Zoe took a few hasty photographs with her iPhone and then sat back against the bench, trying to make sense of what she had seen. Mariam trusted Mubita more than anyone on the bench; Dr. Chulu considered him an honorable man. His behavior in Kuyeya’s case had been unimpeachable. He had ruled in their favor on DNA and given Benson Luchembe a tongue-lashing over the theft of evidence. He and Patricia were both judges; they surely knew one another. It could just be a friendly lunch meeting.
The more Zoe thought about it, however, the less likely that seemed. Mubita was presiding over the trial of Patricia’s son. She sat on the High Court, which would hear any appeal in the case. What was it Judge van der Merwe had told her? “Judging is one of the loneliest jobs in the world because relationships are always secondary. A judge can’t tolerate even a hint of impropriety.” Perhaps judicial ethics were looser in Zambia, but conflicts of interest were the same everywhere. Besides, the Nyambos had proven their guile. Evidence had gone missing; someone had broken into her flat; Thoko Kaunda had been influenced. The thought struck Zoe with sudden force: what if the same thing happened to Mubita?
When Joseph pulled up to the curb, she jumped into the passenger seat. “Look who’s having lunch together,” she said, showing him the photos.
His eyes darkened. “They’re in there now?”
She nodded. “Who’s the tall guy?”
“The Deputy Minister of Justice.”
She shook her head. The involvement of a powerful politician—a deputy cabinet minister, no less—only accentuated her concerns. “What are we going to do?”
“If she compromises him, I doubt there’s anything we can do. But we don’t know what they’re talking about.” He looked at the pictures again. “Mariam’s husband has political connections. Maybe he can make a few inquiries.”
Zoe struggled to compose herself. First Sylvia. Now this. “Please take me home. I can’t go back to the office right now.”
Joseph nodded and pulled out onto Great East Road, heading toward Kabulonga. After a while, he asked, “What were you doing at Arcades?”
“It’s a long story.”
He glanced at her. “I don’t have anywhere else to be at the moment.”
Out of habit she almost deflected his inquiry, but something in her counseled the benefits of disclosure. She was tired of policing her words, tired of subjugating her feelings and hiding her scars.
“Okay,” she said, surprised by the lightness she felt in saying something so simple. “If you want to hear it, I’ll tell you.”
When they reached the Prentice bungalow, they found the carport empty. Zoe unlocked the front door and called out to Rosa, but she heard nothing beyond a marbled echo. She led Joseph to the terrace, and they took seats on wicker chairs facing the pool. She looked across the water and felt a tremor of apprehension. For an instant, she reconsidered her decision, but she knew she had to do it. The burden needed to be shared.
“My dad and I have a … complex relationship,” she began. “We’re very different, but I grew up respecting him. We had a lot of fun together, and he loved my mom more than anything.” She let out a chuckle. “Except making money, perhaps. He took it really hard when she died. Trevor and I had to figure things out on our own. It was a difficult time.”
She listened to the birds singing in the msasa trees. “A year later, he met a woman named Sylvia Martinelli at a charity function. She was a celebrity publicist—essentially an image consultant. She was beautiful and he was lonely. I didn’t like her, but it wasn’t her fault, at least not at first. After they got married, Dad started to change. His ambitions grew. He’d built a hugely successful fund on Wall Street, but it wasn’t enough. Suddenly, he wanted to be President of the United States. I don’t know if it was Sylvia’s idea, or she just encouraged it, but his decision to run for office changed everything.”
She took a nervous breath. “His first race was for the U.S. Senate in 2000. He asked his investment partner—one of his best friends—to run the campaign. His name was Harry Randall. Our families were close. Every summer, the Randalls spent two weeks with us on Martha’s Vineyard. That year, Dad and Harry were too busy with the campaign, but the rest of us went. Harry had a son named Clay. I had a crush on him. He was affectionate, and I was seventeen and naive. It was all very juvenile, but I was foolish enough to believe he loved me.”
She glanced at Joseph and saw a far-off look in his eyes. “Am I boring you?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m starting to understand you.”
“All right, I’m going to get this out,” she said, feeling a tear break loose. “My brother left after the first week to get ready for Harvard. As soon as he wasn’t around, Clay got more physical. He asked me to sleep with him. I told him I wasn’t ready. On our last day on the island, we went to the beach together. He started kissing me, and I played along. We’d done it before. But he wanted more. I said no. He didn’t accept that.”
Her tears were flowing freely now. “I didn’t expect this to make me a mess.”
“Take your time,” Joseph encouraged.
She laughed. “You’re never in a hurry.”