The Garden of Burning Sand (5 page)

On Monday morning, the five members of the CILA response team—Zoe, Joseph, Mariam, Sarge, and Niza—took seats in the conference room alongside Mwila, the director of rehabilitation. It was a few minutes after nine, and the all-staff meeting had just wrapped up. The shades were drawn against the sun, but light filtered in and burnished the scarred wooden table in front of them.

“Before we talk about the case,” Mariam began, looking at Zoe, “I want to say how relieved I am—how relieved we
all
are—that nothing worse happened to you yesterday.”

“I have Joseph to thank,” Zoe said, glancing at him. The shock of the incident was still raw, but she was determined not to let it affect her.

Mariam nodded. “I’m going to mention it to the Deputy Commissioner.”

“I’d rather you wait until I catch the perpetrators,” Joseph said.

“You’re going after them?” Zoe was surprised.

“When the time is right.”

Mariam smiled. “On to business. There’s a lot we don’t know about what happened to this girl, but here is what we do know. Sometime before midnight on Saturday she was raped by an unknown assailant. Around midnight, he transported her to a remote lane in Kanyama and
left her there. The child has Down syndrome and hasn’t spoken since the incident. With counseling, she might be able to help us, but not yet. We have an eyewitness who saw the man abandon her. The only information we have at present is that the man is tall and was driving a silver SUV with something like this near the license plate.”

Mariam held up a piece of paper showing a replica of Dominic’s sketch.

“Reminds me of a railroad crossing sign in the U.S.,” said Niza, leaning forward.

“Perhaps it’s a political sticker,” Sarge offered.

Joseph spoke up: “I called headquarters, but we haven’t received a missing-person report matching the child. Even if a report was filed, it could take days to get entered into the system.”

“Until we find her family,” Mariam said, “we need to arrange for her care.”

Mwila nodded. “I talked to Social Welfare about sending her to St. Francis. I don’t trust anyone else to handle kids with special needs. I also contacted Dr. Mbao at the University of Zambia. I haven’t worked with her before, but Joy Herald recommended her highly. With a referral from Dr. Chulu, she’ll come to St. Francis for the exam.”

“From a legal standpoint,” Sarge said, “we can’t bring a case until we have a suspect and some corroborative evidence. In addition, there is the question of the child’s age. She looks a lot younger than sixteen, but that won’t be enough for the magistrate.”

“The family will tell us when she was born,” Zoe said. “The real problem is corroboration. Even if we find a suspect, we need something linking him to the rape itself, not just to the girl. We need an eyewitness to the act. Or we need DNA.”

“As always, a nice thought,” Niza replied. “But this is Zambia. There’s no lab and no money for it. So says the Ministry of Justice.”

Zoe clenched her teeth. Niza was a first-rate lawyer, but she was also a cynic.

“There’s a lab in Johannesburg,” Zoe said. “And we have the money even if the government claims it doesn’t. Once we have a suspect, all we’ll need is a magistrate to order a blood sample and a profile. They do it all the time in paternity cases.”

Mariam affirmed Zoe’s intuition. “It’s true. We have the evidence from the hospital. This could be the case to press for DNA.”

“We have a long way to go before we can start thinking about that,” Sarge said. “We need the family, we need a suspect in custody, and we need the support of the Director of Public Prosecution. In that order.”

Mariam nodded. “Let’s meet again on Wednesday. Perhaps Joseph will know more.”

Zoe left the table and navigated the maze of corridors to her desk. A converted colonial-era bungalow, the CILA office had a bifurcated layout. The reception and rehabilitation staff occupied the front of the house, and the executive and legal staff occupied the back. Zoe’s desk was situated in the corner of a sunlit space cluttered with legal files, bound registers of Zambian and British law, and scattered pages of case notes—the home of the legal department.

She took her seat and stared at her laptop. She had fifteen minutes to kill before Mwila left for the hospital. She thought of polishing the research memo she had been writing for Sarge but checked her email instead. The first message was from her brother, Trevor. The time stamp read 8:02 a.m.—2:02 a.m. D.C. time. Trevor was an attorney with the K Street law firm representing A Brighter Tomorrow—the private political funding organization, or SuperPAC, supporting Jack Fleming’s campaign. He never seemed to sleep.

Below the message Trevor had copied a Web link to a story in the
Washington Post
. It read like a press release:

Zoe tried to steady her breathing. A trip to the Congo and Ethiopia she could understand. But Zambia? He had to be coming for her. She scanned the remainder of her inbox. Sure enough, it was there—a message from her father. She glanced around the office, worried that someone might discover her secret. Other than Mariam and a few CILA executives in London, no one knew that she was Jack Fleming’s daughter. After a moment, she realized how absurd she was being. No one was paying any attention to her. She steadied herself and opened the email.

Zoe read the message twice and then closed the mail application. Grabbing her backpack, she walked to the nearest exit, desperate for fresh air. She found a place in the sun beneath the red blooms of a lemon bottlebrush tree and closed her eyes.

The last time she had been alone with her father was at her Yale Law School graduation. It had not gone well. After dinner at the Union League Café, they had taken a stroll across New Haven Green, and Trevor and Sylvia, her father’s second wife, had lagged behind, locked in a discussion about social media in political campaigns. Zoe had tried to be civil toward her father, but the ground of their relationship was littered with landmines and he had stepped on one.

“Writing for the
Yale Law Journal
,” he had said, “graduating near the top of your class, I’m proud of you, Zoe.”

Pulling her sweater around her shoulders, she had glanced at him in the lamplight, daring to hope that his praise would be unadulterated. She was soon disappointed.

“You know, I spoke to Judge Anders,” he went on. “One of his clerks backed out for health reasons and he’s looking for a replacement. He’d love to have you.”

The Honorable Jeremiah Anders was the Chief Judge of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals and one of the most respected jurists in the United States. Many considered him the next Supreme Court nominee. Zoe, however, had already made up her mind. Her heart was in Africa.

“I’m going to Johannesburg,” she said. “I gave Judge van der Merwe my word.”

“In a year you could be clerking for the Supreme Court,” he replied,
as if he hadn’t heard her. “After that, you can have your pick of any legal job in the world.”

“It’s an honor someone else can have. Judge van der Merwe is an international expert on human rights. He’s never taken an American clerk before.”

The Senator sighed in exasperation. “All doors open to you and you pick the Constitutional Court of South Africa. This country has never been big enough for you.”

“I love America,” she disagreed, stopping in front of Center Church, its great spire cloaked in night. “I just don’t like being confined to it.”

Zoe opened her eyes and saw Mwila standing in front of her, her face darkened by concern.

“Are you all right?” Mwila asked. “You were standing so still.”

Zoe blinked, momentarily trapped by the past. She took a breath. “Are you ready?”

Mwila gestured toward a Toyota Prado idling in the driveway. “Maurice is waiting.”

They climbed into the SUV, and the guard opened the steel gate. Maurice pulled out onto the street and accelerated to make the light at Church and Independence. The trip to the pediatric center was brief. When they approached the lobby doors, Zoe saw Joy Herald standing beside a pair of African women with notebooks—the Social Welfare contingent.

“We’ve taken care of the formalities,” Joy said, greeting Zoe and Mwila, “but the girl has been a bit of a challenge this morning. I meant to bring my iPod, but one of my kids must have taken it out of my purse. I hope you have yours.”

“I made her a mix this morning,” Zoe said, following Joy into the outpatient center.

She heard the child before she saw her. The high-pitched sound—somewhere between a warble and a bleat—sliced through her. When she entered the admissions ward, she saw the girl rocking violently in her bed, a trio of nurses attempting to quiet her down.

“Where is Dr. Chulu?” Zoe asked.
He promised this wouldn’t happen
.

“He’s not on rotation this morning,” Joy replied, picking up her pace. She quickly took charge of the nurses. “Give us a little space, please,” she said.

When they stepped back, Zoe took out an iPod and put the headphones on the girl’s ears. She selected the new playlist and stood back, watching as the music performed a feat that seemed almost magical. Like a lamp lit on a dark night, the soulful acoustic notes of John Denver’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” chased away the girl’s turmoil. She placed her hands on the headphones, as if willing the song not to end.

Joy uncovered the girl’s legs and swung them over the edge of the mattress. “Help me lift her,” she said to Zoe.

The limpness of the girl’s frame made her ungainly to carry, but together Joy and Zoe scooped her up and placed her feet solidly on the ground. When the girl stood on her own, she glanced around the room and blinked, looking disoriented. Joy knelt down in front of her and removed the headphones briefly.

“It’s time to go now,” she said in a soft voice. “I need you to walk with us.”

Joy stood again and took the girl’s hand, tugging her toward the door. The girl hesitated a moment longer and then followed in Joy’s wake, clutching Dr. Chulu’s monkey in her free hand. Her gait was slow and she walked with a slight limp, favoring her right leg. Zoe strolled beside her, holding the iPod and keeping the cable from tangling.

Eventually, they emerged into the sunshine. The Prado was waiting
for them at the curb. Maurice opened the back door, and Joy and Zoe helped the girl onto the vinyl bench.

“I’ll ride with you,” Joy said. She slid in beside the girl, and Zoe climbed in after her.

The girl seemed to startle when the vehicle began to move. She looked around and let out a low moan. Joy took her hand again and squeezed. “I bet all of this is unfamiliar to her,” Joy said. “Her family probably didn’t take her outside much.”

When Zoe frowned, Joy explained herself. “It’s the stigma. Zambians think children with intellectual disabilities are cursed, so parents keep them locked up inside to avoid being judged. Sometimes the neighbors don’t even know they’re there.”

The St. Francis Home for Children was located on a rocky plateau on the outskirts of Lusaka near the international airport. Every time she visited, Zoe was struck by the contrast between the arid expanse surrounding the home and the lushness of the property itself. The drive was rimmed with bougainvillea, and at its center was the largest poinsettia tree she had ever seen.

Maurice parked the Prado at the entrance, and the ladies from Social Welfare pulled in behind them. A gray-haired nun in a green and white habit stood in front of the low-slung building. She smiled when she saw Zoe.

“Sister Anica,” Zoe said, taking the nun’s hand.

“I’m so happy to see you again,” the nun replied in a soft Slavic accent.

They turned toward the Prado and watched Joy help the girl out. Zoe could hear the faint strains of “Fields of Gold” emanating from her headphones. Joy knelt in front of the girl and uncovered her ears, placing the headphones and iPod in the girl’s pocket.

“We’re here,” she said. “You’re going to like this place.” Taking the girl’s hand, she stood again and greeted Sister Anica. “She hasn’t spoken yet, but she’s quite fond of music.”

The nun smiled at the girl and nodded to the ladies from Social Welfare. “Come, this way,” she said, gesturing toward a pair of rosewood doors standing open to admit the breeze.

They followed Sister Anica down a hallway decorated with the drawings of children to a courtyard dominated by playground equipment and a majestic acacia thorn tree. There, Sister Anica introduced Zoe to a diminutive young nun with tropical blue eyes.

“Sister Irina will take you from here,” she said. “The rest of us have paperwork to finish.”

After Sister Anica departed with Joy and the social workers, Sister Irina knelt down before the girl. “I am Irina,” she said. “Can I be your friend?” The girl hung her head shyly, and the nun smiled. “That’s okay. We can talk about it later.”

She led them down a breezeway to a brightly painted room with an array of toys. Two children with Down syndrome sat by the wall, playing with dolls. An older child with cerebral palsy sat in a special chair by the window, listening to a story read by an elderly nun.