Zoe clenched her teeth. Niza was a first-rate lawyer, but she was also a cynic.
“There’s a lab in Johannesburg,” Zoe said. “And we have the money even if the government claims it doesn’t. Once we have a suspect, all we’ll need is a magistrate to order a blood sample and a profile. They do it all the time in paternity cases.”
Mariam affirmed Zoe’s intuition. “It’s true. We have the evidence from the hospital. This could be the case to press for DNA.”
“We have a long way to go before we can start thinking about that,” Sarge said. “We need the family, we need a suspect in custody, and we need the support of the Director of Public Prosecution. In that order.”
Mariam nodded. “Let’s meet again on Wednesday. Perhaps Joseph will know more.”
Zoe left the table and navigated the maze of corridors to her desk. A converted colonial-era bungalow, the CILA office had a bifurcated layout. The reception and rehabilitation staff occupied the front of the house, and the executive and legal staff occupied the back. Zoe’s desk was situated in the corner of a sunlit space cluttered with legal files, bound registers of Zambian and British law, and scattered pages of case notes—the home of the legal department.
She took her seat and stared at her laptop. She had fifteen minutes to kill before Mwila left for the hospital. She thought of polishing the research memo she had been writing for Sarge but checked her email instead. The first message was from her brother, Trevor. The time stamp read 8:02 a.m.—2:02 a.m. D.C. time. Trevor was an attorney with the K Street law firm representing A Brighter Tomorrow—the private political funding organization, or SuperPAC, supporting Jack Fleming’s campaign. He never seemed to sleep.
Hey, sis, missing you. In case you didn’t catch it on the Internet, Dad’s coming your way in a few days. I don’t expect you to care, but I thought you should know. Off to bed for a few hours at least. Ciao!
Below the message Trevor had copied a Web link to a story in the Washington Post. It read like a press release:
On Wednesday, after campaign stops in North Carolina and Virginia, Senator Jack Fleming, the current frontrunner in the presidential primary race, will travel to Africa with Senator Lindsey O’Toole to examine U.S. foreign assistance programs in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Zambia, and Ethiopia. The Senators will also meet with embassy and government officials to discuss issues relating to the war on terror. A spokesperson for Senator Fleming reiterated the Senator’s unwavering campaign commitment to fiscal responsibility. Due to security concerns, the full itinerary will not be released in advance.
Zoe tried to steady her breathing. A trip to the Congo and Ethiopia she could understand. But Zambia? He had to be coming for her. She scanned the remainder of her inbox. Sure enough, it was there—a message from her father. She glanced around the office, worried that someone might discover her secret. Other than Mariam and a few CILA executives in London, no one knew that she was Jack Fleming’s daughter. After a moment, she realized how absurd she was being. No one was paying any attention to her. She steadied herself and opened the email.
Zoe, my dear, I hope this finds you well. I’m planning a last-minute trip to the continent and will be in Lusaka on Friday. Would you care to meet for dinner? I was thinking the other day how long it has been since we spent time together, just the two of us. What do you say?
Zoe read the message twice and then closed the mail application. Grabbing her backpack, she walked to the nearest exit, desperate for fresh air. She found a place in the sun beneath the red blooms of a lemon bottlebrush tree and closed her eyes.
The last time she had been alone with her father was at her Yale Law School graduation. It had not gone well. After dinner at the Union League Café, they had taken a stroll across New Haven Green, and Trevor and Sylvia, her father’s second wife, had lagged behind, locked in a discussion about social media in political campaigns. Zoe had tried to be civil toward her father, but the ground of their relationship was littered with landmines and he had stepped on one.
“Writing for the Yale Law Journal,” he had said, “graduating near the top of your class, I’m proud of you, Zoe.”
Pulling her sweater around her shoulders, she had glanced at him in the lamplight, daring to hope that his praise would be unadulterated. She was soon disappointed.
“You know, I spoke to Judge Anders,” he went on. “One of his clerks backed out for health reasons and he’s looking for a replacement. He’d love to have you.”
The Honorable Jeremiah Anders was the Chief Judge of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals and one of the most respected jurists in the United States. Many considered him the next Supreme Court nominee. Zoe, however, had already made up her mind. Her heart was in Africa.