ECLIPSE

by Richard North Patterson

  Standing, Pierce walked toward Lucky Joba, conscious of the troubled expression on Justice Orta’s face. He stopped a few feet from the witness. “When this supposed conversation happened, was anyone else with Bobby?”

  Joba shifted in his chair. “I saw no one.”

  “What was Bobby wearing?”

  Joba crossed his legs. “Why would I remember such a thing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Pierce said carelessly. “Maybe because someone told you to. Let me ask you this: who else did you tell about this conversation?”

  Joba glanced at the prosecutor. “Mr. Ngara.”

  Pierce smiled a little. “I meant before that.”

  Joba gave Okimbo a surreptitious glance. “Colonel Okimbo,” he said at length.

  “Where did that meeting occur?”

  “At the barracks in Port George.”

  Pierce hesitated, then decided to take a chance. “You’d seen the colonel before, hadn’t you?”

  Joba looked around himself, seemingly disoriented. “He came to Elu,” he said at last. “To meet with Eric Aboh about peace with the Asari.”

  “There was also a white man with Okimbo, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “How would you describe him?”

  Joba shrugged. “I don’t know. Big, I guess.”

  Pierce moved closer. “With gray-blond hair?”

  Joba stopped fidgeting. “Yes.”

  “Were you present when these men met with Eric Aboh?”

  “Objection,” Ngara called out. “Irrelevant. Whether the colonel met with Eric Aboh after the lynchings has nothing to do with who ordered them.”

  This, Pierce knew, was the first test of Judge Orta. “Your Honor, the witness’s relationship with Colonel Okimbo, to whom he first told his story, has everything to do with its credibility. My client’s life is at stake. So is the credibility of this proceeding. I ask the court’s indulgence while I establish relevance.”

  For Orta to refuse, Pierce knew, would expose him as a puppet. After glancing at Okimbo, Orta instructed Joba, “You will answer.”

  “No,” the witness said finally. “I wasn’t present.”

  “But you heard that Okimbo and the oyibo gave Eric Aboh money, yes?”

  Joba hesitated. “Yes.”

  Pierce felt another piece fall into place. “Aboh distributed some of that money among the Asari youth, didn’t he.”

  “Eric paid us, yes.”

  “And told you not to follow Bobby’s leadership.”

  “Yes.”

  Pierce smiled. With an air of curiosity, he asked, “How much did you make?”

  Joba frowned. “I don’t remember. Maybe fifty U.S.”

  “A pittance. By the way, did Eric Aboh pay you before or after you supposedly heard Bobby Okari order up a lynching?”

  Joba seemed to examine the question for traps. “After.”

  “And before Aboh paid you, you hadn’t told anyone at all about overhearing Mr. Okari direct the murder of PGL employees.”

  Joba turned to Okimbo, as if for help. With no intervention forthcoming, he answered, “No.”

  “Not even Mr. Aboh or any other Asari leader.”

  “No.”

  Pierce stared at him in disbelief. “Then what made you tell Okimbo rather than a fellow Asari?”

  Joba fidgeted with his wristwatch. “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s return to the meeting between you, Moses Tulu, and Colonel Okimbo regarding Bobby Okari. Where did it occur?”

  “The barracks in Port George. In the colonel’s office.”

  “Who initiated the meeting—the colonel or you?”

  “I did.”

  Pierce skipped a beat. “There was also an oyibo with Okimbo this time as well, true?”

  Joba’s eyes widened, and he looked toward Okimbo again. “The colonel can’t help you,” Pierce said calmly. “You’ll have to pick an answer.”

  “Yes,” Joba snapped with open hostility. “There was an oyibo.”

  “The same man who had come with Okimbo and paid Eric Aboh money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is his name Roos Van Daan?”

  Joba crossed his arms. “I don’t know his name.”

  “But you do know that he works for PGL.”

  Joba hesitated. “I think so, yes. This is what I heard in Elu.”

  “Okay. What happened at this meeting with Okimbo and this white man?”

  Joba’s shrug resembled a tic. Cautiously, he said, “I told them what I overheard Bobby saying.”

  Half-turning, Pierce glanced at the prosecutor. From the intentness of Ngara’s scrutiny of the witness, Pierce guessed that the involvement of a white man, with its whiff of bribery, was an unhappy surprise. Facing the witness, he asked, “Did the oyibo offer to pay you for this testimony?”

  Joba paused, then said carefully, “Expenses only.”

  Pierce smiled. “Fifteen thousand U.S. dollars’ worth of expenses?”

  Joba became still, as though impaled by the question. In a muted voice, he said, “I don’t remember.”

  “Come off it,” Pierce snapped. “The question is whether, less than a month ago, this white man offered you fifteen thousand dollars in Okimbo’s office. Yes or no.”

  “It was expenses for traveling to Port George.”

  “Did the round-trip to and from Okimbo’s office cost you fifteen thousand?”

  Pierce heard a quiet chuckle, Bobby Okari’s. With an expression of deep unhappiness, Orta looked from Bobby to the witness. “No,” Joba murmured.

  “No?” Pierce repeated softly. “And yet the white man has already paid you five thousand U.S. dollars.”

  Startled, the witness stared at Pierce, lips slightly parted. “I did not count it.”

  Pierce thought swiftly. Ngara would use Moses Tulu to rehabilitate this witness; it would be best to hold back some surprises. “When you get the last ten thousand,” Pierce advised Joba, “count it. I’d hate for this oyibo to cheat you.”

  ON REDIRECT, NGARA compelled the witness to affirm his accusation. Pierce contented himself with observing the participants: Ngara seemed punctilious but dispirited; the two jurists, Orta and Uza, listened with looks of weary skepticism; Okimbo inspected the witness closely, as though contemplating this man’s future. Pierce did not envy Lucky Joba.

  The same worry seemed to follow Moses Tulu to the witness stand: he sat with folded hands and hunched shoulders, as though wishing to become smaller. His voice was thin as he echoed Joba’s story: yes, he had been with Joba outside Bobby’s home; yes, he had heard Bobby’s directive; yes, the white man, whose name he did not know, had offered only to pay “expenses.” The last was said with so little conviction that Ngara looked as uncomfortable as his witness. When Pierce rose to cross-examine, the prosecutor eyed him with visible wariness.

  Strolling toward the witness, Pierce asked, “After your first meeting with Okimbo and the white man, did you meet with them again?”

  Out of the corner of Pierce’s vision, Ngara’s pencil froze. Shrinking back slightly, the witness asked, “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean? Let’s try this: did you and Joba later meet with Okimbo, this oyibo, and an Asari named Sunday Opuba?”

  Tulu stared past Pierce. “Yes,” he finally acknowledged.

  “Explain to us how Sunday got involved.”

  The witness shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

  “Then let me help you: in a bar in Elu, Joba told Sunday Opuba that he could profit from Bobby Okari’s downfall and should come with you to meet Okimbo.”

  Tulu looked around himself, as though awaiting rescue. His brow furrowed in a pantomime of concentration. “Thing is, I was drinking too much gin. I don’t bring back our words.”

  “Were you drunk when the three of you went to see Okimbo and the white man?”

  The witness spread his hands in entreaty; surely Pierce must understand, the gesture said, that to answer coul
d be fatal. “No, sir.”

  “That’s a relief. At this same meeting, Joba repeated to Sunday Opuba your story about overhearing Bobby, correct?”

  “This was mentioned, yes.”

  “It surely was. And then Colonel Okimbo suggested to Sunday that he, too, should tell this story in court.”

  Tulu looked away. “I forget things,” he said hollowly. “I was scared.”

  “I’ll bet. But just to be clear, you don’t claim that Sunday Opuba was present when you and Tulu supposedly heard Bobby Okari solicit murder?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then let me suggest that you haven’t ‘forgotten’ hearing Colonel Okimbo tell Sunday to lie. You heard him do that, didn’t you?”

  The witness seemed to hunch, as if to ward off blows. Turning, Pierce said to Orta, “Please direct the witness to answer, Your Honor.”

  Orta looked toward Colonel Nubola, who glared at him with obvious dissatisfaction. Then he glanced at Uza, who, after an instant, nodded. Softly, Orta told the witness, “The tribunal wishes to hear your answer.”

  Tulu stared at his lap, caught between maintaining an obvious fiction and acknowledging the truth in Okimbo’s presence. At length, he mumbled, “I remember nothing of what the colonel said.”

  “Then let’s try the oyibo. Didn’t he offer Sunday fifteen thousand dollars to lie about Bobby Okari?”

  Pierce sensed a stirring in the gallery. “I don’t remember this,” the witness insisted.

  “Do you deny it happened?”

  Ngara stood. “Asked and answered. Counsel is harassing the witness.”

  Orta pursed his lips. “Yes,” he said to Pierce. “It is clear the witness has no memory of this meeting.”

  Pierce stared at the presiding judge. “With respect, Your Honor, it is clear that this witness is lying.”

  Orta looked cornered. “That is argument, Mr. Pierce. Make it at the end of trial, with less insolence. For now, move on or sit.”

  Pierce tried to conceal his anger and disgust. To the witness, he said, “Let’s move to this so-called directive from Mr. Okari. Do you know who was on the other end of the call?”

  Tulu shook his head. “No.”

  “Do you know who lynched those oil workers?”

  “How could I know that, sir?”

  “You could always make it up, I suppose. But, in truth, you don’t know whether those murders are connected to Bobby Okari. Or to this supposed call.”

  Tulu looked down. “All I can know is what we heard him say. Nothing more.”

  Pierce stepped in front of Moses Tulu. “Be a man,” he said softly. “Look me in the face when you tell lies.”

  “Counsel,” Orta interrupted in a tone of judicial outrage. “This is not a question, it is a performance. This tribunal will have none of it.”

  Pierce ignored him. Eyes fixed on the witness, he said, “Isn’t it true, Mr. Tulu, that your accusation against Bobby Okari is a lie?”

  The witness still did not look up. “No, sir. I heard this.”

  “You must have been quite startled, then. Did you tell anyone about Bobby’s so-called order except Okimbo, the oyibo, and Mr. Ngara?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I thought not. By the way, did you tell Mr. Ngara that the white man was paying you to testify?”

  At last Tulu looked up at Pierce. “No, sir,” he said hesitantly. “But this was expenses only.”

  “How much money has the oyibo given you so far?”

  The witness’s eyes moistened. “Please, sir. Like Joba, I did not count.”

  From the back of the courtroom came a sarcastic bark of laughter. Sharply, Orta cracked his gavel. Turning to the judge, Pierce said, “You can’t stop the world from laughing, Your Honor. No further questions.”

  Pivoting again, he walked back to the defense table, conscious of the silence, Okimbo’s stare, Marissa’s look of gratitude.

  AFTER NGARA’S PERFUNCTORY effort to restore the witness’s credibility, Orta adjourned for the day. In the buzz of chatter from the gallery, Bobby said, “You do this well, Damon.” Then two soldiers took him away.

  Still sitting, Pierce and Bara ran through their checklist for the night. Pierce would do press interviews; Bara would try to locate Beke Femu. “And I will e-mail Jomo yet again,” Bara said. “If Sunday Opuba is brave enough to testify, that would complete your destruction of these liars.”

  Pierce nodded. But Bara’s tone held the faintest trace of doubt; perhaps he still wondered, as Pierce did, whether these witnesses had been paid to tell some version of the truth. The question—the tribunal’s pretext for conviction—would linger unless Pierce and Bara could identify a suspect.

  Ngara was standing over them. Civilly, he said, “Tomorrow’s witness is Eric Aboh. He, too, will corroborate the charges.”

  He spoke without conviction, like an actor reading lines in a play he did not like. Almost gently, Pierce said, “Do you have any witnesses not on Van Daan’s payroll? In the real world, Patric, you’d dismiss this case right now.”

  Ngara gave him a look of quiet anger. “The case is not over,” he said, and walked away.

  Pierce got up to seek out Clark Hamilton. Sitting in the gallery, PGL’s lawyer slid his notepad into a leather briefcase. Pierce waited until Hamilton looked up. “Your client is paying for this travesty,” Pierce said. “Tell Gladstone to fix this before it becomes his nightmare.”

  3

  “THE WORSE THE TRIAL LOOKS,” PIERCE TOLD ATIKU BARA, “AND THE deeper PGL’s involvement, the better our chances of saving Bobby’s life. If I were Michael Gladstone, I’d put the thumbscrews to Van Daan, trying to find out how deeply he’s involved.”

  They were sitting on the Okaris’ patio after dinner, reviewing their strategy in light of the day’s testimony. “True,” Bara answered. “But how bad it looks for PGL depends on whether we can tie its people to the massacre. We may never get the chance—it’s easy to imagine Orta ruling that Goro isn’t relevant to lynchings that happened a week before. Why would this judge put his own neck on the chopping block?”

  The depressing truth of this silenced Pierce: the reasoned strategy of an American lawyer was confounded by Karama’s tribunal, a distortion of the law so complete yet so unpredictable that Pierce felt as if he had stepped through the looking glass. The only jury Bobby had—PGL, Western governments, and a scattering of world media—did not have the power to override a dictator.

  Marissa appeared on the patio. “There’s someone downstairs to see you,” she told Pierce. “She would not risk coming here unless it were important.”

  THE WOMAN AT the kitchen table, a plump Luandian in her thirties, wore a bright print dress, a head scarf, and thick glasses that accentuated a look of assertive intelligence. As Pierce entered with Marissa, she stood, shaking his hand briskly. “I’m Dora Adako,” she said. “Has Marissa explained my work?”

  “No. But perhaps you can.”

  Adako gave what seemed to Pierce a bitter smile. “Not so easy in these terrible days. I’m with an NGO called Progress Through Peace, founded to promote nonviolent solutions to the problems of the delta. Among my missions is trying to persuade young men that joining these militia groups leads to nowhere but death.” She began speaking hurriedly, as though anxious to leave. “In Luandia, violence has many patrons. But even the guys who join militias sometimes remain my friends. One of them wants to see you.”

  Pierce glanced at Marissa. “Concerning what?” he asked.

  “That I don’t know—he contacted me only because I’m a friend of the Okaris’. But I believe this boy is serious, and that his request is urgent.”

  Pierce felt caught between interest and mistrust. “Who is he?”

  “A member of a militia group that has broken away from FREE.” Adako’s eyes locked onto Pierce’s. “I know what you’re thinking: trust no one.”

  Pierce hesitated. Softly, Marissa told him, “Dora is our friend.”

  Pierce nodded. “When
does he want to meet?”

  “Tonight. You are to walk with Marissa on the beach—away from the flaring, where it’s dark. He’ll find you.” Adako took Pierce’s hand in both of hers. “You’re defending a great man. Without him, the delta has no hope.”

  PIERCE AND MARISSA took the wooden stairs down to the beach, then turned away from the flaring. As they walked, the night grew darker. The only lights they saw came from Petrol Island and oil tankers moored miles out to sea; the only sound was the lapping of waves dying on the sand. It was the first time they been alone since the night they had made love.

  “How are you?” Marissa asked.

  He looked at her. “I don’t have time to think about that. When you’re in trial, self-reflection is a luxury.”

  She took his hand. They walked like that for minutes—together, yet alone with their own thoughts. Marissa was the first to stop, as though listening for a sound.

  A moment later, Pierce heard the faint idling of an outboard motor. Turning with Marissa, he saw the outline of an open boat as it glided toward them, then the form of a man, one hand on the throttle. He shut it off, propping up the motor. “Get in,” he called in a low voice.

  Pierce hesitated: whoever this was could murder them both and throw their bodies overboard. But Marissa released his hand and walked swiftly to the boat, her feet splashing the water before the man helped her inside. Pierce had no choice but to follow.

  They sat in front, their pilot in back, the motor puttering quietly as he took them out to sea. “Who are you?” Pierce demanded.

  The man leaned forward, his features becoming visible in the light of a quarter moon. His handsome young face was lineless, his eyes sensitive but watchful. For an instant Pierce thought of a bright graduate student; then he reminded himself that this man had no doubt killed other men, and would survive by killing more. “Jonathan Adopu,” he answered, “leader of the People’s Front.”

  The boat kept moving out to sea. Adopu turned, steering toward where the ocean seemed the darkest. “Why did you want to see us?” Marissa asked.

  Adopu cut the motor again; suddenly the boat was quiet, drifting with the tide. He seemed to answer for Pierce’s benefit. “What they say about the militias isn’t true. Some are only criminals, some not. It isn’t fair to tar us all.” He turned to Marissa. “I believe in your husband’s words. But he has no voice without a gun; that’s the way in Luandia. Now Karama means to kill him. That is why I did not follow him to the slaughter.”