Returning Pierce’s gaze, Bobby smiled a little. “About as well as you did, I imagine. But I envy you Marissa’s company. Will I ever see her again, I wonder, outside a prison or a courtroom?”
Pierce touched his shoulder. “That’s what we’re both working toward.”
T
AKING THE WITNESS
stand, Van Daan looked sullen and dyspeptic; he had not expected to be facing Pierce in such uncertainty. For the first hour, Pierce toyed with him, reading questions and answers from Van Daan’s deposition aloud, then asking if each passage was his testimony. By the end of this deceptively understated process, the stillness with which Van Daan studied his interrogator suggested a quarry assessing his escape routes. Sitting in the jury box, Okimbo watched them both closely.
Placing Van Daan’s deposition on the defense table, Pierce approached the witness. Quietly, he said, “You know that Bobby Okari is innocent of these murders, don’t you.”
The startling statement seemed to deepen Van Daan’s uncertainty. Tonelessly, he said, “Not according to the witnesses.”
“Which you paid for. We already know how much you gave Aboh. How about Joba and Tulu?”
Van Daan remained still. “I paid expenses.”
“How much?”
Van Daan hesitated. “Fifteen thousand dollars.”
Pierce smiled at this. “In expenses? If I told you that the annual income of the average Luandian male is less than one-tenth of that amount, would you disagree?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Pierce glanced at Orta. “Never mind—the court can take judicial notice of that fact. Let’s try this: what was the annual salary of the three workers who were lynched?”
Van Daan pursed his fleshy lips. “About twenty-five hundred U.S.”
“And the money you gave the widows for funeral expenses?”
Van Daan paused again. “Five hundred.”
“Too bad for the living,” Pierce remarked. “By your reckoning, bus fare to Port George costs thirty times more than burial. How long will it take before you admit to paying those men to lie?”
Van Daan’s jaw tightened. “I don’t consider them liars.”
“Then truth comes at a premium.” Pierce moved closer. “On the day of the lynchings, you were in Goro, correct?”
“Over it,” Van Daan amended. “In a helicopter.”
“And you were also near Goro on the day of Okari’s ‘arrest.’”
“Yes,” Van Daan answered impatiently. “I told you that before.”
“Trouble seems to follow you, doesn’t it. You also flew Okimbo to the staging area for the operation in Goro. Which you’d already approved.”
Van Daan gripped the arms of the witness chair. “No. And I approved nothing.”
“Let’s not mince words. You paid for that operation, didn’t you.”
Van Daan shook his head. “No.”
Pierce gave him a look of weary patience, then walked back to the defense table, removing Okimbo’s memo from the folder. When he turned, Van Daan spoke again, his voice rising: “I know there’s this memo Okimbo says is forged. I know nothing about it.”
“Humor me.” Stepping forward, Pierce handed Van Daan the memo. “According to this, one month before the lynchings Colonel Okimbo asked you to pay him for conducting a ‘wasting operation’ against Goro. I’d think such a colorful request would stick in your memory.”
“It doesn’t,” Van Daan insisted. “I’ve never seen this piece of paper.”
Pierce skipped a beat. “Then why was it in your files?”
As Orta peered at the witness, a red stain colored Van Daan’s cheeks. “If it was, someone put it there to frame me.”
Pierce resisted the temptation presented by the word ‘frame’; for now it was sufficient to learn, as he just had, that Van Daan had also lied to Hamilton. “Between the date of this memo and Asari Day,” he asked, “did you pay money to Colonel Okimbo?”
“If I did, it was merely for protection.”
“And you maintain records of all such payments, true?”
Van Daan looked wary. “Most.”
Once again, Pierce returned to the defense table. Opening the manila file, he produced another memo. He scanned it, attenuating the witness’s tension, then asked, “Did these records reflect a payment to Okimbo for—quote—’miscellaneous services, including planning for an operation in Goro’?”
Okimbo leaned forward; Pierce was immediately certain that he recalled this record well. Perceptibly sagging, Van Daan answered, “I recall nothing like that.”
Walking forward, Pierce described the memo for the record before giving it to Van Daan. “Then tell me what this is.”
Briefly, Van Daan glanced at it. “I can’t.”
“Aren’t the words I quoted in your handwriting?”
Van Daan would not look at the document. “Someone else must have written them.”
“Then why was this receipt also in your files?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look again at the document, above the line ‘received by.’ Didn’t you ask Okimbo to sign this to verify that you gave him ten thousand dollars in advance of the operation in Goro?”
Van Daan thrust the document at Pierce. “Take this,” he said in a voice that shook with anger. “It’s your forgery.”
Someone in the gallery emitted a bark of contempt. To punctuate the moment, Pierce gazed at the tribunal: Orta was frowning, Uza staring at the bench, Nubola looking impatiently toward Ngara. Pierce handed Orta the document. “Please read this, Your Honor. Two witnesses have now claimed that their handwriting is forged on two documents that are damning on their face. I renew my request for an expert to verify the handwriting of Okimbo and Van Daan.”
With palpable unhappiness, Orta read the memo. Then he huddled with Uza and Nubola, who seemed to speak with vehemence. When the judge faced Pierce, he appeared shaken. “As before, we will take your request under submission, in light of Mr. Ngara’s assertion that the facts surrounding Mr. Okari’s arrest are irrelevant to three murders that happened a week before.”
Pierce knew this to be a veiled signal to Ngara. In measured tones, Pierce asked Van Daan, “Did the ‘miscellaneous services’ performed by Colonel Okimbo include lynching those oil workers?”
Ngara leapt up.
“Objection.
The witness can’t identify this document. There is no foundation for such an inflammatory question.”
“Sustained,” Orta said with vehemence. “Enough, Mr. Pierce.”
Pierce took the document, returning to the witness table to replace it
in his folder. Turning to Van Daan, he asked, “Did you pay Okimbo for the operation in Goro
after
he conducted it?”
“Objection,”
Ngara said heatedly. “Again, Goro is irrelevant.”
Pierce faced Orta again. “A man’s life is in your hands. If you’ll allow me to proceed, I believe we can show that the events at Goro are inseparable from the murders with which Bobby Okari is charged.”
The judge paused, seeming to weigh the risks of appearing to do justice. “With the understanding that his response may later be struck from the record, the witness may answer.”
“The answer is no,” Van Daan snapped.
Pierce flipped open the folder, still watching Van Daan. “Let me refresh your recollection. One week after the operation in Goro, did you pay Colonel Okimbo fifteen thousand dollars for—quote—’military operations in Goro carried out by Okimbo and sixty-three soldiers’?”
Reflexively, Van Daan shot a look at Okimbo. “I may have paid him for protection. That is all.”
Pierce approached the bench, handing the document to Orta. “As with the two preceding documents, I ask you to note this for the record.”
Orta read the memo with narrow eyes and handed it back. Then Pierce gave it to Van Daan. “This is also from your files, Mr. Van Daan. On its face, it’s a handwritten receipt for the payment to Colonel Okimbo of fifteen thousand dollars, with a line above which appears the signature ‘Paul Okimbo.’ Please explain to the court what
this
is.”
With an air of distaste, Van Daan let the document flutter to the floor. “Another forgery.”
Nubola glared at Ngara. “We object to
all
these documents,” the prosecutor said tautly.
Pierce paused a moment, inhaling to ease his tension. “Then I should be clear,” he told Orta. “Our defense is this: that Okimbo and Van Daan conspired with others to lynch the workers, use their murders as a pretext for Okari’s ‘arrest,’ and use the arrest as cover for a massacre intended to crush the Asari movement at Goro. If these documents are authentic—and I am convinced they are—then Okimbo and Van Daan planned the massacre one month
before
the lynchings. All that’s needed is a handwriting expert to confirm their authenticity.” Pierce trained his eyes on Orta. “Mr. Ngara’s objection is the predicate for executing an innocent man. He
knows it; the court knows it; everyone here knows it. Just as all of us know that Okimbo and Van Daan are lying. The only question is whether this tribunal will let them.”
For an instant, Orta looked stricken. Then he said sternly, “Do not lecture us, Mr. Pierce. Or we will remand you to the custody of a man you slander so freely. As for your defense, you have yet to prove that this ‘massacre’ occurred. Where are your witnesses to
that?”
This retort, a cover for Orta’s embarrassment, put Pierce on the defensive. “I have two—”
“We know,” Orta interrupted with a dismissive wave. “The defendant and his wife. But who else?”
The soldier Beke Femu,
Pierce thought. “At the outset of the trial,” he answered, “we moved for a delay so that we could locate other witnesses. I renew that motion now.”
“And I deny it now,” Orta said in a chilly tone. “You will have until tomorrow to persuade us with credible evidence. Until then, the tribunal will hold the matter of Goro in abeyance. Be glad of our forbearance, counsel.”
“Thank you,” Pierce said, the hollow courtesy of the courtroom. He had sixteen hours to persuade a guilt-stricken soldier to risk his life for Bobby Okari.
A
FTER DINNER
, P
IERCE SAT WITH
M
ARISSA ON THE PATIO, PREPAR
ing her to testify should Beke Femu not appear. Atiku Bara had vanished; no one knew where. Their only comfort was an article on the Internet edition of the
New York Times.
Beneath the heading “Luandian Dissident’s Lawyer Challenges Regime,” the article noted the flimsiness of the evidence, the weakness of the witnesses, the dubious nature of the proceedings, and questions about the military’s conduct in Goro. The most pointed sentence was a quote from Pierce: “A striking aspect of this sham prosecution is PGL’s apparent involvement in concocting it.” But this would only increase the pressures on Orta. Pierce had heard nothing from Gladstone.
“Will they let me testify?” Marissa asked him.
Pierce put down his coffee. “They would in any normal court. But Orta is walking a tightrope, hoping for a veneer of credibility without ending up dead or in prison. At some point he’ll fall off.”
Footsteps sounded on the patio. Turning, Pierce saw Bara.
“What is it?” Marissa asked him.
“The soldier. Beke Femu.” Bara looked from Marissa to Pierce. “In the morning, I’ll bring him to court.”
Pierce felt relief mingling with a sense of dread. “Why is he willing?”
“Because he has no family.”
Silence followed. Bara sat beside Pierce. “I know you’ve never trusted me. After tonight, you’ll have more reason. I’m sending my wife and children to England.”
Marissa touched his arm. “Why now, Atiku?”
“Because of Femu,” Bara said simply. “I’m afraid of what will happen next.”
As Marissa nodded, Pierce felt both her compassion and her solitude. “So here we are,” he said. “The few but the proud.”
No one answered.
W
HEN
P
IERCE AND
Marissa entered the courtroom, Bara was nowhere in sight. When two soldiers brought in Bobby Okari, Pierce took his place beside him. Inclining his head to Bobby’s, Pierce murmured, “We have a witness to the massacre. Now we’ll see if he shows up.”
Bobby absorbed this, the gratitude in his eyes replaced by sadness. “For the sake of my people, I hope he does. But not for his.”
The tribunal took the bench, Orta between a sickly-looking Uza and the stern Nubola. “Well, Mr. Pierce, what do you have for us?”
Pierce stood. “A witness to Goro, I believe. We’re awaiting his arrival.”
“You may be. This court is not. Continue your defense, or we’ll invite the prosecutor’s closing argument.”
Glancing at Marissa, Pierce saw her face set in resignation and resolve. “Then we call Marissa Okari.”
Distracted, Orta was looking beyond him. Pierce heard a stirring in the gallery, then saw Atiku Bara enter with a slender Luandian soldier.
Unsettled, Pierce had his first clear look at Beke Femu, now central to Bobby’s defense. He was an unprepossessing figure: almost comically thin, with big ears, limpid brown eyes, and awkward movements. As he looked about his new environment, his entire being radiated fear and confusion; despite his lawyer’s carapace, Pierce felt a stab of remorse. “This is our witness,” Pierce told Orta. “I ask the tribunal to hear him now.”
Displeasure and uncertainty distorted Orta’s features. “Put him on, if you wish,” he said in a tone of warning. “But we’ll see how far this goes.”
Somber, Bara brought the witness forward, pointing him to the chair. As though in a trance, Femu sat. “As part of the witness’s testimony,” Pierce said, “we ask that the outside counsel for PGL bring Roos Van Daan before the court.”
Orta scowled. “For what purpose?”
“Identification by the witness. By the end of Mr. Femu’s testimony, there will be no doubt of its relevance.”
Once more, Orta looked trapped; there was no plausible reason to refuse. Addressing Clark Hamilton, he said, “You will bring Mr. Van Daan back here. What use we’ll make of him is yet to be decided.”
Mystified, Femu looked from Orta to Pierce. With daunting coldness, Orta told Femu, “You will tell the truth, and only that. You will not guess; you will not disrespect the court by lying. Prison is the punishment for perjury. Do you understand this?”
Mute, Femu nodded.
“Do you have the power of speech?” Orta inquired cuttingly. “The court reporter does not decipher movements of the head.”