The Garden of Burning Sand (12 page)

Kaunda shuffled his papers, then opened a notebook. “If you can try the case in one day, I have dates in June. If you need more time, I will give you a date in December. It is your choice.”

As Luchembe gloated, Sarge conferred with Niza. “If the Court will allow us to bring witnesses into the evening,” he said, “we can try this case in one day.”

The magistrate frowned. “The Court will adjourn no later than seventeen hundred hours.”

Sarge looked deflated. “Then we ask for two days in December.”

Kaunda nodded and wrote something in his notebook. “This case will be set down for trial on the twelfth and thirteenth of December, 2012,” he intoned. “Do we have any other matters to deal with at the present time?”

“The defense is satisfied,” Luchembe replied.

“There is another issue,” Sarge replied, handing Luchembe a stapled document. “We wish to test the biological evidence acquired by Dr. Chulu on the night of the incident against a sample of the defendant’s DNA. We have prepared an application for an order requiring the defendant to provide a blood sample. I respectfully suggest that the matter be brought for mention immediately.”

Luchembe scanned the document and puffed out his chest. “Your Worship, this application intrudes upon my client’s constitutional rights. There is no precedent for this request in Zambia—”

“There is, indeed, Your Worship,” Sarge interjected. “Such samples are routinely ordered in paternity cases where the accused wishes to prove that he did not father a child. In addition, the courts of Britain and many other countries permit this sort of testing in rape cases. We agree that it is a matter of first impression in Zambia, but we submit that the question has a straightforward answer.”

This exchange seemed to paralyze Kaunda. He sat motionless on the bench, and then flipped through paperwork. “The samples from the victim,” he said at last, glancing at Darious, “have they been preserved according to protocol?”

“Yes, Your Worship,” Sarge replied.

“Where are they currently?”

“In Dr. Chulu’s possession.”

At this point, Luchembe made a last ditch appeal. “Your Worship, my client is a man of considerable reputation in Lusaka. This prosecution is a farce perpetrated by a British organization that doesn’t believe Zambians have the ability to enforce our own laws. This Court adjudicates defilement cases all the time. There is no need for DNA.”

Kaunda looked at Luchembe over his wireframe glasses. “If an application is before me, I have no choice but to hear it. Even if it has disturbing constitutional implications.” He studied his notebook again. “The election is scheduled for the twentieth. I believe this matter can be resolved before then. Does counsel object to a hearing on the fifteenth?”

“No, Your Worship,” Sarge said.

Luchembe’s eyes smoldered. “The defense objects to this whole proceeding.”

“Duly noted,” Kaunda said. “I am placing the case on the docket for the fifteenth of September at ten o’clock. This matter is adjourned.”

As the lawyers gathered their briefcases, Zoe turned to Joseph and managed a hesitant smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frederick Nyambo speaking to Patricia in a whisper. Zoe shuddered.
They didn’t have a chance to corrupt him before now. But they see how easy he will be to manipulate
.

As if intuiting her thoughts, Joseph said, “I’m worried about the judge.”

“That makes two of us,” she replied. “He’s out of his depth.”

When she glanced toward the Nyambos again, they were gone.

The next week passed in a blur. In five business days, Luchembe’s legal team produced a rebuttal memorandum attacking the constitutionality, rationality, and morality of DNA testing in a rape case. Ignoring the weight of foreign authority in favor of DNA, Luchembe cherry-picked and misconstrued a South African decision questioning the efficacy of profiling where only small samples were used. Worse, Luchembe referred to Kuyeya as a “mentally disturbed child,” playing upon the African suspicion of people with intellectual disabilities. The memorandum was a masterpiece of misdirection and prejudice—just the sort of charade that could fool Thoko Kaunda into ruling against them.

After reading the brief, Sarge looked as angry as Zoe had ever seen him. “The only way to fight this
warped
rhetoric is to give Kaunda something enticing, something to feed his ego.”

Niza’s eyes lit up. “Why don’t we dress him up as a freedom fighter? I bet he’s spent most of his life wishing he were related to Kenneth Kaunda, hero of Zambian independence. Let’s turn DNA into a weapon of reform.”

Zoe laughed. “Brilliant.”

Sarge tossed the memorandum on his desk. “I have no idea if it will work, but I like it.”

Two days before the hearing, Zoe drove out to St. Francis for Kuyeya’s psychiatric evaluation. Dr. Mbao met her at the entrance to the children’s
home. A garrulous middle-aged woman with a megawatt smile, she pumped Zoe’s hand as if they were dear friends. They found Kuyeya sitting under the giant acacia tree, watching Sister Irina put on a puppet show.

“Hi, Kuyeya,” Zoe said, sitting down beside her. “How are you today?”

Kuyeya made the balloon sound. “Hi, Zoe. I like your music.”

Sister Irina grinned. “Especially your collection of Johnny Cash.”

“Johnny plays the guitar,” Kuyeya said.

Zoe laughed. “You have good taste.”

Throughout this exchange, Dr. Mbao stood in the background. Now she stepped forward. “I’m Margie,” she said cheerfully, sitting on the bare earth beside Kuyeya. “I’m so happy to meet you.” She pointed at the toy monkey. “Does your friend have a name?”

“He’s Monkey,” the girl replied, holding him against her chest.

The psychiatrist looked at Sister Irina. “Zoe says you’ve been keeping a journal of her words. Have you detected any themes?”

“She talks a lot about noise,” the nun said. “When the children are playing, she sometimes says things like: ‘The children are loud. The children are not happy.’ Or: ‘The children should be quiet. I like quiet.’”

“Does she mention her mother at all?” the psychiatrist asked.

The nun nodded. “When I give her medicine, she says, ‘Medicine is good. Mommy gives me medicine.’ But when I ask her about her mother, she shuts down.”

“What about her pain? Does she talk about it?”

Sister Irina shook her head. “The other day she stumbled over a rock and started to cry. I could tell she was hurting by the way she pressed down on her inner thighs. But when I asked her about it, she didn’t talk. She made a sound—a bit like a groan—over and over again.”

“Mmm,” the doctor said. “I’d like to see your notebook. But before that, I need to spend some time alone with her.”

Sister Irina stood and walked with Zoe to the breezeway. “Sister Anica says you made an arrest,” she said. “What kind of man is he?”

“He’s from a very powerful family,” Zoe replied.

Sister Irina looked across the courtyard. “Is he sick?”

“He might be. We’re not sure.”

Tears came to the nun’s eyes. “I’m praying she will be well. When will the trial be held?”

Zoe grimaced. “Next December. The defense attorney succeeded in delaying things.”

“I think she will talk by then,” Sister Irina said. “I think she will tell her story.”

“According to Joy Herald, Dr. Mbao is the best. Perhaps you’re right.”

The morning of September 15, five days before the national election, Maurice drove Zoe, Sarge, and Niza back to the Subordinate Court. The streets of Lusaka were thronged with political demonstrators, waving banners and flags. Green-clad supporters of the Patriotic Front yelled angry slogans, denouncing President Banda, while blue-clad devotees of the incumbent MMD shouted,
“Boma ni boma!”—
“Government is government!”—and sang raucous songs.

Zoe searched the sea of green T-shirts for a sign of the young man in the bandana but didn’t see him. It had been three and a half weeks since the confrontation in Kanyama. Her shock after the incident had sublimated into a perpetual unease hovering at the periphery of her consciousness. Most of the time she thought nothing of it, but occasionally when she saw a PF cadre cruising the streets, she felt the fear again.

When they entered the courthouse lobby, Zoe saw Joseph talking with David Soso, the police prosecutor. She hadn’t seen Joseph in over
a week. Mariam had told her he was tied up in meetings at police headquarters, but Zoe had texted him and received no reply.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, touching his arm. “What’ve you been up to?”

Joseph shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Sorry I didn’t make it to the braai on Saturday. I heard it was fun.”

“We missed you,” she replied giving him a curious look. “The impala was a hit.”

They walked down the arcade to Courtroom 9. As before, Benson Luchembe and his retinue stood in a huddle outside the entrance, but this time Frederick Nyambo was absent. Luchembe frowned at Joseph when he and Zoe passed by.

“What was that about?” Zoe asked after they entered the courtroom.

“Darious isn’t the first of his clients I’ve put in jail,” he replied.

They sat together in the gallery and watched Sarge and Niza unpack their briefcases at counsel table. The CILA attorneys were as serious as Zoe had ever seen them. The hearing was critical, and even the unflappable Sarge looked tense.

Magistrate Kaunda appeared a few minutes after ten o’clock. He made himself comfortable on the bench and gave the lawyers a thoughtful look. Zoe glanced around and realized that the Nyambos were not in the courtroom.

“I’ve read your application,” the magistrate said to Sarge. “And your submission in opposition,” he said, turning to Luchembe. “And I’m prepared to hear argument. I plan to take the matter under advisement and issue a written decision. I will hear from the applicant first.”

Sarge stood and held out his hands. “Your Worship,” he began, “DNA is not a Western phenomenon. The science of genetics is not only valid in lands where people’s skin is white. DNA is here is Africa, in this courtroom. And in it dwells the truth. The truth offered by
DNA is more credible than the testimony of eyewitnesses who can misunderstand and forget. The truth of DNA is more compelling than the testimony of the most competent investigating officer. It is a truth that exists apart from passion and faction, a truth that respects nothing but itself. And in a court of law, where truth and impartiality are paramount, DNA deserves an audience.”

He fixed Kaunda with a righteous stare. “Today, fifty years after our country gained its independence, girls in our cities are not free. They live in fear. They are afraid because they are targets, because some men consider sex with the girl of their choosing to be a moral right. It is up to us—lawyers, judges, keepers of the law—to liberate our children from fear.”

As Sarge took a theatrical pause, Zoe regarded him in admiration. He spoke as if inspired.

“It would be one thing,” he went on, “if the weight of authority stood against the use of DNA in the context of rape. But exactly the opposite is true. Courts in many nations have embraced DNA, and rapists have been sent to jail. The same will be true in Zambia. It would be one thing if the laws of Zambia
prohibited
the taking of a blood sample from an accused. But they do not. The only thing that separates children like Kuyeya from justice—and freedom from fear—is indecision.”

Sarge raised his voice in emphasis. “Mark my words. One day a decision
will
be made. One day in this very courtroom DNA will be used to convict the rapist of a child. The only question before this Court is whether today is the day.”

Sarge returned to his seat in the silence of a spellbound courtroom. Benson Luchembe took his time standing up, and his tone, when he began to speak, was unsteady.

“Your Worship, I’m reminded of an old saying. If something is not broken, there is no need to fix it. The crime of defilement has existed
in Zambia for decades. The law offers this Court many tools to prosecute it. DNA is not one of them. Our system may differ from the rest of the world, but it is
our
system. And the system is not broken. There is no need to fix it.”

Over the next ten minutes, Luchembe rehearsed the high points from his memorandum: that Zambia’s Constitution protects a person against unlawful search; that while a court may order a criminal defendant to submit to a medical examination to ascertain any matter material to the proceedings, the word “examination” should not be interpreted to include a blood sample; and that a court-ordered DNA test would not only violate Darious Nyambo’s constitutional rights but would also pave the way for the rights of all defendants in rape cases to be infringed.

The defense attorney’s performance was remarkably lackluster, and Zoe found herself nursing a fleeting hope that Kaunda would grant their application. She looked at Sarge, expecting him to deliver a point-by-point rebuttal, but his reply, when it came, was spare.

“Your Worship,” he said, “the choice before you is not an abstraction; it is a child. Kuyeya deserves justice. This Court has the power to deliver it. I trust you will do so.”

The magistrate nodded. “I thank counsel for your words. As promised, I will take this matter under advisement. Let’s hope the election in a few days is peaceful.”

When Kaunda disappeared into chambers, Benson Luchembe stomped out of the courtroom, prompting a scramble among his staff.

Zoe stood and moved toward Sarge to congratulate him. “That was an argument worthy of the Supreme Court,” she said.

Sarge glanced at the bench. “Somewhere along the way, this case became personal.”

Zoe smiled. “Let’s hope young Thoko feels the same.”

The magistrate’s opinion arrived by email the next morning. Zoe had never heard Sarge curse before, and the sound of it shocked her. He jerked away from his desk. “Kaunda had it written before the hearing,” he exclaimed. “He only pretended to listen to me.”

He stood up quickly and disappeared into Mariam’s office. Minutes later, Mariam called the response team to a meeting. Zoe walked to the conference room with Niza and found Joseph already there. He glanced at her but didn’t speak, his eyes fraught with anger.

After everyone was seated, Mariam said, “The ruling is a setback. We need to decide what to do about it. Joseph, do you have any evidence that Kaunda was corrupted?”

Joseph blinked as if coming out of a trance. “I followed him everywhere. He didn’t meet with anyone from the Nyambo family or Luchembe’s firm. But that doesn’t prove anything. They could have spoken on the phone or by email.”

That’s why I didn’t see you for days
, Zoe thought.
You were shadowing the magistrate
.

“In light of that, we have two options,” Mariam went on. “First, we take the DNA issue to the High Court. Second, we proceed to trial without DNA.”

“An appeal will take months and give Luchembe an excuse to delay the trial further,” said Niza. “There’s no chance that a High Court judge will make an example of Patricia Nyambo’s son. They’ll find a way to rule against us on a technicality.”

Sarge shook his head. “The magistrate has to be compromised. You don’t write an entire opinion on a subject so significant before you hear oral argument.”

“He could have written it last night,” Mariam suggested.

“It’s the longest decision I’ve ever gotten from him. Ten pages of careful reasoning. He knows we stand little chance on appeal. He wants us to try this case in front of him without DNA. We have to find a way around him.”

“The only way around him is to get him recused,” Mariam said. “But without evidence of bias or corruption, we can’t go to the Principal Resident Magistrate.”

Joseph leaned forward in his chair. “I have a thought. It’s been bothering me since the beginning. Did any of you see the way Kaunda looked at Darious at the initial hearing? He was apologetic. What if they know each other?”

“Now that I think about it,” Zoe said, “I saw the same thing.”

Sarge furrowed his brow. “It’s an intriguing idea. But they would have to have a substantial relationship to create a conflict of interest. The Principal Resident Magistrate will never intervene if they’re just acquaintances.”

“It’s worth a look,” Mariam said to Joseph. “Let us know what you find. In the meantime, does anyone vote for an appeal?”

All heads shook in unison.

“Okay,” she said. “That means we have to proceed on the assumption that the burden of proof must be met without DNA. We need more evidence. We need an adult eyewitness. We need someone who
can tell us definitively when Kuyeya was born. And if there was a personal motive, we need to figure out what it was.”

“I’m working on the virgin rape angle,” Joseph said. “I’ll go back to Kanyama and Kabwata and beat the bushes. Perhaps I’ll find someone I didn’t talk to before.”

“And I’ll keep digging into the past,” Zoe said. “I think a trip to Livingstone is in order.”

“I agree,” Mariam said. She looked at Joseph. “If you can spare a couple of days, I’d like you to go along. We’ll cover your expenses.”

He gave Zoe a hint of a grin. “The falls are nice this time of year.”

Zoe returned to her desk and powered up her laptop, barely containing her enthusiasm. Victoria Falls was one of her favorite places on earth. She purchased a pair of round-trip tickets to Livingstone, reserved a rental car, and booked two rooms at the Zambezi Safari Lodge. At noon, she drove home to pack. She threw some clothes into a duffel bag and placed her MacBook and Bella’s diary in her backpack. Then she cobbled together a lunch of grapes and cheese and ate it on the deck while studying a map of Livingstone.

Just after one, Joseph met her at the gate in his truck, wearing a short-sleeve shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. She tossed her duffel into the flatbed and climbed in, wedging her backpack between her knees. He smiled and gunned the engine, throwing her against her seat.

“Are you excited or something?” she asked.

“I haven’t been on an airplane in years,” he said with a laugh.

“What is it with men and mechanical things?” She rolled her eyes. “My brother is like a kid every time he’s at an airport.”

Twenty minutes later, they parked in the lot at the Lusaka International Airport and entered the terminal, joining the queue of passengers waiting to pay the departure tax. Before long, Zoe’s eyes began to
wander. The airport reminded her of the Park Street bus station in Johannesburg—a modernist cavern with wide-open floors and a confusing array of gates.

Suddenly, she frowned. Thirty feet away, a man was leaning against a wall, staring at them. Dressed in a floral-print shirt and black sunglasses, he had the build of a bull—large head, no neck, and a body sculpted out of muscle. She stared back at him until he turned away, searching her memory for his face. She couldn’t place him. He was holding a duffel bag. He was probably just another passenger.

When their flight was called, they boarded the twin-engine propeller plane and took seats at the rear—Zoe by the window, Joseph by the aisle. The last passenger to board the aircraft was the man in sunglasses. He looked toward them briefly and then sat down in the second row. Zoe studied the back of his head, feeling a vague flutter of concern. She considered pointing him out to Joseph, but she didn’t want to seem paranoid.

The plane took off and banked to the southwest, climbing into the spotless sky. Zoe watched Lusaka recede into the distance and then vanish altogether, like a mirage in the highland bush. She took out Bella’s notebook and began to reread pages she had marked with sticky notes. Halfway through the volume, she reached the only letter Bella hadn’t written in English. She had meant to ask Joseph about it some time ago.

“Is this Nyanja?” she asked.

“It’s Tonga,” he said, scanning the letter. His eyes darkened.

“What?”

“Didn’t Doris tell you she owed Bella a debt?”

Zoe nodded. “What does it say?”

He translated the letter in paraphrase. It was summer—the year was unclear. Bella had been working the streets with Doris and a girl named
Loveness. One evening a man in a Jaguar flashed a wad of cash and asked if they wanted to party. He took them to a bungalow where they found a group of seven men, all snorting white powder. It wasn’t long before the men turned violent. They held Loveness down, forced her to swallow a pill of some kind, and raped her repeatedly. Two of the men dragged Bella into another room, waved knives around, and joked about circumcising her. Fearing for her life, she kicked one of the men in the groin and plunged his knife into the other man. She fled the room and found Doris spreadeagled on the floor, crying. Loveness was nowhere to be seen. At this point, Bella did something with the knife that resulted in a great deal of blood—her description in Tonga was threadbare. Then she and Doris ran naked into the night. They wandered for a while, hiding in bushes when cars passed. At the edge of Kalingalinga, they found an old woman who took pity on them and gave them clothes. They never saw Loveness again.

When Joseph finished, Zoe didn’t speak for a long time. Her senses felt raw from the reading. “Doris took care of Kuyeya because Bella saved her life,” she said at last.

“It appears that way.” He stared at the notebook. “Do you know how Bella died?”

Zoe nodded. “Let me show you.” She flipped to the end of the notebook and watched over his shoulder as he read the words of Bella’s last entry.

Zoe stared at the period at the end of the last sentence and felt the sorrow afresh. Bella’s final letter was like her life—cut off prematurely, bereft of resolution.

“She was prescient about the men,” she said. “But she underestimated Doris. The irony is Doris was the reason she waited so long to get tested. Doris was suspicious of ARVs. She thought AIDS was invented by the West to kill Africans. Bella went to the
ngangas
to placate her. Then when she finally asked for help, the nurses were on strike.”

“The Ministry of Health scandal,” Joseph said softly.

Zoe nodded. The story was infamous in Zambia. In the winter of 2009, tens of millions of dollars had disappeared from the Ministry of Health, prompting international donors to suspend aid payments and health-care workers to abandon their posts in protest.

“I’m sure the kleptocrats who took the money never thought anyone would die,” she said. “They just wanted Ferraris and Swiss bank accounts.”

Joseph tensed when she said this. He looked as if he was about to reply, but the words never quite materialized. After a moment, he reclined his seat and closed his eyes, bringing an abrupt end to the conversation.

Zoe watched him carefully, puzzling over his reaction. It wasn’t Bella’s battle with AIDS that set him on edge. That would make sense, given his sister’s death. It was the embezzlement at the Ministry of Health. But why? Why did he seem to take the scandal personally? Finding no answer, she took out the inflight magazine and read until the pilot announced their final descent into Livingstone.

When the plane parked outside the terminal, the man in sunglasses was the first to disembark. He hefted his duffel bag and left the aircraft without a glance in their direction. By the time Zoe stepped onto the tarmac, he was halfway to the terminal. Seeing the purpose in his stride, she set aside her earlier suspicions.
He’s just another passenger in transit
.

She led the way into the terminal and finalized the rental of a Toyota pickup, ignoring Joseph, who had yet to speak. The attendant escorted them to the lot and gave her the keys.

“You drive,” Zoe said, handing them to Joseph.

“Where are we going?” he asked in a surly tone.

“Livingstone General Hospital,” she said, stifling the urge to ask what was wrong. “I bet the nursing school is still open.”

On the drive into town, Zoe stared out the window at the bush, its scrub-like blanket a stark contrast to the cerulean sky. She waited for Joseph’s mood to improve, but he just gazed out the windshield, lost in his own world. When they reached the city limits, he turned right on Mosi-oa-Tunya Road and headed toward downtown.

“I think we turn here,” she said, remembering the road from the map she had studied.

He tossed her a glance. “I was under the impression you wanted me
to drive.” She studied his face and saw with great relief that the storm clouds had passed.

“You’re cheering up, thank God.”

He didn’t respond, but the corners of his mouth turned upward.

A few minutes later, they parked in the hospital lot. At once antiquated and austere, Livingstone General had the look of a nineteenth-century sanitarium transplanted in African soil. Its bricks were the color of riverine clay, and its louvered windows, darkened by dust, were open to admit fresh air.

They went to the reception desk and greeted an officious-looking matron. When they asked for the registrar of the nursing school, the woman shook her head.

“Her office close seventeen hundred.”

Joseph repeated the question, noting that they had ten minutes left before five o’clock. Reluctantly, the woman directed them toward a hall on the far side of the lobby. Skirting a filing cabinet brimming with paperwork, they entered the admissions office of the nursing school. Behind a wooden desk sat a heavyset Zambian woman clad in a pantsuit that clung a little too tightly to her frame. The woman shook their hands.

“I am Kombe,” she said in accented English. “I am Dean of Admissions.”

Joseph made the introductions and then deferred to Zoe, who gave the woman a sanitized version of their interest in Bella—Charity Mizinga.

“We believe she was a student here sometime before 2004,” Zoe said.

The dean typed on her keyboard. “All students enrolled after 2001 are on our computer system. She is not listed.”

“What about students admitted before 2001?” Joseph asked.

“We have a paper registry,” the dean replied. She disappeared through another door and returned a minute later with a dust-coated book. She
dropped the book on her desk and waved away the particles that flew up. “It is organized by year and surname. If you start at the back, you’ll see the roll for 2000, 1999, 1998—you understand.”

“What we’re really looking for is information about her family,” Zoe said. “Is there anyone who might remember her? A professor or a doctor, perhaps?”

The dean ushered them to the door. “Dr. Mumbi has been here more than twenty years. I don’t know if he is on rotation today.” She pointed. “There are chairs down the hall that you can use. Leave the registry with the receptionist. If you have additional questions, I will be in the office tomorrow.”