She bristled and thought: If I were a man, would you be asking? She considered a number of barbed responses, but in the end she held her tongue. CILA needed her to build bridges with the police, not wreck them.
Five minutes later, they passed through rusting gates and parked outside the pediatric wing of University Teaching Hospital, the largest medical facility in Zambia. Zoe climbed out of the cab and followed Joseph into the lobby. The air in the room was pungent with bleach. She saw Joy Herald, a matronly Brit, sitting on a bench with an elderly Zambian woman and a girl with mulatto skin who looked no older than ten. Zoe’s heart lurched. The child’s innocent eyes, framed by epicanthal folds, flat nose bridge, and tiny ears, revealed her extra chromosome.
She had Down syndrome.
Joseph spoke. “Where is Dr. Chulu?”
“He’s on his way,” Joy replied.
“Has the child been examined by anyone else?”
Joy shook her head. “The doctor’s assistant is collecting the paperwork.”
Before long, Dr. Emmanuel Chulu walked briskly into the lobby, his white medical coat billowing behind him. A giant of a man with an owl-like face and a deep baritone voice, he was the chief pediatric physician at UTH and also the founder of a clinic for the victims of child rape—“defilement” in Zambian parlance.
Dr. Chulu spoke to the old woman first, mixing English and Nyanja, the most common indigenous language in Lusaka. “Hello, mother, muli bwange?”
The woman returned his gaze but didn’t smile. “Ndili bwino.”
“Are you a member of her family?” he asked.
The woman shook her head. “I am Abigail, the one who found her.”
The doctor knelt down in front of the girl and gazed into her eyes, his large frame utterly still. The child was rocking back and forth and humming faintly under her breath. “I’m Manny,” he said, searching her face for a sign of recognition. “What is your name?”
The child’s hum turned into a moan. Her eyes grew unfocused and her rocking increased.
The doctor spoke to her in a number of different languages, trying to make contact, but she didn’t reply. “Hmm,” he said, visibly perplexed.
Zoe fingered her mother’s ring, empathizing with the girl. She couldn’t imagine the physical pain the child had endured, but she understood the horror.
All of a sudden, the child’s moaning diminished, and her eyes focused on Zoe’s hands. It took Zoe a moment to realize that she was looking at Catherine’s diamonds. She slipped the ring off her finger and knelt down in front of the girl.
“This was my mommy’s,” she said. “Would you like to hold it?”
The girl seemed to think for a moment. Then she reached out and clutched the ring to her chest. Her moaning ceased and her rocking grew less agitated.
Dr. Chulu looked at Joy, then at Zoe. “Ms. Fleming, right?”
Zoe nodded. “Yes.”
“CILA hasn’t sent a lawyer before. Our good fortune to have you.” He looked around. “Has anyone seen my assistant? I can’t do the exam without the forms.”
At that moment, a young Zambian woman emerged from a door labeled “Administration,” holding a clipboard and a stack of papers.
“Nurse Mbelo, just in time,” he said, taking the clipboard. He looked at Abigail. “Mother, Officer Kabuta needs to ask you some questions, but first he needs to witness the examination of the child. Can you wait?”
Abigail nodded.
“Ms. Herald,” said the doctor, “I presume you and Ms. Fleming can handle the child.”
The intake room was small and poorly ventilated. The fluorescent light cast by two discolored bulbs created a haze at the edge of Zoe’s contact lenses. After seating the girl on a narrow table, Dr. Chulu began the examination. His touch was gentle and his bedside manner as tender as a father with a daughter.
Zoe leaned against the wall and watched the doctor’s face as he conducted the exam. She found the sterility of the intake room unnerving, as if the medical procedure, in its sheer scientific orderliness, could sanitize the rape of its obscenity. She searched Dr. Chulu’s eyes for a shadow, a cloud in his professional calm, and felt empathy when his jaw went rigid. He placed a swab he was holding back in its clear container and sealed it in a plastic bag.
It was stained with blood.
The process of sample collection took thirty minutes. Afterward, Nurse Mbelo wheeled a robotic-looking instrument called a colposcope to the bed, and Dr. Chulu used the built-in camera to photograph the girl’s injuries. The child endured the colposcopy for less than a minute before she rolled over and began to make a loud vibrato sound—part cry, part groan.
Dr. Chulu looked at the nurse. “How many images did you get?”
“Five,” she replied. “All exterior.”
The doctor conferred with Joseph. “Do you think it’s enough for the Court?”
“I’ll sign the report,” Joseph replied quietly. “The magistrate will listen to us.”