Truth, by Omission

by Daniel Beamish

  Overnight, the newsrooms have all had time to get their editorial departments working, and they have come up with lots to pontificate about. Praise is offered to the national police for finally, after so many years, being able to crack this case that was such a scathing wound to the entire Belgian state, conveniently forgetting that the police didn’t actually have anything to do with solving it; Idi apparently came forward on his own. Other editorials outright condemn me without even the benefit of a court hearing, relying totally on the evidence presented yesterday, and some are making suggestions that a life sentence will hardly be adequate justice. The columnists are in their full glory, appealing to nationalism and prejudice and fear.

  The internet news has further diluted my exuberance from yesterday. By nine thirty sizable crowds have formed at each end of the street, just outside the police barricades, and their negativity seeps into the apartment with Bart’s arrival. It seems that even he had underestimated the interest and animosity of the rest of his countrymen.

  “Not a damned one willing to give justice a chance to play out.” Bart shakes his head with a look of mild disgust. But he quickly catches himself and tries to deflect from his gloomy greeting by adding, “We better get started if we’re going to prove them wrong.”

  I’m not sure how he intends to prove them wrong. Anna has already talked about this with me this morning, and she has pleaded with me to stay positive and just go along with whatever my lawyer suggests. She has seen many cases that looked doomed at the outset but, with preparation and attention to detail, were able to turn favorably.

  “Remember,” she said, “we don’t have to convince the public or the media. There’s only one single person that we have to convince, and that’s the judge.”

  “And he’s not influenced by the papers and the crowds?” I asked.

  She didn’t have an answer to that, so responded instead by giving me a glare of admonishment.

  Bart has brought with him a secretary, and she sets up in the living room with her computer. When she’s ready Bart begins what I assume is a standard method used by lawyers for initiating the prep work for a case. He starts with my past, and I spend several hours telling him of my childhood, the same story that I had recently unburdened myself of in the Denver police station when I shared it with Anna. Bart listens carefully but is much more interrogative than Anna was, stopping me many times to ask questions and probing for details that I sometimes have to think hard about to recall. He makes me recount every possible thing I can about Idi Mbuyamba, right from my first encounter, when he took me after Kakengo had killed Uncle Dzigbote and Auntie Nyaka. He wants every small detail about the killing of the priest, Savard, and exactly when and how I turned the knife over to Idi. Bart tells me that it is going to be tricky convincing the judge that I gave the knife to Idi before the nuns were murdered without implicating myself in the priest’s killing. We then pay special attention to the incident where I had taken Idi’s own machete and left him without a right hand. He makes me recall the names of any witnesses who were there at the time. These, I tell him, may not even be possible to find. “We’ll see,” he says and continues with his methodical interrogation.

  Shortly after three o’clock Anna’s phone rings, and Bart suggests that it is a good time to quit for the day. We have only stopped once for a short snack at noon and we are getting exhausted. About ten minutes after taking the call in the other room, Anna rejoins us.

  “That was Steve,” she says. “He said the story has been picked back up in the Denver media. It’s on the front pages again after yesterday.”

  I’d been watching the Denver papers. Since the day I was extradited the story had dropped out of the headlines, with other, more current items filling the void. But it seems that interest has been renewed with the revelations from the inquiry yesterday.

  “Is there anything we can do about this?” Anna points to the crowd outside as Bart and his secretary prepare to leave.

  “We’ll just have to hope that it doesn’t get any worse and be thankful that the police are keeping it organized,” says Bart. “Unfortunately, there’s going to be a high level of interest throughout the case, but the media will have to move on to other stories soon. We’ll send food in so that you don’t have to go outside for a few days. It’s still a lot better than jail.”

  That is true. I have Anna here with me and access to my computer, both important things that I wouldn’t have in jail. I can see I’m not going to be able to get much exercise for the next few days; we won’t be doing the walking that we had worked into our routine when we first arrived, but we can live with this inconvenience.

  “Let me know if there’s anything you need, and I can have it sent in,” Bart says before leaving for the day.

  By dusk not only have the Denver papers picked up on the story, but the national media in the US is reporting on it for the first time. Once one news service headlines a story, the rest follow like sheep. Only none of them have done any of their own reporting, they are all just regurgitating everything that the Belgian media has said. I can tell by the slant of the articles that the great bastion of freedom and fairness, America, has no interest in waiting for judgment. The sensationalism of the story outweighs that, and they are gobbling it up, having already followed the Belgian media’s lead and proclaiming guilt. Normally the American press shows concern when an American citizen is put on trial in a foreign country, but I’m perceived as a second-rate citizen. I’m a black man who comes from a backward African country and who only became an American citizen, a transplanted refugee, no less. It’s the salaciousness of a professional medical doctor violently raping and mutilating four nuns that attracts them. That’s the story the press wants, not the truth.

  Before yesterday it wouldn’t have bothered me what the press thought. I was prepared to take my lumps and let them condemn me. But after seeing Idi practically gloating at me in his video testimony, I am determined not to let him have any more satisfaction. It irks me that the press has jumped to presumptive conclusions.

  It’s not long before Anna’s father calls to say that he has seen the morning news in Colorado and begs Anna to come back home. She leaves me to take the call alone in the bedroom and returns about ten minutes later visibly upset.

  “What did Eldon have to say?” I ask her.

  “I’m too ashamed to repeat it.”

  I just shake my head knowingly to her, not wanting to hear it any more than she wants to say it.

  “Then he tried to make it sound like Mom thinks the same way,” she says.

  “She might. Did you get to speak to her?” I ask.

  “He put her on.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “I don’t think she really feels as strongly as Dad does. But you know how she pretty much goes along with anything he says. She did say that she loves us both. Daddy couldn’t bring himself to say that.”

  “Anna, I never wanted to come between you and your parents. What would you say about going ahead home? I can stay here with Bart. I promise you I’ll fight this. And Bart seems more than competent. I’m not going to give in now.”

  She doesn’t even take a moment to think about it. “Not a chance. I’m not leaving you.”

  “It won’t be leaving me. It’ll be saving your relationship with your parents. You have to think of that, regardless of the outcome here. Eventually you’ll have to go back there, one way or the other. And it might be easier on them, and you, if you go now.”

  “Even if you don’t need me, Freddie, I need you. After what we’ve been through with Stephanie, this pales. I’m not leaving you, Freddie—ever—and that’s it. It’s settled, so don’t bring it up again … please.”

  Pulling her close, I kiss the top of her forehead. I savor the feel of her body close to mine. I’ve always thought that we were an impeccable fit together. The curves of her slender frame just seem to fit
perfectly against my larger body. Standing here like this, or slouched together on the couch watching a movie, or in bed sleeping spooned on our sides, or making love with her in any of many ways—everything just seems to fit. It’s like a lock and key, created perfectly for one another, and no other.

  On the second day after the hearing most of the media crews clear out from in front of our apartment. A few stick around, probably waiting for the last of the demonstrators to also leave, but the media now knows that nothing more will happen until after the next inquiry appearance. Bart can’t arrange that date until we decide on a plan of action. He tells us that, like the press, the demonstrators will also likely thin out in a few days, but it’s possible a few will continue to hang around on the streets. He suggests that we be patient with them since those who are the most persistent are quite likely family members of the murdered nuns.

  We sit down to get started with today’s session. “I’ve been thinking overnight about what our next steps should be,” Bart says. “First, the knife. You said that you gave it to Idi Mbuyamba. It’s a long shot, but we need to get the original reports and see if there were any other fingerprints on the knife besides yours. If we get lucky, his might be there. If there’s nothing in the report we’ll ask for another fingerprint analysis. If the blood is still there, there may still be prints on it that were missed.

  “Second, somehow we’ve got to get proof of your real age. We’ll send someone in Rwanda to search birth records there. Your baptismal certificate was used as a basis for your first passport to get you out of Rwanda and into France, but if we can find an original birth certificate it may be able to corroborate your real age and prove that you were only fifteen at the time of the murders. If you really hadn’t reached the age of sixteen, Belgium can’t try you for crimes committed as a youth.

  “Third, we’ve got to try to get some proof that you were not in Rwanda on the date of the murder. I’m going to have someone contact the United Nations and see if they have kept any records from the Nkwenda camp.

  “And last, we need witnesses, anyone who can vouch for any of your story. If we come up empty with the birth info and the UN records, they might be all we have. What about the French doctor … Bergeron? Do you have any way to contact him?”

  I had stayed in touch with Vincent over the years. Initially, while in med school, we’d corresponded a lot, but gradually over the years our emails became less and less frequent. We saw each other only once after I left France: he made a special trip to Pittsburgh for my graduation. He and Anna had conspired to surprise me, and it gave me a whole new level of pride in my accomplishment to have him there to share the moment with me. Vincent had never stopped spending most of his time away with Médecins Sans Frontières, returning only periodically to France. Several times I had promised him that I would do a stint with the organization, but the timing just never seemed right. First I was doing my residency, and then Stephanie was born, and then I was trying to get my practice going—something just always seemed to get in the way. The last few years we had only made a point of touching base with emails at Christmas. I had sent him a note this past November to tell him of Stephanie’s passing and heard back from him in early December. It took him a while to respond since he is currently working in sub-Saharan Chad, where Islamic extremists are waging a guerrilla war, and he is often away from internet connectivity.

  In response to Bart’s question I answer, “I can reach him, maybe. Though not immediately. But I should be able to get an email through.”

  “Do you think we could get him to come here?” Bart asks.

  “I can see what he says. He’s working in Africa right now.”

  “Of course we’ll get him to come,” Anna jumps in. “We have to. His testimony could be all that we have. He’ll come. I know he will.”

  Bart leaves us with the proposal that he schedule our next inquiry time with Judge Gelineau for one month from now. Anything that we have come up with during this month we can present to him, and if we need more time we’ll ask for it. We’re all in agreement that the sooner we can deal with things the better.

  I draft and send off several emails this afternoon. I am especially saddened to have to send the one to Vincent. I feel ashamed at the position I am in and had hoped that somehow, he wouldn’t have to find out. I feel like a child who has done something which they know will bring disappointment to their parents. I explain in quite a bit of detail my predicament, how I arrived at this point, and how I am hoping that he could come back to offer his testimony on my behalf. Several times throughout the email I apologize for having to inconvenience him and take him away from his work in the remote communities of Africa.

  I also send a follow-up email to my clinic in Denver. I had sent them one a week or so earlier, asking for them to forward me an email contact for Ricky and Pina Nunez. I am concerned for them both and want to hear how Ricky is making out with his cancer treatments. I learned early on in practice that this extra bit of interest and involvement in my patients’ well-being inspires a lot of confidence and positivity in their attitudes, which translates into better outcomes. All my other patients know that I’ll be away on vacation until February, so there is no need to connect with any of them. I ask Rosa if she could please get me the email address I need for Ricky.

  I don’t really expect a quick answer from Vincent, but I get a prompt one back from my clinic. It isn’t Rosa who answers, but instead, Mark. His note is quite straightforward: Alfred, All of us here at the clinic wish you all the best. Brie, Luis, and I have decided that under the circumstances it is probably not appropriate for you to be contacting any of the clinic’s patients. Thank you. And that was it. It doesn’t take much for me to read between the lines, or rather, the lack of lines, and understand that they are trying to distance themselves from me. It saddens me a lot to think about this. These, of all people, ought to know my personal integrity; their response speaks to me like a megaphone.

  A couple days pass, and no one is showing up out front to protest, and so the media is also completely absent. This allows Anna and me to get out and start walking again. We’ve been cooped up inside for too long. We’re both used to a lot of exercise, and when I don’t get it nothing feels right in my body. I am stiff and yearning for some fresh air, and even the cloudy, damp weather of Brussels beats being indoors for a whole week.

  But as the days go by the fresh air and exercise aren’t enough to counteract the disappointing news that flows in. Even Anna, ever the optimist, has turned a bit sour at the news that Bart received back from the United Nations. Hard-copy logs from Nkwenda that would have shown the dates of refugee entry into the camp had long ago been destroyed. There are some computerized records that have been maintained, and they show that Alfred Olyontombo was indeed at the camp for a period of several years, but there was nothing to confirm the date of his arrival. That one piece of information would have solidified my alibi, and we placed a lot of hope in it. On top of this, new forensic fingerprint tests, which Bart had ordered on the knife, come back empty with not a trace of anyone else’s prints other than mine. The very day after Bart breaks this news to us he calls to say that his researchers in Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo have all reported back that there are no birth records to be found for Azikiwe Olyontombo in either country.

  Then finally, nearly two weeks after having sent my email to Vincent, I get a reply. I must admit, I had begun to wonder if he too wanted to avoid me. I am glad to see that he was away doing his circuit among isolated villages, and his delayed response was only due to his lack of access to a computer. Unlike everyone else who seemed to be abandoning me to a presumptive guilt, Vincent gives me a boost by saying that he’ll be in Belgium within a week. It’s the soonest he can make arrangements, but not to worry, he will do everything he can to help me. This shot of good news is welcome, not only to my spirits but Anna’s as well. Amidst all the recent negative news, just the fact
that Vincent is coming is an elixir to both of us. And we desperately cling to shreds of hope that he can be of some help in clearing me.

  Anna and I greet Vincent at the airport like the long-missed family member that he is. The anticipation of his arrival is a very emotional stew for me: a mix of guilt at not having made more effort to see him over the years, joy to finally see him now, thanks that he is coming to help, sadness that our reunion is under these circumstances, and shame that I have let him down. On my way to the airport I resolved not to let these sentiments overwhelm me.

  Pulling his worn and dirty suitcase through the customs arrivals doors, my first impression is of how serene and contented he looks amidst the bustle of the travelers around him, always a calm and reassuring presence wherever he is. There is not the slightest evidence one might expect from the deprivations and hardships of his choosing to practice medicine among the poorest of the world. On the contrary, he is spry and possesses an aura of exuberance. I still pictured him from the last time I saw him, more than a decade ago, and am not prepared for the effects of natural aging that I should have expected. The receded brush-cut, his stubbly beard, the hair on his arms are all totally white now. But the deep crinkles at the outer edges of his eyes just serve to highlight the radiance of his tranquil blue irises, more so when he spots us and lights up with the same joy that we are feeling.

  The three of us meet in a hug, each pulling the other two tight together. My determination to control my emotions is abandoned in the moment, and I let the tears run freely down my face. We stay locked together in this little display of solidarity for several moments before stepping back to look closely at each other. Vincent, eternally compassionate, and with great tenderness wipes the tears from my face with his bare hands, as a father would his small child, and then he wipes his own. After composing ourselves we hug again, upright and with strength, patting each other on the back. Anna waits her turn to receive Vincent’s kiss and sincere affections.