A portly, middle-aged man entered the courtroom and went to the witness stand. He lowered himself into the chair with caution, a furtive and hangdog expression on his face. If you could stand. Please. Yes—if you could please stand and give your date of birth and your current occupation. The man clambered to his feet. The former president adjusted his tie again, I wondered then if this was a nervous tic, rather than a gesture of intimidation, I thought I detected a flicker of apprehension in his eyes. Or perhaps it was anticipation. Thank you. Please be seated. Yes, thank you. Go ahead. Amina paused. The witness leaned toward the microphone and looked at the judge.
Good afternoon, Madame. Amina spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable. I could see that she was listening to the witness, adjusting to the patterns of his speech. Thank you for giving me the floor. I will try to answer your questions to the best of my ability, I would like to be of help. Amina had quickened her pace, and now she spoke rapidly, occasionally stopping to exhale. Before we return to the questioning by the prosecution, may I add a few words of my own? Amina’s forehead wrinkled. At the front, the presiding judge nodded wearily. There is no need for all this theater. It has been nearly five years since my colleague and friend was removed from our country and brought here under entirely false pretenses. Such games of hide-and-seek are not good for the reputation of the Court. Back home, this case has been seen as nothing less than a political kidnapping. He shook his head. Back home, they are saying why do they not arrest the current president, this illegitimate president?
The men and women in the public gallery began to cheer, their voices loud enough to permeate the glass barrier. A woman pumped her fist in the air and clapped her hands, soon that entire section of gallery was following suit. I could see the journalists’ attention pivot toward the former president’s supporters, the scene would make for a good story. The guards positioned in the aisles of the gallery seemed powerless to stop or even contain the pandemonium. Down below, the former president was smiling, as he raised a hand to his supporters.
Quiet. I must ask for quiet.
The presiding judge shook her head.
Please control your supporters.
The former president’s gaze remained fixed on the public gallery. For the first time since entering the courtroom, his face was wide-open, almost vulnerable—there was no hint of triumph, or subterfuge, or strategy in it. He was clearly emotional in the face of his enduring popularity. I must insist that you control your supporters, or they will be barred from the gallery. Again, I am insisting. Slowly, reluctantly, he raised both hands and motioned for his supporters to be seated. They quieted immediately, dropping obediently into their seats, their eyes on the former president. He nodded, almost to himself.
The judge peered at him through her spectacles, her expression stern. May I remind you that there are certain standards of decorum that are expected of visitors to the Court. Should they fail to adhere to those standards, they will immediately be expelled from the Court and denied any further access to these premises. The former president stared at her unblinkingly. After a moment, she continued, now addressing the witness. As for you, sir. I must ask that you confine yourself to responding to questions from the prosecution. We are already running behind schedule. The witness nodded, and as the prosecution began their questioning, the energy seemed to drain from the courtroom.
For the next ninety minutes the prosecution questioned the witness over matters that were at once meandering and technical in the extreme, during which time both the prosecution and the witness seemed to grow frustrated and weary. The judges interrupted at various points, largely to urge the witness and the prosecution alike to be more succinct in their words and lines of questioning, evidently they were serious about being behind schedule. In the second half of the session I began to interpret. I was more than usually nervous, not only because this was a trial of consequence and an error in interpretation could have considerable effect, but because I was afraid that Kees might somehow recognize my voice, unlikely as that might be—we had, I reminded myself, met only once and spoken barely at all.
Still, when I leaned forward and spoke into the microphone, my voice gave an audible wobble, so that several of the members of the Court looked up in surprise. I felt Amina tense beside me. I found my composure soon enough, to everyone’s relief, or at least Amina’s, who reached out and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. Kees did not respond to the sound of my voice, not even the tremor at the start. Nevertheless I was relieved when the session came to an end and the presiding judge rose to her feet.