“The defense is satisfied,” Luchembe replied.
“There is another issue,” Sarge replied, handing Luchembe a stapled document. “We wish to test the biological evidence acquired by Dr. Chulu on the night of the incident against a sample of the defendant’s DNA. We have prepared an application for an order requiring the defendant to provide a blood sample. I respectfully suggest that the matter be brought for mention immediately.”
Luchembe scanned the document and puffed out his chest. “Your Worship, this application intrudes upon my client’s constitutional rights. There is no precedent for this request in Zambia—”
“There is, indeed, Your Worship,” Sarge interjected. “Such samples are routinely ordered in paternity cases where the accused wishes to prove that he did not father a child. In addition, the courts of Britain and many other countries permit this sort of testing in rape cases. We agree that it is a matter of first impression in Zambia, but we submit that the question has a straightforward answer.”
This exchange seemed to paralyze Kaunda. He sat motionless on the bench, and then flipped through paperwork. “The samples from the victim,” he said at last, glancing at Darious, “have they been preserved according to protocol?”
“Yes, Your Worship,” Sarge replied.
“Where are they currently?”
“In Dr. Chulu’s possession.”
At this point, Luchembe made a last ditch appeal. “Your Worship, my client is a man of considerable reputation in Lusaka. This prosecution is a farce perpetrated by a British organization that doesn’t believe Zambians have the ability to enforce our own laws. This Court adjudicates defilement cases all the time. There is no need for DNA.”
Kaunda looked at Luchembe over his wireframe glasses. “If an application is before me, I have no choice but to hear it. Even if it has disturbing constitutional implications.” He studied his notebook again. “The election is scheduled for the twentieth. I believe this matter can be resolved before then. Does counsel object to a hearing on the fifteenth?”
“No, Your Worship,” Sarge said.
Luchembe’s eyes smoldered. “The defense objects to this whole proceeding.”
“Duly noted,” Kaunda said. “I am placing the case on the docket for the fifteenth of September at ten o’clock. This matter is adjourned.”
As the lawyers gathered their briefcases, Zoe turned to Joseph and managed a hesitant smile. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frederick Nyambo speaking to Patricia in a whisper. Zoe shuddered. They didn’t have a chance to corrupt him before now. But they see how easy he will be to manipulate.
As if intuiting her thoughts, Joseph said, “I’m worried about the judge.”
“That makes two of us,” she replied. “He’s out of his depth.”
When she glanced toward the Nyambos again, they were gone.
chapter 10
The next week passed in a blur. In five business days, Luchembe’s legal team produced a rebuttal memorandum attacking the constitutionality, rationality, and morality of DNA testing in a rape case. Ignoring the weight of foreign authority in favor of DNA, Luchembe cherry-picked and misconstrued a South African decision questioning the efficacy of profiling where only small samples were used. Worse, Luchembe referred to Kuyeya as a “mentally disturbed child,” playing upon the African suspicion of people with intellectual disabilities. The memorandum was a masterpiece of misdirection and prejudice—just the sort of charade that could fool Thoko Kaunda into ruling against them.
After reading the brief, Sarge looked as angry as Zoe had ever seen him. “The only way to fight this warped rhetoric is to give Kaunda something enticing, something to feed his ego.”
Niza’s eyes lit up. “Why don’t we dress him up as a freedom fighter? I bet he’s spent most of his life wishing he were related to Kenneth Kaunda, hero of Zambian independence. Let’s turn DNA into a weapon of reform.”
Zoe laughed. “Brilliant.”
Sarge tossed the memorandum on his desk. “I have no idea if it will work, but I like it.”
Two days before the hearing, Zoe drove out to St. Francis for Kuyeya’s psychiatric evaluation. Dr. Mbao met her at the entrance to the children’s home. A garrulous middle-aged woman with a megawatt smile, she pumped Zoe’s hand as if they were dear friends. They found Kuyeya sitting under the giant acacia tree, watching Sister Irina put on a puppet show.
“Hi, Kuyeya,” Zoe said, sitting down beside her. “How are you today?”
Kuyeya made the balloon sound. “Hi, Zoe. I like your music.”
Sister Irina grinned. “Especially your collection of Johnny Cash.”
“Johnny plays the guitar,” Kuyeya said.
Zoe laughed. “You have good taste.”