The Leopard Hunts in Darkness (25 page)

The guards seized her immediately and hustled her out through the doors. Tungata Zebiwe stood in the dock and watched impassively, by his sheer presence belittling every other person in the
room. Even the judge, Mr Justice Domashawa, a tall, emaciated Mashona, with a delicately bridged atypical Egyptian nose and small, bright, birdlike eyes, although vested in all the authority of his
scarlet robes, seemed ordinary in comparison. However, Mr Justice Domashawa had a formidable reputation, and the prosecutor had rejoiced in his selection when he told Craig and Sally-Anne of
it.

‘Oh, he is indeed
persona grata
and now it is very much
in gremio legis
, we will see justice done, never fear.’

While the country had still been Rhodesia, the British jury system had been abandoned. The judge would reach a verdict with the assistance of the two black-robed assessors who sat with him on
the bench. Both these assessors were Shona: one was an expert on wildlife conservation, and the other a senior magistrate. The judge could call upon their expert advice if he so wished, but the
final verdict would be his alone.

Now he settled his robes around him, the way an ostrich shakes out its feathers as it settles on the nest, and he fixed Tungata Zebiwe with his bright dark eyes while the clerk of the court read
out the charge sheet in English.

There were eight main charges: dealing in and exporting the products of scheduled wild animals, abducting and holding a hostage, assault with a deadly weapon, assault with intent to do grievous
bodily harm, attempted murder, violently resisting arrest, theft of a motor vehicle, and malicious damage to state property. There were also twelve lesser charges.

‘By God,’ Craig whispered to Sally-Anne, ‘they are throwing the bricks from the walls at him.’

‘And the tiles off the floor,’ she agreed. ‘Good for them, I’d love to see the bastard swing.’

‘Sorry, my dear, none of them are capital charges.’ And yet all through the prosecution’s opening address, Craig was overcome by a sense of almost Grecian tragedy, in which an
heroic figure was surrounded and brought low by lesser, meaner men.

Despite his feelings, Craig was aware that Abel Khori was doing a good businesslike job of laying out his case in his opening address, even displaying restraint in his use of Latin maxims. The
first of a long list of prosecution witnesses was General Peter Fungabera. Resplendent in full dress, he took the oath and stood straight-backed and martial with his swagger-stick held loosely in
one hand. His testimony was given without equivocation, so direct and impressive that the judge nodded his approval from time to time as he made his notes.

The Central Committee of the ZAPU party had briefed a London barrister for the defence, but even Mr Joseph Petal QC could not shake General Fungabera and very soon realized the futility of the
effort, so he retired to wait for more vulnerable prey.

The next witness was the driver of the truck containing the contraband. He was an ex-ZIPRA guerrilla, recently released from one of the rehabilitation centres and his testimony was given in the
vernacular and translated into English by the court interpreter.

‘Had you ever met the accused before the night you were arrested?’ Abel Khori demanded of him after establishing his identity.

‘Yes. I was with him in the fighting.’

‘Did you see him again after the war?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you tell the court when that was?’

‘Last year in the dry season.’

‘Before you were placed in the rehabilitation centre?’

‘Yes, before that.’

‘Where did you meet Minister Tungata Zebiwe?’

‘In the valley, near the great river.’

‘Will you tell the court about that meeting?’

‘We were hunting elephant – for the ivory.’

‘How did you hunt them?’

‘We used tribesmen, Batonka tribesmen, and a helicopter, to drive them into the old minefield.’

‘I object to this line of questioning, my lord.’ Mr Petal QC jumped up. ‘This has nothing to do with the charges.’

‘It has reference to the first charge,’ Abel Khori insisted.

‘Your objection is overruled, Mr Petal. Please continue, Mr Prosecutor.’

‘How many elephant did you kill?’

‘Many, many elephant.’

‘Can you estimate how many?’

‘Perhaps two hundred elephant, I am not sure.’

‘And you state that the Minister Tungata Zebiwe was there?’

‘He came after the elephant had been killed. He came to count the ivory and take it away in his helicopter—’

‘What helicopter?’

‘A government helicopter.’

‘I object, your lordship, the point is irrelevant.’

‘Objection overruled, Mr Petal, please continue.’

When his turn came for cross-examination, Mr Joseph Petal went into the attack immediately.

‘I put it to you that you were never a member of Minister Tungata Zebiwe’s resistance fighters. That you never, in fact, met the minister until that night on the Karoi
road—’

‘I object, your lordship,’ Abel Khori shouted indignantly. ‘The defence is trying to discredit the witness in the knowledge that no records of patriotic soldiers exist and that
the witness cannot, therefore, prove his gallant service to the cause.’

‘Objection sustained. Mr Petal, please confine your questions to the matter in hand and do not bully the witness.’

‘Very well, your lordship.’ Mr Petal was rosy-faced with frustration as he turned back to the witness. ‘Can you tell the judge when you were released from the rehabilitation
centre?’

‘I forget. I cannot remember.’

‘Was it a long time or a short time before your arrest?’

‘A short time,’ the witness replied sulkily, looking down at his hands in his lap.

‘Were you not released from the prison camp on the condition that you drove the truck that night, and that you agreed to give evidence—’

‘My lord!’ shrieked Abel Khori, and the judge’s voice was as shrill and indignant.

‘Mr Petal, you will not refer to state rehabilitation centres as prison camps.’

‘As your lordship pleases.’ Mr Petal continued, ‘Were you made any promises when you were released from the rehabilitation centre?’

‘No.’ The witness looked about him unhappily.

‘Were you visited in the centre, two days before your release, by a Captain Timon Nbebi of the Third Brigade?’

‘No.’

‘Did you have any visitors in the camp?’

‘No! No!’

‘No visitors at all, are you sure?’

‘The witness has already answered that question,’ the judge stopped him, and Mr Petal sighed theatrically, and threw up his hands.

‘No further questions, my lord.’

‘Do you intend calling any further witnesses, Mr Khori?’

Craig knew that the next witness should have been Timon Nbebi, but unaccountably Abel Khori passed over him and called instead the trooper who had been knocked down by the Land-Rover. Craig felt
an uneasy little chill of doubt at the change in the prosecution’s tactics. Did the prosecutor want to protect Captain Nbebi from cross-examination? Did he want to prevent Mr Petal from
pursuing the question of a visit by Timon Nbebi to the rehabilitation centre? If this was so, the implications were unthinkable, so Craig forced himself to put his doubts aside.

The necessity for all questions and replies to be translated made the entire court process long-drawn-out and tedious, so it was only on the third day that Craig was called to the witness
stand.

A
fter Craig had taken the oath, and before Abel Khori had begun his examination, he glanced towards the dock. Tungata Zebiwe was watching him
intently and as their eyes locked, Tungata made a sign with his right hand.

In the old days when they had worked together as rangers in the Game Department, Craig and Tungata had developed this sign language to a high degree. During the dangerous work of closing in on a
breeding herd to begin the bloody elephant culls during which it had been their duty to destroy surplus animals that were over-populating the reserves, or when they were stalking a marauding
cattle-killing pride of lions, they had communicated silently and swiftly with this private language.

Now Tungata gave him the clenched fist, his powerful black fingers closing over the clear pink of his palm in the sign that said ‘Beware! Extreme danger.’

The last time Tungata had given him that sign, he had had only microseconds to turn and meet the charge of the enraged lung-wounded lioness as she came grunting in bloody pink explosive gasps of
breath out of heavy brush cover, launching herself like a golden thunderbolt upon him, so that even though the bullet from his .458 magnum had smashed through her heart, her momentum had hurled
Craig off his feet.

Now Tungata’s sign made his nerves tingle and the hair on his forearms rise, at the memory of danger past and the promise of danger present. Was it a threat – or a warning, Craig
wondered, staring at Tungata. He could not be certain, for Tungata was now expressionless and unmoving. Craig gave him the signal, ‘Query? I do not understand,’ but Tungata ignored it,
and Craig abruptly realized that he had missed Abel Khori’s opening question.

‘I’m sorry – will you repeat that?’

Swiftly Abel Khori led him through his questions.

‘Did you see the driver of the truck make any signal as the Mercedes approached?’

‘Yes, he flashed his lights.’

‘And what was the response?’

‘The Mercedes stopped and two of the occupants left the vehicle and went to speak with the driver of the truck.’

‘In your opinion, was this a pre-arranged meeting?’

‘Objection, your lordship, the witness cannot know that.’

‘Sustained. The witness will disregard the question.’

‘We come now to your gallant rescue of Miss Jay from the evil clutches of the accused.’

‘Objection – the word “evil”.’

‘You will discontinue the use of the adjective “evil”.’

‘As your lordship pleases.’

After that hand-signal, and during the rest of Craig’s testimony, Tungata Zebiwe sat immovable as a figure carved in the granite of Matabeleland, with his chin sunk in his chest, but his
eyes never left Craig’s face.

As Mr Petal rose to cross-examine, he moved for the first time, leaning forward to rumble a few terse words. Mr Petal seemed to protest, but Tungata made a commanding gesture.

‘No questions, your lordship,’ Mr Petal acquiesced, and sank back in his seat, freeing Craig to leave the witness box without harassment.

Sally-Anne was the last of the prosecution witnesses and, after Peter Fungabera, perhaps the most telling.

She was still limping with her sprained ankle, so that Abel Khori hurried forward to help her into the witness box. The dark shadow of the bruise on her neck was the only blemish on her skin,
and she gave her evidence without hesitation in a clear pleasing voice.

‘When the accused seized you, what were your feelings?’

‘I was in fear of my life.’

‘You say the accused struck you. Where did the blow land?’

‘Here on my neck – you can see the bruise.’

‘You state that the accused aimed the stolen rifle at Mr Mellow. What was your reaction?

‘And will you tell the court whether you sustained any other injuries.’

Abel Khori made the most of such a lovely witness, and very wisely, Mr Petal once again declined to cross-examine. The prosecution closed its case on the evening of the third day, leaving Craig
troubled and depressed.

He and Sally-Anne ate at her favourite steakhouse, and even a bottle of good Cape wine did not cheer him.

‘That business about the driver never having met Tungata before, and being released only on a promise to drive the truck—’

‘You didn’t believe that?’ Sally-Anne scoffed. ‘Even the judge made no secret of how far-fetched he thought that was.’

After he dropped her at her apartment, Craig walked alone through the deserted streets, feeling lonely and betrayed – though he could not find a logical reason for the feeling.

M
r Joseph Petal QC opened his defence by calling Tungata Zebiwe’s chauffeur. He was a heavily built Matabele, although young, already running
to fat, with a round face that should have been jovial and smiling, but was now troubled and clouded. His head had been freshly shaved, and he never looked at Tungata once during his time on the
witness stand.

‘On the night of your arrest, what orders did Minister Zebiwe give you?’

‘Nothing. He told me nothing.’

Mr Petal looked genuinely puzzled and consulted his notes.

‘Did he not tell you where to drive? Did you not know where you were going?’

‘He said “Go straight”, “Turn left here,” “Turn right here”,’ the driver muttered, ‘I did not know where we were going.’

Obviously Mr Petal was not expecting this reply.

‘Did Minister Zebiwe not order you to drive to Tuti Mission?’

‘Objection, your lordship.’

‘Do not lead the witness, Mr Petal.’

Mr Joseph Petal was clearly thinking on his feet. He shuffled his papers, glanced at Tungata Zebiwe, who sat completely impassive, and then switched his line of questioning.

‘Since the night of your arrest, where have you been?’

‘In prison.’

‘Did you have any visitors?’

‘My wife came.’

‘No others?’

‘No.’ The chauffeur ducked his head defensively.

‘What are those marks on your head? Were you beaten?’

For the first time Craig noticed the dark lumps on the chauffeur’s shaven pate.

‘Your lordship, I object most strenuously,’ Abel Khori cried plaintively.

‘Mr Petal, what is the purpose of this line of questioning?’ Mr Justice Domashawa demanded ominously.

‘My lord, I am trying to find why the witness’s evidence conflicts with his previous statement to the police.’

Mr Petal struggled to obtain a clear reply from the sulky and uncooperative witness, and finally gave up with a gesture of resignation.

‘No further questions, your lordship.’ And Abel Khori rose smiling to cross-examine.

‘So the truck flashed its lights at you?’