“Two nights later Joba and Tulu drove me to the barracks at Port George. I was frightened—when the soldiers let us in, everything was dark, and I could hear a prisoner screaming.” Briefly, Sunday could not look at Marissa. “The officer with us laughed and said it sounded like your husband. But I do not think it was.”
Marissa’s face showed nothing. “What happened then?” she prodded.
“We went inside the prison to an office. At once I knew Okimbo by his eye patch. The oyibo with him was a stranger who did not give his name.”
Pierce felt the tingle of anticipation. “What did he look like?”
“He was big—not fat, but broad. His hair was blond with gray. But mostly it was the colonel who spoke to us.” Sunday looked somberly at Marissa. “They needed witnesses against your husband, he said, to prove what they already knew.
“I was scared, wishing to get out. Then Okimbo turns to Joba, saying, ‘Tell him.’
“Before Asari Day, Joba says, he was waiting outside Bobby’s home in Goro. He heard Bobby on his cell phone. ‘There must be deaths now,’ he tells me Bobby said. ‘There are repair crews in the field—who dies doesn’t matter, only that it’s done.’” Pausing, Sunday told Marissa, “It’s like he’s telling a story. But then Tulu says he heard this, too.”
In the yellow light of the lamp, Marissa’s expression did not change. “So then Okimbo asked you to become a witness.”
“Yes, madam.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“That now I knew your husband was guilty as charged. But his lawyers would call Tulu and Joba liars. That was why they needed me to corroborate their story.”
“How did you answer?”
“That my fellow Asari would see me as a traitor.” Sunday glanced at Pierce. “The white man said there’d be money for me—fifteen thousand American, five before the trial, ten after. Then he laughed and said, ‘Why fear the Asari? They do not believe in violence.’”
Anger surfaced briefly in Marissa’s eyes. “Did you agree?”
“No. I told them I was in my village all the days before Asari Day. Too many people would remember.” Sunday bit his lip. “When I saw Okimbo’s face I promised to say nothing.
“’You will say nothing,’ he told me. ‘That much I can promise you.’ When he picked up the phone, I felt like I would piss my pants. ‘Take him away,’ Okimbo says.
“The soldiers came for me. When they took me toward the gallows, I was sure that I would die. Then they took me to the front gate and pushed me into the street.”
“And your friends?” Marissa asked.
Sunday shook his head. “I stayed away from them. Instead I came to General Freedom.”
Pierce stepped forward. “Is this the truth?”
“Yes.” Slowly the man looked up at Marissa. “I will swear to it in court. You may find me through the man who drove you.”
Without saying more, he stood, nodding to Marissa, and walked out the door. Quiet, they watched until the light of his lantern vanished in the foliage.
“Van Daan,” Pierce murmured.
“Yes.” Marissa’s voice was etched with doubt. “Unless he’s lying.”
It was five days until the trial.
PART IV
The Last Dawn
1
ON THE MORNING OKARI’S TRIAL COMMENCED, ATIKU BARA DROVE Pierce and Marissa to the courthouse in Port George.
The building was a remnant of British rule, a staid Edwardian structure surrounded by Okimbo’s soldiers. The few demonstrators who’d braved the government’s disapproval were thwarted by a system of military roadblocks that controlled access to the courthouse, admitting only a trickle of foreign journalists, human rights workers, diplomatic personnel, and, observing for PGL, Clark Hamilton. Pierce’s mood was grim. In the past five days, little had changed: Beke Femu—the soldier-witness to Goro—had vanished, as had Sunday Opuba, the spy for FREE, and Pierce had been forced to seek a week’s delay in asking Judge Taylor to enjoin PGL from allegedly colluding in Bobby’s prosecution. Nor had Caraway’s diplomatic efforts, as far as Pierce could tell, succeeded in blunting Karama’s resolve to rid himself of Bobby. And so, as Rachel and their associates had labored in Waro, Pierce had prepared for a grotesque distortion of the judicial process, certain only that whatever happened would be as Karama ordained. In only days or weeks, Bobby might be dead.
That knowledge shadowed Pierce’s interactions with Marissa. Though they treated each other with kindness, an unspoken sense of betrayal seemed to haunt them both: the knowledge that Bobby’s lawyer and his wife desired each other was, in light of his prospective fate, painful beyond words. Pierce’s fear that his judgment was compromised, his motives tangled, caused him to ruthlessly censor any thought of his relationship with Marissa outside or beyond the trial. Now, with Bara, they passed through the checkpoints and barricades in silence.
Arriving at the courthouse, they saw a Black Maria waiting, a steel truck with darkened windows evocative of a hearse. As they exited Bara’s sedan, two soldiers opened the door of the Black Maria. Stiffly, Bobby Okari stepped out, his hands manacled, his movements resembling those of an old man no longer certain of his balance. Seeing Marissa on the other side of the barricade, he gave her a smile so bright and brave that it seared Pierce just to see it. Then the soldiers took both his arms, half-dragging him up the courthouse steps before his wife could reach him. He turned his head to see her; Marissa smiled back at him until he vanished inside, and then briefly closed her eyes. Pierce had never entered a courtroom with such foreboding.
THE WORLD OF a trial, Pierce had long ago learned, is hermetic, its ruthless imperatives consuming every resource he possessed. But every trial has its own peculiar character. The trial of Bobby Okari, Pierce knew at once, would be as bleak as it was unjust.
One factor was the courtroom itself: once a temple of the law—with tall windows, wooden floors, and a judge’s mahogany bench—it had fallen into disrepair, the floors worn, the air-conditioning groaning, the lights flickering at random. Worse was the presence of soldiers stationed on all sides; worst was that Okimbo sprawled in the jury box with an air of command, like the silent impresario of a drama with its end already written. Sitting beside Pierce, Bobby murmured, “Okimbo’s the jury. These judges are on trial, too.”
They seemed to know this. In the moments before the trial commenced, the presiding judge, George Orta, glanced at Okimbo with an apprehension at odds with his air of gravity. In another setting, Pierce would have found his appearance laughable: a sour-faced man in a three-piece suit topped by a black bowler, he reminded Pierce uncomfortably of an undertaker from an era long since past. The judge to Orta’s left, Sidney Uza, was an elderly man so thin that he appeared in the grip of a wasting disease. The more robust member of the tribunal, Colonel Yakubu Nubola—a man without legal training who served to represent Karama’s interests—wore a purple beret, combat fatigues, and a seemingly permanent scowl. Eyeing them, Bobby murmured, “The faces of justice,” and began scribbling on a notepad.
Rising from the jury box, Okimbo held up his hand to Orta, signaling that matters would be held in abeyance. He paused in the well of the courtroom, giving Marissa a look that bespoke a lascivious remembrance. Then he walked to the prosecutor, Patric Ngara, placing both hands on the table and speaking so that only Ngara could hear. Ngara, a lean, mus-tached man whose air of professionalism could not conceal the anxiety of a functionary who could not afford to err, listened intently. Pierce suspected that this conference was less important for its substance than its reminder that Karama, through Okimbo, controlled the fate of everyone involved.
Nodding curtly to Orta, Okimbo went back to the jury box. For an instant, humiliation surfaced in the presiding judge’s eyes; by reputation a once distinguished jurist, he had been recast as Karama’s puppet in a procedure that mocked every tenet of the system of justice, founded in English law, in which he had risen. The genius of an autocracy, Pierce suppos
ed, was that fear reduced most men to a cowardly commonality. But not the man Pierce was defending.
He placed his hand on Bobby’s arm, a gesture of support. A court reporter entered with a stenotype machine, and then a courtroom deputy intoned, “The special tribunal in the matter of Robert Okari is now in session. God bless this tribunal and the sovereign nation of Luandia.”
Expressionless, Orta spoke; only his lips, seeming barely to move, marred Pierce’s impression of a waxworks dummy. In a deep voice, he said, “You may enter your appearances.”
Ngara stood. “Patric Ngara, Your Honor, on behalf of the people of Luandia.”
Orta turned to Pierce and Bara. “Atiku Bara on behalf of the defendant,” Bara said. “With me is Damon Pierce, an eminent trial lawyer from the United States. I ask that the court admit him to practice before it for the sole purpose of representing Mr. Okari.”
Orta inspected Pierce like a frog contemplating a bug. “Can you assure this court that you will conduct yourself in a manner consistent with its dignity?”
In its perhaps unintended irony, the question tempted Pierce to suggest that it was impossible to answer. Instead he responded smoothly, “Of course, Your Honor. Beginning with the appropriate devotion to the rights of my client.”
Though Orta’s lips opened, it was a moment before they emitted a sound. “Very well, Mr. Pierce. But the nature of those rights will be determined by this tribunal.”
“I would like to address that now,” Pierce responded promptly. “To protect those rights, I ask that the tribunal postpone this trial for six months’ time.”
Orta remained impassive. “On what grounds?”
“Several. We have no witness list from Mr. Ngara, nor a summary of the evidence against Mr. Okari. We’ve been denied adequate access to our client, as well as sufficient time to prepare a defense.” Pausing, Pierce concluded emphatically: “These are the rudiments of a fair trial, Your Honor. We cannot proceed without them.”
As Ngara stood, Orta said, “Do you wish to be heard, Mr. Ngara?”
“I do. Counsel’s argument is disingenuous. He is utterly aware of the charges against Bobby Okari. We have not impeded him from investigating. And if he wants to know our witnesses, we will tell him. As for the delay he seeks, an expeditious trial preserves the national security of Luandia. In perilous times, the justice system must preserve the right of a nation to defend itself against secession and sedition.”
Orta nodded. To Pierce, he said, “Motion denied. The trial will proceed.”
Pierce did not sit. However hopeless matters appeared, he would make his record for the world press. “There are other grounds, Your Honor.” After turning briefly toward the gallery, he gathered himself, speaking quietly but clearly. “There are observers in this courtroom from around the globe. And what they are about to see, unless this trial is adjourned, is a proceeding so lacking in the basic elements of due process that it is unrecognizable as justice.
“This tribunal is empowered to take Mr. Okari’s life. Yet there is no appeal from its rulings, or its verdict. Equally fatal, the tribunal is not independent of President Karama: one of its members, Colonel Nubola, is under the president’s direct authority as commander in chief. All of its members were selected by the president himself.” Seeing Orta’s look of outrage, Pierce spoke to him directly. “I am aware, Justice Orta, of your distinguished career. So I know that you are well aware that this proceeding violates the constitution of Luandia, every human rights agreement this country has ever signed, and the basic tenets of justice that we, as lawyers, swear to uphold. The only way this court can stop these abuses is to cease to exist.”
The courtroom was completely still. As Pierce sat, Bara looked apprehensive, while Bobby eyed Justice Orta with an expression of be-musement. Orta pursed his lips, his expression conveying anger and humiliation as Ngara rose to speak. “This tribunal,” Ngara said firmly, “is an expression of our national sovereignty in the face of terrorism. What is the lynching of three men, if not an act of terror.” He glanced at Pierce with scorn. “Mr. Pierce comes to us from America, prating about due process. On what platform of moral superiority does he propose to stand? Surely not his government’s. This is not a secret court. We did not dispatch Bobby Okari to a secret prison in a foreign country. We did not consign him to a Guantánamo specifically designed to deprive him of rights written into the U.S. Constitution. When we, like America, protect our national security, we do not conceal our methods in shame.” Ngara slammed his fist on the table. “We act here, in the open, for all to see. This tribunal is our answer to acts of terrorism. Let Mr. Pierce reform America.”
Pierce looked at Okimbo, watching from the jury box, then snapped to a decision. “A final word, Your Honor. Mr. Ngara argues that you are proceeding ‘in the open.’ He might have added, ‘as virtual captives, surrounded by armed soldiers and supervised by Colonel Okimbo.’ The colonel is my client’s sadistic jailer, the military oppressor of the delta, a central figure in this case, and, as Mr. Okari witnessed, the perpetrator of a brutal massacre. He has no business in this courtroom. He’s here for one reason only: to ensure, through silent intimidation, that this court denies my client’s rights and covers up his own crimes.” Pierce softened his voice again. “There is only one alternative, Your Honor. To adjourn.”
Okimbo stared at Pierce and then, with great deliberation, trained his gaze on Orta. “Mr. Pierce,” the judge said reprovingly, “your security, and that of everyone here, is in the hands of Colonel Okimbo. Not two weeks ago, militiamen raided Port George and Petrol Island. And yet you cite the colonel’s presence to sully our integrity.
“You begin poorly, Mr. Pierce. Is contempt of court among the rights you claim?”
Contempt of this court, Pierce wanted to say, would be impossible. Instead, he responded with a calm he did not feel. “If anything I’ve said suggests a lack of respect, Your Honor, let me apologize. My intention was otherwise: by asking this tribunal to uphold Mr. Okari’s rights, I am expressing my respect for those among its members sworn as judges to do so. Please separate any offense I’ve given from your moral and legal obligation to adjourn.”
With deep unhappiness, Orta studied him. Then he turned to his colleagues, asking them to confer. The three men huddled, Orta whispering to the others. Pierce was aware of witnessing a small tragedy. Orta and Uza, surely ashamed of their role, could reclaim their dignity only by adjourning. But such defiance could have great cost to them or their families and little benefit to Okari: Karama would find more compliant judges, and the only lasting consequence would be to the men they replaced. Still, from Pierce’s point of view, any adjournment would buy time, and the embarrassment to Karama might, in some small way, facilitate the efforts to save Bobby. As though immune to what was happening around him, Bobby continued writing.
On the bench, Orta finished whispering. Judge Uza, the jaundiced skin of his face resembling parchment, briefly answered. With apparent vehemence, Colonel Nubola interrupted, and the conference broke up.
Facing the courtroom, Judge Orta spoke without inflection. “The motion is denied. Counsel for Mr. Okari may be assured that this proceeding will be conducted with full awareness of his client’s rights.”
Bobby, Pierce noted, had stopped writing and was peering intently downward; following his gaze, Pierce saw a cockroach crossing the floor between them. “Let him live,” Bobby whispered. “Someone should survive this.”
“The defendant will rise,” Judge Orta intoned.
Bobby looked up. Sighing, he stood, not without difficulty. Though he was pitifully thin, his eyes were bright, his posture straight. “How do you plead?” Orta asked him.
“Does it matter?”
The first sound of his voice, quiet but ironic, induced utter stillness before Orta instructed, “You must answer.”
“Very well.” Picking up his notepad, Bobby read:
“The judge in black clothing
Presiding over murder disguised
as farce
His moral decrepitude
And legal ineptitude
Dressing a tyrant in platitudes
Cowardice masked as law.”
Bobby sat abruptly, resuming his look of emotional distance. Angrily, Orta demanded, “Do you wish to remain here? Or shall we conduct this trial without you?”
Apprehensive, Pierce stood. “My client wishes to remain, Your Honor. I ask that you enter his remarks as an elaborate plea of not guilty.”
Orta scrutinized Bobby. “The defendant pleads not guilty,” he pronounced at length, and the trial of Bobby Okari got under way.
2
IN THE RECESS BEFORE THE PROSECUTION BEGAN, PATRIC NGARA APproached Pierce and Bara. “You asked for the names of witnesses. Today’s are Lucky Joba and Moses Tulu.”
Bara and Pierce attempted to look puzzled; it was plain Ngara knew nothing about Sunday Opuba. “Who are they?” Pierce inquired.
“Asari youths,” Ngara answered with a satisfied expression. “They tie Okari to the lynchings.”
Instinctively, Pierce glanced toward Bobby. But his client did not hear; he was standing close to Marissa, their foreheads touching, a portrait of tenderness and restraint. Turning away, Pierce nodded to Ngara and began scribbling.
LUCKY JOBA WAS a thin, crafty-looking man in his early twenties, with close-cropped hair and a certain twitchiness of manner—as Ngara questioned him, he kept shifting in the witness stand, as though unable to find a comfortable position. Methodically, Ngara extracted his account: that he had waited outside Bobby Okari’s home in Goro, overhearing Bobby on his cell phone as he directed the murder of PGL repair workers. His climactic testimony was an almost verbatim rendition of the story Sunday Opuba had described to Pierce and Marissa. “’We must kill them now,’” he quoted Bobby as saying. “’There are repair crews working near us. It doesn’t matter who you choose as long as it is done.’”
“He’s lying,” Bobby murmured to Pierce. Stone-faced, Bara scribbled notes; in the jury box, Okimbo rested his folded hands on his belly, his eye half shut, his expression satisfied and complacent.
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