“All of them were here last night,” the doctor said. He pointed to two young women. “These are my assistants. You’ve already met Nurse Mbelo.”
Joseph nodded. “I’ll talk to her first. The rest of you wait in the hallway.”
The interviews lasted over an hour. Joseph drilled down deep, probing every inconsistency, watching faces and mannerisms for anything that might signal guilt, but neither the night staff nor Dr. Chulu’s assistants yielded anything of value. When he dismissed the last of them, he looked at Zoe in frustration.
“Where you’re from, a forensics team would take fingerprints, hair samples, skin samples, and check them against an electronic database. In Zambia, we have trained technicians but nothing to do with the evidence without a suspect. What do you call it? A Catch-22.”
She nodded. “And even if you did find a suspect, you wouldn’t be able to connect him to the Nyambos. We need to talk to the judge. Then we need to go back to the drawing board.”
“The ngangas,” he said.
“The housekeeper,” she added. “And Cynthia in Kitwe.”
He shook his head. “We could have set a precedent with this case.”
She smiled, her old confidence beginning to return. “Perhaps we still will.”
Thanks to Sarge’s efforts, the case was scheduled for a hearing the following Tuesday. After everyone assembled in Courtroom 10, the judge climbed the bench and waved to the deputy who swiftly cleansed the chamber of all spectators, including Frederick Nyambo. The deputy nodded to the judge and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
Mubita gave Benson Luchembe an icy stare. “This Court will not tolerate threats to members of the prosecution or the theft of critical evidence.”
Luchembe stood, affecting a look of surprise. “Your Worship,” he said deferentially, “my client insists he had nothing to do with the break-ins. He submitted a blood sample yesterday, pursuant to your order.”
Anger flared in the judge’s eyes. “Evidence disappeared from a locked room barely twenty-four hours after I ordered it to be tested. Who benefited other than the accused?”
Luchembe held out his hands. “I don’t know, Your Worship.”
Mubita shook his head and turned to Sarge. “I realize you have witnesses who would like to testify, but unless they can prove the involvement of the accused, I can’t do anything with it.”
Sarge nodded reluctantly. “It appears the perpetrators left without a trace.”
The judge leaned forward, looking at Luchembe. “While I have no grounds for contempt, the loss of evidence prejudices the prosecution. With DNA, we would have known your client’s guilt or innocence in a matter of weeks. Without DNA, we must try this case the old-fashioned way. I want you to know that I’m going to give the prosecution wide latitude to present its evidence at trial. I’ll take this incident into account to the extent I’m permitted by the rules.”
Mubita’s eyes swept the courtroom, confronting every lawyer with equal intensity. “I have not prejudged this case. The accused is innocent until proven guilty. But I will not allow any man or woman to tilt the scales of justice. This Court is adjourned.”
As soon as the magistrate left the bench, the defense team piled out of the courtroom. Zoe conferred with Joseph in a whisper while Sarge and Niza packed their briefcases.
“I’ve been thinking about how to get the housekeeper alone again,” she said.
“If your interest in her triggered the attack on your flat,” he replied, “they’re going to watch her carefully.”
“They can’t live without food. I’m going to hang out at Shoprite.”
“That won’t work if you’re being followed.”
She pictured Dunstan Sisilu. “I haven’t seen him since the attack.”
“Neither have I, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t there.”
She met his eyes. “It’s a risk I have to take.”
chapter 19
Every other day for the next three weeks, Zoe patrolled the aisles of the Shoprite at Manda Hill. She conducted her surveillance between eight thirty and ten in the morning, bracketing the time she had last seen the housekeeper there. She kept watch for Dunstan Sisilu but never saw him. Inside the supermarket, she played the role of the indecisive shopper, meandering through the store and occasionally placing things in her cart. She waited for a glimpse of the old woman’s wrinkled face, but each time she was disappointed.
“Maybe your timing is wrong,” Joseph suggested one evening.
“Or she’s shopping somewhere else, or someone is shopping for her,” she said. “The possibilities are endless. I’ve been thinking about staking out the house again.”
He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I could take Carol’s Prado. I could dye my hair.”
“You can’t color your skin.”