The Garden of Burning Sand (29 page)

Zoe shook her head. “I’m not talking about taking her home with you. I’m talking about being present in her world. Kids like her need two things: consistency and love. You can’t give her consistency, but you sure as hell can give her love.”

He flinched. “I’ll think about it.”

With that he turned and walked away.

The defense’s case was blunt and unambiguous. Benson Luchembe kept his witnesses within the family, calling Frederick first and then Darious. Much more irritating—and suspicious—to Zoe was the abbreviated nature of their testimony. Leaving whole swaths of the prosecution’s theory unchallenged, the Nyambos told a story about a dinner at the Intercontinental on the night of the rape, a dinner Frederick had proposed and Darious had accepted. Trading on the burden of proof, they offered Mubita nothing more than a technical basis for reasonable doubt.

Luchembe’s approach gave the defense a tactical advantage. Since the rules of procedure limited the scope of cross-examination to the scope of direct examination, Sarge was unable to interrogate the Nyambos about Charity, about Darious’s affection for prostitutes, or about Amos and HIV. In the two hours it took Luchembe to build Darious’s alibi, Zoe sat stewing in the gallery, thinking of all the questions Sarge couldn’t ask. One question, in particular, drove her mad: how had Darious discovered that Bella had been Frederick’s mistress? Zoe thought she knew the answer—that Kuyeya’s name had been the clue—but she had no way to be certain.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, Mubita dismissed Darious from the stand.

“The defense rests,” Benson Luchembe intoned.

“Argument?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Worship,” Sarge said, standing again. As he had done with his opening, his closing statement was a model of succinctness. He ticked off the requisites for defilement—the age of the victim, the fact of penetration, and the identity of the perpetrator—and spent the majority of the time connecting the dots of the past, emphasizing Darious’s motive.

“Our burden is clear,” he said, “and we are convinced that we have met it. Listen to the testimony of our witnesses, read the diary of Kuyeya’s mother, remember the words Kuyeya herself spoke when confronted with the accused, and watch as Darious Nyambo takes shape before you. This was not a random crime. This was a premeditated act of wickedness. Kuyeya deserves justice. I trust that you will deliver it.”

When Sarge sat down, Mubita regarded Luchembe over his glasses. “Benson?”

The defense lawyer stood and adjusted his tie. “Your Worship, the prosecution has spun a grand illusion for this Court—the illusion of Darious Nyambo, the monster.
In fact
, my client is a television producer in Lusaka and the son of esteemed parents. His father is a former cabinet minister. His mother is a High Court judge. We don’t deny that the child was defiled. But by whom? Her caretaker—Doris—doesn’t know what happened to her after she wandered out of the flat. It could have been anyone who picked her up—a neighbor, a friend, a stranger. And it was. It was anyone but the accused. Frederick Nyambo has corroborated his alibi.”

Luchembe paused. “Crimes like this are a dark spot on Zambian
society. But the horror we feel is no justification for putting an innocent man in prison. The prosecution has not met its burden. Justice demands an acquittal.”

Once again, silence enveloped the courtroom.

“This is an important case,” the judge said after a time. “I have much to consider. I will issue a written judgment after I complete my deliberations. Thank you all for your participation. I know it has been a trying experience. This Court is adjourned.”

When Mubita retreated to chambers, Zoe spent a moment in reflective silence. Around her conversations broke out among the lawyers. Sarge shook hands with Benson Luchembe. The courtroom deputy escorted Darious out of the dock. Niza filled her briefcase with documents. Zoe stared at the empty bench, feeling a turbulent mixture of emotions. They had moved heaven and earth to put on a compelling case. But would any of it matter in the end?

“I need some air,” she said, touching Joseph’s hand.

She led him out of the courthouse into the bright sunshine of the parking lot. She took a deep breath, allowing her lungs to fill to capacity, and then exhaled slowly. “This is the part I hate—the waiting game.”

Joseph gave her an empathetic look. “You have to let it go. It’s out of your control.”

“I know,” she said but felt the tension just the same. She saw the gray Prado on the far side of the lot, Dunstan Sisilu behind the wheel. “Are we ever going to be able to do something about the asshole in sunglasses?”

Joseph shrugged. “Not without evidence.”

She allowed her frustration to show. “I can’t believe he’s going to get away with all of this: two break-ins—three, actually, counting the one at the office—the theft of evidence, a murdered witness. At times like this I wish we didn’t have to play by the rules.”

Joseph glanced at her. “I feel that way almost every day.”

She laughed drily. “Did I ever tell you what he said to me on the Zambezi?”

Joseph shook his head.

“He told me to be careful who I offend. What he didn’t realize is that I couldn’t care less.”

As she watched, Joseph’s frown turned into a smile. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Lusaka, Zambia
August, 2011

The spirits of the ancestors had smiled on him. Kuyeya had left Doris’s flat alone and wandered down the street into a deserted alley. It was as if the stars had aligned to ensure his success. He closed the hatch over the girl and scanned the buildings around him. No one was watching from the windows. No one was paying attention on the street. The neighbors wouldn’t remember anything
.

He climbed into the Mercedes and headed east on Chilimbulu Road, thinking back to the beginning of all of this. It was a school day and he had come home early, entering the house by the back door, as he always did. The sound of the argument had shocked him. He had never heard his mother yell at his father before. He had crept down the hall and seen them in the living room: Patricia holding the notebook aloft like a weapon; Frederick sitting silently on the couch. Years later, he could still hear his mother’s allegation, still feel his father’s shame. To fall for a girl with a mongrel child? Frederick’s
mukwala
was legendary. How was it possible?

Darious had waited until the middle of the night to search for the notebook. He thought his mother might have thrown it away, but there it was, in her closet. He stole back to his bedroom and read for hours. The letters filled him with rage. The Frederick Nyambo described in the pages bore no resemblance to the man
Darious had admired for sixteen years. According to the girl—Charity Mizinga—his father was a petulant cad obsessed with sex, a hapless fool who believed he had fathered her child when she had been sleeping with another man. It was the grossest kind of fiction. Yet a doubt persisted: what if some of it was true?

That night had changed Darious’s life. Within a month he had purchased sex from a prostitute. Within a year he was soliciting twice a week. He had girls on the side. He loved to surprise them with his intellect, to lavish them with gifts. He never considered violence until one of his girls cheated on him. It was rage that drove him to rape her. But the act awakened something in him. Rape gave him power. Its
mukwala
was absolute
.

Darious drove north to the Lusaka Golf Club, then east toward Kabulonga. Fortune was on his side. His father was on a business trip and his mother had gone to visit relatives. The house was empty except for Anna, and she lived in a cottage at the back of the property. The sedative would last an hour, then Kuyeya would wake up. He would wait. He wanted her to feel the pain. It didn’t matter if she saw him. She didn’t know who he was. He would drive her into Kanyama at midnight and dump her. If his luck held, she would disappear without a trace
.

He waved to the night guard and pulled into the driveway, parking in the garage. He shut off the engine and sat unmoving, surrounded by darkness and silence. He thought of Bella as she was on the night he first saw her—the red dress, the sultry moves she made on the dance floor. He hated her for her deception, for the madness she had evoked in his father, and the rift she had driven between his parents. He hated her for the disease she had given him, for the shame he never ceased to feel
.

He left the SUV and walked quietly across the grounds, entering the house by the side door. Down the hall and across the living room he went, turning on no lights. His parents’ bedroom was in the far wing, forbidden territory, at least officially. As a teenager, he had cased the bedroom in the night, watching his parents sleep. A few times he had been there when his mother had awakened to
use the bathroom. He had stood utterly still, a shadow among shadows, and she had never seen him
.

He found the notebook in the closet exactly where Patricia had left it years before. He opened it in the darkness. He didn’t understand how Bella’s medicine could have been stronger than his father’s. But he didn’t need to understand. He needed to harness it, to turn the curse back upon itself. Holding the notebook he felt invincible. With it he had exposed Bella’s identity, connecting her child in life with the child in the letters, by way of her name
.

He put the notebook back in its place and stifled the urge to cough. He walked back the way he came, steeling himself against the sickness that consumed so much of his energy now. He glanced at Anna’s cottage beneath the stinkwood tree. A light was on in the window. Had she seen him? For the first time that night, he felt a tremor of doubt. He shook his head quickly, banishing the weakness
.

Kuyeya. Memory. It was time to settle the score
.

Lusaka, Zambia
April, 2012

A week after the trial concluded, the
New Yorker
published Zoe’s article under the title “The Future of Generosity.” It had taken Zoe three extensive revisions to satisfy Naomi Potter, but in the end her persistence paid off. The piece was sharp, edgy and humane, and it quickly attracted the attention of readers, generating over two thousand shares on social-networking websites within forty-eight hours. By the third day, other outlets in the American media had picked up on it, as had Jack Fleming’s campaign. Zoe received three emails in rapid succession. She read them at the office. The first was from Trevor.

Zoe closed her eyes and confronted her instinctive guilt.
I wrote about him as charitably as I could. But the truth needed to be spoken. If he gets his way, real people will die
.

She braced herself and opened the second message. Her father had written:

Her father’s words stole the wind from her lungs. She wasn’t surprised by his feelings, but she hadn’t anticipated how much they would affect her. She stood up abruptly and fled the office for the sanctuary of the bottlebrush tree.
Was I wrong? Did I make a mistake?
She thought of Kuyeya and the corruption-riddled African justice system; of Joseph and Charity and AIDS treatment among the poor; of the women and girls across Zambia whose rapists were exonerated because prosecutors lacked affordable access to DNA technology. She found a measure of solace in her indignation, but peace eluded her.

She wandered back to her desk and read the third email—a breathless missive from Naomi Potter.

Zoe responded to her brother next:

Last, she replied to her father:

She scanned the email again. She had borrowed the line about history from an op-ed her mother had written for the
New York Times
in the early 1990s, a piece Jack himself had quoted in speeches over the years. She knew he would recognize it.

When she hit “send,” she shelved her misgivings and joined Niza and Joseph in discussing a new case. Her efforts at distraction lasted until the conversation ended; after that, they failed spectacularly. She slid into such a deep hole of introspection that by the end of the workday three people had asked if she was okay.

On the drive home, Joseph added his voice to the chorus: “Something happened,” he said. “You haven’t been yourself all afternoon.”

She reacted with exasperation. “What
is
it with everyone? Am I leprous or something?”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “The article came out, didn’t it?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” he replied.

“Yes, it’s the article,” she conceded eventually. “The press is asking for interviews; my father is angry and he’s going to make a public statement; even my brother is irritated with me.”

“What are you going to do?”

Her eyes blazed. “I’m not going to talk to them.”

“I don’t mean the media.”

“What am I
supposed
to do? I’m his daughter, for God’s sake, but I hope he loses the election. What does that make me? Benedict Arnold? Judas?”

“No, it makes you honest.”

“Sometimes honesty is a curse,” she retorted, staring out the window at the Intercontinental Hotel and remembering her father’s words:

“
Talk to me like you did when you cared what I thought
.” She felt a tear break loose, then more followed; she couldn’t hold them back. It seemed as if the wedge of the past had turned into a chasm between them. Yet the fault for their estrangement was no longer Jack’s alone. The mess of pain and blame and misunderstanding was hers to share.

Joseph reached out and took her hand. “Whatever you do, I’m with you.”

In the storm of her emotions, the touch of his warm skin felt like an anchor. “Thank you,” she said, realizing how much she meant it.

Over the next four days, Zoe amassed over a dozen emails from journalists. Some praised her courage; others questioned her motives; but everyone wanted something from her—more details about her work in Africa, a glimpse into the Fleming Randall financial empire, prognostication about the election, a family biopic, a photo shoot for a glamor magazine, the list was endless and diverse. More than anything, however, the press wanted a reaction to her father’s
statement, delivered in a televised press conference, which she had watched on the Internet.

The Senator’s remarks had been brief and largely oblique, deflecting attention from her and highlighting his commitment to restore fiscal discipline to Washington. Near the end, however, he had dealt her argument a glancing blow, reiterating that the sacrifices necessary to stave off the long-term insolvency of the United States had to be shared by everyone, including recipients of foreign assistance in the developing world. It was this statement to which the media demanded a response, and the sheer repetition of the inquiry tempted Zoe to break her silence.

On Tuesday afternoon, she left her desk and called Naomi Potter in New York.

“Zoe!” the editor exclaimed. “The woman of the hour. Your piece has generated tremendous interest. We’re thrilled. What can I do for you?”

“I think I might like to do an interview,” Zoe said.

“Let me guess,” Naomi replied. “The critics found your email address.”

Zoe expelled a breath. “Yes.”

“Welcome to the big leagues.”

“So who can I trust? I want someone credible who isn’t interested in shock or spin.”

Naomi chuckled. “You’re asking for a fossil. Not many of them left.” She took a breath. “Look, you need to be realistic. If you go on television, you’re going to hear the same questions you’re getting in your inbox. You could do something in print.”

Zoe hesitated. “I’d prefer live. It’s more personal.”

Naomi thought for a moment. “All right, I may have something for you. I got a call last week from Paul Hartman, Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Apparently, your article inspired him.
He’s sponsoring a hearing on foreign aid in the debt crisis, and he was hoping you’d join the panel. It could be a political stunt, since your father is on the committee. But I’ve known Paul for a long time. He sounded genuine.”

Zoe conjured an image of herself testifying before the Senate. The media would be present; the TV cameras would record her every word. But the format would allow her to tell her story without interruption. There was little risk that she would lose control of the message.

“I’m interested,” she said at last.

“Why don’t you give Paul a call?” Naomi suggested. “See what he has to say.”

She passed along the Senator’s phone number, and Zoe dialed without delay. Waiting for the connection, she thought of Alice and the rabbit hole.

The Senator picked up on the third ring. “Paul Hartman.”

“Senator Hartman,” she began. “It’s Zoe Fleming.”

In the middle of May, Mariam called a meeting to discuss the status of Kuyeya’s case.

“As you know,” she said, “we’re still waiting on a judgment from Flexon Mubita. The delay is very uncharacteristic of him. He’s always been a decisive judge. He ruled on the DNA issue in a matter of days. He moved the trial date forward over Benson Luchembe’s objections.” She paused. “Unfortunately, it appears that our concerns about him may be true. Three days ago, Judge Ngwenya announced his retirement from the High Court. This morning, my husband obtained the short list of replacement candidates. Guess whose name is at the top?”

Zoe felt acid churning in her stomach.

“We’ve looked at this from every possible angle,” Sarge said. “We can’t do anything to take the case out of his hands. Our only option
is to leak the story to the media. It may not change the outcome, but at least people will know the truth.”

“What if Mubita doesn’t get the appointment?” Niza interjected. “We can’t afford to make a permanent enemy of the Principal Resident Magistrate.”

Zoe channeled her anger into words. “Why don’t we dish the dirt on the Nyambos and let the press run with it? If they pursue a corruption angle, we won’t get the blame.”

Mariam thought about this. “I like it. Sarge?”

He nodded. “I have a friend at the
Post
. I’ll give him a call this afternoon.”

“Just one thing,” Zoe said. “It’s probably best if you don’t mention my name.”

Sarge gave her a puzzled look. “Why?”

“It might be …” Zoe searched for the right word. “… distracting.”

Niza frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Zoe traded a glance with Mariam. “Have you ever heard of Jack Fleming?”

Two days later, Joseph drove Zoe to the airport. The air was pristine, a cradle for the sun, and the trees were resplendent with the colors of fall. Zoe checked her side mirror but saw no sign of Dunstan Sisilu. He had appeared only once since the trial—shortly after she and Joseph had removed the GPS units from their vehicles and crushed them with a sledgehammer. He had shadowed them for two days and then disappeared again. Joseph guessed he was gone for good.

They made a brief stop at St. Francis. Joseph stayed in the Land Rover, and Zoe followed Sister Anica to the courtyard where Sister Irina was reading a story to the children.

“How is she doing?” Zoe asked, catching sight of Kuyeya.

“She’s in pain,” the nun replied. “She’s always talking about bee stings.”

Zoe shook her head. “I’m sorry it took me so long to schedule an MRI.”

The nun gripped her hand. “It’s a miracle it’s happening at all.”

As she had promised, Zoe had solicited a second opinion from a number of private clinics. She had quickly learned, however, that the barriers to medical care for poor children with special needs were not limited to the public system. Two of the clinics had informed her that they only treated expatriates—a euphemism for “whites”—and a third had asked for a referral from UTH. Disgusted, Zoe had called Dr. Chulu and demanded an MRI. The doctor had hesitated until she told him of Kuyeya’s disorientation and bed-wetting. He had scheduled the exam for May 17, the same day as the Senate hearing.

Zoe walked toward the children and greeted Sister Irina. “You don’t need to stop reading,” she said. “I just brought something for Kuyeya.”

The girl made the balloon sound when Zoe sat down. “Hi, Zoe. Look.” She held her mother’s ring up to the sun. “Green like the Zambezi.”

Zoe smiled. “Did your mommy tell you that?”

The girl shook her head. “No, Irina.”

“Did your mommy tell you about Victoria Falls?”

Kuyeya bobbed her head. “Falls make the sound like thunder.”

Zoe laughed. “That’s right. Listen, I’m going on a trip, but I thought you might like a new friend.” She handed the girl a stuffed cheetah she had bought in Cape Town.

Kuyeya clutched the animal. “He has spots like the leopard.”

“He’s a cheetah. He runs very fast.”

Kuyeya began to rock. “I don’t like to run.”

Zoe glanced at Sister Irina. “Does it hurt to run, Kuyeya?”

The girl nodded. “Sting goes the bee. Mommy say don’t cry.”

Zoe kissed Kuyeya’s forehead. “We’re going to figure out what’s going on, I promise.” She walked with Sister Anica back to the Land Rover. “I wish I could be here for the exam.”

“She’ll be all right,” the nun replied.

“Send me a text as soon as the results come in.”

Sister Anica nodded. “Go now.”

It took them fifteen minutes to reach the airport. Zoe was silent on the drive, pondering the drama awaiting her on the far side of the ocean. The media attention surrounding her
New Yorker
article had not abated in the month since its release. If anything, the queries had increased, thanks to Jack Fleming’s now commanding lead in the primaries—many were calling him the “presumptive nominee”—and Senator Hartman’s press release announcing the hearing and its celebrity panel. The publication of the witness list had ignited a new wave of criticism from her father’s supporters, including a stinging on-air rebuke from the hyperpartisan radio host Ben Slaughter that had gone viral on the Internet.

The most disturbing fallout of the media frenzy was not the attention itself—Zoe quickly learned how to tune it out—but the reaction of her family. Trevor had been the first to contact her about the hearing. He went out of his way to express his support, even opining that Catherine would have been honored to testify, but his confusion was plain, as were his concerns. He couldn’t understand why she was doing it.