Anna: “Stop it, Daddy!”
Eldon: “Think about it, Anna. What if they convict him? Do you want to be married to someone locked up five thousand miles away? And even if they don’t convict him, he’s a murderer. Do you want to be married to a murderer for the rest of your life?”
Anna: “Yes … I don’t know. Please stop, Daddy. I need to think.”
Eldon: “You need to open your eyes, honey. They wouldn’t be bringing charges twenty years later if they didn’t have a damn good case.”
So, it’s already begun, the public trial by family and peers, and it hasn’t taken long to reach a verdict. A guilty plea would speed things up and spare Anna some of the humiliation that is coming. Eldon is right: I am a murderer. Why shouldn’t I be punished for murder? Does it matter that these are the wrong murders? Does anyone care, as long as justice is meted out?
Anna bursts from the room before I have a chance to contemplate these questions. She bumps into me and roughly pushes away my attempt to wrap my arms around her.
“Please, Alfred. Give me some space.”
It takes a lot to rattle Anna, and her father seems to have managed it this morning. That in and of itself is uncharacteristic. Eldon is not usually one to upset others. He’s rational and thoughtful, the one who calms nerves and finds sensible common ground. His natural tendency to get all the facts and not prejudge has clearly been pushed to its limits this morning.
“Eldon, Ruth, I’m terribly sorry about all of this. I don’t know what else to say. And you’re right not to trust me. I’ve misled you all these years. Not because I wanted to, but because I just haven’t been able to admit things, even to myself.”
“Alfred,” Eldon says. “We’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, for now. You’re our son-in-law. We love you because you’re married to our daughter. And we’ll do what it takes to get her through this.”
These statements hit me like a speeding truck. “We love you because you’re married to our daughter.” I’ve never, ever heard any qualification of their love like this before. Their love has always come free of conditions. Now, however, all of a sudden, things are different. And they’ll do what it takes to get her through this? Nothing about getting us through it.
Eldon and Ruth make a perfunctory offer to stay and help Anna, but both Anna and I read it for what it is: they’d rather be out of this situation, away from the media and away from the volcanic rift that is growing between Anna and them, and me and them. Anna doesn’t need the distraction they pose. She knows she needs to focus on the situation, both as a wife and professionally, and I’d just prefer to be left alone to wallow in my misery. We all agree it is better for them to go home. Eldon and Ruth promise to break the news to Anna’s brother and his family before they hear it elsewhere—if they haven’t already. That’ll save Anna and me one phone call we’d rather not make.
Within a few hours we are inundated with calls, most of them media inquiries, but some are from the more gossipy and nosy of our friends. By noon we unplug the landline and I turn off my cell. We leave Anna’s phone on because we need to be able to hear from Steve.
Alone in the house, stuck here, Anna and I wait out the day in agitated irritableness. Anna is doing her best to be professional and logical, but my attempts to converse with or touch her are met by snaps and a coldness that is foreign to our relationship. I can feel things changing. I sense it all around me, not just here in this house with Anna—everywhere. A call from Mark at the clinic, careful not to commit too much support for us, now that more of the details are out there in the media, is a good indicator of how things are turning, of how the unconditional support of a few days ago is now being hedged.
Anna finally gets a confirmation from Steve that he has a court time today with Judge Cain at three o’clock. He has also made contact with a criminal lawyer in Belgium, Bartholomeus Verbeke, who is making some inquiries for us. But it is after hours in Europe and most offices are closed until tomorrow. When Steve asks about the media situation outside our house Anna tells him that they have all been very respectful and that they remain camped quietly on the street. Steve suggests we go out and offer them a statement; he’ll draft something for us to say and email it over. We can refer all questions to his office, and hopefully that will be enough to get the media hounds to leave. His secretary has been monitoring the news all morning, and it doesn’t look like the reporters have dug up anything else that we don’t know.
The promised email arrives about twenty minutes later, and Anna ventures out the front door. The gaggle has grown, but Anna has experience with this, and she is not intimidated by the press of bodies on the front step nor the flashing cameras.
“If I could have your attention please,” Anna says, and then reads from the prepared statement. “My name is Anna Fraser. I am the wife of Dr. Alfred Olyontombo. As you already know my husband is confined to house arrest, and this will be the last statement we make here at our home. We have engaged Steve May of Tierney, Thomas, and May as our attorney, and he will be pleased to answer any of your questions if you contact him at his office. We appreciate your respect for our privacy and the privacy of our neighbors.”
“Mrs. Fraser, do you believe that your husband is guilty?”
“Mrs. Fraser, how much did you know of your husband’s past?”
“Have you been in touch with Belgian officials yet? What did they say?”
“Has Dr. Olyontombo resigned from his clinic?”
Anna lets out a long sigh as she shuts the door behind her. This time she lets me take her in my arms and hold her for a few minutes. I think I need the close contact more than she does because, once I am holding her, I don’t want to let go. I imagine she must be thinking the same thing: How did we ever get to this? The house is quiet and empty, the two of us are here, but nothing is on—no lights, no television—and it’s getting drab outside with the sun hidden completely by clouds late in the afternoon. It makes it like dusk inside the house. Leaving the lights off, we retire to the den.
Anna sits on the sofa with her feet pulled up to the side underneath her and laughs. Not a happy laugh, or a fun laugh, but rather a resigned laugh. “We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?” she says.
I’m not sure if she means the last few days, or the last few months with the death of our daughter, or our entire relationship together, but I answer her, “Yes, we have.”
“Nothing like this though.”
“No. Nothing like this.”
“But we’ll get through this, won’t we.” She might be questioning me or telling me, there’s very little expression in her voice to give me clues.
“I hope so.”
Tipping her head to one side, she stares at nothing in midair and nods slowly. “Tell me about the nuns … and that priest,” she finally says.
I tell her that there isn’t much that I haven’t already told her: that I always assumed that the nuns were from France, like the priest, Savard, who I knew for certain was. They all spoke French, and we called them by their French names. It never dawned on me that French was also a main language of Belgium. We talk about how much I loved the nuns, how well school went, and how I excelled there. How much they helped me, to escape from the animal I had become, to become human again.
“And the priest … after you … after he was dead? What did the authorities do?”
“They’d no reason to ever suspect me. You had to live through those times, Anna, to understand. Savard was a foreigner and the police made a perfunctory show of investigating, but he had been sticking his nose into politics, and as far as they were concerned, he was just another political casualty. They could barely keep up.”
I divert Anna with more stories from Notre Dame de la Paix, and the distraction is good for us, keeping us both occupied until the call comes from Steve. He has just finished the hearing and is on his way over. This could be good news, or
it could be bad; Anna says she can’t tell from his voice. But she understands this lawyer process and knows it’s better to receive the news face-to-face. I would have just begged him to tell me over the phone. It’ll take him an hour to drive up to Boulder from downtown this time of day. When I complain to Anna she tells me that he wants to see us because he’s our friend not just our lawyer and, she points out, he might be our only friend right now.
While we wait for Steve, Anna takes a call from her brother and gets up, leaving me alone in the den. She heads toward our bedroom seeking privacy.
“Anna,” I call after her. “Let me talk to him before you hang up.”
Rob needs to hear some of this from me, and I need to hear his reaction for myself. He’ll have spoken to Ruth and Eldon by now, and I’d like to get a feel for the impression that they gave him. I hope they’ve moderated a bit since they left here this morning. With all the things that are going wrong, I don’t want a split between Anna and her family. I understand if they turn against me—fair enough—but it would be a harsh cruelty to have any bad feelings amongst this tight and loving family. Rob understands Eldon and might be the force that can keep the bonds tight. When Anna returns to the den I can see that she is upset as she places down her phone.
“I wanted to speak with Rob,” I say. “I owe it to him.”
“He said that he didn’t want to speak to you.”
“What? What did he say? What did you talk about with him?”
“I told him what we know, and that we’re waiting for Steve right now.”
“What else? What did he have to say? How are Eldon and Ruth?”
Anna explains the conversation. It sounds like her parents are very skeptical of me; they’ve told Rob that I admitted to being a murderer. Neither Rob nor her parents have heard the full circumstances of my crimes, but it seems it doesn’t matter—guilty on one count, guilty on all counts. Rob wants Anna to go home to Colorado Springs so that she can be with her family, and she told him that was impossible—house arrest means that someone has to be here to supervise me.
“What did he say to that?” I ask.
“He thinks I should go … and let them lock you up.”
“Rob said that?” I’m incredulous, but I mull on it for minute. In what is likely an attempt on my part to elicit some pity I mumble, “Maybe he’s right.”
I assume by the way Anna looks at me without saying anything, just delaying and looking at me, that she herself is thinking that maybe he’s right. Maybe she should get away now before this goes any further. A month ago a reaction like this, of casting a shadow of doubt onto our relationship, would have made me weep. Even a few days ago I probably would have teared up. But after the past twenty-four hours my heart has been pounded by a sledge so many times that tears don’t even form. In my mind, I am sure Anna is considering Rob’s advice. So am I.
It’s full darkness outside when Steve finally arrives, and we anxiously answer the door. Letting him in to our completely darkened house, I flick a switch. Anna and I see each other in full light for the first time in more than an hour. I assume that I look as pathetic as she looks emotionally drained, but Steve maintains his professionalism, not giving any indication that he has noticed.
“Would you like tea, or a drink?” Anna asks.
“Not right now,” Steve replies. “Maybe later.”
Steve knows his way around our house and he heads to the kitchen and opens his briefcase on the countertop.
“It went pretty much as I had feared,” Steve says. “Brussels has provided more than enough for extradition. They’ve got a witness and fingerprint evidence. Maybe that’s not enough to convict in a court, but it’s enough to extradite and get a preliminary trial there. That’s all they need. With our treaties, Judge Cain’s hands were pretty much tied.”
“So, what now?” Anna asks.
“We’ll have to fight this in Belgium. I’ve got the contact for Bartholomeus Verbeke in Brussels. He comes highly recommended, and he’s got experience at the Rwandan war crimes trials, so he should understand some of the context here. He’s also supposed to have good contacts in the justice department in Belgium.”
“When will things happen?”
“Very soon,” Steve replies. “The DOJ wants to transfer right away to the East Coast, and then Belgium will escort you overseas with their people.”
“What’s ‘very soon’ mean?” Anna asks.
“Tomorrow night. Late in the night. That’s when the regular JPATS flight goes from DIA. The US Marshals will pick up Alfred here and issue standard transfer garb. But you’ll need to send civilian clothes because the transatlantic flight will be commercial, and they don’t want to draw attention to the fact there’s a prisoner on board.”
I knew DIA was Denver International Airport, but the other acronym lost me. “What’s JPATS?” I asked.
“Sorry,” says Steve. “The Justice Prisoner and Alien Transportation System. That’s the fed’s airline for moving criminals around within the country.
“Also,” Steve adds, “we’ve been able to do a bit of internet research on the four victims named in the indictment. The short story is that they were four nuns teaching at an old missionary school south of Kigali in 1994. It happened within a few weeks of the start of a massive genocide that killed anywhere between five hundred thousand and one million people.”
I know this much already. I had surmised from the earlier television news reports that it was the good sisters from Notre Dame de la Paix who were murdered—and it was their deaths that they were trying to blame on me. I also knew about the genocide since I’d followed the news of the war crimes tribunal when I lived in Paris. Not a lot of Americans knew much about the genocide since news in the US often doesn’t cover much of the rest of the world—unless Americans have a financial stake in it. I am hoping Steve can tell me something new.
Steve goes on. “Early in April of 1994 ten Belgian paratroopers, part of the international peacekeeping force in Rwanda, were butchered and mutilated. The Belgians went crazy. They began to pull all their peacekeeping forces out. The public was up in arms. Then five days later these four Belgian nuns were murdered. Apparently, it dominated the news in Belgium for a long time. Only one guy was ever convicted of the paratrooper killings, and they’ve never been able to convict anyone of the nuns’ murders. It’s still a very sensitive topic in Belgium.”
“Fuck.” Anna sighs. “So, we don’t just have to fight in the courts over there, we have to fight public opinion as well?”
“Unfortunately,” Steve says with a shrug, “that’s probably true. But maybe not for a few days yet. As far as we can tell, this investigation by the prosecutors hasn’t made it to the Belgian papers … for now. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”
I had never heard of the nuns’ murders until just this morning. That news had never even reached me in the Nkwenda camp.
But the picture is now becoming much clearer. I played a role in the deaths of Mother Katherine and the others. I was at least partially responsible, because I left them alone. I should have stayed, protected them. These were four beautiful people, who did nothing but good for me and all the others at that school and in the local community. For the first time I begin to think that maybe punishment in Belgium will not be just some twisted justice in repayment for other crimes of my childhood, it may be rightfully due to me for the murders of the sisters, along with the other blood I shed at that school.
I leave Steve and Anna so I can sit alone in the darkened den to sort through my thoughts. The recliner is cool but comfortable, and I close my eyes to fight a debate in my own mind. On the one hand, I know logically, without any question, that I did not kill those nuns, but some illogical part of my being is equally convincing in telling me that I have culpability. Something inside me is demanding atonement, penance, justice, so that all my sins compiled as a child mercenary mig
ht somehow be erased or forgiven. I struggle to find a way to relieve my guilt. If I confess to the murders of these nuns and if they punish me for them, then perhaps that will give me the freedom my soul seeks. But I am trained as a logical thinker. I am a physician, and I know that these arguments make no sense logically. Logically, I shouldn’t be punished for a specific crime which I did not commit, and I know where Anna’s legal mind would settle on this. And, logically, it makes no sense that punishment now will make me a better a person going forward. I certainly don’t need deterrence; I’ve worked hard for the past two decades to do everything I can to help my fellow humans and to lead a noble existence. I know all of this. So why is the illogical argument making so much sense to me?
Steve’s goodbyes stir me from my reverie. He promises to get back to us tomorrow as soon as he has more news. Anna comes into the den, turns on the light, and sits.
“What else did Steve have to say?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Well, you were talking about something. What were you talking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Anna?”
“He wanted to make sure that I am considering all the eventualities.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning … have I thought about if you are convicted there?”
“And? What other eventualities?”
“What we’ll do if you’re sentenced there,” she replies.
“Did he ask you to consider that I might even be guilty? That I might be a murderer of four nuns?”
“Yes.” She looks in my eyes and searches for clues of this possible guilt. “Yes. That, too.”
“And what did you tell him about these possible eventualities?”
“I told him that you won’t be found guilty.”
“What did you tell him if I am found guilty?”
“That we’ll apply to have your sentence served here in the States,” she says.
“What did you tell him if I am guilty?”
Truth, by Omission Page 22