Helena and Prince had traveled in the backseat of Yudel’s hired car, with Abigail next to him in front. They arrived twenty-five minutes before the scheduled start of the hearing. At the outer gate, a guard in prisons department uniform met them and asked them to wait while they were identified.
Entering Chikurubi was not easy for Abigail. She had been telling Yudel about the form she expected the hearing to take, but had stopped talking as the building appeared through the trees. Even Yudel, who had spent much of his life inside the walls of prisons, felt the wave of oppressive energy that swept toward them from beyond its walls. For Abigail, it was much worse. She stopped in the pedestrian doorway as if repelled by everything that resided within. There was never any possibility that she may take a step back, but she had to gather strength before continuing.
Like all prisons, Yudel knew the outstanding characteristic of this one would be the gates—heavily guarded access points that barred the way to every part of the building. They passed through three gates, each of which had to be opened by a guard on the inside, before they reached a large hall with unpainted concrete walls and floor. It may at one time have been a gymnasium. The court had been set up in a corner of the hall. The rest stood empty. Yudel had the impression of crossing a plain to reach a distant oasis. The sound of their footsteps, especially Abigail’s leather heels, echoed off hard surfaces as they approached the corner in which the hearing would take place. Two rows of plastic seats at the back of the makeshift court had been provided for a small group of observers. So far the only people occupying them were three officers in the uniform of the prisons department. A pile of backless wooden benches stacked in a corner revealed the nature of the room’s usual seating. The only windows were shallow and set close to a high ceiling. Most of the light came from overhead fluorescent lights.
The prison officer who accompanied them showed Abigail and Yudel to their seats at a wooden table. The two government lawyers were already seated at a table to the right of them. The judge’s table stood in front and in the center on a slightly raised platform. Just in front of the judge, the court registrar had his own table. He was cleaning his fingernails with the sharpened end of a match. The room’s two doors were guarded by uniformed policemen. Because they could be called as witnesses, Helena and Prince had been left in a corridor just outside the hall.
As Abigail and Yudel arrived at their table, the two government men came to meet them. They introduced themselves as Barrister Gorowa and Solicitor Moyo, and said that it was a pleasure to meet Advocate Bukula and Mr. Gordon. Abigail returned the compliment and Yudel said, “Hello.”
Gorowa was very young. Too young for this, Abigail thought. Moyo was trying to look bored. A glance at the two of them gave Abigail the impression of insecure, lower-level civil servants. It was a reflection of her view of herself that, although she was a civil servant, she never saw herself as that. Among her colleagues, she thought of the outstanding ones simply as good lawyers. The ineffective ones she saw as civil servants.
He’s not here, Abigail was thinking. He made this morning’s hearing possible, but he’s not here. Surely he’ll come? Not that it’ll be easier with him here.
Thinking about Chunga and whether he was going to attend turned her thoughts toward Robert. Abigail had a way of never looking back once she had said goodbye to someone. At an airport or on a train station, she said her goodbyes and then walked away. This morning she had not once thought of Robert. Until this moment, only the hearing had occupied her thoughts. He had promised a journalist, an idea that had pleased her. With wider publicity she would have felt safer. She asked herself why she had not contacted the Independent about the hearing. Having a newspaper present that really did live up to its name would have been comforting, but it seemed that even The Herald was not present. To help her, Chunga had seen to it that the hearing was arranged quickly. But perhaps other reasons existed. Perhaps the suddenness of it all had also made it possible to keep it out of the press.
It was still five to nine and Judge Tendai Mujuru had not yet appeared, when the door by which Abigail and Yudel had come in opened and Jonas Chunga stepped into the hall. Abigail saw him stop in the open door and look for her. She made no greeting and did not smile, but as long as he held her eyes she could look nowhere else.
Sitting next to her, Yudel looked first at Chunga, then at Abigail. What he saw in her face looked like an anxiety that came close to panic. Chunga’s face wore no clear expression. It was just a look between a man and a woman, and Yudel would rather he had not seen it.
As suddenly as the moment had arrived, so abruptly did Chunga break it, walking quickly across the hall, followed closely by Agent Mpofu. They joined the prison officials on the plastic chairs behind the two legal teams.
The registrar disappeared through a second door. When he came back it was to step aside to allow Judge Mujuru, tall, heavily built, shortsighted and balding, to enter. His eyes were red and his nose carried the glow of the heavy drinker. Abigail could not know that he had already consumed two warm double whiskies that morning, and that they had probably not improved his powers of concentration. Everyone rose as he entered, and all sat down when he did.
Just as she did whenever she said goodbye to anyone, so Abigail’s awareness of Chunga’s presence disappeared in a moment. She looked at the judge and saw what she believed was a weak and dissolute man. She could not believe that having this man presiding would be good for her or her case, but she remembered something her father had told her when she was in her early teens. She had been complaining about some aspect of her life that was important only to herself. He had waved her away with the words, “In life, you have to play the cards you are dealt. You have no other choice.” Since that day, she had lived accordingly. Regardless of what she saw in the judge, she was going to play her cards as well as she knew how.
“We have only one matter before the court today,” the registrar was telling his small audience, all of whom already knew that. “This is the matter of Ndoro and others against the state.”
He sat down. Mujuru nodded to him, then spoke for the first time. “Who appears for Ndoro and the others?”
Abigail rose. The judge was looking down at the notepad in front of him. She waited until he looked at her before speaking. “I do, your Lordship. My name is Abigail Bukula.”
After Barrister Gorowa admitted to his part in the proceedings, the judge continued. “This is a matter of great importance,” he began. “There are matters of principle here and precedents that may be established and may affect Zimbabwean and even international law for generations to come.” He had spoken slowly, every word carrying a heavy emphasis, as if each were equally important. It seemed that to Judge Mujuru, this was the way a judge should dispense legal wisdom. Now he looked directly at Abigail. “It’s very stuffy in here. Isn’t it very stuffy in here, Miss Bukula?”
Abigail was surprised by the question, but if his Lordship wanted to socialize with her in court, she had no objection. “I must say I also find it so, your Lordship,” she said.
“I agree,” Mujuru said, using the same heavy emphasis that he would have given to a legal pronouncement. “Officers, open some of those windows,” he told the two policemen.
To reach the windows one of the policemen had to climb onto a plastic chair, while the other held it. Even then, the task was not easily accomplished. The latch on the window resisted the officer’s first few efforts. At the fourth attempt, he put enough energy into the action to overcome the resistance of the latch. The window flew open and he fell backward onto his colleague, the two landing in a tangle of arms, legs and uniforms on the concrete floor.
For Judge Mujuru, this was the best possible result. He laughed heartily, slapping his hand on the surface of the table. Everyone in the court dutifully joined in the merriment, while the policemen scrambled to their feet.
The judge’s amusement lasted only seconds, though. A breeze coming in through the window carried on it a r
ich, animal smell. Yudel remembered having experienced such a smell only once before. Taking a walk in a forest, he had come upon the distended corpse of a baboon. It was lying on its back on a sandspit in the center of a stream. The maggots were already devouring it. To Yudel’s memory, this smell was much like that one had been.
“Close it, close it.” The look on Mujuru’s placid face had become agitated. “What an awful smell. Close it immediately.”
This time the policeman succeeded in following his orders without entertaining the court. The judge took an added moment to compose himself. “This is the first time in the history of our country, perhaps of any country, that a plaintiff seeks an order to have the cells of a prison thrown open to search them for prisoners that the government has declared are not being held. If this petition succeeds, it will have an effect that may prove to be historic on our continent and throughout the world.” He looked pleased at the idea of making history. “Miss Bukula, please proceed with your opening address.”
Because her audience was gathered into a corner of the hall, there was no reason for Abigail to raise her voice. She spoke softly, almost conversationally, but clearly, as was her way, every word perfectly enunciated. “The principle that is involved here is the most basic in our law. Habeas corpus is the remedy against unlawful detention that is applied in all civilized countries. Its provisions ensure that people do not disappear off the streets, that ordinary citizens cannot be taken by the authorities and held without trial at the pleasure of their political masters.” All her attention was concentrated on the judge who was nodding sagely at every point. “In this matter, we are able to produce witnesses who have seen their loved ones and colleagues brought to the place in which we are gathered this morning. They are willing to testify to the circumstances of the abductions and the manner in which the missing people were taken and delivered to the very premises in which we find ourselves.”
Abigail had read the first few lines. Now the inner force, as she thought of it, had taken over. She had stopped glancing down at her prepared text and spoke to the judge as if only they were in the room. The words flowed without hesitation.
“The crime of these individuals was to disagree with policies and actions they found tyrannical. They are brave young patriots, who sinned only by having the courage to stand against what they believe to be wrong.” For half an hour Abigail reasoned with Judge Mujuru, offering legal precedents, building arguments that she told him were self-evident, raising issues of Zimbabwean law and begging him to remember the many brave judges who had gone before. She and Mujuru both knew how many injunctions ordered by those brave judges had been ignored by the government. “But this can surely not be the case here. If this precedent-setting judgment is made today, we are here in this place. The order of the court can be carried out immediately.”
She knew that African patriarchs rarely liked to have women, especially younger women, prescribe their actions to them, but the opportunity was too great for her to resist. “Your Lordship, this is your opportunity to deal with a matter today that will establish, once and for all, the personal rights of the citizens of your country.” But Mujuru showed no sign of irritation at her reminding him where his duty lay. He continued to nod, seeming to agree with everything she was saying.
So far, Abigail’s gestures had been restricted to only the smallest movements of her hands. As her address drew toward its end, she raised both hands in what was almost a supplication. “I am speaking of a country in which I lived for years and that I love dearly. The dilemma of the courts is to dispense justice in a country in which the national government has, on many occasions, ignored the basic rights of its citizens. This morning, your Lordship, this dilemma is in your hands.”
When she sat down, Mujuru nodded one more time, as if there was certainly food for thought in what she had said. He looked sternly at Gorowa. “Mr. Gorowa, your opening statement please.”
Gorowa rose, managing to spill a sheaf of papers onto the floor in the process. “If it please your Worship…” Abigail heard a tremor in his voice. “… if it please your Lordship, the Zimbabwean people see the logic in the arguments of my learned colleague. We see no reason to oppose the application.”
“What the hell?” Abigail murmured.
Yudel leaned toward her. “They’re not here,” he whispered. “We aren’t going to find them, not today.”
Judge Mujuru was nodding yet again. Would the corrupt old bastard ever stop? she asked herself. She wanted to scream at him to stop this charade. But she admonished herself in her father’s words: play the cards you’ve been dealt. And, for the moment, these were the cards.
“Since there is no objection from the state, I can find no reason to refuse the application,” Judge Mujuru said in the thoughtful tone a man would use while making history. “I will give my reasons in writing at a later date. Will the representatives of both parties approach the bench to discuss implementation of this order?”
Gorowa was already at the judge’s table when Abigail reached it. “In the interests of justice, my client is willing to do it now,” Gorowa said.
“Director?” Mujuru had raised his voice. He was looking in the direction of the men at the back of the court.
Abigail turned, quickly, thinking that the judge was talking to Chunga. But one of the prison officers had risen. “Yes, your Lordship.”
Chunga, who held the same title, had not moved. The whole damned thing is choreographed, Abigail thought. And I’ve been the prima ballerina.
“Do you see any reason why this inspection should not be conducted now?”
“No reason, your Lordship.”
Mujuru banged down his gavel once. “The inspection of this prison by Miss Bukula, her assistant and her two clients will commence immediately within the provisions of the Official Secrets Act as it applies to our prisons. They will be accompanied by the director and other staff members of the prison and, because this is a matter of national security, representatives of the Central Intelligence Organization.” He took a deep breath and looked round the room with obvious satisfaction. “I further order that if any of the complainants in the pleadings are found in this facility, they are to be released to Miss Bukula immediately. And let those who criticize our Zimbabwean system of justice take note of this judgment.”
33
The group which, according to the judge’s order, was to conduct the search gathered in the passage outside the hall. “Shall we let the director of the prison lead us?” Chunga said to Abigail.
It sounded to her like a tea-party suggestion. She could imagine Chunga saying, “Shall we ask Auntie Martha to pour?” It was an offer no one would think of refusing. But this was not the way she saw it. You did not let the criminals decide where to search for the hidden loot. She was still looking for the right answer when Yudel spoke.
“Thank you for the offer, director, but that’s not necessary. I’ll lead the way.”
Chunga sighed ostentatiously. “With respect, the director of the prison knows it better than you do, never having been here before.”
“I know many prisons,” Yudel said. “I’ll lead the way.”
“But this is not one of them.” Chunga turned his attention away from Yudel. “Abigail?”
Helena had moved close to Abigail. “Don’t let the bastard get away with it.” She tried to keep her voice low enough that only Abigail would hear her.
Chunga’s eyes had gone cold. “I heard that, Miss Ndoro. There’s no need for that. You are being treated with respect here.”
Abigail placed a hand, both comforting and protective, on Helena’s nearest shoulder, but she spoke to Chunga. “Jonas, I apologize for Ms. Ndoro’s outburst, but please support me in this. I want Mr. Gordon to lead the way.”
“But he doesn’t…”
“Please, Jonas.”
“Very well. Let’s have Mr. Gordon take us on a tour of our prison. Let’s also hope that he doesn’t miss half the cells.” He was making no attem
pt to hide his irritation.
Abigail smiled at him. “Thank you, Jonas.”
Mpofu came forward and spoke softly to his boss. This time no one else heard.
“One more thing,” Chunga said. “We have forms here which all visitors need to complete. No interviews with the media on the state of our prisons may be conducted. Please understand that the state of the prison is not what any of us desire, but ours is a country in which many people do not have enough to eat. We do not have the resources to feed the prisoners the way we would like to.”
Mpofu handed a form each to Abigail, Yudel, Helena and Prince. It swore them all to secrecy for everything they saw in the prison. All signed without comment.
Chunga waved an extravagant hand toward the door. “Mr. Gordon, please.”
Yudel was not one to be affected by sarcasm. “This way,” he said.
The principles on which prisons are constructed are much the same everywhere. The cells are divided into groups, usually called blocks or floors. Once you have identified these groups, ensuring that you cover all the cells is not difficult. After that come the various common areas, the storerooms and the offices. In anticipation of the hearing’s outcome, Yudel had already formed an idea of the prison’s geography. He was certain that, if Abigail’s clients were here, he would find them.
He found the entrance to the first block where he expected it to be. It led off to the right of the main passage from the front entrance. The group went slowly through the block, Yudel and Abigail leading, followed by Helena and Prince who stopped at every cell, taking turns to study the inmates through the inspection holes in the cell doors. The five officials walked behind. It took over half an hour to complete the block. Chunga tried to draw Yudel aside. “For God’s sake, Gordon. This is a big prison. Do you know how long this is going to take us?”
“The rest of the day,” Yudel said.
Those Who Love Night Page 19