Magistrate Changamire felt uneasy. Justice Murambi was being cautious. Both men were treading on dangerous territory.
“So what now?” asked Magistrate Changamire. Justice Murambi sighed as he turned to look out the window.
“My friend, you have the power to determine a single digit in a long phone number. It may not give you a monopoly over all the possible outcomes, but at least it will empower you to frustrate the bad ones. So far, your choice of digits has been inspired by your desire to accurately apply the law. But somehow, your calls always end up in death row. For now, there is no hangman to pick up the phone. Because of your judgments, the system is stockpiling the condemned. They are being neatly assembled at the bottleneck leading to the gallows. Once a new executioner is recruited, the bottle cap will be removed. If anyone or anything benefits from the pressure release, it may not be the ‘justice’ you believe you are serving. All this may happen sooner than you expect. I hear the gallows have been ordered. They may already be on their way.”
Justice Murambi drummed the table with his fingers.
“Changamire, sometimes it’s okay to dial a wrong number. Who knows? The phone may actually ring in the halls of justice.”
“Are you saying that a few ... strategic errors would be appreciated?”
“Goodness no, Changamire! How could you suggest such a thing? I would never ask you to flaunt your duty as a man of the law. If someone deserves to be executed, then by all means, you should follow the law and send that person to the gallows. After all, you see all the evidence at trial. You watch the underpaid and outgunned defence lawyer putting up a fight against a well-armed prosecution. You read the perfectly drafted documents that could convict a judge for the grisly crime of going to the toilet. Of course, you have a perfect view of all the things that happen between the crime and the execution, even the things that happen outside your courtroom. All you have to do is look at the evidence and apply your brilliant mind to the inevitable conclusion. With confidence.”
“So the problem is not the death penalty. It’s the inevitability of the outcome?”
Justice Murambi shrugged.
“Changamire, your record is solid. It makes me wonder why you are still a magistrate. You could have joined the High Court at least ten years ago.”
“I didn’t lobby for it. I wanted to continue helping to train the new magistrates. Besides, despite my earlier griping, I do love trials. I know that appeal work is interesting, but it’s probably not for me.”
“I see. So it’s all about what you want, then?”
Justice Changamire leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“We all seek personal fulfillment from our jobs, my friend. But sometimes, we have to put our own needs aside.”
Magistrate Changamire sensed the agitation in Justice Murambi’s voice. It was subtle, but unmistakable.
“Changamire, High Court judges cannot reverse trial decisions just because they disagree with the outcome. No matter how much we would like to re-try a case, we must defer to the trial judges unless we can find reversible errors. So, if someone keeps sending flawless judgments to us, we have no choice but to uphold them. I am proud of the quality of our justice system, but this is too much. Your error-proof judgments are making it harder to deliver true justice. My friend, you are giving us a headache.”
“Justice Murambi. Are you arguing that none of the people I send to death row deserve to be there?”
“No, Changamire. Most of the people you sentenced to death have nothing to do with the events that brought me here. They committed gruesome crimes that our laws have empowered you to punish by scheduling the convict’s mortality. I am worried about the other cases ...”
Justice Murambi picked a few crumbs off the table and sprinkled them into his pink lunch box. The action had a calming effect.
“Did I mention that a plant stole my sandwich?”
* * *
A Plant Ate My Sandwich
“Justice Murambi. Did you just say that a plant ate your sandwich?”
“Yes, Magistrate Changamire. A few weeks ago, I brought my lunch to work as always. A single corned-beef sandwich cut diagonally into two triangular pieces.”
“And this sandwich was stolen?”
“Well, it was eaten, actually. By a plant. It was in this very lunchbox that morning. I left it in the top drawer of my desk before I left for court. When I returned to my chamber during a break, the lunch box was there, but the sandwich was gone.”
Justice Murambi’s eyes watered slightly. The tears were reabsorbed before they could become official. Judges do not cry in front of other judges.
“I looked everywhere for that sandwich. I could not find it. When I walked into my chamber the next morning, there was a foul stench in the air. At first, I could not figure out where it was coming from. I was late for court so I rushed to the closet where I keep my gowns. I reached for the nearest one and noticed a bulge in one of the pockets. When I lifted the gown off its hanger, I saw a thin vine snaking out of the left pocket. It crept round the back of the gown, disappearing into the pocket on the other side.
“I did not want to put my hand into either pocket, so I gripped the vine along its exposed length. When I tugged the left end, a brown clump fell out of the pocket. A furry mass was tangled in the root system. It was a dead rat. It had been crushed into a tight ball about half the size of my fist. It smelled foul.
“I pinched my nose and yanked the other end of the vine, which emerged to expose a dense network of flared roots. They created a gauze-like fist that had tightened around my mangled sandwich. The previous night had been hot enough to accelerate the rotting process. The corned beef looked like a massive clot of blood. Like the rat, it had been crushed to fit into my pocket. But neither had been compacted by a human hand. Overnight, the plant’s thickening roots had slowly compressed both masses into tight balls of decaying nutrition that it was devouring from both ends.
“The rat was far more ‘eaten’ than my sandwich. This told me that the two masses were not connected by the vine when they were planted in the pockets of my gown. I believe the vine powered its growth towards my sandwich by feeding on the rat. I don’t know much about plants, and until that day I refused to believe that they can grow that quickly. I was even more sceptical about a plant that could actively seek out ... a corned-beef sandwich. Though it seemed improbable, I have no doubt this is what happened.
“At first, I wondered if I should notify the courthouse security. Something told me that this would create more problems than it would solve. I decided to keep the incident to myself. I placed the plant and its rotting clumps in a plastic bag and tossed them out. That was that.”
The two judges sat in silence.
“Do you read Zuva Redu?” asked Justice Murambi.
“No. To be frank, I do not read much outside of work.”
“So you know nothing about the flame lilies that were found at Great Zimbabwe?”
“What flame lilies?”
Justice Murambi shook his head.
“Remember what I said earlier? You have control over a single digit in a long phone number. You cannot change the other digits. However, it is a good idea to know what they are, who controls them, and who gains or loses from different combinations. This means you must be more widely read than you are at present. Your awareness of matters beyond your caseload will help you decide if, when, and how you should change the digit you control. Not everyone involved in this messy business enjoys such flexibility. Think about the new hangman. He will be placed at the very end of the line. Literally. Any digit he contributes to the number will always ring an extension somewhere in death row: in the cell of some wretch who has no choice but to pick it up and wrap the cord around their neck. This is not an accident. There are people who are using their monopoly over other digits to redirect these calls away from their own necks. Still, these prisoners are luckier than their executioner. They can only die once; and they will not die by
their own hand.”
Justice Murambi’s words did not resolve Magistrate Changamire’s confusion.
“Start reading Zuva Redu,” said Magistrate Changamire, abandoning the strategic vagueness. “The truth often hides in the unlikeliest places. The truth in that paper may be more consequential than all of the law books on your shelf. I advise that you start with the edition that broke the story about the flame lilies. Unlike the plant I found in my robe, we still don’t know what the ones at Great Zimbabwe were feeding on. Maybe it was something greater than my corned-beef sandwich.”
Justice Murambi placed his pink lunchbox into his briefcase.
“There will be a vacancy in the High Court within the next three months. One of my colleagues will develop a sudden illness. Mumps, perhaps. It will be impossible for him to maintain his punishing workload. He will move to a foreign country to heal and fulfill a lifelong ambition of owning a llama farm. His sudden resignation will trigger an expedited replacement process. Several names will be put forth. If you are nominated, I suggest you accept. But before you do, expect to receive one more death penalty case. It will be different from the others. Earlier, you told me that criminal trials are not as purely cerebral as appeals process. Well, this case will reverse that deficit. It’s about a man who is clamouring to be sent to the gallows. Oddly, the people trying to empty death row are not enthusiastic about adding him to the roster, but it seems they have no choice. How about that for a mind bender? Your remarkable intellect will be worked harder than mine has been in more than a decade of being a High Court judge. In the long run, your anguish will be of a purely mental nature. The case will also mark the deadline for when you must decide whether to join us.”
Justice Murambi looked at his watch.
“Look at the time. I must go. It was wonderful getting to know you better, Changamire. Good luck with your cases. Remember, up to this point, they have been choosing you. You must decide whether you are comfortable eating a meal that has been prepared by anonymous chefs who will not disclose their recipe. How do you know they have not thrown pieces of your integrity into that meal? Be warned. They may have thrown pieces of something more important into my corned-beef sandwich. But maybe defying them would be more appropriate. More urgent. More worthy? Whatever you decide, you will be picking a side. There are no ‘neutrals’ in this fight.”
Justice Murambi looked out the window towards the sculpture on the courthouse lawn. The figure had been controversial when it was installed. It depicted a naked woman. She was made of green serpentine. With one hand, she covered her breasts. With the other, her genitalia. She looked terrified.
There was no caption to guide the interpretation of the work. In the escalating national debate, many people had protested that the sculpture was obscene. Others had complained that it was disrespectful to women. Its defenders countered that, to the contrary, it represented the naked truth about the injustices they suffered. If such wrongs were to be tolerated, they had to be left out in the open where they could remind society that it was not as virtuous as it thought itself to be.
The artist had been oddly absent from the debate. Little was published about him. Only one newspaper report identified a sculptor who went by the name Muchena. He left the country shortly after delivering the commissioned work. No one could trace any spouse, lover, or relative who could shed light on where he had gone. Muchena was never heard from again.
The debate about the sculpture had raged for weeks. However, the heated discussion lost steam when one of the national soccer clubs won a stunning victory in an international tournament. With the continued success of the team, the controversy of the naked woman with the frightened eyes faded to irrelevance.
Justice Murambi turned back to his fellow judge. “If your aversion to numbers does not allow you to appreciate my telephone metaphor, consider this one instead: the positioning of a single gear in a machine can change its direction. I believe aiming “High” is the right direction at this point in your life.”
Justice Murambi rubbed his arms with the palms of his hands. He looked to the thermometer beside the cafeteria door.
“I see it is 18.5°C in here. That’s quite chilly for a summer day.”
He waved to the cafeteria staff and left without another word.
Magistrate Changamire returned to his chambers. He closed the door and stood by the window. He did not know how to start unpacking what he had just heard. Justice Murambi’s main point was clear. Magistrate Changamire had been perfectly positioned in the justice system to guarantee that certain cases led to one outcome. He was the gear that predestined the judicial machine towards injustice, the digit master that was constantly calling the gallows. At least that is what Justice Murambi believed. But could this really be true? A judge must decide cases on the record before him. He cannot ignore the prosecution’s evidence and go out to collect his own. The system did not work that way. Neither was it supposed to. All he could do was to examine the evidence to ensure that it had not been manufactured or tampered with.
Besides, the whole issue had become complicated. He did not even know where its boundaries lay. All he knew was that he had wandered into a world roamed by the likes of Luxon Hurudza and some invisible but powerful puppeteers. Who were these people who lived high above the justice system? What were they up to? What would they do if he changed his digit to redirect the calls from death row? Did he really want to take them on? Magistrate Changamire remembered a piece of advice he had received from a senior judge when he was working in Zambia: “Never pick a fight with a man who is willing to devote his entire life to your demise.”
Luxon Hurudza was such a man. He had no wife or children. And apart from studying religious mythology, he had no hobbies. The man was rumoured to sleep for only four hours in the office that he never left. He was a prisoner serving a life sentence in a cell filled with nothing but an obsession for pursuing unprovoked vendettas. How could Magistrate Changamire fight such a man? Worse, how could he fight the other anonymous characters who had sent the rabid Luxon Hurudza to pacify his better judgment? Would reading Zuva Redu really shed light on this world? Did he really want to see what was in it at all? Magistrate Changamire knew he would have no choice.
There were hidden forces at war. Justice Murambi and his fellow judges had come down firmly on one side of the fight. They wanted Magistrate Changamire to join them. His first assignment would be to embrace imperfection. If he did, the prosecution’s faultless death penalty cases would be frustrated. His second assignment would be to accept a promotion. All the capital punishment cases that had been destined for his desk would be transferred to other judges. Many would commit reversible errors. Maybe deliberately? Either way, the muddy stream of cases would move up to the newly composed High Court. The new Justice Changamire would be there to apply his mind and reputation to demolishing them. He would not need to take a bribe or dull his analysis to harmonize the correct with the just. By simply repositioning Magistrate Changamire within the legal system, Justice Murambi and his allies could re-engineer it to deliver the justice it was supposed to produce.
Though Magistrate Changamire was uncomfortable with the whole plan, he knew he had to pick a side. Even inaction was a decision. But could he trust Justice Murambi? If he pursued the promotion, would he be putting himself in the service of another agenda he did not understand? Magistrate Changamire had no perch from which to assess the entire landscape of his dilemma. He had to trust his gut.
The positioning of a single gear in a machine can change its direction.
Where did he want to direct this vehicle? Magistrate Changamire knew he did not have much time to decide. As soon as the High Court vacancy was announced, there would be a frenzy of lobbying. The expedited appointment would eliminate those who could not assemble enough backers at short notice. However, those with the most to lose from his appointment would fight viciously for their own candidates.
There was also another reason to make a quick decisi
on. For months, Magistrate Changamire had heard rumours that the search for a new hangman was at an advanced stage. Justice Murambi had confirmed the imminence of the event. If the rumours were true, then everyone on death row was moving swiftly towards the gallows. Somehow, they were all tied at the hip by a demonic vine that devoured rats and corned-beef sandwiches.
* * *
PAIN AND ABEL
“Your eyes betray a sadness that only a worthy man can conjure, but never solve.”
Consolidated 2. File: H2WO9 – xxx – Client / Chokwadi – Extract – Newspaper SED02417 – Zizi
ZUVA REDU: Mermaid Found Wrapped in Giant Condom at Kariba Dam
By Earnest Chokwadi
Mr. Conan Figg got to work at his usual time. But this was not a usual day. As a senior engineer on the Zimbabwean side of the Kariba Dam, Mr. Figg is often called to address problems at the country’s main hydropower station. Two days ago, Mr. Figg was informed of a problem at the dam wall. The situation was more bizarre than technical.
A local fisherman reported seeing a humanlike body flowing down Lake Kariba towards the turbines. The fisherman insisted it was a mermaid. Though authorities have no obligation to rescue mythical creatures, they always respond to such reports, just in case the “mermaid” transforms into a human body.
“I assembled the retrieval team and set out for the reported location,” said Mr. Figg. “We finally spotted the so-called mermaid about a hundred metres from the dam wall. It was tangled in a mass of dead vegetation, which had become lodged in the branches of a fallen tree. The mermaid was naked. Its skin was covered in a shiny coating, giving it an unnatural glow. Even through binoculars, the dead vegetation and rushing water did not allow us an unbroken line of sight. Hence, from a distance, we could not evaluate the nature of its shiny texture.
The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1) Page 26
