In English, Dawson recited the formal caution and the right to remain silent, which was ironic, because silence had been Yaw’s MO all along. To be sure that the message would get through, Dawson had Chikata give the caution in Twi as well, since his translation was a little better than Dawson’s.
“I’m not at all annoyed with you, Mr. Yaw,” Dawson continued casually, the way he might with an old friend. “You put up a good fight, and I admire you for that. But now you are here with us, and it’s time to talk.”
In Twi, he ran through routine questions: name, place, and date of birth as recorded on the national voter ID they had confiscated along with his belongings at his forest, and the names of Yaw’s relatives. The suspect’s response to Dawson’s every inquiry was dead silence. He stared at, and sometimes past, the two men with empty eyes.
How does he do it? Dawson wondered. Or maybe he’s completely mad.
“Do you understand my questions?” he asked.
No response.
“I will assume your failure to reply indicates assent to my queries,” Dawson said, jotting down, no response from suspect so far, 0732.
“Mr. Yaw,” he went on, sticking to Twi, “approximately two months ago, your brother, Amos, came to his death at a mining site operated by a Chinese man, one Mr. Bao Liu. Amos fell off a bridge suspended over the water into a deep pit, and he was not able to save himself. Neither could he be saved by any who were present at the scene. Is what I’ve said correct in your estimation?”
Yaw’s expression registered nothing.
“Amos’s girlfriend said he shouted for help many, many times,” Dawson said, “but no help was forthcoming. I think I know what pains you, Yaw. You could have saved your brother if only you had been there.”
Yaw’s eyes shifted, and now Dawson saw fire in them. And then the whites reddened, and shockingly, tears came. His nostrils flared, his lips and chin quivered, but still he uttered not a sound. Dawson was astonished. How did the man cry soundlessly? Was he genuinely mute? One thing of which Dawson was certain-attempting to bully him into responding was probably not going to work. It was the opposite approach that showed the most promise.
“I’m sorry,” Dawson said leaning forward slightly. “I am angry like you are angry. I’m angry with Bao Liu for what he did to Amos.”
Yaw’s lids flickered, his eyes dry and clear again.
“I think you were justified in killing Mr. Bao,” Dawson said. “He deserved to die after what he did to your brother.”
Dawson was putting himself in Yaw’s position and imagining a similar fate coming to his own beloved brother, Cairo. Would he not feel murderous intent toward the culprit? He was certain he would.
“And you,” Dawson continued, “you are not to blame in any part for Amos’s death. If you were there, you would have saved him, but you were not, and that is not your fault. Even if you had decided to farm with him as your father had asked you, it does not mean you would have been there that day at that time. You might easily have been elsewhere. Only God knows what might have been, and we cannot go back; we can only go forward. Do you get me?”
Dawson hoped he saw a flicker of agreement in Yaw’s face, but it could well be his wishful imagination.
“Yaw, do you have anything to say?”
He remained silent and sullen, and Dawson’s judgment told him that the interrogation was over for now. He was not going to put himself in a position of weakness by begging Yaw to speak. He would keep him in custody for the forty-eight hours allowed and come back to him repeatedly in that time, chipping away bit by bit until the shell cracked.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Later that morning, Dawson arrived at the guesthouse before his family, but the news wasn’t good. The bathroom and kitchen fixtures were in, but water was not flowing. Nyarko wasn’t sure where the problem was, since the big house had water.
An annoyed and flustered Gifty was there standing over him and continuously asking what the problem was, while Nyarko ran around trying to come up with the solution. Dawson felt sorry for the man, but stayed out of it, already exhausted by the whole situation. He was resigned that nothing was within his control at this point.
Additionally, the beds for the boys’ bedroom had not arrived and probably wouldn’t until the following Monday. The furniture in the living room was serviceable and Dawson decided Hosiah could sleep on the sofa. For Sly, they would fashion a reasonably soft surface for him on the floor.
Christine and the boys were expected at about one, so Dawson hung around just outside the house by the bougainvillea sprawling over the wall of the front yard. He was impatient and anxious to see them, and by one-thirty when they hadn’t shown, he called Christine, got no answer, and called again. On the third attempt he began to feel sick with fear that something terrible had happened.
Just as he was about to attempt calling for the fourth time, a taxi approached and Dawson recognized Christine in the front. Thank God. He waved and the cab pulled over to the side. Dawson saw Hosiah’s little head behind the rear window, and the taxi had barely stopped when the boy pushed the door open, scrambled out, and ran to leap into his father’s arms. Dawson, ignoring the sharp jab from his stitched wound, hugged his son tight and kissed him.
“I missed you, Daddy.”
Dawson was tearing up. “I missed you too.”
Sly joined them and embraced his father around the waist. Dawson rubbed his wiry hair, and Sly smiled up at him.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“How are you, Sly? How was the trip?”
“It was good.”
“Okay, Champ, I’ve got to put you down. You’re getting heavy.”
Dawson joined Christine at the rear of the cab as the driver unloaded four bulging suitcases weighing down the boot. She smiled at him.
“Hi, love,” he said, hugging her.
“Hi, sweetie.”
“You’re looking so beautiful. I missed you a lot.”
She wore an orange chiffon sleeveless blouse that hugged her at the waist, and a pair of blue jeans.
“How was the trip?” he asked her.
“Exhausting,” she answered. “Actually, the entire week has been exhausting.”
“I can imagine,” Dawson said, picking up a suitcase in either hand. “Good gracious. What is in these? Gold?”
“I wish it was,” Christine said with a laugh, as she settled the bill with the cab driver.
“Should Hosiah and I bring in the other ones?” Sly asked.
“You could pull the one that has wheels, and Hosiah can push it.”
“Okay.”
The three men of the family lugged the suitcases into the courtyard toward the guesthouse. Gifty must have heard their voices, because she came running out jubilantly to welcome the boys with smothering kisses, which seemed to make Sly squirm, although Hosiah didn’t mind. Hosiah didn’t mind any number of kisses from anyone-at least for now. Dawson knew he was sure to grow out of it.
Making their initial survey, Sly and Hosiah scampered in and out of the rooms of the house. Dawson kept his distance somewhat from Christine and her mother as they inspected the progress, or lack thereof.
Mr. Nyarko hovered nervously. He had been working on a temporary solution to the water problem. At least until Monday, the next-door neighbors were willing to allow the Dawsons to fill two or three buckets of water a day from their backyard pipe for bathing and toilet flushing.
“But the kids have nowhere to sleep,” Gifty said in distress.
“They’ll be okay,” Dawson said. “Hosiah can be on the couch, and we’ll put down some padding for Sly on the floor.”
“I see,” she said, and Dawson could tell that Gifty didn’t think that was a good idea. “Anyway, let’s go to Uncle Joe’s house now. He can’t wait to see you all.”