Intimacies(37)

When the former president was brought into the courtroom, I saw at once that he had no intention of submitting to the prevailing mood, that he perceived such tamping down of emotion as a concession to the magnitude of the victim’s loss, and thus the severity of the crimes he stood accused of having committed. Or perhaps it was simply that he was unaccustomed to the room’s attention being focused elsewhere. I observed the defiance that seemed to roll off him in waves, as he lifted his chin and surveyed the courtroom, his gaze resting without hesitation on the witness stand before moving smoothly on, as if to show he had nothing to fear, no cause for trepidation. I felt a jolt of disgust so strong I could taste it in my mouth.

The judges entered. Within moments, or so it seemed to me, the presiding judge had asked for the witness to be brought in. The side door opened and a slender young woman entered. She was obliged to walk past the former president as she made her approach to the witness stand, and did so stiffly and without looking in his direction. He leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk and watching her carefully. She looked no older than twenty. The court usher poured her a glass of water, adjusted the microphone. The witness barely seemed to respond, her face was empty of expression. It was obvious the entire thing was an ordeal for her, she sat rigid in her chair and stared straight ahead, as if afraid to move.

Thank you for joining us today, the presiding judge said. It seemed to me that her voice was softer than usual, as though wary of startling the witness. You have a card on the table with the oath. If you could please read this out.

The young woman wet her lips, then leaned forward and spoke into the microphone. As she spoke, I saw that I had misapprehended her character, what I had interpreted as nerves was instead the extremity of her focus, she had come here to perform a monumental task and it followed that she was a person of no small courage. Her voice, as she read the oath of the Court and swore to speak the truth, was low and strong and supple and it sent a ripple through the room. I saw that I was not alone in recalibrating my sense of this young woman, the former president himself looked up at the sound of her voice and for the first time I saw something akin to fear in his eyes.

The presiding judge was exceedingly solicitous, asking the witness how she was feeling, thanking her for appearing before the Court, and assuring her of the value of her testimony. The young woman nodded, but even as the judge extended to her the sympathies of the Court I could see that she had little use for it, she understood all too clearly its limitations, she had not come all this way for the Court’s sympathy but for its promise of justice. The Court already had the witness’s statement in the record, the judge said, detailing how her brothers and her father had been killed. She would now be made available for examination by both parties. The judge paused and then said that she was very sorry to be asking her to revisit the events of that terrible day, events that she knew were profoundly upsetting. The trial by its nature demands more from the victims than it does from the accused, the judge said, which is in and of itself another injustice, and for which I can only express my profound regret. The young woman nodded. The judge then said that she would give the floor to the prosecution.

The prosecutor rose to his feet. He said he would be asking the witness questions about one particular day, during the unrest following the election. He would be obliged to ask her to go into considerable detail, for which he apologized. And he also apologized for speaking to her in French, unfortunately he did not speak her language. After a brief pause, during which his words were interpreted, I looked to the booth across the way. The young woman gave a curt nod and the prosecutor cleared his throat and examined his notes before commencing.

You were at home on the day in question, were you not?

The young woman leaned forward and responded.

Yes, I was at home with my family.

But you went out in the morning.

Yes. I went out in the morning with my brothers. It seemed that things had quieted down, and we wanted to go to the school. There had been gunshots the previous night, coming from that direction.

Her voice remained low and firm. She spoke with great deliberation, so that each word was like a link in a chain and the entire thing held fast, even as it moved across languages. From her to the visiting interpreters to us. The prosecutor nodded.

How far is the school from your home?

Perhaps ten minutes.

And what did you find when you arrived at the school?

The young woman paused and took a sip of water from her glass.

Please take your time.

Her gaze snapped up to the prosecutor. She shook her head, as if to say that she required no special dispensation, and continued.

There were bodies everywhere.

How many?

Thirty-two.

How do you know?

Because I counted.

Why?

What else should I have done?

Her manner was very simple as she said this, and there was not a drop of self-pity in it. Robert was interpreting and I heard his voice run dry. He continued.

And they were of the targeted ethnicity?

Yes.

How do you know this?

Because they were my neighbors. I grew up with these boys. I knew them very well. I knew their mothers and their sisters. I knew what they liked to eat for their dinner, what they wanted to be when they grew up.

Robert motioned to me and I nodded and took over.

And what happened next?

There were more gunshots. We heard more gunshots, and so we went home as quickly as we could. We ran home.