Indigo (9 page)

This was Ikoyi jail, and several days had passed. But though Jerry had not spoken to Lawrence Biko or to anyone from the embassy, and though Christmas vacation would begin in less than two weeks' time, he had remained calm and was even beginning to consider himself lucky. Now there was a mattress for him to sleep on, and there was a pail in the room that was emptied each day. Also, this time they had selected his cell mates carefully. They were informants, perhaps, but he was nevertheless now confident that he would not be physically harmed. The Indian across from him, by contrast, seemed to be paying for protection. He was a pitiful man, and though Jerry had at first felt a foreigner's kinship with the man, he had recently begun to despise him, thankful that they were separated by the bars.

The Indian prisoner did, however, have one ritual that Jerry watched and longed for. At noon each day another man came into the cell block and brought this man his food, large supplies of curry with chapati and rice. The man ate all the food while the other man was there, chatting urgently with him through the bars. The two men spoke Sindhi, but though the man was presumably Muslim, he pushed thick hunks of things into his mouth and let it bulge there, flowing down his chin and falling onto the floor.

In Jerry's own cell, small plates of yams and eba were pushed through a wide section in the bars. On the Saturday of his arrival he wouldn't eat anything, but by Sunday evening he began to take a little of the food, and now he was eating whatever he could, though he did so slowly, examining each bite and tearing parts of the food away.

Of his two cell mates, the most articulate was Parker Akintola, a confidence man who had been jailed for selling tickets to a fictitious reggae concert presumably to be given by the Caribbean star Bob Marley. He would have gotten away with it but in May, 1981, Bob Marley died and Parker was caught. Since then, Parker said, he had been in and out of one jail or another, awaiting trial.

When a guard came into the cell block on the morning of Jerry's fifth day, he brought news that Lawrence Biko would arrive that afternoon. Jerry had maintained himself well over the days; he had not panicked and though he'd eaten the jail food he had not been ill. But now that word of Lawrence had come, he began to worry again. Why had it taken five days? It all seemed so absurd, such trumped-up charges and such a lot of time gone by.

Jerry spent that afternoon waiting at the cell door, but he was not called out until after the evening meal, and by then his mood had turned bad. He had just sat down on his mattress and was gazing at one of Parker's magazines, at a selection of African women's hairstyles, when keys began to rattle in the outer door and a guard came in. “Someone come to call,” he said.

Jerry would be seeing Lawrence in a private room, and when he got up to go his other cell mate, a young thief, told him to take his personal things along. “You may see we two nevermore,” he said, and Jerry took hope from that.

The guard walked ahead of him down the corridor, ushering him into an unbarred room at the end of the hall. It was not, however, Lawrence Biko who sat at the table waiting for him.

“Please,” said a thin man in a good-looking suit, “have a seat.”

“Who are you?” asked Jerry. “Where's Biko?”

“My name is Tunde Phelps-Neuman,” the man said. “I came in the hope that we could clear things up. Far too much of your time has already been taken by these events.”

“I was expecting my barrister,” Jerry said. “I was told that it was he I would see.”

“Alas,” said Phelps-Neuman, “it is only me. But shall I inquire on your behalf? It's Lawrence, didn't you say? I'll give him a call.”

“Lawrence Biko,” Jerry said. “Will I be allowed to go home tonight?”

The man did not reply, but Jerry understood that it wasn't because he was considering the question. He had a pad before him, three sharp pencils stationed at its side.

“I apologize for the delay,” the man said, “but let me explain that I have come for two reasons. First to bring news that will cheer you, and second to get your statement, a summation of things as you understand them.”

“What news?” Jerry asked. “It's been nearly a week and no one has come for me. What's happened to the U.S. Embassy in this matter? And what of Lawrence? What of the school board, for crying out loud?”

Phelps-Neuman held his palms up in a gesture that said though the questions were good ones, he didn't know the answers. He then said, “Let me be clear, Mr. Neal. I am the senior police investigator assigned to this case, and I am here to make a determination. It might be best, in fact, if you considered me your adversary.”

Jerry lowered his eyes and then closed them. This was all a bad dream and he was stupid to have maintained his optimism. Five good days had gone by! These things happened in movies, perhaps, but all he'd wanted was proper visas for the teachers in the goddamn school.

Jerry looked at the man quickly, asking, “Do you know where my teachers' files are? They were taken from me on the day of my first arrest. If I had them now I could show you why I went to the ministry that day. And the minister's files, too, should say that our teachers were in need of working visas, nothing more than that.”

“The ministry's records were burned, of course,” Phelps-Neuman said. “There is now nothing to show anything of the kind. That's what makes you a suspect, don't you see? We call it a motive.”

“But they have tourist visas in their passports!” Jerry shouted. “That means that without a change they'd have to leave the country after ninety days!”

Jerry paused, trying to control his voice. “You mentioned something about good news,” he said. “What the hell could that be?”

Phelps-Neuman waited a moment but then smiled. “I want to tell you that we are considering a reduction in charge, a move that will renew the possibility of bail.” He looked at Jerry carefully again. “If you will write your statement I will recommend bail in the morning. And then Mr. Lawrence Biko will have no trouble getting you out.”

“My statement?” Jerry asked. “Do you mean you want me to write down my movements of that day, that sort of thing?”

Phelps-Neuman pushed the legal pad across the table. “Yes, certainly,” he said. “And something about the copy-machine fluid. If you weren't involved what's your theory about how it got off the school grounds in the first place? Write down anything that will help us clear it all up.”

Jerry pulled the pad toward him and looked at it. “Who are you really after?” he asked, but all Phelps-Neuman would add was, “Why not spend your time at home?”

Jerry Neal had no idea what was going on, but whatever it was he felt sure, once again, that the ultimate target could not be him. Nevertheless he said, “I would like to write my statement in the presence of my lawyer. You know, an advocate, someone who's on my side.”

Phelps-Neuman pushed himself out of his chair then, but reached back down to touch the legal pad. “At any rate think about it,” he said. “I will come back again tomorrow.”

After that Phelps-Neuman left the room, but though Jerry was sure he'd stop at the door, when the door did open again it was not Phelps-Neuman but the guard, telling Jerry to come along back to his cell. Phelps-Neuman was nowhere in sight, nor was there any other sound.

As they were walking past the row of offices, however, Jerry saw an open door. Inside the room there was a desk with a phone sitting on it. This door had not been opened earlier and he looked at the guard. “Wait,” he said. “That man told me I could make a call. He said I could use this phone.”

The guard looked at him but didn't speak, so Jerry went into the room and picked up the receiver, sure that if he showed any hesitancy he would be stopped. He looked at the dial, wondering whether or not he had an outside line. The dial tone seemed normal so he called Lawrence Biko's office, hoping, though the hour was late, that he might be in. Lawrence answered at the first ring. “Biko,” he said.

“Lawrence, this is Jerry Neal. Do you know what's going on? Do you even know where they're keeping me?”

“Not too clearly,” his advocate said.

“I am in Ikoyi jail. I have just been interrogated by someone named Phelps-Neuman. Do you know him?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Lawrence. “He is very high up, very tough. How did you get to a phone?”

“Never mind that,” said Jerry. “Tell me what I need to know.”

“I have been waiting for word that I could see you. Even the American ambassador has not been able to discover as much as what you told me just now. It is all very unusual, Jerry. I have never had trouble seeing a client before.”

Jerry looked at the guard. “I'm not alone,” he said, “so listen carefully. I want you to get to Nurudeen. He's the boy who took the toner. Get him and hold him. Make him tell you the truth about what's going on.”

Lawrence laughed. “That's kidnapping,” he said. “And of course I have already spoken with the boy, and with his mother too. I already know what's going on. The difficulty now is getting you out. Once you are free we'll put our plan into action. But, of course, we can't discuss that on the telephone.”

Jerry had felt cool when telling Lawrence Biko to grab Nurudeen. Now though, with his attorney dismissing the idea out of hand, he began to lose his resolve.

“I can't stay here much longer, Lawrence,” he said.

“But didn't they tell you? You are set for arraignment next week. That much I've been able to settle without seeing you. And you are a newspaper headliner now. It's really quite astounding. Because of all the publicity your trial will be quick, no adjournments, I'm quite sure of that much at least.”

When Jerry looked at the guard again the man pointed to his wrist, where, on a richer man, there would have been a watch.

“Phelps-Neuman said they might reduce the charge in exchange for a statement. He said he could arrange bail.”

This time it was Lawrence who answered quickly. “That might be a trick,” he said. “Did you write anything down?”

“No, but he left me the paper.”

“Don't use it. Bail before arraignment is impossible.”

The guard had walked down the corridor but was back.

“I can't talk anymore,” Jerry said, “but surely I have the right to see you before I'm arraigned. Don't I have that right?”

“You have it under the law,” Lawrence said.

Jerry had pushed the use of the telephone too far but there was one more question he had to ask. “You said you spoke with Nurudeen and his stepmother. Tell me, what was the woman's name?”

Lawrence laughed again. “Well, yes,” he said, “let's see. I believe she told me her given name was Pamela.”

Over the remaining days before his arraignment, Jerry learned the name of his other cell mate and came to the decision that it was just possible that two Pamelas had entered his life at the same time. The other man was Louis Smith-Jones, whose high-sounding name did little to improve his impoverished face.

And however adversarial Tunde Phelps-Neuman had been or intended to be, he did one thing for which Jerry would forever be thankful. He arranged for Jerry's food to be brought in by Jules, every morning, from the outside.

Jules's first visit was on Saturday, and though Jules was by nature a taciturn man, something in the current situation brought him out. He smiled when he entered the cell block, greeting Jerry with a spirited description of what his bundle contained. “I have strawberry crepes with sugar-o, homemade bread, and coffee fresh-ground!”

Jules stayed, each time, only long enough for Jerry to receive his food, but the visits ordered Jerry's day. And the food, very quickly, meant everything. Jerry loved the wonderful variety of it, adored the sanitary way it was prepared. And after that first day he asked that enough be brought for all three of them. He had learned that lesson from the Indian man across the hall.

Of his cell mates, Louis Smith-Jones liked to sample bits of Jerry's food but Parker Akintola was as transformed by it as was Jerry. They still had their jail meals, of course, but all of them now looked forward to Jules. They took his arrival as a celebration and it allowed them to become chums.

“We go release someday, have reunion chop same,” Louis said one morning when Jules brought in meatloaf for them to try. He picked up a slice of meatloaf and smelled it.

“Dis be pork?” he asked.

“No, only mince,” Jerry said. “And onions and raisins and bread.”

“I go smell pork,” Louis said, so Parker took the meatloaf from him and ate it, running his tongue around his mouth.

“Oh, you are right, Louis,” he said. “Is pork, no question. I be careful for you every time from now on.”

Despite the anger that stayed with him, this kind of banter made the time go by. Louis Smith-Jones was a sweet-natured young man, and Parker kept proclaiming his own innocence by saying that for an ordinary Nigerian just holding a Bob Marley concert ticket was such a satisfying thing that actually going to the concert was beside the point. He had given everyone pleasure and was only in jail because the authorities had failed to understand.

Jerry didn't see Tunde Phelps-Neuman again until the morning of his arraignment on Tuesday of that second week, December 13, three days before Christmas vacation was to begin. On that morning Jules arrived early, carrying food but also bringing a clean suit of clothes. The guards let Jerry wash himself privately and change in one of the interrogation rooms. He shaved and dressed, and when Phelps-Neuman came in Jerry could immediately see that he was surprised.

“Your arraignment is before Justice Felix Ogunde,” Phelps-Neuman said. “The charge will be arson plus murder, but the state will not oppose bail. We will then recommend deportation within forty-eight hours of the plea.”