Joseph led her toward a stall stuffed with racks of men’s shoes. Outside the stall was a folding chair. “Sit here,” he said. “Pretend you’re pregnant.”
Zoe took a seat and watched Chiwoyu dispense bolts of fabric while Joseph struck up a conversation with the shoe vendor. Eventually, her back started to hurt. She stood up and walked toward the exit, stretching her muscles. As she neared the end of the aisle, an old woman entered from the outside. The woman glanced at Zoe and stopped in her tracks.
It was the housekeeper.
“We met before,” Zoe said quietly, making no move toward the woman.
The housekeeper’s eyes darted around, as if seeking a way out.
“I understand why you don’t want to talk to me, but I need your help. Kuyeya needs your help. Can I show you a picture of her?”
Zoe took out her iPhone and found an image of Kuyeya at St. Francis. The woman stared at the screen and tears came to her eyes. Still, she didn’t speak.
“I think you know her,” Zoe said. “Or maybe you knew her mother. Her name was Charity Mizinga, but she also went by Bella. She died two years ago.”
At last the old woman found her voice. “There is nothing I can do for you. Even God cannot change the past.”
You do know her! Zoe thought. “Perhaps,” she said, keeping her excitement in check. “But the truth is easier to come by.”
The housekeeper regarded her sadly. “What would you do with the truth?”
Zoe steadied her breathing, certain she was close to a breakthrough. “I would tell it to the judge and let justice take its course.”
The old woman shook her head slowly. “Your justice would change nothing.”
“It would change everything,” Zoe countered. “Darious raped a girl before.”
The housekeeper’s eyes filled with fear. “I need to go.”
“Please. We can offer you protection.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” the old woman replied.
She clutched her handbag and headed toward Chiwoyu’s stall. For excruciating seconds, Zoe held out hope that the woman might reconsider. But the housekeeper took her place at the rear of the queue and acted as though the exchange had never happened.
“What did she say?” Joseph asked, meeting Zoe in the aisle.
“She knows something, but she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
He angled his head thoughtfully. “I’m not sure you’re right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I watched her face. She listened to you, but she’s afraid. She has your number, right?”
Zoe nodded. “I gave it to her at Shoprite.”
“Give her time. She may come around.”
As the days passed, Zoe checked her iPhone regularly for a message from the housekeeper, but nothing came. She distracted herself with half a dozen new case referrals from Dr. Chulu. All were horrifying—the youngest victim was six years old—but the perpetrators were family members or neighbors, and the process of compiling evidence was fairly straightforward.
She tried several times to reach Cynthia Chansa by phone. She left her husband a number of voicemails—each time dropping a bit of information about Kuyeya and the obstacles faced by the prosecution—but she received no response. After three calls a disembodied voice informed her that the mailbox was full. She tried Godfrey again, but he didn’t answer.
One morning in December, Zoe was sitting in the office editing an appellate brief for the High Court when Maurice appeared in the doorway to the legal department. He crossed the floor to her desk and stood silently until she looked up at him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
He nodded. “There’s a woman at the gate looking for you.”
She felt burst of excitement. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know.”
The housekeeper! She walked through the office and steadied her breathing. Be cool, she told herself. Don’t frighten her.
She left the bungalow and headed down the lane toward the gate. She nodded to the guard, and he beckoned to someone standing on the far side of the barrier. A woman in a pale pink suit and high heels stepped through the opening, and Zoe stopped in shock.
She was not Zambian. She was American.
“Hello, Zoe,” said Sylvia Martinelli, surveying the landscape around the CILA office. “Is everything in Lusaka so lovely?”
Zoe stared at her, paralyzed by the unexpected collision of worlds. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Sylvia since the dinner they had shared in Cape Town at the conclusion of her clerkship. The détente she had forged with her father over the disbursal of funds from her charitable trust had not extended to his second wife. If ever the conditions had been right to build a bridge between them, that had been the moment. But Sylvia had squandered it by defending Atticus Spelling.
“Why are you here?” Zoe finally managed.
Sylvia smiled. “It’s almost noon. Let me take you to lunch. The concierge at the Intercontinental told me about Rhapsody’s. It sounded very nice.”
“It is. But you haven’t answered my question.”
Sylvia glanced at the guard. “This isn’t the best place.”