“Let’s go,” he said, leaving the house and sprinting toward the gate, his gun out in front of him. Zoe took a deep breath and ran after him.
They found the guard crumpled on the ground. Zoe felt for a pulse. “He’s alive,” she said.
Joseph checked the gate and found it locked. “They got in another way.”
She followed him around to the back of the house. The pool and terrace looked ghostly in the pale light. He stopped at the base of a tall cypress tree and cursed. The ground wire atop the wall had been cut. A carpet hung over the other wires, weighing them down. At once Zoe recalled his preoccupation at dinner. She put the pieces together. They entered from the neighbors’ yard. But how did they get into the house?
The answer came to her suddenly. “Rosa!” she cried.
The door to the servant’s cottage was ajar, and the living area was as dark as a crypt. Zoe entered the cottage, ignoring Joseph’s commands to stay back. She blinked her eyes against the gloom and made out a couch, a stove, and a bed. A woman lay motionless on the mattress, her arms splayed out at an unnatural angle. Zoe ran to her side, fearing the worst. She pressed her fingers against Rosa’s neck and let out the breath she was holding.
“Thank God,” she whispered, feeling a strong heartbeat.
“I need to check the rest of the grounds,” Joseph said.
Zoe nodded quickly. “I’m coming.”
She ran with him into the false brightness of the yard. Together they scoured the walls and vegetation for a hint of movement. Twice Zoe thought she saw motion in the chiaroscuro of light and shadow. But each time it was a phantom, a trick of the mind. After searching the carport, Joseph led her back to the gate and unbolted the latch. He pointed his gun down the street toward the spot recently occupied by the gray Prado. Zoe looked over his shoulder.
Dunstan Sisilu was gone.
Joseph secured the gate again, and they returned to the servant’s entrance.
“I’m going to search the house,” he said. “You check on Tom and Carol.”
The lights were on when they entered the bungalow. Carol was standing in her nightgown by the stove, her face wet with tears.
“Is Tom okay?” Zoe asked, embracing her.
“He’s out cold,” Carol said.
Zoe walked down the hall to the Prentices’ bedroom. The place was a wreck—a table lamp shattered beside the bed, the desk chair upended, clothes strewn about, and Tom lying in a heap. Suddenly, the magnitude of the attack hit Zoe and she fell to her knees, a wave of guilt sweeping over her. This is all my fault! They protected me and they got hurt.
After a while she felt a hand on her shoulder. “The police are coming,” Carol said softly.
Zoe blinked. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
When Tom regained consciousness, Zoe helped Carol move him to a chair in the living room. The Kabulonga authorities arrived a few minutes later and spent two hours collecting evidence. The dead attacker carried no identification. His clothes were nondescript, as was his knife. His nationality was a mystery. Joseph guessed he was Congolese; the chief investigator thought he was Angolan; they agreed he was not Zambian.
The gate guard was the first to revive. He stumbled into the house wearing a look of profound bewilderment. The police questioned him, but his recollection was almost completely blank. Rosa appeared soon afterward, holding her head. Carol directed her to the couch and sat beside her while the police made their inquiry. The housekeeper remembered waking in the dark and hearing scratches on the floor. Then a hand pressed something over her mouth. She recalled the smell of chemicals, but after that, nothing.
As soon as the police removed the body, Tom composed himself enough to call the security company. Carol took a Valium and scrubbed the floor with bleach until the bloodstain was nearly invisible. Zoe, meanwhile, went to the bathroom and washed her face until her skin turned pink. The laceration from the knife had already dried, but her ear continued to bleed.
She stared at herself in the mirror, overcome by emotion. Pain welled up within her and she slumped to the floor and began to cry. She didn’t know how long it was before Joseph found her and guided her to her bedroom. She crawled under the covers, shivering uncontrollably.
“Are they gone?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I made some calls. Everyone at CILA is okay.”
He wrapped her in his arms and began to whisper-sing an African lullaby—in Nyanja or Tonga or Bemba, she didn’t know. The soft cadence of the words soothed her shattered nerves but did little to console her. She couldn’t bring herself to think about the trial that would begin in just a few hours. She couldn’t fathom sitting in the gallery while Darious swore his innocence and Frederick looked on like a man with nothing to hide. Yet that is exactly what she would have to do. The case would not be delayed on her account.
She closed her eyes and forced the memories of violence out of her mind. She focused on Joseph’s song, the quiet rhythm, the unfamiliar words.
At last, she drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 27
Just before nine the next morning, Zoe took her seat in Courtroom 10, anticipating and dreading the appearance of the judge. Like actors waiting for the curtain to rise, the players in the trial were subdued, pensive. Lawyers doodled mindlessly on notepads; the witnesses from Kanyama—Given, Dominic, Wisdom, Agnes and Abigail—sat as still as statues; Dr. Chulu shifted his weight around and rubbed his hands together repeatedly; even Benson Luchembe, dressed in his Savile Row suit and surrounded by a coterie of associates, appeared nervous.
Or so Zoe wanted to believe.
The events of the night before had shaken her confidence deeply, and she was struggling to stay composed. In addition to the break-in at the Prentices’ bungalow, intruders had ransacked the CILA office, tearing apart case files, and sabotaging computers and office equipment. Had Sarge and Niza not taken their trial materials home with them, the prosecution almost certainly would have been derailed. The night guards were as shocked as the staff to learn what had happened. They claimed they had heard no sounds, seen nothing suspicious. Niza and Zoe suspected otherwise, but there was no way of proving their complicity.
Zoe fingered the scab on her ear and glanced at Frederick Nyambo. He was alone, as he had been at every hearing since the arraignment, his wife apparently having contented herself to exercise her influence behind the scenes. His face was a picture of imperial calm. He met Zoe’s eyes and smiled slightly. The deck is stacked, he seemed to say. We own this game.
Suddenly, the door to chambers opened and Flexon Mubita appeared with a young man who looked like a law clerk. The judge ascended the bench and ordered the courtroom deputy to bring in the accused. Darious sat in the dock and stared at Mubita blankly. His lack of visible remorse fueled Zoe’s rage. After all she had done, after the mountains CILA had moved, his fate rested in the hands of a judge whose integrity was in doubt.
“Good morning, everyone,” Mubita intoned, nodding cordially to Sarge and Benson Luchembe. “This is the trial of Darious Nyambo, who is charged with the defilement of a child under the age of sixteen. Are there any matters I need to address before we move forward?”
Sarge stood slowly, looking a bit wobbly on his feet. “Your Worship, last night armed intruders broke into the home where Zoe Fleming has been staying since the attack on her flat. One of the intruders was killed in the skirmish, but he has yet to be identified. Intruders also broke into our office and destroyed files and equipment. As you know, this prosecution has been marred by obstructions of justice, but this level of violence is unprecedented. We don’t yet have evidence linking the attacks to the accused, but there is no other explanation.”
Mubita looked genuinely shocked. He glared at Benson Luchembe. “Do you have any knowledge of this?”
The defense lawyer shook his head vehemently. “Of course not, Your Worship. I’m as horrified as you are. And I resent counsel’s accusation. Without evidence of complicity, he should hold h
is tongue.”
The judge glowered at Darious. “If I ever learn that the defense was involved in this campaign of lawlessness, I will personally throw all of you in jail for contempt.” He turned back to Sarge. “Are you requesting a continuance?”
Sarge hesitated. “No, Your Worship. We are prepared to try the case today.”
The judge nodded. “As disturbed as I am by these developments, I don’t like the thought of further delay.” He looked at Zoe. “Ms. Fleming, I’m very sorry for what happened to you. I assume you will be tightening security at your home?”
“It’s already been done, Your Worship,” she said evenly.
“Good,” Mubita replied, picking up his pen. “I’m ready for opening statements.”
Sarge and Benson Luchembe made quick work of their openings. Sarge summarized the facts the prosecution would establish but remained coy about Darious’s motive and his family’s history with Charity Mizinga. Luchembe, on the other hand, enumerated the weaknesses in the prosecution’s case—Kuyeya’s inability to name the accused and the prosecution’s failure to produce an eyewitness to the rape. Afterward, the judge directed Sarge to call his first witness.
“I call Given Sensele,” Sarge said.
The examination of a minor child was always a sensitive matter, but Sarge handled Given with practiced grace. He showed her photographs of the alley where she saw the silver SUV and photographs of Darious’s Mercedes, and she identified the Lusaka Golf Club crest on the rear of the SUV. Luchembe objected when Sarge asked Darious to stand up and turn around, but the judge overruled the objection. After Darious complied, Sarge pointed at him.
“Does the accused resemble the man you saw in the alley?”
Given’s answer resonated in the chamber. “I didn’t see his face. I only saw his back. But, yes. He looks like the man I saw.”
When Sarge yielded the floor, Luchembe smiled politely at the girl. “Ms. Sensele, you said you were on your way home when you saw the silver SUV. How fast were you walking?”
The girl thought for a moment. “I was walking quickly.”
“You were walking quickly because you were alone and it was dark outside?”
Given nodded.
“You were walking quickly when you observed the silver SUV?”
“Yes. But I stopped when I saw it.”
The defense attorney frowned. “May I ask why you did that?”
Given looked temporarily confused. “It was an expensive car. I wondered who was in it.”
“But you didn’t see who was in it. You testified you didn’t see his face.”
“He looked like the man in the dock,” the girl rejoined.
Luchembe shrugged. “You don’t know that for certain, do you?”
Given seemed to bristle. “I already told you what I saw.”
The defense lawyer pursed his lips and asked no further questions.
Next on the witness list was Wisdom. The teenager sauntered through the bar, a caricature of adolescent bravado. He sized up Darious, cast a confident look at the judge, and focused on Sarge, who led him through the night of the rape—the TV program he was watching, the sound of an engine on the street, seeing the taillights of a silver SUV. Sarge also showed him a hand-drawn map of his neighborhood and asked him to mark the location of his house.
Soon, Sarge turned the young man over to Benson Luchembe, who promptly made mincemeat of his testimony, establishing that he had no idea about the make and model of the SUV let alone who owned it, who was driving it, whether there were any passengers in it, where it had come from, or where it went after it passed his house. “In summary, then,” Luchembe sneered, “you didn’t really see anything that night, did you?”
Wisdom gave Luchembe a sullen look.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” said the lawyer, sitting down again.
Next, Sarge summoned Dominic. “The boy speaks very little English,” Sarge said, escorting him to the witness stand. “His language is Nyanja.”
The judge waved to his law clerk. “Timothy will interpret.”
When Timothy stationed himself beside Dominic, Sarge led the boy through a series of questions about the court process and the nature of truth-telling. Dominic’s answers were uncomplicated, but he seemed capable of holding his own in a chamber of lawyers.
“I don’t believe the boy is qualified,” Benson Luchembe objected. “My client’s freedom shouldn’t be imperiled by the unreliable memories of a seven-year-old child.”
The judge shook his head. “The boy seems lucid. I’d like to hear what he remembers.”
Luchembe sat down heavily while Sarge began to question Dominic. The boy was bright and seemed to enjoy the chance to tell the judge his story. He spoke in short bursts of Nyanja, and Timothy translated. Sarge showed Dominic the hand-drawn map he had presented to Wisdom. The boy struggled to point out his house until he understood that the bush-like symbol at the center represented the tree in Abigail’s yard. He pointed to a house just down the street.
“I stay there,” he said.
Sarge showed Dominic the photographs of Darious’s SUV and the Lusaka Golf Club crest, both of which the boy identified. He also identified Kuyeya playing in the yard at St. Francis. “It is the girl I saw,” he said. “She looks happy here. That night she was crying.”
Instead of cross-examining the child on his feet, Luchembe moved his chair over to the witness stand. “I’m Benson,” the lawyer began, affecting a fatherly tone. “You told Mr. Zulu that it was dark when you saw the truck and the child, isn’t that right?”
Dominic fidgeted in his chair. “The night is dark.”
Luchembe smiled. “Indeed it is. Dominic, you said that the man you saw looked like the man over there, correct?” The lawyer pointed at Darious, sitting in the dock, and the boy nodded. “Do you recognize the man sitting in the front row of the gallery? He is wearing a gray suit.”
The boy looked toward the man in question, and Zoe followed his gaze. The man—a member of the defense team—stared back at Dominic. The boy frowned and shook his head.
“Are you saying you have never seen him before?” Luchembe inquired.
“I don’t remember that man,” the boy said, sounding confused.
“Are you certain? Why don’t you think again?”
Zoe glanced between the boy and the man, feeling genuine concern. Dominic’s testimony was crucial to the case, yet the defense lawyer appeared poised to neutralize it.
“I don’t think I have seen him,” the boy said, less sure of himself.
Luchembe raised his eyebrows. “You don’t remember meeting him about three months ago outside your house? You were playing a game with a few other boys.”
“Objection,” said Sarge. “Counsel is assuming facts not in evidence.”
Luchembe stood up and shrugged deferentially. “Your Worship, I’m not assuming anything. I want nothing more than to know what the boy remembers.”
The magistrate looked at Sarge. “Objection overruled. The inquiry is appropriate.”
The defense lawyer faced the boy again. “You said you haven’t seen the man in the gray suit. I want to know whether you remember meeting him outside your house in Kanyama.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen that man,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
The defense lawyer nodded gravely. “Do you remember seeing me that day?”
Dominic looked flummoxed. “I see you now.”
“Indeed,” Luchembe replied, catching the judge’s eye. “That’s all I have, Your Worship.”
Mubita regarded Sarge. “Anything further?”
Sarge stood up slowly. “Dominic, do you remember meeting the muzungu woman who is also sitting in the front row of the gallery?”
Please say yes, Zoe thought, as the boy turned toward her.
To her overwhelming relief, he began to nod. “I have seen her. She came to my house. She showed me a picture of a girl.”
“Was the girl in the picture th
e same as the girl you saw that night outside your house?”
Benson Luchembe leapt to his feet. “I object. The question is leading.”
The judge nodded. “Sustained.”
Sarge sidestepped the objection. “Who was the girl in the picture, do you remember?”
Dominic smiled brightly. “It was the girl who was crying.”
Sarge nodded, looking satisfied. He glanced at his watch. “Your Worship, I’m finished with this witness. Perhaps we should break for lunch.”
Mubita put down his pen, looking relieved. “This Court will be in recess for one hour.”
At half past one, the lawyers reassembled in the courtroom. The judge appeared promptly and took a seat on the bench. Sarge began the afternoon session with Agnes and Abigail. He moved through their testimony chronologically, eliciting only the essential facts—the location of their houses, the engine and drumbeats Agnes heard, Abigail’s discovery of Kuyeya on the street, her examination of the child, and the blood she saw on Kuyeya’s leg. On cross-examination, Luchembe limited himself to a few questions designed to clarify that neither woman saw Darious or his SUV on the street. Sarge declined to redirect and called Dr. Chulu to the stand.
The physician sat in the witness chair and placed a folder on his lap. After qualifying him as an expert in pediatric medicine, Sarge asked him about the nature of Kuyeya’s injuries.
“She had bruising and tearing in the vaginal area,” Dr. Chulu said. “She had lesions on the skin. I took samples of blood and semen and a handful of photographs with the colposcope, but she was in no condition for a more thorough exam.”
Sarge handed Mubita the photos from the colposcopy, and the judge looked through them. “Compared with the worst cases you’ve seen,” Mubita said, “how bad is this?”
“The child was in great distress,” Dr. Chulu answered, “but the physical damage was on the surface. There was no evidence of fistula—the tearing of the wall between vagina and rectum. In this sense, the child was fortunate. Her body healed reasonably quickly.”
Nodding, the judge asked Sarge to proceed.
The Garden of Burning Sand Page 28
