Dashing off to a meeting, but I’ve started to hear from reporters. Everyone thinks the piece is a shot across your father’s bow. I told them it isn’t, but they didn’t buy it. They want interviews. What do you want me to do?
Zoe typed a hasty reply: “Please tell them the article is all I have to say.” Five minutes later, Naomi wrote her again:
Understand completely. I just heard from CNN. They want you on Piers Morgan. Be glad you’re in Africa.
Zoe responded to her brother next:
Dear Trevor, I didn’t tell you because I knew you would try to talk me out of it. I wanted to stay on the sidelines, but I found that I couldn’t. The America Dad is talking about isn’t the country I believe in. I love you dearly. I hope I haven’t hurt our relationship.
Last, she replied to her father:
Dad, I’m sorry you didn’t like the article. It breaks my heart that it’s come to this. Sometimes I think if Mom were still alive everything would have turned out differently. As for a statement, say what you must. But remember that history will judge you not for the power you wield but for the way you wield it to improve the world. About that, at least, I’m sure we can agree.
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 sea
rched 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.
Then came the email from Sylvia. Brief and blunt, her words triggered a seismic tremor of doubt that Zoe could still feel.
Zoe, I know why you’re doing this. It isn’t about your mother or generosity or the global poor. All of that is window-dressing. You’re angry about the past. I have a question for you: is getting even worth the price of alienating your family? You’re only twenty-nine. Think about it.
Zoe had attempted on multiple occasions to draft a reply, but in the end she sent nothing. She spent days in turmoil, harboring a wild hope that her father would reach out to her and make amends. Jack, however, left her in silence. At a low point, she considered withdrawing from the hearing, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She held tightly to one of her mother’s axioms: “Speak the truth, consequences be damned.” But the doubt persisted because Sylvia was partly right. When it came to her father, the past was implicit in everything she had said and done for twelve years. She didn’t know how to let go of the anger. In truth, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Joseph pulled to a stop outside the airport terminal. “Are you ready for this?” he asked, touching her hand.
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. Over the weeks, they had discussed the hearing from every possible angle, but she hadn’t told him about Sylvia’s email.
“Nervous?”
“A little. Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”
He gave her a small smile. “Sometimes people have to be reminded why they should care. You have a voice. You must use it.”
His affirmation of purpose offered Zoe a lifeline. She brought her face close to his. “I love you, Joseph Kabuta,” she said, kissing him with all the passion and uncertainty in her heart. She left him there and walked into the terminal, her words replaying in her mind.
I love you, Joseph Kabuta.
I love you.
Chapter 30
Washington, D.C.
May, 2012
The flight from Johannesburg landed at Washington Dulles International Airport at six thirty in the morning. After passing through customs, Zoe met Trevor outside the baggage claim and gave him a long hug. He escorted her to his black BMW M5 and tossed her luggage in the trunk.
“You like the car?” he asked, opening the door for her. “I got it last month.”
“It’s nice,” she said, slipping into the plush leather seat.
They stuck to small talk on the drive into the District. Zoe asked about his wedding plans and he rolled his eyes and gave her a rundown of all the hilarity and hysteria. The wedding itself was scheduled for January 1 in Aruba. Jenna, too, came from wealth, and her parents had agreed to fly three hundred guests to the island for the event. Zoe did the calculations in her head but kept quiet with her reservations. In the world of her birth, nothing surprised her anymore.
Trevor found a spot on the street just off Dupont Circle and showed her to his flat. “Do you want to take a nap?” he asked. “We have five hours before we need to leave.”
“I slept on the plane,” she replied. “I wouldn’t mind a shower, though.”
He carried her suitcase to the guest room and excused himself, explaining that he had work to do. She threw her backpack on the bed and stood before the window overlooking Q Street. The upscale neighborhood was an oasis of calm in a city of indefatigable ambition. She pictured Joseph’s face and recalled the taste of his kiss. What would you say about this place? she wondered. Would it make sense to you? Does it make sense to me anymore?
She left the window and took a shower. Afterward, she dressed in a gray pantsuit and sky blue shirt that complemented her eyes and took her MacBook to the bed. She had rewritten her speech four times, striving for a harmony between authority and poignancy that would reframe foreign aid as a philanthropic partnership between the American people and their leaders, not as a re
tirement plan for dictators or a diversion of resources from the domestic poor. Her heart quickened when she reached the addendum. She had almost deleted it numerous times, but whenever her finger hovered over the button, she had stopped herself. She didn’t know what she was going to do with it, but she wanted to keep her options open.
At noon, Trevor reappeared in the doorway. “Are you hungry? I’m making a sandwich.”
“I’ll help you,” she replied, leaving her computer on the bed.
She followed him downstairs to the kitchen—an urbane blend of dark marble and stainless steel—and fixed her own lunch. The air was charged with all that was unspoken between them.
At last, Trevor said, “Are you sure you want to do this? You may lose Dad for good.”
She sliced her sandwich in half and laid it on a plate. “I have to finish what I started. People like Ben Slaughter have grossly distorted my motives.”
“Don’t be naive. They don’t care about you. They care about controversy. Testifying today will only make things worse.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand. Dad loves you. Do you really want to hurt him?”
Zoe looked away, unable to bear the pain in her brother’s eyes. “It’s complicated, Trevor. There are things you don’t know.”
“Then tell me. Don’t destroy the only family you have.”
His words cut her to the heart. She took her plate to the table and sat down, eating in stubborn silence. For the first time in her life, the gap between them seemed unbridgeable.
At a quarter past one, they left Trevor’s apartment and walked to the Dupont Circle Metro Station. The skies of late spring were clotted with cumulus, and the humid air carried more than a hint of the summer heat to come. Trevor bought her a day-pass and swiped his SmarTrip card, leading the way to the Red Line. They took their place beside the tracks just as the headlamp of the approaching train broke free of the tunnel.
Trevor nudged her shoulder. “You don’t get service like this in Zambia.”
Zoe laughed, grateful for the olive branch of affection.
The trip to Capitol South via Metro Center took fifteen minutes. They emerged on First Street and joined the stream of pedestrians hurrying in the direction of the Capitol. After passing the Library of Congress and the Supreme Court, they made their way toward Dirksen Senate Office Building, the home of the Foreign Relations Committee.
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