When I was here in January, David, Kirby (from Sixty Feet), a UCLF attorney, and I visited four of the five remand homes and connected the wardens with UCLF so they would know that the kids have lawyers.  The fifth and final remand home is in Western Uganda in a town called Fort Portal.  So that is where David and I (and Daniel our driver) were headed after the oral argument at the court of appeals on Tuesday.

On our way out of town, we stopped at UCLF headquarters and picked up a UCLF attorney named Docus.  As she had just started at UCLF, I had never met her, but when she climbed into the car, I thought I recognized her from somewhere.

The five-hour drive to Fort Portal was both uneventful and beautiful.  Fort Portal rests in the foothills of the Rwenzori mountain range, and is thus a bit cooler than muggy Kampala.  David and I checked into on inn run by a Dutch couple situation just on the outskirts of town.  Daniel and Docus ventured into town in search of a more “local” place to sleep.  Before dinner, I walked into and around the entire town over a half-hour period, checking out the local scene and reflecting on the days’ events.  I didn’t see any other white faces.

The next morning, David, Docus, and I met up with another UCLF attorney named Regina who is based a few hours outside of Fort Portal.  She is representing the juveniles currently confined in the Fort Portal Remand Home, and is funded by the two-year grant UCLF received last year.  The four of us then went to the judicial chambers of Justice Mike Chibita, who is the Resident High Court Judge in this area.  Justice Chibita is the former President of UCLF and is a stellar individual and judge.  He was just starting a combined adult/juvenile court session and was fully on top of the challenges faced in delivering justice efficiently to Ugandans.

During my last visit to Uganda two months ago, I had dinner with Justice Chibita and pitched the idea of running a pilot program in Fort Portal this summer, whereby we would take the J-FASTER model we have been using for juveniles and apply it to the adult realm.  To succeed, we would need a progressive and organized judge, a big backlog at an adult prison, cooperation and assistance from that prison, cooperation from the prosecutors’ office, and a team of Ugandan and American lawyers.  I had heard there was a large prison backlog in Fort Portal and knew Justice Chibita was exactly the judge we wanted.  After we discussed the idea, Justice Chibita was in.

Providentially, Friday’s local paper ran an article decrying the huge prison backlog in Fort Portal and quoted Chief Justice Odoki as saying that he would look into solutions to this problem.  The timing could not be more perfect.  So the purpose of this trip to Fort Portal was to secure buy in from the necessary constituents.

We first met with Justice Chibita on Wednesday morning and agreed upon a number – we would try to handle 60 of the cases in a session scheduled for July.  We decided that the team of American lawyers (and Pepperdine Law students) would work hand-in-hand with a team of Ugandan lawyers and law students to prepare the cases for trial, so they could be plea bargained in advance of trial.  Since I am going to be in Uganda with Joline and Jessica from June 3-26, and since seven Pepperdine students will be in country during this time as well, we settled on the week of June 10-14 for an intensive time of case preparation.  The task ahead was then to convince the prison, the prosecution, and the central judicial authorities in Kampala to go along.

From Justice Chibita’s office, we headed five miles out of town to the Katojo prison for a meeting with the warden.  Katojo had been built to accommodate 283 prisoners; it currently houses just over 900.  The prisoners fall it three almost evenly divided groups – those who have been arrested and committed to the High Court (the prosecution is ready to proceed with trial), those who have been arrested and have not yet been committed (the police are still investigating the case), and those who have been convicted of crimes and are serving their sentences.  Our focus is on the first group, many of whom have been waiting for more than three years for their promised trial.

Over the course of an hour-long meeting with the warden and deputy warden, everything was worked out.  They were thrilled with the prospect of moving the cases forward and pledged their full support and cooperation.  Now we needed to convince the prosecution and the top judicial brass in Kampala.  Our meeting with two of the three prosecutors in Fort Portal went exceptionally well.  They understood what we were trying to accomplish, and pledged their support and cooperation, as well.  So all we had left for the leap of the J-FASTER program from the juvenile realm to the adult realm was the approval of the Chief Justice, the Principal Judge, and the Head of the Criminal Division, all of whom are headquartered in Kampala.

Before we left town, we went to visit the Fort Portal Remand Home.  As noted previously, this is the only remand home I had not yet visited.  The grounds and buildings were habitable and relatively clean, though clearly aging.  We met with the warden first, and she informed us that there were 34 juveniles on remand – 33 boys and 1 girl.  Justice Chibita has things moving well, and only one boy had been there longer than the statutory limit of six months.  The biggest challenge has been the speed at which the juveniles are committed to the High Court – the police seem to have a challenge completing their investigations in a timely manner.  We were immediately impressed with the warden, and the juveniles seem to look to her as a mother figure.

Among the challenges she identified was the difficulty in getting fuel money from the central office in Kampala.  Without fuel for the remand home van, they cannot transport the kids to court, and cannot transport them home when they are released.  The warden informed us that they were in a crisis situation at the moment – they had no fuel to get to and from court in the morning, and they certainly didn’t have any fuel to resettle two boys who had been released by the court.  She went on to tell us that one of the boys had been released two weeks earlier, but they didn’t have the 250,000 shillings (just under $100) necessary to transport the boy back to the remote village where lived.  The 14 year-old boy, she said, cried himself to sleep every night, and was refusing to wear the prison uniform, reasoning that he was no longer a legitimate prisoner.  Within minutes, two phone calls were made.  The first call was to UCLF, who agreed to provide funds for the fuel to and from court from the grant money they had (we had built fuel costs into our original proposal, just in case they were needed).  The second call was to Sixty Feet, who have been funding the J-FASTER sessions, and providing loads of other assistance to the remand homes throughout the country.  Predictably, Sixty Feet again stepped up, and agreed to provide the fuel to get the released prisoners home immediately.  David and I had a chance to pull the two aside before we left and let them know they were going home.  There are few better moments than these.

The warden then gathered all the kids together and introduced us.  They were polite and playful.  They had lots of questions and several requests.  Many of the requests concerned food and educational activities.  We are going to work with Sixty Feet on seeing what can be done to improve their conditions.  Previously, I had learned that they didn’t have a soccer ball, so I asked them if they wanted one.  The response was predictable – there is little else more important to Ugandan kids than soccer (football).  Within an hour, we had bought and delivered a shiny new ball.

At one point, they went around the room and introduced themselves to us.  About two-thirds of the way around, a rather awkward and tentative boy stood for his turn.  It was immediately clear that this boy was three standard deviations from the IQ mean – to the south side.  He stumbled and stuttered his way through his introduction, which clearly took all the concentration he could muster.  The other kids laughed and nudged each other.  I guess cruelty toward those less fortunate knows no borders.  David immediately jumped in and thanked the boy for introducing himself and telling him he did a good job.  The other kids got the point of David’s compassion.

Most of the questions were handled by David, Regina (local UCLF lawyer), and me.  At the end, one of the children wanted to hear from Docus.  She stepped forward and said what do you want to hear?

“Sing them a song,” I jokingly quipped.

“Do you want me to sing for you?” she asked the kids.

“I was kidding,” I jumped in, trying to give her an out.

She didn’t need one.  She took a deep breath and belted out a gospel tune.  Now, Docus is five foot nothing and can’t see 100 pounds with the Hubbell telescope, but her voice filled every inch of the large room in which we had gathered.

Then it hit me.  That’s where I had seen her before.  In July of 2010, I had visited Uganda Christian University with Tim Perrin and we had attended a noon worship time of about 1,500 students.  The leader of the worship time was a little lady with a huge voice who looked just like Docus.  And she had sung that same song.  When Docus was done, everyone clapped.

“You went to UCU, right?”

“Yes.”

“When did you graduate?”

“September of 2010.”

“And you led singing during the worship time, didn’t you?”

“Yes, how did you know that?”

“Your voice.  I remember you!”

I think this freaked her out more than a little bit, and I don’t blame her.  Later, in the car ride on the way back, I pull out my daily report from that day and let her read the paragraph I had written about how great the worship time had been.  Small world, big God.

We had a good trip back, but long car rides on bad roads are not good combinations for bad backs.

On Thursday morning, David and I met with Chief Justice Odoki.  Unsurprisingly, he enthusiastically endorsed our Fort Portal plans.  I later got ahold of Principal Judge Bamwine, who was in South Africa, and he also threw his support behind the project.  At noon, we met with the Head of the Criminal Division, whose endorsement completed the trifecta.  All is a go.

I am now at the Nairobi airport on my first of two layovers on my way home.  As usual, it was great to be in Uganda, but it will be good to be home also.

This morning I awoke at 2:00 a.m. to the kind of thunderstorms I have only experienced in Africa.  They are Biblical in proportions.  In addition to the bunker-busting thunder strikes, I could hear the showers ricocheting off the roof, the side of the house, the window, and . . . pieces of paper?  After a few moments, I remembered that there are screens above the windows not covered by glass, and the side-winding, cloud-borne sprinkler system pelting the side of the house was also penetrating the screen . . . onto the papers I had foolishly left by the window.  I scampered out of bed and moved the court papers I needed later in the morning.  Fortunately, nothing important was damaged, and I was back in bed within a couple minutes.

As I lay there listening to the thunder and rain, I wondered whether this was the final angry gasp of a three-year storm, or whether it was the opening another darker chapter.  I dozed off and on until 4:00 a.m., then got up to run through everything one more time.

The driver picked me up at 5:30 a.m., and we picked up Henry at 6:00.  As I climbed into the back seat of the taxi with Henry, I stepped in a mud patch and caked my shoes.  Brilliantly, I then set my backpack on the floor of the taxi at my feet.

Unsurprisingly, we encountered no significant traffic, so we were into Kampala by 6:45.  Since the hearing wasn’t scheduled to start until 9:30, we had some time to kill.  We decided to do so at David’s office in the Commercial Court.  When I went to open my backpack, I cradled it against my body.  Big mistake.

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” said Henry as he pointed to the mud streaking my stomach. I spent the next five minutes trying to wash out the red stain on my tuxedo shirt, which is what Ugandan advocates wear when they appear in court.  I met with only limited success.

Ugandan Red Dirt on a Tuxedo Shirt

I had brought along a Flip video camera, so I interviewed Henry for a few minutes so we could capture the moment.  Henry then said it was my turn to answer questions, and that he wanted to make sure we never forgot how we were both feeling at that time.

Since the court of appeals does not video the arguments, I decided to tape myself doing one last run through with Henry at my side.  At 7:45, we headed to the court of appeals and had breakfast in the restaurant next door.  Before we left the restaurant, we spent some time praying together.

At 8:45, we walked into the courthouse.  I felt much more calm than I had expected – prayers and preparation proved rather beneficial.

At 9:00 a.m., the court staff confirmed there was a full three-judge panel ready and that everything was a go.  Two weeks ago, the panel was announced, and it included the acting Deputy Chief Justice (DCJ).  The DCJ has been rather sick and has been inconsistently appearing in court.  And when she is not there, the cases on the panels to which she is assigned are adjourned until the next session, which is typically three to six months later.  Compounding this problem, the DCJ’s brother died last week.  He was the Deputy Prime Minister, so this created the additional risk that the DCJ would not attend the hearing.  But by 9:00 a.m., the court staff had confirmed that the DCJ was being replaced another judge on the panel today, so I thought everything was a go.

At 9:15, Edward Sekabanja (local counsel working with me) arrived and helped me tie on the requisite silly neck scarf and put on the robe.  Still no sign of the prosecution lawyer.  Still quite calm.

At 9:30, another lawyer with whom I have worked on the juvenile justice projects arrived, as he had a matter before the court this morning also.  This lawyer told me he had spoken with the prosecutor the day before, and she was considering not contesting the appeal.  Excellent.

At 9:45, the prosecution arrived.  I introduced myself, told her I would be arguing the case, and tried to make small talk, hoping she would tip her hand.  No dice.  Edward had a little more luck, but my heart sank when he reported to me what she said.

“She will be asking the court to adjourn the case.”

“Why?”

“She says she is not prepared for the hearing.”

“Why not?”

“She says she didn’t think the hearing would take place today, so she didn’t prepare.”

“Wait.  What?  How long does she want to the delay the hearing?”

“Until she has time to prepare.”

I knew this session was ending on Thursday, so I feared the worst.  She would be seeking to kick the can down the road . . . again.

Just before 10:00, a loud “boom” echoed throughout the courtroom as the judges were “knocked in” by the court clerk.  My own heart aftershocked the “boom” as the judges filed into the courtroom.  This was it.  As they sat down, I became a magnet for the six judicial eyes who appeared not to have expected a mzungu to be sitting among the other robed advocates.  Not that I could blame them — no American has ever appeared in the Ugandan Court of Appeals, or any other Ugandan court.

On the docket for the day were four cases.  We were third in line, and the fourth case involved six co-defendants, whose families had all come to watch.  The first two cases were summary proceedings whereby the defense lawyer moved that the cases be remanded to the trial court in light of a recent Uganda Supreme Court decision casting doubt on the sentences issued in those cases.  The prosecution did not oppose these motions, so it was game time.

When our case was called, Henry was led to the dock and I stood before the court.  I introduced myself, my co-counsel Edward, and the prosecuting attorney (as is the custom).  As soon as I introduced her, she asked to be heard on a motion.  Edward gently pulled down on my robe, indicating I should sit.  Apparently, they have a one-lawyer-standing-at-a-time rule.  Good to know.

The prosecutor proceeded to request an adjournment on the grounds she was not prepared because she did not expect the court to sit today.  The judges just stared at her blankly, and then one asked “Why not?”

She explained that she knew the DCJ would not be here, and no one contacted her office to tell her the hearing would still proceed anyway.  To put it gently, they were not impressed.  “So you want us to adjourn because this is not the panel you wanted?”  They asked her if she could be ready tomorrow.  She hemmed and hawed and ultimately agreed she could be, if necessary, but preferred a longer adjournment.  Then came my turn to stand.  I calmly, but unapologetically requested that we proceed with the case as scheduled.  I explained we had provided extensive briefing well in advance of the hearing, and that it was very difficult to get Henry out of school for today’s hearing.

The judges conferred amongst themselves for about a minute and then the judge in the middle began writing.  Three minutes later, he was still writing.  One of the other judges who had been leafing through the record turned to Henry and said with a warm smile,

“How old are you?”

“I am nineteen.”

“I see you will be twenty very soon.”

“Sir?”

“When were you born?”

“I was born on the 18^th of March, 1993.”

The judge nodded and smile widely back at Henry.

“It was a Friday at 7:00 p.m.,” Henry said with an even bigger smile.

The audience of about forty erupted in laughter.

“How do you know that?” The judge playfully responded.

“My mum told me.”  More laughter.

This back and forth cut through the heavy tension in the room, as we all waited for the court’s ruling on the prosecution’s motion.

When the laughter died down, the judge in the middle began to read his ruling.  He reiterated the request and the supporting reasoning, . . . then denied the motion.  The hearing would proceed.

Now, both energized by the ruling and relaxed by the banter, I stood again and re-introduced myself, explaining I was appearing pursuant to a Special Practising Certificate (that’s how they spell it here) and I was ready to proceed whenever directed to do so.

“Where is your certificate?”

“Right here,” I responded and handed it to the clerk, who brought it to the judge in the middle.

He inspected it, nodded ever so slightly, and handed it to the judge on his right.  She inspected it, nodded approvingly, and passed it back to the judge on the other side – the one who had been chatting with Henry.  He squinted at it and then pointed to one portion of it as he handed it back to the judge in the middle.  He squinted as well, shook his head, and then passed to the third judge.  Crap.

I knew exactly what they were looking at.  It was the first thing I noticed when I saw it for the first time.  It has my name, the date, and the necessary signature.  But the space for the identification of the single case in which I am authorized to appear . . . is blank.  My heart sank again.

Can you find the blank spot?

“Why is the case not included?”

The one-lawyer-standing-at-a-time rule turned the bench into a gravitational field and sucked by butt straight down.  Up popped Edward, who proceeded to explain to the court the number of difficulties encountered to get the certificate issued in the first place, and that his office had not gone back to the law council to fix the mistake.  That argument struck me as about as strong as the prosecution’s motion to adjourn the case.  At that moment, it seemed like it would meet with the same fate.

The judges again conferred, and then the one in the middle declared that since the special practising certificate did not contain the name of the case . . . it would be deemed to be a general practising certificate, which contained no limitation.  The magic words “you may proceed, counsel” followed.

“May it please my Lords, I would like to request 30 minutes for my opening submission, though I hope to conclude in less time.”  What I heard in response was “you may have twenty minutes,” though David Nary assures me he actually said “you may have thirty minutes.”  (I still occasionally struggle with the accent).

Somewhat surprised, though not shaken, I replied, “Thank you, my Lord.  I will conclude within twenty minutes.”

During my time as a law clerk on the federal court of appeals, and during my time in DC at Kirkland & Ellis, I have seen a handful of stellar advocates argue before the courts of appeal and Supreme Court.  I could easily imagine someone who saw my argument say, “I know Ken Starr.  Ken Starr is a friend of mine.  You are no Ken Starr.”  And I would agree.  Without reservation.

That being said, I truly feel like things went as well as I could have hoped or imagined in my opening argument.  Whatever level my potential is, I reached it.  And I could ask for nothing more.  I (mostly) overcame my tendency to speak quickly, and didn’t feel nervous even for a moment.  Prayer and preparation.

The judges didn’t ask a single question.  As I sat down, I glanced over at the prosecutor and noticed she had several pages of notes she had taken while I spoke.  She would not be conceding.  Over the next fifteen minutes, she made all the points I would have made in response to my argument, and she made them well, even citing to several pages in the record to make her points.  She was prepared after all.  Why had she sandbagged?

On rebuttal, I got in and got out on about six different points over the course of about six minutes.  I felt like I hit back hard on each of her strongest arguments.

And then it was over.  Relief washed over me.  The case was now where it has always been – in God’s hands.  He has entrusted it, however, for the time being, to the Ugandan Court of Appeals.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins for the next half hour as Edward, Henry, David, and I replayed the action while we talked outside.  Edward said he feels good about the likely outcome, but what is he going to say?  “You sucked and we are going to lose?”  Another lawyer there said he thought the court could go either way.  We shall see, though likely not for another several months.

We took some photos, hugged it out, and then I put Henry into a taxi back to school.

Post-argument team photo

David and I are now on the way to Fort Portal to visit another juvenile remand home and an adult prison to see if we can be of assistance in expediting the cases of those awaiting trial there.

Henry and I have been so blessed and overwhelmed by the outpouring of prayers and encouragement.  He specifically asked me to thank everyone who has been praying for him, and to tell them he loves them.  I echo his sentiments.

In Uganda, the court of appeals affords comparatively little deference to trial court determinations.  In fact, the court of appeals is authorized to take new testimony and receive new evidence not presented at the trial.  Because the two points of appeal we are raising focus primarily on legal errors we are alleging, we are not seeking to admit new evidence on appeal.  That doesn’t mean, however, that the court will not want to hear from Henry.  (We had previously unsuccessfully sought permission for Henry to stay in school on Tuesday, rather than attending the hearing).  Accordingly, we spent some time on Sunday morning walking through some possible scenarios that could play out.  Better safe than “sorry, sorry.”

While we were talking, Henry called his sister Doreen and made sure that the family spelled “James Josiah” correctly on the baptismal certificate prepared that day in conjunction with the baptism of Henry’s new little brother in Hoima.  I wish I could have been there for it.

I spent the rest of the morning reading and re-reading the trial court record, such as it is.  The lawyer I had dinner with on Saturday evening had warned me that one of the judges scheduled to be on my appellate panel occasionally quizzed the lawyers about the contents of the record just to make sure they were prepared.  I am already quite prepared, but there is no harm in committing most of it to memory.  After all, the trial court record is rather sparse.

In Uganda, there is no verbatim transcript of trial court proceedings.  Instead, the “record” consists of the trial judge’s handwritten notes summarizing the testimony.  Needless to say, precision is in short supply.  This practice allows the trial judge to skew the record, consciously or unconsciously, in favor of the judgment entered by the court, further hampering efforts to overturn judgments on appeal . . .

Late last week, I learned that my friend Steve Swigert is here in Uganda this week also.  Steve is the Oklahoman who, after reading the article I wrote for Guideposts Magazine in late 2011, connected us with our Twin Family – the Gregstons and Gashes did life together for six months in Uganda in 2012.  I got ahold of Steve on Saturday, and we agreed to meet up for lunch on Sunday at a restaurant overlooking Lake Victoria.  It was great catching up with him and a colleague of his whom also assists Watoto (Mega) Church with agricultural initiatives.  Accompanying Steve to lunch was a larger-than-life retired Aussie.  To clarify, he is retired from work, not from being an Aussie.  I knew I was going to like this guy when insisted on a double bear hug when we were introduced.

I quickly (or not so quickly) learned his life story.  He started out as civil servant, then became a successful businessman, then lost everything investing in and breeding race horses.  After embezzling a quarter million dollars from an organization with which he worked, he checked himself into a motel room and tried to kill himself.  He got close, but God had other plans.  When he came to, he found both a Gideon Bible and a reason to go on.  After serving several years in a prison Down Under, he started an organization doing prison ministry all over the world, including in Uganda.

He was kind enough to give me a business card.  After inspecting it briefly, I turned it over in my hand.  On the back was printed “The Starfish Story.”  I couldn’t help but think “Small world, Big God.”

Cool back-of-a-business-card

I spent the rest of the afternoon practicing and refining my oral argument, and then met up with Justice Kiryabwire, his wife, and David Nary for dinner.  Justice K is the designated coordinator of all things Pepperdine in Uganda.  I am his biggest fan, and it is always good to catch up with him.  David just returned from a weekend adventure in Fort Portal, where David and I are heading after the argument on Tuesday.  It is also where I hope to lead a team of lawyers this summer to help clear the backlog of prisoners waiting for trial.

On Monday morning, I headed to the Court of Appeals to watch the morning session of oral arguments so I could get a sense of how things worked here.  To put it gently, what I saw was confidence inspiring.  The advocates there set a fairly low bar I hope to surpass on Tuesday.

I met up with David and Sarah (from the High Court) afterward and got an update regarding the two juvenile sessions that are just wrapping up right now – one in Kampala and one in Mbale.  Both went quite well, but there are still some kinks to work out.

I then met up with Mark Riley, a Brit who works for the Ministry of Gender trying to help them get their arms around the orphanage/adoption challenges faced in Uganda.  Mark came out to Pepperdine last month and played a lead role in the Inter-Country Adoption conference we hosted.  Mark and I are trying to put together a working document that attempts to find and expand common ground among those around the world on both sides of inter-country adoption.

Next was a meeting with the experienced and highly successful Ugandan counsel, Edward Sekabanja, whose assignment it is to keep me from making a fool of myself and/or breaking court rules in Tuesday’s hearing.  Quite a tall order.  He indicated that the Ugandan court of appeals justices would not have seen a more structured, organized, and persuasive appellate submission in their years on the bench.  That was also quite confidence inspiring.  Once again, the bar has not been set very high.  While at Edward’s office, I was able to pick up my Special Practising Certificate, allowing me to argue tomorrow’s case.

I'm Official

David and I had a quick dinner, and I am turning in early.  My driver picks me up at 5:30 tomorrow morning to take me to get Henry and then to the court of appeals.

Your prayers are appreciated.

Friday night, I was the beneficiary of this imbalance, though I didn’t feel guilty about it.

I called the airport at 9:00 p.m., an hour after my prodigal suitcase was supposed to have arrived from Nairobi, Kenya.  (I had earlier been told that the afternoon flight had been cancelled).  After putting me on hold for a few minutes, the Kenya Airways spokesperson triumphantly declared that my suitcase had arrived one hour earlier.

“Excellent.  Is it on its way to me right now?”

“No, sorry, sorry.  The driver is not around.”

“So what time will he be around, and what time will he be delivering my suitcase tonight?”

“Oh, sorry, sorry.  He is not coming back tonight.  He will deliver it to you tomorrow.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry, but I need the suitcase tonight.”  I barely resisted the impulse to tell her I had her “sorry, sorry” right ‘ere.

I didn’t think telling her my two remaining pillows, sound machine, ambien, et al., really missed me and needed to see me tonight would do the trick.  So I tried a different approach.

“Is there anyone there I can pay to deliver the suitcase to me tonight?”

“(Pause) Let me check.”

A few moments later, she “sorry, sorried” some more and told me no one was around with a car.

“If I send a driver out to the airport, will he be allowed to pick up my suitcase?”

“No problem.”

So I called the taxi driver I have been using this trip.  He didn’t give me any “sorry, sorries” – he gave me my suitcase.  When I called him, I prefaced my request with the caveat that it was late and that he should feel free to decline if he didn’t want to go out again.

To the contrary, he told me he would do it for 85,000 shillings.  I countered with 100,000.  (The extra 15,000 is only about six dollars, but that will feed him and his wife for several days).  The fuel costs are nearly double those in the United States, and the trip to the airport is about twenty-five miles each way.  He does not own the car he drives, but pays a flat daily to rent the car.  Accordingly, after a certain level, he gets to keep what he makes.

By midnight, I had my suitcase, pillows, sound machine, and ambien.  The world was right again.  (Incidentally, Friday night was likely the last night on ambien – I am not an addict, just some poor soul trying to adjust to the eleven-hour time difference in time to leave again.).

On Saturday, the same driver picked me up at 9:30 and took me to the Commercial Court.  I am working in the office of David Nary (Pepperdine Nootbaar Fellow living in Uganda for one year) while he is on a weekend trip.  After a few hours of refining my oral argument preparations for Tuesday’s hearing, I met up with an American family who is here in Uganda in the process of adopting two Ugandan children who are badly in need of a permanent home.  The mother and father are good friends of a few of my good friends, so it was nice to spend some time getting to know them.  They have hit an unexpected delay in the process, so they are here longer than anticipated.

Toward the end of the conversation, I asked them where they are living while they are here.  I was stunned to learn that not only are they staying in the same hotel we stayed in for six months in 2012, but they are living in the same exact three-bedroom suite where we lived.  Very cool, and a bit eerie.

After a few more hours of oral argument prep, I met up with a Ugandan lawyer I got to know during my prior work here.  We ate dinner at my favorite restaurant (Emin Pasha Hotel), and he coached me a bit on the logistical aspects of arguing before the Ugandan Court of Appeals.

I am equally allergic to the “did you remember to pack . . .?” question.  My wonderful wife has adapted well to my maladies and rarely pushes my buttons, having concluded long ago that the “natural consequences” approach to child-rearing also occasionally works well with recalcitrant husbands.  Accordingly, she did not suggest that I consider taking a t-shirt and a pair of underwear in my backpack.

She simply remarked, “I always do this just in case the checked luggage doesn’t arrive.”

“Good for you.”

While I appreciated her subtlety, there is nothing subtle about my inflated perception of my own manhood, which such comments directly undermine.

Consequently, as I write this part of the post, I am approaching fifty hours in the same underwear.  The now-familiar sinking feeling enveloped me as the airport baggage crew gave me the “what-are-you-looking-at-Mzungu?” stare when I went stuck my head in the back room after the empty luggage carousel mocked me.  They simply shook their head and motioned to the emptiness surrounding them after fielding my inquiry.

Soon thereafter, I was informed that my bags spent some extra time in Amsterdam and that they should be arriving in Uganda a mere twelve hours late.  Good thing I didn’t have any meetings set for today, unlike last time this happened.

My ensemble last time my luggage didn't arrive

When I told Joline my bags didn’t arrive, she didn’t say “I told you, so,” but she gave me one of those really good “I told you so” looks that even the fuzzy Skype connection failed to mask.  An ever-so-quick flash of a grin, coupled with an ever-so-faint eye-brow raise said everything it needed to say.  It also gave her plausible deniability.  My kids, however, lack the tact of their mother.  “You’re an idiot” about captures their sentiment, though they were a bit less gentle than that.

Speaking of my manhood being questioned, I had a hard time sleeping last night without my sound machine and three pillows, all of which were comfortably tucked into my checked baggage.  I was, however, smart enough to save an ambien for when I arrived.  I had dozed off and on during my LAX to Amsterdam and Amsterdam to Nairobi flights, so it was good to get some pharma-zzz’s.  But after about five hours, I awoke to the distinctly African morning noises – call to prayers from the local mosque, thunderstorms, and indigenous bird squawking.  It is good to be back here.

Six Hours Later . . .

After spending the morning working at the courthouse waiting for my luggage to arrive, I received a call from the airport.

“Your suitcase is now on the way to Kampala from the airport.”

“Excellent.  Wait, suitcase?  Don’t you mean suitcases – two of them?”

“Sorry, sorry.  We only have one of them.  The other one will be on one of the other flights.”

“Um, OK.  When are the other flights?”

“Tonight.”

When my suitcase (singular) arrived, I once again had to relive the humiliation that inevitably accompanies me whenever I travel to Uganda.  (We only own two large suitcases, and I need both of them to bring my pillows with me).  One would think I would be numb to the embarrassment, but apparently I am immune to this form of Novocaine.  So when the delivery guy opened the back of the van and asked me which bag was mine, I knew what was coming.

“Um, that one.”  I said as I sheepishly pointed to the suitcase straight out of a Hannah Montana prop closet.

Me and my source of humiliation

“Are you serious?”

“Go ahead, get it out.  I am just here for your entertainment,” I deadpanned.

He just shook his head, and chuckled a bit.  I thought I heard him mumble, “Here you go, Eunuch,” as he handed it to me, but I may have been projecting.

I guess the silver lining of having my luggage lost is that only one person gets to laugh and point.  I usually disseminate that pleasure among an entire wing of the airport.  The standard line is: “You sure that one’s yours, buddy?  It looks just like so many of the other ones.”  Good thing I don’t cuss.  (At least as far as you know, mom).

When I got the suitcase up to the office and opened it, I was once again confronted with the fact that I am a hypergamist.

If one Googles “Marrying Up,” the first hit is for the Wikipedia page for Hypergamy.  And if one clicks on that link, my picture pops up as the quintessential case.  For those of you who know both me and Joline, this is little more than a “duh” statement.  But how is it relevant here?

Well, when I unzipped my Disney Channel souvenir, I remembered that Joline had separated my underwear and t-shirts into two piles and had put one pile into each suitcase.  (Yes, she packs my suitcases.  See id. at Hypergamy).  Her ostensible purpose was to balance the cushion load so that the electronic equipment I was “muling” for a Ugandan judge would not get damaged in transit.

But I was too smart for her – I figured out that she was hedging against the possibility that one of my suitcases wouldn’t make it.

And I resented her for it.

Which is why I am a hypergamist.

And today, quite proud of it.

Perhaps I am subconsciously trying to make up for lost time now, as I have almost completed my journey back to Uganda for the tenth time in three years.  (I am on a layover in Kenya right now).  I certainly did not intend for Uganda to be a second home when I first ventured here in January of 2010.

This trip, in many ways, is the trip I have most anticipated and most feared since I knew it would be necessary.  In many ways it is surreal that the time has finally come to close the first chapter opened during my first trip to Uganda.

During that trip, I met 21 children who were imprisoned awaiting trial.  Within two months, 17 of the 21 had been released.  Shortly thereafter, the boy (Henry) with whom I had grown close was convicted of murder.  This prompted my second trip during which I prepared his Pre-Sentence Report.  One month later, he was sentenced to one year of probation, released, and restarted school (at Bob Goff’s Restore International in Gulu).  But Henry’s case was far from over.  The conviction could not stand.  It was contrary to both the facts and the law.  The deceased, a fellow prisoner, had died from what appeared to be an asthma attack after an unsuccessful escape attempt while he and the other prisoners were working as slave laborers, hired out by the adult matron running the juvenile prison.

The lawyer representing Henry also represented his co-accused – the adult matron.  Because she faced the death penalty if convicted, and because Henry’s maximum sentence was three years because he was a juvenile, the lawyer called no witnesses in Henry’s defense.  Instead, he called the matron to testify against Henry and told Henry that he needed to take one for the team.

During that second trip to prepare Henry’s Pre-Sentence Report, I also secured a Ugandan lawyer to represent Henry on appeal.  A few months later, I became aware of an obscure provision under Ugandan law that would allow a foreign lawyer to apply for special permission to appear in a single case in Ugandan courts.  Shortly thereafter, I was issued a Special Practicing Certificate and became Henry’s counsel of record on the appeal.

After more than two years of delays, mostly caused by an intervening Ugandan election, the oral argument on the appeal is finally scheduled to take place – Tuesday, March 12^th.  The prospect of being the first American to argue before the Ugandan courts is pretty cool.  It is, however, even more daunting.

I still get jitters before teaching Torts – for the 13^th time.  Suffice it to say that my jitters have their own set of jitters as this date approaches.  With the help of my then-research-assistant-now- Pepperdine-Law-Dean-of-Students Al Sturgeon, I wrote the appellate brief in the summer of 2010.  So I have been thinking about this case for a long time.  Accordingly, I feel quite ready on a substantive level.  I am more nervous about whole idea of it all than I am in standing up in front of three judges to talk about a case about which I could not be more passionate.

On three of  my prior trips, my luggage was delayed a day or two, which is why I am landing late Thursday night in advance of a Tuesday argument.  Additionally, I will have the opportunity on Monday to watch a few arguments in order to get a better sense of the style and tempo.

As you might expect, I would be grateful for your prayers for my nerves and blood pressure.  There is another potential complication about which I will write if things go according to plan on Tuesday.  Please be praying that there are no logistical complications relating to getting Henry to the hearing without causing him any setbacks in his current situation.  We are praying fervently that this will receive zero media attention in Uganda.

But when I venture out of Kampala, I break out the spray and vigilantly hunt down the little bat rastards before I turn out the hotel room light each night.

David and I unceremoniously escorted a few of them to the hereafter in our shared room in Gulu before turning in Friday night.  We had to rig our respective mosquito nets in order to avoid the nets touching our heads while we slept.  David outrigged me by a fair margin.  I couldn’t quite close the entire gap between the bottom of the net and the top of the one side of the bed, but figured it wouldn’t matter since I had added a second skin of “Off” to my muscular and toned frame.

So when I jolted awake at 4:30 a.m. to the unmistakable sound of mosquito wings dive bombing my Lincolnesque forehead, I was pissed.  I quickly figured out that the miniature Dracula had already hors d’oeuvred my left hand and right forehead.  Not wanting to turn on the light and wake David, I sprang into action, whipping my hands about my face and body in an attempt to send the offender into hiding onto the net somewhere.  I then lickety splitted the corners of the net together and twisted like a Chubby Checkers aficionado.  (Notwithstanding my earlier wishful musing, I already had the chubby part well in hand).  Since my net was now rendered useless, I compensated by emptying the rest of the bottle of Off onto myself and then mummifying all but my breathing holes.  No more bites that night.

After breakfast, Kelsey, David, and I waited patiently for our Ugandan counterparts to arrive from their hotel across town.  A few minutes after they should have picked us up, they called and reported that they couldn’t get the van going.  They had tried seven push-starts, but to no avail.  They informed us they were going to recruit some locals to give it one last try, and then cry uncle.  Ten minutes, and ten pushing Ugandans later, they were rolling.  David and I couldn’t help but marvel at our strength-of-five-Ugandans-each manhood.

From the hotel, we drove out to the Restore Leadership Academy to catch up with some old friends and to check out the construction progress.  As I have written about before, this secondary school was founded by Bob Goff and Restore International six or seven years ago to bring hope and a sterling education to a region devastated by Joseph Kony and the LRA.  This is also the school where Henry and Joseph enrolled after gaining their release from the Ihungu Remand Home thirty months ago.  After enduring several years of mindless bureaucracy, Restore finally secured clear title to a large chunk of land it had purchased outside of Gulu.  Construction is in full swing and it looks great.

Staff Housing and Boys' Dorms at Restore

Major Progress on the Guest House

“Second John,” as he is sometimes called because he succeeded John Niemeyer (aka “Two-Bunk John”) as Restore’s country director, gave us a tour of the place.  We also got to spend some time with Joseph, who begins his final year at Restore next week.

Joseph, Jim, Kirby, David, Joshua, and Daniel at Restore

It was gratifying to see where the new primary school will be built, which will enable Restore to serve all levels of education in Gulu.

From there, we drove to the Gulu Remand Home to meet with the warden and to tour the facility.  Though grossly underfunded and understaffed, the Remand Home’s warden is doing an excellent job of holding things together.  Likewise, the Resident Judge is doing his best to keep the kids moving through the system.  There is still plenty of work to do, but things are not falling apart like in a few other locations in Uganda.

Mural at Gulu Remand Home

We finished our work at the Remand Home at around 1:00 p.m., so we decided to sample the local cuisine before beginning the five-plus hour drive back to Kampala.  I ordered the goat, and immediately regretted it.  Rather than being in cube-shaped meat hunks on a bed of rice like goats naturally occur in the wild, mine was . . . well, different.  It was in a bowl, rather than on a plate, and while there were a few irregular-shaped meat hunks, they were still clinging to bone shards.  And they had some friends.  One of the friends looked remarkably like a digestive system.

“They are intestines,” (pronounced with a long second i) said Sarah.  “They are very nice.”

“They look like a science experiment.  I am not eating them,” I declared.

“Then I will.”  And she did.

The other friend of the meat-on-a-roof-of-the-mouth-piercing-bone-spear looked more like an octopus than anything else.

Goat "parts"

“What is this?” I asked the two Americans and four Ugandans at the table.

After a pregnant pause following six intent stares, Brian the prosecutor said, “It is [unintelligible Lugandan word].”

“Huh?”

After unsuccessfully searching for an unsurprisingly absent English translation, he said, “It is the part where dung is stored before it goes out.”

“Umm, the anus?” I asked.

“Yes, and the part before that.  “It doesn’t taste bad,” Brian replied.

“Umm, you know what goat anus tastes like?” I inquired.

Sarah, who had previously slurped down the intestines like they were gummy bears, said, “For me, I don’t eat that part.”

I guess everyone draws the line somewhere.

David had taken quite an intense interest in my anus, well not my anus, but the goat anus on my plate, and was turning it over with his fork and studying it.  “It looks like it has teeth,” he finally declared.  He was right.

I asked Kirby how much I would have to pay her to eat it.  She wisely responded that she wouldn’t eat it for a billion shillings.  And she wasn’t kidding.  I concurred.

But David seemed perplexed by our ingestion allergy to the south end of a northbound goat.  So Kirby and I offered him 20,000 shillings each (totaling $16).  His manhood now had a price, and he accepted the dare.  By this time, the attention of the entire restaurant had focused on our table.

We took some pictures and started the “Go, Go, Go” chant.  Just as he deposited the bung hole into his pie hole, I colorfully described the scenario in ways I shan’t repeat because my mother is reading this.  Realization must have finally hit David, because he sputtered and heaved a bit.

David holding it together . . . barely

In the end, he held it together and got it down, but not without nearly five minutes of chewing and chasing with anything he could find that didn’t resemble butt.

When we reached the halfway point on our journey back to Kampala, Sarah barked something to Daniel in Luganda.  He immediately pulled over at one of the many road-side markets.

“Why are we stopping, Daniel?”  David inquired.

“Sarah wants to buy some chickens,” Daniel responded.

“Wait, live chickens?”  David said.  “We can’t bring live chickens into van with us.”

“Yes, we can,” came the chorus.  David hasn’t been in Uganda long enough.

After ten minutes of haggling, we were on our way again . . . with four additional passengers – two roosters and two hens, tied at the ankles.

Roadside Transaction

The rest of the ride home passed uneventfully, with only an occasional note of protest from the new additions.

*          *          *

Sunday morning, I hired a car to take me to pick up Henry from his school for a long breakfast at the nearly-American Café Javas.  David met us there and we spent about four hours catching up with Henry.

When I dropped Henry back off at school, I had a chance to chat with his Physics teacher, who has become a good friend.  This turned into an impromptu Sunday lunch at his sister’s house.

Sunday lunch with teacher Jonathan's sister and niece

I took a quick nap, then headed to the airport.  As I finish this post, I am chilling in the Amsterdam lounge on a four-hour layover.  It has been a good trip, but I will be glad to be back with my family.  I recorded the Super Bowl and am staying off the internet so I can watch it “live” on Monday evening when I get home.  Go Niners.

At one point, the water through which Daniel navigated was a hair under four-feet deep.  I wish I was exaggerating.  Vans such as the one in which we are traveling, by necessity, divert their exhaust pipes up the side of the car so the exhaust blows above the roof.  Without this modification, the rain storms would cripple these vehicles, and I would wear floaties under my suit jacket.

Flood Resistant Exhaust Diverter

When it rains this hard, the boda drivers lose their customers (and their will to navigate the streets on motorcycles), which further swells the vehicular traffic.  This, coupled with the newly birthed rivers flowing through the streets, naturally leads to gridlock.  So we were late getting out of town on our way to the Ihungu Remand Home in Masindi.

*          *          *

Life in Uganda is lived in the moment.  The vast majority of the population grows its own food, fetches water daily from community pump wells, and worries not about tomorrow – today is simply enough.  I often wonder if this at least partially explains the deep and abiding faith in God of most Ugandans.  Likewise, emotions reside quite near the surface here.  And for me, these emotions spill over whenever my work summons me back to Ihungu – where my first glance down into the well of desperation of children waiting for justice came.

I will forget my name, my birth date, and most other things I have seen and done in life before I forget what I saw when I first walked into the boys’ custody at Ihungu three years ago.

“Is this OK with you?” I felt myself being asked.  “What are you going to do about it,” nipped the next question at the heels of the first.

“Nothing.  Not me.  Someone else.  Where would I even start,” came my feeble, but emphatic, reply.  But the questions persisted like a cold sore.  My tongue kept flicking at it, hoping it would be gone each time I checked.

One of the many images I couldn’t shake was of Katwesige Scovia, sitting in the dirt on the periphery, giggling and casting her eyes down every time one of us looked at her or tried to talk to her.  She was fourteen years old.  My Jessica was also fourteen.  My heart broke for her innocence lost, and my mind mourned her hopeless future.

I was overjoyed to learn, however, that John Niemeyer on behalf of Restore International had arranged for her to be enrolled in a Cornerstone program when she was released.  A few months later, however, my sorrow returned when I learned she had dropped out of the program.  Time first scabbed, then later scarred over, this wound.  Every month or two, a memory of Scovia re-surfaced, but she had mostly receded into the teaming masses of memories from my multiplying months in Uganda.

Until yesterday.

“How many girls do you have here now,” I asked Carol.  (Carol, simply known as “mom” to the inmates, is the matron who stays with and cares for them.  Were it not for Sixty Feet, who pays Carol’s salary and provides other necessities for her, the inmates would be motherless (twice over) and unsupervised).

“There are two – one on remand, and one who is leaving on Sunday,” Carol said.

“Where is she going Sunday,” I asked.

“She was released by the court earlier this week, and we are taking her to Kampala so she can go back to school,” she responded.

“Why is she going to Kampala for school,” I inquired.

“She cannot afford to go to school, but she has a sponsor who has admitted her into a program,” she said with a smile.

“Who is sponsoring her,” I queried.

“Sixty Feet,” she said as she pointed to Kirby across the way.

God bless you, Sixty Feet!

I explained to Carol that we needed to talk to each of the children at Ihungu on remand (waiting to go to court) so we can get them lawyers and move their cases along.  She understood and mobilized the troops.  David and a UCLF lawyer set up one station, while Sarah and I set up another.  Kirby set to work assessing the material needs of the Remand Home.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw through the door to the girls’ custody and noticed something familiar.  The open door was relatively new because the old door is actually mounted on my wall at home.

The New Door

There is more about that here and here.  The familiarity that Deja’d my Vu, however, had nothing to do with the door.  It was the girl inside.  She looked to be about 17 and I felt like I had seen her before.  But where?

“We will start with her,” I said to Carol as I motioned to the open doorway.

“Scovia, you come and talk to him,” Carol instructed.

My breath caught as the nickel dropped.  She came and sat directly across from me, her almost imperceptibly smiling eyes meeting mine.  “You are Katwesige Scovia,” I said to her in a whisper, because a whisper spent all I had in reserve.

“And you are Jim Gas,” she declared with a grin.  Close enough.  While I did take a photograph of her, I hesitate to put both faces and names together of children inmates on the web.

“How have you been?  It has been three years, and I never thought I would see you again,” I said.

Over the next ten minutes, we talked about what she had been doing (not much) and why she was again at Ihungu (theft).  I pulled up computer pictures of her and the others who had been with her three years ago and we laughed together.

“Where is John Niemeyer,” she asked.  “Can he visit me on Sunday?”

“He is in America.  He is one of my students now,” I replied.

“When will he visit me again,” she asked, still not quite comprehending.

As I write this, now 24 hours later, I can’t quite decide whether I am glad I got to see her again, or whether well enough was better left alone.  She is still my daughter’s age, and the difference between their lives could not be more profound.  Scovia will likely be released right about the time Jessica starts her freshman year at Pepperdine.  None of this is yet OK with me, but I am learning that what is bigger than me belongs to God.  I am also learning just how small I really am.

After we concluded the fact-finding interviews of the children on remand, the warden arrived from court.  It was good to catch up with my old friend Mr. William.  Before we left, he reminded me that the last time I was there, I had given him enough money to buy meat for the inmates – a luxury they are seldom afforded.  A steady diet of beans and posho (corn meal) is all they get.

“Will you buy them meat again, Mr. Jim,” he pleaded, more than asked.

How could I say no?  For 50,000 shillings, all 26 could get some protein and a little dietary variety.  I gladly forked over the equivalent of $20.  My paltry “generosity” shames me even as I write this.  I could have given them meat for a week and not even noticed a dent.

Trust, but verify.  For accountability, I made sure Carol the matron knew about the upcoming feast.  Soon, the inmates knew and cheered.  Such a little matters so much here – a lesson I too often forget.

From Masindi, we made our way north to Gulu.  I have made this drive enough that I no longer need to change my underwear multiple times during the trip.  The Volkswagen-sized potholes, the daredevil pedestrians, the suicidal bicyclists, the buses and trucks forcing other vehicles off the road at regular intervals, the brush-clearing wildfires, the urinating-by-the-side-of-the-road-while-looking-at-you locals, the road-meat hawkers, and the begging baboons will never grow old.

Gulu Baboons

We arrived in Gulu just before dark.  David, Kirby, and I stayed at the “upscale” Churchill Courts Hotel, while the others set off in search of a more affordable option on which to spend the customary per diem Sixty Feet had graciously allotted them for the trip.  The less they spent on lodging the more they were able to keep.  This disparity of accommodations produced more than a slight pang of guilt, but clean linens, hot water, and electricity (amenities we enjoyed, and they didn’t) brought our accommodations to within shouting distance of a Motel Six.

We enjoyed a comfortable outdoor dinner in what is usually stifling Gulu heat in the hotel’s courtyard before turning in for the evening.

Saturday will be my first visit to the Gulu Remand Home.

In addition to Monday’s plea bargaining session and additional meetings, the primary purpose of this trip was to travel to three of the five Remand Homes in Uganda in order to (i) perform an assessment of the status and needs of the Remand Homes, and (ii) mobilize the relevant constituents for an expansion of the J-FASTER program we established for the Naguru Remand Home in Kampala.  David Nary has done a spectacular job of keeping the ball rolling (and developing further momentum) for J-FASTER, so we have all the pieces in place.

For this Remand Home tour, David put together a crack team.  Joining David and me are Sarah from the Court (Sarah has been working with us on J-FASTER since the beginning), Brian from the prosecutor’s office, Joshua from the Uganda Christian Lawyer’s Fraternity, Kirby Tyler from Sixty Feet (who have heroically funded J-FASTER from the beginning), and David’s driver Daniel.  Since the seven of us couldn’t fit in Daniel’s court car, Daniel secured a court van for our road trip.

Our first destination was to be Mbale in Eastern Uganda.  Our plan was to leave Kampala at 6:30 a.m. so we could make our meeting with the Resident High Court Judge at 11:00, before visiting the Remand Home.  It is often said that when men plan, God laughs.  If this is true, then God ripped his britches in a fit of hilarity at our expense.  I think he is still giggling.

When Daniel arrived to pick up the van in the morning, it was locked up.  The dude with key was apparently still feasting on his morning posho and matoke.  Thirty minutes later, Daniel was rolling.  Another thirty minutes later, we were all rolling.  Literally.

Just as we crested a hill on the east side of town, the gas gauge light came on warning us that we would soon be out of fuel.  And then we were out of fuel.  The customary delay between warning and empty was vaporous.  The engine coughed, sputtered, then went on strike.  Being the experienced driver he is, Daniel avoided the brake like it had malaria, eased onto the shoulder, and began pummeling the horn like he was boda driver who had caught a thief.  All of us scanned the horizon like it was our job, looking for a Shell, Total, or other purveyor of what we needed, and needed badly.  Diddly squat.

What we did see, however, was a gentle down slope for the next kilometer or so.  Chants of “I think I can, I think I can” echoed through my head.  Horn blaring, eyes scanning, breath holding, leaning forward for what seemed like minutes.  “Thar she blows!”  Up on our left, which in Uganda is the side we need, a City Oil station came into view . . . just after the road sloped back up.  We celebrated anyway.

As we hit the bottom of the hill and started to climb, our momentum abandoned us.  The uphill orientation of the van, however, shifted the remaining fumes to at least one of the spark plugs, which fired all it had for the cause, giving us three seconds of acceleration before retreating to its impotence.  It was just enough.  High fives all around.

We had a four-hour drive ahead of us, so we filled one tank . . . and emptied the others (if you know what I mean and I think you do).

“Everyone ready,” Daniel finally asked.

“Ready,” came the unison reply.

Click.  Click.  Click, said the starter when Daniel turned the key.

“Umm, is that a bad sign?” I (the highly trained and keenly perceptive mechanic) quizzically inquired.

Daniel showed remarkable restraint by not throat punching me then and there.  “I must check the engine,” came his calm reply.

Great, I’ll help.  Umm, where is the engine?

Under the front passenger seat, where David was sitting.  That’s a new one.  Like a Ninja, Daniel had the patient opened up and into surgery before I could even get out of my seat in the second row to lend my expertise to the examination.  Fortunately for everyone, my egress was completely blocked by Daniel’s labors.

Checking the Engine

Dr. Daniel quickly diagnosed the problem, closed the patient, and issued his prescription.  “We must push it to start.”

Excellent!  David and I got out – him at the back and me at the open sliding door.  And Kirby got out – a camera.  This was a hallmark moment.

Pushing Things Forward

We recruited several onlookers who must have been members of the Ugandan bobsled team because we had that sucker rolling pretty quickly even on the slight incline.  When Daniel popped the clutch, the car simultaneously roared to life and halted its forward progress.  Simple laws of physics obeyed the Grand Design, the obviousness of which had heretofore eluded me.  When the car’s forward momentum abated, the well-greased sliding door glided along its tracks like a Ugandan bobsled on Siberian ice . . . toward my goofily grinning jack-o-lantern.  Only my cat-like quickness (and my meaty shoulder) averted otherwise certain catastrophe.  Good thing I own the P90X DVDs, or I really could have gotten hurt.  Had I actually taken the DVDs out of the individual wrappers, I might have actually damaged the door.

For the rest of day, every time we stopped, Daniel parked on a downslope if one could be found.  And from the third time forward, I remembered to watch out for the door when Daniel popped the clutch.  On occasion, we had help pushing things forward from locals, and at times we simply had a cheering section as they watched the mzungus wearing the funny clothes push the car.

The rest of the trip could not have gone better.  We made it to the meeting with the judge on time, and he couldn’t have been more receptive.  He was well aware of the J-FASTER program – Chief Justice Odoki had given a report at the recently concluded judicial conference and encouraged its widespread adoption – and was kind with his words of gratitude and encouragement.  Since we had all the players in the meeting – the judge, his registrar, the prosecutor’s office, the defense lawyers, the donor organization funding the enterprise, and the logistical managers of J-FASTER (David and Sarah) – we developed an aggressive time schedule to get the 40 kids currently held on remand awaiting trial (20 capital and 20 non-capital cases) in the Mbale Remand Home.

When Shane Michael and I designed J-FASTER, we thought we were being ambitious in setting up the four-phase process to take place over a three-month period.  With the encouragement of the Resident Judge, we adopted a three-week time table for this session.  I am under no illusions that this time frame will hold, but I am heartened that the Ugandans are not only not resisting this new structure for juvenile justice, but are embracing it enthusiastically.

After a quick lunch, and a quick push start, we drove out to the Mbale Remand Home.  During my three years of involvement with incarcerated juveniles in Uganda, I have only previously visited two of the five Remand Homes.  My first experience was with Ihungu in Masindi, where I met Henry.  Conditions were deplorable there.  My second experience (and now most extensive) has been with Naguru in Kampala, which is a definite step up and at least livable.

The Mbale Remand Home was actually fairly nice.  The grounds are well manicured, the buildings are clean, and conditions are more than adequate for the children.  The staff was professional and seemed genuinely compassionate.  In fact, one member of the staff was recently transferred from Naguru, so he has been through J-FASTER with us and is an enthusiastic supporter.  The new warden there is professional, competent, and pleasant.  At the current time, there are 40 boys and no girls on remand, awaiting trial.

The Tally

Twenty are charged with capital offenses, and twenty are charged with petty offenses.  All forty of these boys now have lawyers, provided by the UCLF.  We took pictures of the boys, verified all the vital information, and worked with the staff to prepare a budget for the upcoming session.

David Interviewing Juveniles

Once again, this meeting could not have gone better.  While the drive home was long, it was quite satisfying.  The satisfaction level climbed two notches when we decided to end the day with a meal at Newab, my favorite Indian restaurant in Kampala.  The goat chops were positively delightful.

*          *          *

As I was relaying the events of the day to my saintly and sage wife Joline last night, she observed that today’s events encapsulated our experiences in Uganda.  We started out driving the car – making things happen ourselves.  We have now progressed to a point where we are filling the car with fuel and accompanying the Ugandans as they drive.  We occasionally need to get out and push things forward to kick start the engine again, but they are now driving.  We are working toward a day when we will simply be standing to the side and cheering them on.