ECLIPSE

by Richard North Patterson

  Kahan settled back in his chair, as though to consider Pierce from a different angle. “PGL will claim it’s only doing what it has to.”

  “Too bad. Okimbo is effectively PGL’s man in Asariland. If it’s legally responsible for his acts or Karama’s, it’ll have to do business some other way. Fuck it if that’s unfair. What’s really unfair is profiting from legalized murder.”

  Kahan turned, gazing out the window. At length, he said, “You’ll need more than a judge with an unusual sense of urgency, or the usual human rights advocates picketing the Luandian embassy, or even a few damning documents. You’ll need someone inside PGL to help you weave it all together. That’s not likely.” He turned to Pierce again. “PetroGlobal’s chairman was fierce. To Colson, you’re trying to drive a stake through its heart. PetroGlobal’s instinct will be to fight you, not Karama. It won’t acknowledge fault for doing business with him—it can’t open itself to lawsuits or admit complicity in the acts of a murderous regime.

  “In PetroGlobal’s eyes, remaining in Luandia is an act of corporate patriotism. It’s supplying the lifeblood of America—oil—and it has powerful friends in this administration. They won’t just go after you in court, but in every way they can.”

  Pierce shrugged. “So who deserves our sympathy? Regardless of what we do, PGL will survive. Bobby may not.”

  Kahan folded his hands. “This is too serious for our Pro Bono Committee to decide,” he said at last. “I’ll have to go to the Executive Committee. Until they vote, anything you do will be as a private citizen, not a member of this firm.”

  Pierce fought back his weariness. “Then tell ExCom this: That PGL’s displeasure is nothing compared to a good man’s life, and the safety of his American wife. That this case won’t last nearly as long or cost nearly as much as the death penalty appeals we take on as a matter of principle. That if Karama executes Bobby, he’ll do it in record time. And that if we don’t try to stop him, I’ll resign.”

  Kahan stared at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Completely. If Nelson Mandela had been facing execution and this firm had been presented with a chance to save him, would we have taken it? The firm I joined would have—no matter who opposed us or who we had to sue. This case is the closest Kenyon & Walker will ever come to that.”

  Kahan gave him a thin smile. “I’ll be sure to mention that.”

  2

  BEFORE DAWN THE NEXT DAY, PIERCE HAD CONTACTED AMNESTY International and Human Rights Watch; engaged a publicity consultant to help coordinate a public relations campaign; e-mailed Bobby’s celebrity contacts in England and the United States; strategized by telephone with Joshua Kano, an exiled Luandian journalist who was the Asari people’s spokesman in Washington; and, through Grayson Caraway, requested meetings with key officials at the State Department and the United Nations. Then, at Kano’s suggestion, he opened his copy of the New York Times.

  On page 6 was a full-page ad featuring photographs of what Atiku Bara had called PGL’s “Potemkin projects”—a clinic, a school, a water purification plant. PetroGlobal, the text assured readers, was “committed to the future of Luandia and its people.” The bold letters above the text read: “PGL: Energy for a Better World.” The oil company, Kano assured him, meant to create its own reality before Pierce could.

  Pierce put down the Times and watched morning sunlight spread across the bay. The beauty and safety of his surroundings felt comfortable yet strange, as though if San Francisco were real, Luandia could not be. His apartment was more sparsely furnished now; in his absence, Amy had taken her last possessions. Suddenly Pierce felt suspended between a past that had left him without a family and a future he could not envision. He could only imagine Marissa’s isolation, so much greater than his own.

  He went back to work. By eight that night he had submitted a memo to the Executive Committee and, with Kano’s help, drafted a petition to be signed by celebrities and human rights groups, reprinted in the New York Times, and presented to PetroGlobal, the State Department, the United Nations, and the media. Its demands were simple: the recipients should urge Karama to open Asariland to the press and human rights groups; allow an independent inquiry into the destruction of Goro; and grant Bobby Okari the legal rights afforded him under international law. Until then, the petition concluded, it was PetroGlobal’s moral and legal obligation to suspend all oil production in Luandia.

  Pierce e-mailed Marissa, packed, and caught a night flight to Washington.

  JOSHUA KANO MET him for breakfast at the Madison hotel.

  Amid the lobbyists and political consultants, Kano looked out of place, a lean, plainly dressed man whose soft speech and gentle aura were belied by a twitchiness that meant that some part of his body—drumming fingers or jiggling knees—was always in motion. “Hampton Sizemore,” Kano said, “is already at work.”

  Pierce knew Sizemore by reputation: a former civil rights leader turned outspoken member of the Congressional Black Caucus until, in his fifties, he started a consulting firm that lobbied for African governments while soliciting them for American business clients. “His passion for justice,” Kano explained with quiet distaste, “has been replaced by a passion for money. Not only does he front for Karama but they’re partners in two apartment complexes on the East Side of Manhattan. Even his town house in Georgetown belongs to Karama.”

  “Then how does Sizemore have any credibility?”

  Kano’s chuckle was mirthless. “Are you asking how someone who’s such an obvious whore for Karama nonetheless has so much access to Congress, the White House, editorial boards, and talk shows? Sizemore claims he’s still a ‘change agent,’ dedicated to justice for all, but that now he works for change from the inside.” Kano’s smile flashed and vanished. “Not ‘small change,’ either—millions in fees as a middleman and in profits from crooked Luandian businesses. It doesn’t hurt that Sizemore also funnels money, it’s rumored, from Luandians like Ugwo Ajukwa into the campaign coffers of American politicians. I cannot tell you how it incenses me to see this pious phony use his credibility to call Karama, the Hitler of West Africa, a beacon of hope.” He snatched that morning’s Washington Post from his briefcase, folded to a page in the middle of section 1. “And now this.”

  Pierce first saw a three-paragraph article headed “U.N. Official Addresses Unrest in Luandian Delta,” the gist of which was that the man had expressed concern about reports of violence against “Asari-populated areas.” Then Kano gestured for him to unfold the paper; the entire opposite page, labeled “The Truth About Bobby Okari,” had been purchased by the “Committee for Luandian-American Relations.” The “truth,” Pierce discovered, was that the Asari movement was a “secessionist front group that traffics in terror.” As to the most egregious example of such terror—the “lynching of three Luandian family men”—the “world community should allow justice to take its course.”

  Pierce stared at the newspaper. “It’s only Africa,” Kano said quietly. “No one who reads this will ever see Goro. Nor can they hear from the dead. On a blank canvas, Karama and Sizemore can paint any portrait they like.”

  “Not quite blank,” Pierce responded. “There must be other exiles who’ve seen Karama’s atrocities at first hand.”

  “True. But most of them have loved ones within Karama’s reach.”

  Pierce struggled to suppress his fear. “Like Marissa, you mean.”

  Kano looked up at him. “Yes,” he responded quietly. “But that is her wish.”

  FOR THE NEXT two days, Pierce anxiously awaited his firm’s decision; though his threat to resign was real, he could not mount such a complex lawsuit without the resources only a major law firm could provide. The only salve for his anxiety was activity—meetings, pressing for an audience at State, giving one media interview after another. His message was simple: he had seen the delta, the ruins of Goro, the misery of Bobby’s confinement—no one who had seen these things could doubt that the tribunal was another instrument of ty
ranny. On the evening of the second day, when he took his message to the PBS NewsHour, Hampton Sizemore appeared to provide balance.

  Sizemore breezed into the green room three minutes before the interview. Seeing Pierce, he introduced himself, flashing his whitened teeth in a smile that did not match his look of shrewd appraisal. How was Pierce’s stay so far? he asked, as though Pierce had come to see the sights. Swiftly, Pierce perceived a man spoiled by a soft living made from retailing cynical nonsense—a comfortable paunch, rheumy eyes, dyed black hair at odds with a face that reflected the gravitational pull of age, the faint whiff of cologne. Pierce had seen versions of this man a hundred times before: glib, lazy, and morally hollow. And yet Sizemore’s mellifluous voice once had spoken hard truths in the harshest precincts of the South, sometimes at the risk of his life. That man, Pierce reflected as they entered the studio, would have seen Bobby Okari as a brother.

  Two days of interviews had honed Pierce’s presentation. Grasping this, the well-coiffed interlocutor, Margaret Ames, gave him a full minute before asking Hampton Sizemore to respond. At once Sizemore’s air of condescension vanished, and his voice and manner became calm, measured, and a bit mournful, that of an advocate for an emerging African nation now wrongly disparaged.

  “It is well to remember,” he told Ames, “that Mr. Okari’s arrest arises from the tragic deaths of three Luandian employees of PetroGlobal Oil. Our own experience in America tells us that, all too often, the victims of violence are forgotten. And the government of Luandia has a duty, as does ours, to protect the lives of its own peoplae—including those who work for American companies that provide resources essential to our lives—”

  “What about Goro?” Ames cut in. “Mr. Pierce claims that what he saw could only be the aftermath of an atrocity committed by the Luandian military.”

  Sizemore pursed his lips, his expression judicious. “The Luandian government says the sole violence occurred when the Asari movement, which advocates secession, opened fire on the soldiers who had come to detain Bobby Okari. The only people who claim otherwise are Okari and his wife.”

  “According to Mr. Pierce, that’s because all the villagers are dead.”

  Sizemore shook his head. “Mr. Pierce wasn’t there. With all respect, all he can do is repeat the Okaris’ account.” His tone filled with regret. “The only murders we know occurred precipitated Mr. Okari’s arrest—the lynchings for which he stands accused. Lynching is a crime, whether in the Old South or the new Luandia. The Karama government is proceeding publicly and expeditiously—I can only wish that, when my colleagues in the civil rights movement were brutally murdered, the local authorities of that time had done the same. The community of nations should allow the Luandian justice system to proceed without condescension or prejudgment.”

  Ames turned to Pierce. “How do you answer, Mr. Pierce?”

  “With questions.” Pierce turned to Sizemore. “Will Karama readmit reporters and investigators to Asariland? Will he allow Bobby Okari a cell with a toilet and without rats? Will he let Marissa Okari come to America? And will he conform to the human rights standards agreed to by the president he overthrew?”

  Ames nodded. “Go ahead, Congressman Sizemore.”

  “Margaret,” he began, “I can’t speak for the Luandian government—”

  “And yet they sent you here.”

  “So they did. But they also must safeguard their own internal security—”

  “With rats?” Pierce interrupted.

  Ames held up her hand to silence him. “President Karama faces great challenges,” Sizemore temporized, “including ethnic divisions and a threat of Islamic terrorism even more dangerous than that which threatens us. His government should be given a certain leeway as it works toward the optimal methods of ensuring security for the Luandian people and defeating the forces of national division.”

  Ames raised her eyebrows. “Mr. Pierce?”

  “The congressman evokes the civil rights era to defend the torture of an advocate for civil rights. He evokes lynchings to justify a trial no better than a legalized lynching. He evokes the war on terror to defend a regime that terrorizes its own people. He answers no questions and deploys every weapon but the facts.” Pierce faced Sizemore again. “Will the Luandian government allow me to represent Bobby Okari at his trial? Or does Karama want to pick Bobby’s lawyers as well as his judges?”

  Sizemore paused. “I don’t issue visas—”

  “The autocrat who pays you does,” Pierce snapped. “So tell him to give Okari the same rights you once stood for. Still have it in you, Congressman?”

  Sizemore drew himself up. “I was fighting injustice before you were born.”

  “And stopped shortly after,” Pierce shot back. “At least go visit Bobby in prison. Then you’ll recall what injustice looks like.”

  The briefest glimmer of amusement showed in Ames’s eyes. “We’ll have to leave it there,” she said. But Pierce had done what he had come to do: embarrass the Luandian government, perhaps sufficiently to help protect Bobby and Marissa. The other result, for better or worse, was to increase his own chances of returning to Luandia.

  Without a word, Sizemore left.

  THE NEXT MORNING Pierce got his meeting at the State Department.

  The senior officer on the West Africa desk, Anthony Gersh, was a slender man with russet hair, pale blue eyes, and the amiable but jaded air of someone whose job it was to monitor an insane asylum. The experience inclined him to candor.

  “Yesterday,” he told Pierce, “my guests were PetroGlobal, the Luan-dian ambassador, and your sparring partner Hampton Sizemore, lobbying for a ‘statement of interest.’ In case you don’t know, that’s a letter from the secretary of state informing whatever judge you might draw that Okari’s presumptive lawsuit would impair America’s relations with Luandia.”

  “I assume the word ‘oil’ was mentioned.”

  “Most often ‘constructive engagement,’ a phrase calculated to make a State Department bureaucrat drool like one of Pavlov’s dogs. That’s our policy toward China: the more business you do, the more influence you have. Though not enough to keep the Chinese from using any backlash you cause to eat our lunch in Luandia.”

  “What about the massacre at Goro?”

  Absently, Gersh straightened some papers. “The ‘alleged massacre,’ you mean? The problem is using it to drag PGL into an American court. A lot of us think that’s like suing a crime victim for calling the sheriff.”

  “So PGL says,” Pierce responded pointedly.

  “And so we believe. The second problem for us is that countries like Lu-andia believe that the president can control what happens in our courts.”

  “Karama controls his,” Pierce rejoined. “This tribunal is an excuse for murder.”

  Gersh rearranged more papers. “There’s another problem,” he acknowledged. “We’ve become leery of American courts adjudicating human rights violations by foreign governments. Look at the reverse: the Chileans would love to put Henry Kissinger on trial for the murder of President Allende; the Nicaraguans would equally enjoy trying the CIA for atrocities carried out by our proxies the contras—”

  “In other words,” Pierce interjected, “you can’t save Okari because we’re busy protecting whatever we’re doing at Guantánamo.”

  Gersh shrugged. “There’s a grain of truth in that. In fact, our department has stated a number of reservations about the very human rights agreements you rely on.”

  Pierce felt a growing despair. “Okari’s trial starts in twenty days. The U.N. will never move in that short a time. All I can hope for is this lawsuit and whatever help you’ll give me.”

  Gersh looked him in the eye. “Then I’ll give it to you straight. If we don’t oppose you in court, it’s because someone has decided that this lawsuit advances our interest in saving Okari without us slapping Karama in the face. If it helps, several of us thought you made Sizemore look like a hypocrite. The more sensitive among us don’t e
njoy hypocrisy.” Pausing, Gersh regarded him askance. “We also wondered whether you’ve considered your own situation.”

  “How so?”

  “For one thing, we’ve read the CIA’s psychological profile of Savior Karama. To put it mildly, he’s not subject to the usual social incentives. And the Luandian Delta’s such a horror these days that people even die by accident. You might not be so lucky.”

  It was a thought that had caught up to Pierce in the hours when sleep eluded him. “There’s also Okari and his wife,” he answered. “I made them a promise I can’t lightly break.”

  “Marissa Okari,” Gersh said at length, “is an American citizen. It could be easier for us to extract her from Luandia than to do anything for her husband. She might do more good advocating for Okari from here than you could by returning to Luandia. You should tell her that, Mr. Pierce. I’m sure her husband would agree.”

  PIERCE BENT OVER his laptop, calling Marissa on Skype from his room at the Madison. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “The same.” Her tone was so clear that Pierce could feel her worry. “Atiku thinks Bobby’s still alive.”

  Pierce hurt for her. Swiftly, he explained Gersh’s implied offer.

  “No,” she said at once, and then her voice softened. “If you decide to stay in America, I understand. But I can’t leave.”

  “Why not? Maybe Gersh is right.”

  “For you.” A moment’s silence was punctuated by the crackle of static. “When I married Bobby, I married his cause. Now I’m more valuable to Bobby as Karama’s hostage—if I return, the American government will have one less reason to care about what happens to Bobby.” Her speech slowed, as though she was trying to reach out to him. “Please hear me, Damon. This isn’t your commitment. It’s mine.”