We avoid discussing my situation until we are back at the apartment and are caught up on all that Vincent has been doing for the past few years. But it could be evaded for only so long before Vincent asks about it. I tell him of the suddenness with which things had developed, how I had been arrested in my office and extradited within ten days. We explain in detail the process that is unfolding here in Belgium and the desperation of the situation.
“So, you think that Idi is pointing the blame at you as revenge for taking off his hand?” Vincent asks.
“That … and more.” Vincent knew nothing of the death of the priest, and I go on to tell him the previous chapter of my life, my youth he still knows nothing about. Vincent listens to my story with his usual serene compassion.
“So, you see,” I say, “he knows I set him up to take the blame for Father Savard’s death. Another good reason to hate me. And then just the fact that I turned away from him, that I wouldn’t fight with his mercenary band in Rwanda, and then openly opposed him at Nkwenda. Each of these alone is reason enough for him to lie about me murdering the nuns, especially if it lessens his own sentence.”
“Wow.” Vincent shakes his head. “How can I help you?”
“Ideas, if you have any,” Anna says. “But at the very least we’d like you to stand as a character witness and tell them what you knew of Freddie in the Nkwenda camp. Maybe what you knew of Idi.”
“Of course, I’ll certainly do that.”
“We have another angle we are trying to work from,” Anna says. “The school records and the army records both say that Freddie was sixteen at the time of the nuns’ deaths, but he says that he was actually fifteen. You helped him obtain that first passport in Rwanda in order to get him his refugee papers for France.”
“I remember that,” Vincent says. “He told me in the camp that he was sixteen when I first met him, but when we went to apply for a birth certificate he admitted to me that he was actually a year younger than what was printed on his baptismal certificate, and a year younger than what he had led me to believe. It didn’t make any difference to me at the time. Unfortunately, we got nowhere trying to locate his birth certificate. It seemed that either there never was one, or in the confusion of civil war the records were destroyed or lost. We ended up having no option but to obtain the passport with the use of the baptismal certificate. It was the only ID available. Besides, he had been calling himself Alfred for nearly four years and wanted to continue. He said Azikiwe was a person he wanted to completely forget. Now I understand why.”
“If we could get you to speak about that it might help to prove his real age. That could be critical because we need to establish Alfred’s accurate age when the sisters were murdered.”
Vincent takes a few minutes to go over all that we have been telling him before coming up with some thoughts of his own. “I need to go home to Paris for a few days. There are some things there that I need to get.”
* * *
With the judicial inquiry scheduled to resume at the end of the week, and Vincent back in Paris to attend to his affairs there, Bart has been prepping me for how we should proceed in our presentation to Judge Gelineau. Even though Bart will be there with me, representation by a lawyer is not allowed during judicial inquiries in Belgium. I will have to make the case to the judge myself. Bart will have the right to intervene on my behalf in very limited circumstances, mostly only to question points of law.
One small story in the newspaper stating that the inquiry will recommence in a few days reenergizes a flurry of activity in the media and reawakens the protesters. Making things even worse this time, the politicians stir the embers and inflame public outrage when they adopt my case as their cause of the week. One of the small right-wing opposition parties in Parliament has called on the government to bring back the death penalty so that proper judgment can be brought upon the Rwandan murderer who took the lives of good, innocent Belgian citizens, the Four Sisters of Peace. There is a sizable portion of the population that is in favor of this, and an online petition receives nearly half a million signatures in the first day alone. Under pressure, and in response, the governing party stands in Parliament to announce that the justice department is pursuing the case with full vigor and that the strictest enforcement of penalties will be brought to bear on the guilty offender.
The debate now taking place in the media is not whether or not I am guilty—it seems that they have already established that—it is whether a sentence of natural life in prison is severe enough. So now, we don’t just have demonstrators on the street proclaiming my guilt; there are two sides lined up to debate the broader issue of capital punishment. For the few days before the inquiry is to start up again, we are once more confined to the apartment. The crowds outside are several times their previous size, and the media is out in even larger numbers, having even more angles to promote now.
And, as if to muddle things even more, there is another group that has curiously jumped on the bandwagon to have me summarily convicted. There is a large population of African expatriates living in Brussels and, ever since the judicial inquiry began, there has been a growing backlash against them. It seems that hard-line, white-nationalist extremists have been stoking hatred against the entire black community in the city, lumping all Africans with me and blaming them for the murders of the Four Sisters of Peace. In order to protect their delicate standing within the greater community, the Africans have come out against me, condemning me and isolating themselves from me. And to further prove their point, they organize their own groups to demonstrate against me out in the streets.
With all these disparate groups using my case to push their own agendas, the media is having a field day. Commentators and prognosticators are making the most of their time in the limelight.
The morning of the inquiry we are greeted at the courthouse by even more reporters and cameras than before. And thousands of protesters, each with their own pet cause, are trying to outshout the others and jockey for spots in front of the television cameras. There are political protesters, urging their respective parties toward firm stands; death penalty advocates shouting for it to be reinstated; abolitionists arguing against them; anti-immigrant protesters claiming that all foreigners are causing harm to Belgium; coalitions of African organizations claiming righteousness and disavowing me; Belgian nationalists affirming the greatness of their country; and somewhere lost in the throngs are the families of the Four Sisters of Peace, simply looking for justice or revenge or just closure.
Judge Gelineau has anticipated the level of interest, and we use the largest room in the building to accommodate the media. With Vincent and Anna flanking me on one side and Bart Verbeke on the other, the judge reminds all of us that this is not a trial, but rather, a hearing strictly to determine whether there is a prima facie case with which to proceed to a trial.
“Dr. Olyontombo,” he says. “More than a month ago, you were provided with the evidence of the state against you. As is your right, this is your opportunity to either refute with proof, or explain with cause, that evidence. You also have the right to say nothing and are not expected to answer anything that may further incriminate you. Do you wish to proceed?”
We have very little solid evidence with which to proceed, the entirety of my case will rest with what Vincent is able to convince the judge of.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say. “I would like the opportunity to show you how I was not the one who committed the crimes of which I am accused. I have with me Dr. Vincent Bergeron who would like to address you.”
“Dr. Bergeron, you are familiar with the evidence that was presented?”
“I am,” Vincent replies.
“What can you tell us?” the judge asks.
“Your Honor, I have known Dr. Olyontombo for twenty-three years. From the time I met him in 1994 I have always found him to be of the highest moral character and standing. He is outstanding in his pr
ofession and—”
“Dr. Bergeron,” Judge Gelineau interrupts. “Dr. Olyontombo’s character and competency as a doctor are not in question here, and frankly they have no bearing on the evidence that is presented against him. It is not this inquiry’s duty to judge Dr. Olyontombo, only to judge the evidence. Do you have anything of relevance to the factual evidence?”
“I do, Your Honor,” Vincent replies. “As I said, I have known Dr. Olyontombo for twenty-three years, from even before the date on which the murders of the four sisters occurred. And I have proof here that he was not in Kigali at the time of those murders, but rather was in the Nkwenda refugee camp in Tanzania.”
The judge interrupts Vincent again. “Dr. Bergeron, if you were familiar with the evidence you would know that we have investigated Dr. Olyontombo’s tenure at the camp and found no conclusive proof of the day that he arrived there.”
“Your Honor, I have with me my own personal notes from those days in the camp. I would like to present you with my handwritten diaries, in which I make mention of my first meeting with Dr. Olyontombo on April third, 1994. I had treated him for an eye infection. My notes also show meeting him nearly every day after that, including on April twelfth, the date of the murders.”
“May I see your diary, please?” The judge reaches for the notebooks.
When Vincent returned from Paris a few days ago and proudly produced these old diaries, I thanked the gods for all the times he had insisted on my patience at the end of the day while he carefully made his notes. These old journals had been kept by Vincent all these years in his home in Paris. He cherished them and maintained a full complement dating all the way back to his first placement with Médecins Sans Frontiers more than thirty years earlier.
“I have marked the pages.” Vincent hands over the first book. “In this one,” he says, as he holds up a second notebook, “I have flagged the pages of the dates when I treated Dr. Olyontombo for the wound which you now see scarring his face, as well as treating his accuser, Idi Mbuyamba, when his hand was severed. The two men had previous disputes, and when Dr. Olyontombo was attacked, he was forced to defend himself. I can personally attest to the fact that this is one very good reason why Mr. Mbuyamba would falsely accuse Dr. Olyontombo.”
The audience of reporters behind us is shuffling and talking, tapping out messages on their cells. I watch Judge Gelineau very carefully as he thumbs through Vincent’s notebooks, taking plenty of time to read the pages that Vincent has flagged with Post-it tabs. The judge’s face gives nothing away, but he does take a second look through the notebooks. A full five minutes pass while no one speaks.
Finally Judge Gelineau looks to Vincent. “Are you prepared to submit these for forensic analysis, Dr. Bergeron?”
“Of course.”
“And current handwriting samples?”
“Most certainly,” Vincent replies.
This was the most conclusive evidence we could provide. As expected, the search in Rwanda for my birth certificate came up empty. I try to explain that the age shown on my baptismal certificate, which I had used to secure my original Rwandan passport, was based on a lie that I now regret. I realize that the explanation I give of how my age was recorded in the army and school records and on the baptismal certificate is only my account, and I have nothing to back it up. But I am desperate and need to raise every shred of possible evidence.
After we finish in court, the four of us—Vincent, Bart, Anna, and I—hash out the happenings of the day over takeout dinner in our apartment. We all agree that Vincent’s diaries will be very compelling in establishing my innocence and undermining Idi’s already shaky credibility. But none of us are confident that they will be enough to overcome the evidence which points to my guilt. There was nothing that I could say to address the fact that the nuns’ blood was found on my knife. I could not tell the judge how I had given the knife to Idi in the hope that it would incriminate him for the murder of Savard, the priest. That would only have implicated me in that death—and I certainly didn’t need any more trouble with the law than I was already facing. It’s going to be up to how Judge Gelineau weighs it all out in his own mind.
The judge has set a date for one month hence to deliver his finding. Like the last time, it takes a few days for the last of the protesters to get tired and leave, and the same amount of time for the media to lose interest and move on to other, more topical stories. They’ll wait until a few days before the next inquiry date, at which time they’ll resurrect everything again. In the meantime we have nothing to do but wait. This time though, we have a bit of hope in the backs of our minds, hope we didn’t have a month ago. Vincent’s diaries have been a godsend, and his time spent with us has given us back some of our missing faith in mankind. Vincent’s calm and consoling words, his controlled and positive attitude, and most of all, his simple acceptance of life and his contentment with it are inspiring to both Anna and me. Bart has only been around him for a few days yet is compelled to comment on how he has never met anyone quite so selflessly devoted to the good of others as Vincent.
Unfortunately for us, that selfless devotion is beckoning him back to his work in Africa, and he can’t sit around here for a whole month waiting on Judge Gelineau’s decision. He indulges us with one more week, during which the three of us become tourists, seeing the things that Anna and I had already seen, but this time, seeing them with a joy we missed the first time around. Evenings are spent quietly in the apartment, just being together and absorbing the gentle and easy comportment of our friend.
The week is followed by a sad farewell at the airport with several promises being made. Vincent promises to be back if we need him for anything at all, none of us outright mentioning the possibility of needing to go through a full-blown trial. And Anna and I both make promises, not hollow promises, but sincere ones, to visit Vincent in Africa soon after this is past us. We are determined to take time away from our respective practices and go to volunteer at Vincent’s side for at least a few weeks. We no longer have the care of Stephanie to hold us back, and this whole experience has completely refocused our perspective on what we want to do with our futures. We can now better understand the fragility of status and relationships and see the folly in accumulation and ownership. We are both committed to helping repay Vincent some small amount of the debt we owe him. When we try to mention it to him in these terms, he replies that there is no debt, but rather that all our deeds are simply entries in the eternal ledger.
The next three weeks waiting for Judge Gelineau to come out with his ruling are tempered by the week that we spent with Vincent. The media and the protest groups and the general public build up their steam as the last few days go by. Columnists, experts, and armchair quarterbacks spend countless hours debating the likely ruling, many of them switching their opinions from one day to the next. The only thing that seems consistent, and certain, is that no one will be happy if I am exonerated. The entire country, now that the wound has been reopened, wants me to pay for the murders of the Four Sisters of Peace. It doesn’t matter that I may not be guilty. All that matters is satisfying the national yearning to finally put this sore point of Belgian history to bed. If that doesn’t happen by finding me guilty, the wound will simply continue to fester.
In spite of all this attention and the outright hatred toward me, our time with Vincent has taught us to find contentment and a measure of peace, and although the three weeks pass slowly, they are more bearable than they otherwise would have been. Anna and I spend almost every moment together. Our relationship has a new peacefulness to it that we never even knew we were missing. The beauty and the strength of this woman never cease to amaze me. Before he left, I had the opportunity to talk with Vincent about my long-harbored feelings of not being worthy of Anna. He pointed out to me the things he knows that she sees and loves in me. His arguments are partially convincing. Nonetheless, I continue to hold her in awe, and I marvel at her as a goddess. A
nna and I try not to speak of the possibility of an unfavorable decision, and instead make plans for what we will do when we get back to Denver and how we can repair the relationships with her family. We both intend to be totally forgiving of all those whom have distanced themselves from us. We understand how things must have looked to them and just want them back in our lives.
Oddsmakers have been taking bets on the outcome of the inquiry as if it were a football championship, and since most people bet with their hearts and hopes and not any sense of objective logic, most of the bets are against me. A few days before the ruling is scheduled to come down, the Belgian Parliament bends to relentless pressure from the media and the public and agrees to make an exception and allow cameras into the inquiry room for Judge Gelineau’s decision.
On the morning we finally arrive at the courthouse, we are greeted by the usual groups of protesters and an even larger representation by the media. Reuters, AP, and all the major international wire services are here, and I even notice that CNN and Fox have a visible presence. I have been following their coverage on their websites. CNN has been reporting the details of my case, albeit strongly highlighting the salacious portions; Fox worried less about accuracy, instead using me as an example of the need to change immigration policy.
In the inquiry room, Anna and Bart sit on either side of me again. I am conscious of my heart racing, and I will it to slow down, unsuccessfully. Anna senses the vibration of my speeding pulse and the clamminess of my large black hand held in her tiny white one, and she squeezes firmly. I am oblivious to the constant flashes and clacks of cameras. My body tenses up as the judge takes his seat and starts to speak. As before, he begins by reminding us all that this is not a trial, but rather an inquiry to determine if I should stand trial. There will not be a finding of guilt or innocence.
Truth, by Omission Page 30