Darious.”
“If she agrees to testify,” Zoe said. “The last time I talked to her she was undecided.”
“I have confidence you’ll convince her,” Sarge replied. “After Doris is Amos. He’ll develop Darious’s motive. If he strays from his prior testimony, we can use the recordings against him. When was the last time you spoke to Bob Wangwe?” he asked Joseph.
“I talked to him a few days ago. He’ll be there with his client.”
“Very good,” said Sarge. “The last witness on my list is Kuyeya.”
“I don’t think the judge will let her testify,” Niza countered. “Dr. Mbao said—”
Sarge interrupted her. “Mwila told me yesterday that Dr. Mbao has revised her assessment. Kuyeya can answer simple questions.”
Niza frowned. “It’s a gamble. We don’t know how she’ll react in Darious’s presence.”
“That’s why we’ll prepare her,” Sarge said. “What’s the worst that could happen? She doesn’t speak. She starts to cry. Other kids have done that, and it hasn’t st
opped us from putting child victims on the stand. I hate the thought of traumatizing her again. But we don’t have DNA. Without her testimony, we could lose the case.”
Zoe glanced at Joseph. “I’m still hoping the housekeeper will come through.”
“Do you honestly believe she would testify?” Niza asked.
Zoe took a breath. “I don’t know.”
Sarge surveyed the faces around him. “There is one other matter we need to discuss—the media. If word gets out about the trial, we could have a lot of attention. The Post would love to cover this, and if the Post covers it, so will the Times.”
Zoe shook her head emphatically. “A leak would be devastating. Doris would never testify, to say nothing of the housekeeper.”
“I don’t see it happening,” Niza chimed in. “The Nyambos don’t want press any more than we do. Darious’s reputation is expendable, but Frederick’s and Patricia’s are not.”
“Regardless,” Sarge went on, “if someone from the media contacts you, send it to me. We need to handle it delicately. We want the press on our side in case Nyambo appeals.”
A week later, Zoe drove to Kabwata to visit Doris. She left the GPS tracking unit at the office and took a roundabout route, reversing course several times and keeping watch for a tail. She hadn’t seen Dunstan Sisilu since the day he put a gun to her head, but the memory of his revolver and ominous words replayed often in her mind. When she satisfied herself that nothing was out of the ordinary, she parked in the lot outside Doris’s apartment and knocked on the door.
Bright appeared in a T-shirt and jeans. “What do you want?”
Zoe didn’t blink. “I need to speak to your mother.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Bright conceded.
Zoe sat on the couch and studied the ancestral mask above the door.
Eventually, Doris entered the room and sat down. “Why do you keep bothering me?” she asked. “I told you I have not decided.”
“Kuyeya needs you to decide,” Zoe said frankly. “The trial is in a month.”
Doris stared at the floor.
“I know you’re afraid. But you owe it to Bella.”
Doris looked up sharply.
“It’s in her journal, what she did for you. She could have run, but she saved your life.”
Doris closed her eyes. “Darious is dangerous. He could hurt my children.”
He already did, Zoe thought, empathizing with the woman. “I know it’s a risk, but the judge needs to hear about the relationship he had with Bella.”
Doris rubbed her hands together nervously. “You asked me once whether she called him something other than his given name. I thought of it the other night. It was a Tonga word.”
“Siluwe,” Zoe said softly.
Doris froze. “How do you know?”
“She used it in her journal,” Zoe replied, struggling to contain her excitement. Suddenly, Bella’s diary was not only relevant but also admissible as evidence. “Do you know why?”
Doris shook her head. “If I come to court, can I tell the judge about Bright?”
“I wish you could, but it might derail the prosecution.”
Doris stared at the floor for a long moment, then met Zoe’s eyes again. “I suppose it would be enough to see him put in prison.”
Kuyeya fell again during a visit with Dr. Mbao. Sister Irina called Zoe in a state of bewilderment. The circumstances of the fall made no sense. They had been walking to the garden, as they always did, when Kuyeya collapsed. She sat up on her own, but she seemed disoriented and began to groan from deep in her throat. She didn’t speak and didn’t respond to questions. Even Zoe’s music didn’t seem to bring her peace.
“Dr. Chulu is on rotation,” Sister Irina said. “He’s going to examine her again.”
“Are they en route now?” Zoe asked.
“They left twenty minutes ago,” the nun replied.
“I’ll meet them there.”
Zoe parked on the street outside the pediatric unit and waited for the arrival of the St. Francis van. When it pulled to the curb, she greeted Sister Anica and opened the sliding door. Kuyeya gazed back at her through glassy eyes.
“Hi there,” Zoe said, taken aback. “I’ll help you out.” She reached for the girl’s shoulder and noticed that she was scratching the bump behind her right ear. “Was she doing that before?” Zoe asked, pointing at Kuyeya’s hand.
Sister Anica frowned. “I don’t know.”
Zoe slid her arm around Kuyeya and helped her to the ground. “Does your head hurt?” she asked, removing her headphones.
“Buzz goes the bee-eater; sting goes the bee,” Kuyeya replied.
“Is your head buzzing? Does it feel like a bee sting?”
Kuyeya nodded, scratching behind her ear again.
“Okay, we’re going to get you help.” She led Kuyeya into the waiting room and saw Dr. Chulu chatting with Nurse Mbelo.
“I think she’s in pain,” Zoe told the doctor. “She’s rubbing a spot behind her ear.”
The doctor gestured toward an examination room. “Let’s take a look.”
Thirty minutes later, he took a seat by the bed while Kuyeya listened to Johnny Cash.
“Her discomfort is clear,” he said. “What I don’t know is whether it is a cause or consequence of the fall.” He eyed Sister Anica. “Has she showed signs of fatigue or irritability?”
The nun pondered this. “No more than usual.”
“What about incontinence?”
“I don’t know. Sister Irina is in charge of her ward.”
Dr. Chulu glanced at Nurse Mbelo. “I think it’s time to get a full set of cervical X-rays.”
The nurse left the room and returned a minute later, looking troubled. She conferred with Dr. Chulu in a whisper, and the doctor’s expression darkened.
“It seems our chief radiologist is on leave,” he said with a trace of irritation.
“What does that mean?” Zoe asked.
“It means I’ll read the films myself.”
Zoe checked her watch and looked at Dr. Chulu. “I have to go. I have a hearing in half an hour. Will you call me with an update?”
He nodded. “As soon as I review the films.”
The call came the following afternoon, just before the end of the workday.
“Do you know what’s wrong with her?” Zoe asked, leaving the office to stand in the sun.
“Not exactly. I didn’t see anything amiss in her spine, but I’m not the chief radiologist. Until he returns, the best we have is guesswork.”
“Isn’t there someone at the hospital who could offer a second opinion?”
Dr. Chulu cleared his throat. “I sent the films to orthopedics, and I’m going to monitor the situation with Sister Anica. If Kuyeya’s condition worsens, I’ll order an MRI.”
“Why not do one now?” Zoe asked, feeling frustrated and anxious at the same time.
“I understand your concern, but our resources are limited. An MRI is a last resort.”
Zoe took a deep breath and released it slowly. It’s not his fault, she thought, redirecting her anger. He’s doing the best he can.
With less than a month to go before the trial, Zoe devoted every spare minute at work to Kuyeya’s case. As the legal team fleshed out the order of proof, she joined Sarge and Niza in developing strategies for examination and cross-examination. She had never seen her colleagues prepare so zealously for a trial before. They were ruthless in pointing out weaknesses in the evidence, and creative in inventing solutions. They were determined to find a way to win.
In the evenings when she wasn’t spending time with Joseph, Zoe wrestled with her New Yorker article. As Samantha Wu had predicted, Naomi Potter had marked up the pages with so many suggestions and annotations that Zoe saw more red ink than black. Never had she been so heavily edited, and she found the experience irritating and humbling. Naomi was particular about everything—narrative flow, logical clarity, word choice, syntax—but her greatest concern was t
he impression the article would leave with the reader.
“We have to finesse this,” she said in an email when she sensed Zoe’s frustration. “You’re placing your family—indeed, your father himself—at the heart of an argument that isn’t consistent with his campaign message. There’s no margin for error. We have to get this right.”
On Sunday afternoons, Zoe visited Kuyeya, sometimes alone, sometimes with Joseph. The girl recovered quickly from her second fall. There were times when she seemed to fumble things with her hands, other times when she favored her neck. But the episodes were brief and her overall disposition positive. Dr. Chulu continued to monitor her, but he was sanguine about her prognosis. Whatever orthopedics thought of the girl’s X-rays, Zoe never learned.
Six days before the trial, Zoe stayed at the office after hours, working on her examination notes for Sarge. A few minutes after six o’clock, she shut down her computer and looked at Joseph who was finishing up a report in another case.
“Sometimes I drive myself crazy,” she said with a sigh.
He put down his pen. “That’s what gives you an edge.”
Suddenly, Zoe heard her iPhone vibrate. She picked it up and froze. On the screen was a text message from an unrecognized number. “Meet me at market tomorrow. Bring protection.”
Zoe showed the message to Joseph.
He whistled. “The housekeeper.”
Zoe nodded. “She wants a way out.”
They arrived at Chiwoyu’s aisle at eight forty-five the following morning. As before, they cased the market for a sign of Dunstan Sisilu, then hovered around the shoe vendor’s stall, watching for the housekeeper’s silhouette. Zoe had a vague premonition of danger, which she attributed to nerves. The step they were about to take—offering protection to a critical witness—was unprecedented in CILA’s history. No one knew how the Nyambos would respond.
The Garden of Burning Sand Page 25
