“What kind of mistake? They had to give a reason. You can’t just be arrested without a reason. This is the United States of America, for God’s sake.”
“It’s an extradition warrant,” Anna says. “And you can be arrested without a full indictment in these cases. We’re waiting on someone to give us that. That’s why we just don’t know how this mistake could have been made.”
“You have no idea what this is about?”
“No,” Anna responds quickly, lying outright.
“Alfred, you must know something. You have no idea?”
I look at Anna, giving away the conspiracy, and answer lamely, “No. No, Eldon, I have no idea.”
I can tell he doesn’t believe us by the way he shakes his head and turns sharply, leaving the room with Ruth in tow.
“Anna, shouldn’t we tell him what little we know?”
“No.” She is firm. “The less they know now the better. When we get it cleared up, none of the rest will even matter.”
Dinner couldn’t be more awkward. There is a lot of silence, occasionally broken by a question from Eldon trying to pry some additional small morsel of information from us. He knows that we know more than we are letting on, but Anna remains firm, not letting any more out of the bag. Occassionally one of us makes an attempt at starting common conversation, but it goes nowhere. Anna and I clean up while Eldon goes back to the TV in the den, watching more news than football, and we all go to bed early.
My mind is cycling around and around as I layer guilt on top of guilt. I work hard to find some fleck of memory about Belgians, but all of the men I killed were Africans, except for Savard. I’m positive. At least, I think I’m positive. Maybe not. I don’t know. And now Anna’s parents are dragged into it. It’ll be a relief to have them go home tomorrow. I need a couple of pills. I need some escape from this. Sleep comes within moments of swallowing, but so, it seems, does morning, when Anna’s phone rings on the night table beside her. She checks first to see who’s calling, and then answers. “Steve. It’s early; this can’t be good news.” After listening for just a few seconds she says, “Okay, Steve, start over. I’ve just put you on speaker. Alfred’s here with me.”
“Good morning, Alfred,” he says. “I’ve just gotten a copy of the full indictment, and this doesn’t look good. The US Attorney’s office is trying to get back in front of Judge Cain sometime this afternoon.”
“What do you mean, ‘It doesn’t look good,’ Steve?” Anna asks.
“The charge is four counts. We already knew that. It’s from a multiple murder in Rwanda in 1994. Belgium has claimed jurisdiction since they were all Belgian citizens and Rwanda had no functioning government at the time to be able to prosecute.”
“That’s bullshit,” Anna says. “They have a government now, and they could prosecute now if they wanted to. It’s Rwandan jurisdiction.”
“Not quite. This was during the time of the Rwandan uprising and genocide. Rwanda refuses to prosecute any crimes from those years that have not already been litigated by the international war crimes tribunals. It’s part of Rwanda’s official attempt at national reconciliation. But Belgium isn’t recognizing it.”
“Well, it’s still bullshit. We can challenge that,” Anna says.
“Not here we can’t. Maybe in Belgium,” Steve says.
“Why Alfred? How does he fit into this? In 1994 he was just sixteen or seventeen. Is there any more information?”
“There is, Anna. And this is the worst part—they have a corroborating witness.”
“A corroborating witness? Witnesses lie. We both know that.”
“There’s more, Anna. They’ve got Alfred’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.”
“What? That’s impossible.”
“No,” says Steve. “Double verified. Denver police have confirmed that the prints the Belgians sent here are Alfred’s. And the prints Denver sent to Brussels were positively matched to the weapon they have there.”
“The weapon … a gun?”
“A knife.”
“A knife?” Anna repeats Steve’s answer, clearly lost in thought.
I’m sure she’s thinking the same as I am, It has to be something to do with the murder of the priest. But Anna’s also a lawyer, and she knows not to panic, not to be alarmist, especially in front of the client. After a deep breath she asks, “So what do we do now?”
“I’ll go to the hearing this afternoon. I’ll ask for a writ of habeas corpus again, but it’s not likely it’ll be granted. With what I’ve seen so far it looks like the case is solid for extradition. Not necessarily solid to convict, but enough that they can at least extradite to Belgium. I’ve got a few recommendations for counsel there, so I’ll make the initial contacts today in case things move quickly. I have a feeling Brussels is going to want it done soon.”
“Is there anything we should do here?” Anna asks.
“Yes,” says Steve. “Brace yourself …”
“For the worst?” Anna says, finishing his sentence.
“For the worst, and for the media. The locals have been all over this already. They’re running stories now.”
“Shit,” Anna says. “Thanks, Steve. Let us know what happens as soon as you finish with the judge.”
Sitting in the bed in her pajamas Anna is all business. “Alfred, what happened in 1994? Think about it. Try to remember everything—or anything.”
“Anna, I remember 1994 very well. It’s the year I left Rwanda. I left early in the year to get away from the killings. I spent most of that year in the Nkwenda refugee camp in Tanzania. I’ve already told you: I killed one man that year—the priest, Savard. There was no one else. You have to believe me, Anna.”
“Of course I believe you, Freddie. It’s just that we have to figure out what’s going on. How could this mistake be happening? Fingerprint evidence is tough to refute. Where the hell would they have ever gotten your prints—twenty-two years ago—in a place like that?”
I am just as lost for words and ideas as Anna is when she changes directions. “We have other things to deal with here, too. Mom and Dad are up already. We are going to have to say something to them if this is going to come out in the media. And your clinic … we might as well call Mark before everything hits the fan.”
We’re a few minutes too late. By the time we dress and go out to own up to Anna’s parents, they are already glued to the television in the den. We’re greeted somberly with, “Why didn’t you tell us the truth?”
“Dad, we didn’t know the truth. We only heard this morning, and we’ve just come out to tell you everything we know, right now.”
“We’ve already heard quite a bit on the news,” says Eldon. “I hope you’re going to tell us that it’s all wrong.”
“Dad, this is Alfred we’re talking about. Of course it’s wrong. Are you going to believe the news over Alfred?” She has started to raise her voice.
“You know I want to believe you, Alfred.” Eldon addresses me directly. “But you know what they’re saying on the news? It sounds pretty convincing. We’ve always trusted you, but this? This is hard to take.”
Ruth interrupts. “Eldon, please. Alfred, of course we trust you. We just need to hear your side of the story.”
“What are they saying on the news, Mom?” Anna asks.
“Here …” Eldon points the clicker at the television and presses the unmute button.
A perky young morning anchor dominates the TV screen and a small insert photo of me looks back at us:
“KCBC 6 has been able to confirm several new details of the story that we first reported to you yesterday. Respected Denver family physician, Dr. Alfred Olyontombo, a Rwandan immigrant and US resident citizen for the past ten years, is currently under house arrest after the US State Department acted on a request by the Belgian government to have him extradited for the murders of four Be
lgian citizens in Rwanda in 1994. Our sources in Belgium say that the four victims were all nuns teaching at a missionary school at the time. The savage murders drew national outrage in Belgium in 1994 when they happened only a few days after ten Belgian UN peacekeepers were slaughtered. At that time, Rwanda was in the midst of a bloody civil war and until now, no one has been held accountable for the crimes which shocked the Belgian nation twenty-three years ago.”
There is new information here that even Steve had not told us. Probably because he didn’t know. The four of us are riveted to the television screen as the news anchor continues:
“KCBC 6 has been able to confirm that Dr. Olyontombo was arrested this past Thursday at his clinic in downtown Denver. Neighbors near his home in Boulder, and patients that we have been able to speak with, are in shock. Dr. Olyontombo is married to Colorado-native Anna Fraser, an immigration lawyer at the firm of Tierney, Thomas, and May. KCBC 6 will be following this story and will bring you updates as they become available.”
Eldon clicks the power button, and the TV screen goes black. I know that the other three are all looking at me, but I pay them no attention. I’m stunned by this news, and I move to sit down in my large armchair. I feel like my stomach has been punched hard, the wind knocked out of me. I am slightly dizzy and almost miss the chair, sitting on the arm before sliding into it. A vague memory seeps into my head, something that I had never thought about before. I try to picture it more clearly in my mind, something one of the refugees at the Nkwenda camp had said to me: “The depravity of some men knows no lows. They closed the school.”
For a while after I left Notre Dame de la Paix, I would ask new arrivals from Kigali who came into the camp if they had any news of the school and the good sisters. Finally one of them told me that the school had closed. I didn’t pay any heed at the time to his comment, “The depravity of some men knows no lows,” thinking that it was a general reference to the sad state of the genocide that was taking place in our country. Now it made sense; they had killed the sisters.
I must have been thinking out loud because I hear Anna addressing me: “Alfred, what do you mean, ‘they had killed the sisters’?” she asks. “Do you know something about this?”
I look up and toward Anna, but my gaze goes right through her.
“Alfred? Alfred, what do you know about this?”
“Nothing, Anna. I knew nothing about this,” I mutter.
My thoughts go back to the convent and the last encounter I had with the nuns. I hadn’t wanted to leave the school, to leave them alone there. I thought that if I stayed I might be able to protect them, but they insisted that I go. Kigali was a chaotic mess, indiscriminate murders and slaughters were becoming the norm. Friend had turned against friend, and old neighbors against old neighbors as the viciousness of zealous racism spread like a plague. The sisters were emphatic that they would be safe; they had no part in this race war, they weren’t even black. They knew that those of us that were black could never be certain of escaping the violence. I tried to convince them that if it hadn’t been safe for a priest it wouldn’t be safe for them. They firmly believed that no one would harm them—women, women of the church no less, and not politically active like Savard. They were sure they would be fine, but they could do little if the mobs came looking for me or others like me, others that might be hiding out under the skirts of the church. They made the last of us students leave, for our own protection.
* * *
“Azi, you have to go with the rest of them,” Sister Brigit said. “It’s too dangerous here, Azi.”
“All the more reason for me to stay,” I said. “I’ll stay with you and the others—to help protect you.”
“We’re fine. They won’t do anything to us. But it’s not safe for you. Even in here. You have to go to one of the camps. And you have to go soon,” she said.
Mother Katherine spoke up, “You cannot stay here, Azikiwe.”
“Mother, I’m not one of them. I’m neither Hutu nor Tutsi.”
“Neither side knows that. And they won’t care anyhow. I am ordering you to go to one of the camps. Go to Zaire. We will give you what money we can spare, and you can take some food from the kitchen. You can come back when it is safe. But you have to go tonight—in the early hours before dawn. That will be the safest.”
I went to the kitchen and packed my small rucksack with fruit and a bit of cheese and bread. The four sisters were in discussion when I went back to say goodbye. I hugged them all, one at a time—Sister Marie, Sister Geraldine, Sister Brigit, and Mother Katherine. Mother Katherine offered a blessing on me and handed me two thousand francs, urging me not to hide it all in one place.
I returned to the dorm to wait out more of the night before leaving. I thought about what else I should take with me and then decided to leave whatever meager possessions that I owned in the little drawer at the foot of my bed. I was sure I’d be back within a week or two, a month at the most. I left it all—my books, my notebooks, my change of clothes—taking only my single piece of identification: my baptismal certificate. As Mother Katherine had advised, I split up my two thousand francs, hiding five hundred in my shoes, five hundred each in two different places in my rucksack, and kept just five hundred in my pocket.
* * *
“Alfred? Alfred?” Anna has raised her voice to get my attention, and it brings me back to the present. “You know something about this.” The way she says it as a statement tells me that she can almost read my thoughts.
“Not about the murders,” I reply. “But I think I knew those nuns.”
Eldon and Ruth are watching the two of us, me particularly, searching for my reactions. And why shouldn’t they? The whole situation is as big a blow to them as to Anna and me, only they haven’t had the few extra days to mull on it. I contemplate my options, deciding between defending myself against the charges we have just heard on the television and confessing all the other sins of my past. I settle for a mix of the two.
“Mom, Eldon, there are a lot of things that I’ve never told you about myself. Evil things. Things I have spent decades trying to erase. I wish these things never happened, that I never did them. But I am guilty, without excuse.”
Anna stops me. “Freddie, you were a child. It was a horrible world you lived in.”
“Nonetheless, I did them, Anna. Others lived in the same horrible world and didn’t do what I did.”
“That’s nonsense, Freddie. You were forced to. You’d be dead if you hadn’t.”
“What are you talking about?” Eldon asks. “What kinds of things, Alfred? Did you kill those nuns?”
“Stop it, Daddy.” Anna jumps between her father and me. “It’s Alfred. Of course he didn’t kill them.”
“I haven’t heard him say it yet. I want to hear it from him.” Eldon steps around Anna, looking directly into my eyes, trying to find the truth from my words. “I want to hear you say it, Alfred. I want to hear you say that you didn’t kill those nuns.”
Shaking my head infinitesimally side to side, I respond firmly, “No, Eldon. No, Ruth. I did not kill those nuns. I loved them. I never would have hurt them.” After pausing, I venture to continue. “But if you want the rest of the truth, I did kill others. So, while I am not guilty of the murders they want to hang me for, I am guilty of many others.”
Anna starts to cry; so does her mother. Eldon clamps his lips shut tightly and nods to himself. He’s struggled with his own war demons, having lived through Vietnam, and seems to comprehend that war comes with many shades of righteousness. Despite my stoic resolve to be strong, I feel my eyes welling with tears—not tears for my present situation or for what I have done in my past, but tears for what I have done to Anna and Eldon and Ruth. Tears for having let them down, tears for the shame they will now have to endure.
Right at this moment the doorbell chimes. None of us move; we all know who it is.
It
rings a second time. “I’ll get it,” I say. “It’s me they want.”
“No.” Anna is firm and quickly steps between me and the front hall. “I’ll get it. You don’t say a word to them.”
I can see over her shoulder when she opens the door, and the scene is worse than I expected. Two news trucks are parked on the street along with a couple more cars splashed in the colors of daily newspapers. A gaggle of reporters stands at the step. They all start to talk at the same time, throwing out questions. Anna raises her hand, as a teacher in a noisy classroom might, and is able to silence them in unison. I hear Anna’s warning in my head, Don’t say a word, and I momentarily weigh that against going out and offering up the total confession that is bursting to get out of me. They are asking for me, asking who Anna is, launching questions at her.
“Did he kill the nuns in Rwanda?”
“No, he did not. Absolutely not.”
“Did he know them? Was he there? Was he at that school? How is it his prints were found on the murder weapon?”
“I’m sorry. We have nothing else to say. But I ask you all to please respect the privacy of our family in my home. Please.”
Anna closes the door behind her and slumps back up against it, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Anna rubs her forehead and tries to smile.
I feel helpless. “I’ll put a pot of coffee on. You better see if your parents are okay.”
Before entering the den I pause to listen to the conversation that they are having.
Eldon: “Have you considered that it’s possible he might be guilty?”
Anna: “Don’t even say that. It’s Alfred. He’s not guilty.”
Eldon: “Anna, get your head out of the sand. He just told us he’s guilty of many other murders. Why wouldn’t he be guilty of these too? Because they have caught him and want to hang him, that’s why. He’s not admitting to these. It doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”
Truth, by Omission Page 21