ON MY LAST DAY in Kenya, I set out to visit Kamiti prison, in the hope of getting a glimpse of Cholmondeley. I drove down the busy Thika Road and, half an hour southeast of Nairobi, arrived at the prison, a low, sprawling complex in a weedy field surrounded by a ten-foot stone wall. I made it through the first checkpoint at the front gate, and a prison guard escorted me into the main administrative building, which stank of disinfectant. From the windows in the stairwell, I had a view of the grounds: a series of manicured grass courtyards, each one surrounded by tin-roofed, whitewashed one- and two-story buildings with narrow slits for windows. Hundreds of prisoners, all black, wearing loose-fitting white cotton tunics and white shorts, most of them serving long sentences for murder or rape or drug trafficking, milled around outdoors.

From friends who have visited Cholmondeley in prison, along with published reports, I'd already gotten a sense of how he spends his days. I'd been told that he was improving his knowledge of Kikuyu, Kenya's main tribal language, playing badminton occasionally in the courtyard, and reading books, including A. Scott Berg's Lindbergh and a collection of British classics. Once or twice a week he receives visitors—his parents, Dudmesh, close friends—in a crowded room, broken into cubicles, that reeks of body odor and urine. These encounters are limited to 15 minutes, and Cholmondeley and his fellow prisoners are separated from their visitors by three layers of chicken wire.

I waited for half an hour outside the warden's office before I was ushered in. I could hear the singsong conversation, in Swahili, of prisoners gathered just below his window. I explained to the warden that I was interested in hearing about Cholmondeley's life behind bars and, if possible, getting a meeting with him. He smiled, shook his head firmly, and told me I needed the permission of the director of prisons in Nairobi. "I can't say anything more," he told me, then he politely asked me to leave.

As the court proceedings creep forward, there has been much speculation about what the verdict might mean for Cholmondeley—and for Kenya. Many point to the lesson of Zimbabwe: Beginning six years ago, President Robert Mugabe addressed disparities of wealth and land in his country by forcibly expropriating 4,000 white-owned farms and handing them out to independence-war veterans, military officers, and ruling-party hacks, destroying Zimbabwe's economy in the process. Some Kenyans believe that the Cholmondeley killings could play into the hands of opportunistic politicians who would like to see the Zimbabwe scenario unfold at home. Should Cholmondeley be convicted and sentenced to hang, the thinking goes, the rest of the family—and, indeed, Kenya's tiny white landowning population—might find life in Kenya so untenable that they'd opt to leave and sell their land at fire-sale prices. An acquittal, on the other hand, could create a different set of problems. Kenya is a country known for meting out brutal street justice to petty thieves and other minor criminals, and it is not an exaggeration to say that a man perceived by some as a killer would have to be extremely careful about his movements. He may well live in constant fear for his life. Whatever the verdict, the case has already sensitized many Kenyans as never before to the gross inequities between blacks and whites in the country. Observers believe that this is creating a seismic shift in Kenya, heightening resentments and leaving many whites with a deepened sense of insecurity. Either way, life in Happy Valley may be changed forever.

Earlier that week, when I'd talked to Hugh Simpson about his trips to see Cholmondeley in jail, he had insisted that his friend was upbeat about his prospects. "Tom knows that he didn't go into this with malice aforethought," he assured me. "He told me, 'I'll lose a lot of time and pay the price, but I didn't do it intentionally, and the world will see it that way.' "

His friends contend that the murder charge will be impossible to prove and that, at worst, Cholmondeley will be locked up for about a year while the case drags through the courts. But others aren't so sanguine. "The defense counsel says he won't get a fair trial. I completely agree," Murgor, the former prosecutor, told me. "The whole background is too politicized—it's become 'the white man versus the black man.'" Journalist Parselelo Kantai believes that the version of the shooting presented by the surviving poachers will ultimately prove persuasive. "I think he will go down for this," he said.

Nobody has been executed in Kenya since 1982, in the aftermath of a coup attempt against Moi, and it is highly unlikely that, if convicted, Cholmondeley will be sent to the gallows. But a life behind bars is a prospect that neither he, nor those closest to him, can bear to consider.

"Look, Tom is in a tricky position, but if he presents his case fairly, and honestly, I am certain he will prevail," Simpson told me.

"Kenya is not a failed state, and Tom is going to get justice."