Refuge (21 page)

Richard huffed in frustration; there was nothing he could do.

‘Does the State still not have the location of the eyewitness?’ Abrahams asked. ‘With less than a week to go before trial?’ She was clearly irritated and had stopped writing, squinting at Faizal instead.

‘No, ma’am … Your Worship, I mean.’ Faizal maintained his bombastic attitude, puffing his chest. ‘We believe that we know who the witness is. We are confident that within the next day or two we will be able to locate him. We are working hard on this, Your Worship. My men understand the critical importance of this witness.’ The suggestion of a phalanx of tough men working under Faizal’s control seemed to placate Abrahams.

Richard rose and prepared to cross-examine. ‘Captain Faizal.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘Can you just clarify for me, is this application brought under Section 68 (1) or Section 68 (2)?’

He heard Dumbela’s chair clatter as the man jumped to his feet to object. But as Richard had hoped, Faizal was keen to impress and started to answer the question before Dumbela could intervene. ‘Well, Mr Calloway, I think it would be clear to you that since we are all here in court, together with your client, then it is an application under Section 68 (1) for the cancellation of your client’s bail due to his interference with a state witness.’ Faizal’s sneer revealed the tips of his teeth. Dumbela settled back into his chair, seemingly satisfied with his witness’s answer.

‘Yes,’ Richard responded, still smiling, ‘that’s what I had thought. But listening to your evidence now, it started to sound as if in fact you were relying on Sub-section (2).’

Faizal’s face darkened, but he said nothing.

‘You see, Captain, Sub-section (1) …’ Richard paused and picked up his copy of the Act, extending the moment by pretending to search for the passage. ‘Yes, here it is: the sub-section requires that the prosecution tender “information under oath” and the evidence here—’

‘Well, Mr Calloway, are you suggesting that I’ve done something else? That is precisely what I have given this morning: information under oath.’ Faizal looked up at Abrahams with a pained expression.

‘No, I don’t think so …’ Richard knew that his response was argumentative. Legal representatives weren’t supposed to debate the law with witnesses. He was not surprised to hear Abrahams clear her throat. ‘Sorry, Your Worship, I am getting to the point,’ he countered, looking up at the bench. She returned his look sourly, tapping her pen on the page in front of her.

‘Captain, the point is simply this: Sub-section (1) requires “information under oath”, which can only be understood to mean direct evidence of the facts relied upon. It cannot mean anything else. And in fact a recent judgment from the Cape High Court confirms this obvious fact.’ He paused again, picking up a photocopy that he had asked Nadine to make. The photocopy of the case was the reason they had been late, but he had not wanted to explain this to Abrahams; otherwise he would have been required to give Dumbela a copy in advance. The relevant portion was highlighted in yellow translucent ink.

Richard made a show of reading the document, pointing at the relevant phrases as if alighting upon them for the first time: ‘Acting Judge Salie stated quite clearly in his judgment that Sub-section (1) requires “direct evidence”, while only Sub-section (2) can be used where the investigating officer relies on his “reason to believe”. Now, as you correctly say, Captain, this application is necessarily brought under the first sub-section.’

Faizal had flushed with anger and was leaning forward in the witness box.

Abrahams picked up her pen. ‘Citation of that case, Mr Calloway, please.’

Richard gave her the citation slowly and then handed extra copies to the orderly to pass on to her and Dumbela. She scanned the case for a few minutes and he waited. When she nodded he continued: ‘Captain, do you have any
direct evidence
… in other words, evidence of facts that you are
personally
able to testify to before this court? Do you have such evidence to tender? Because, sir, I must put it to you that you have tendered
no
such evidence thus far. We have not heard evidence from anyone who saw, heard, talked to or identified my client in any way whatsoever. All we have had this morning is your conjecture as to what might have happened, an insipid concoction of hearsay and speculation.’ Richard was pleased with his lucidity and thought he saw Abrahams purse her lips in a restrained smile, but it could just as easily have been a grimace.

Faizal’s mask slipped. ‘Your client has intimidated a witness,’ he growled from the witness box, hunching his shoulders forward. ‘He may even have had him killed for all I know. I worked bloody hard to get that witness to talk to us. He was terrified of your client, terrified. Your client is nothing but a gangster, Mr Calloway. A bloody gangster.’ Abrahams now tapped her pen unhappily on her desk, glaring icily at Faizal. His indiscretion would mark him for ever in her court.

But before the moment was lost by her intervention, Richard followed up: ‘Yes, Captain, we hear what you say. But you see, that is really the sum total of your evidence in this application: your view that my client is a gangster. And, with respect, sir, your personal view is simply not good enough.’

Richard looked up at Abrahams in triumph. Despite the fact that Dumbela had not yet had a chance to re-examine the witness, he seized the opportunity: ‘Your Worship, I ask that the application be rejected. On the basis of Judge Salie’s decision, there is simply no merit in this application and the State’s request must fail.’

Abrahams turned to Dumbela. ‘Do you wish to ask this witness
anything
in re-examination, Mr Dumbela?’ The emphasis made it quite clear that she did not expect him to resurrect his application. He acquiesced and remained seated. ‘I take it you have no further evidence at this time?’ she asked. Dumbela shook his head dejectedly. ‘Right then: application for cancellation of bail is not granted. Mr Calloway, your client remains on bail on the same conditions as before. I will see you all again at trial. Good day.’

Faizal pushed the swing door open with a clang and stormed out of court without looking at Richard again. A resigned Dumbela called the next case while Richard packed up his documents and also headed for the door. He was boyishly pleased with himself, feeling the familiar exhilaration of victory returning. But instead of acknowledging Richard’s efforts, Svritsky was contemptuous of the State’s attempt to deprive him of his freedom. He dismissed the application as ‘fucking nonsense’, making sure that all could hear as they walked along the passage towards the lifts.

Richard was annoyed to see Max Bernberg, a fellow criminal lawyer, waiting in the lift. Bernberg’s victories in the courtroom were a source of envy to most of the legal fraternity and he was a prodigious braggart. ‘Interesting case, Richard?’ Bernberg’s rotund face was perspiring.

‘Just the usual resounding successes, Max,’ Richard replied. His competitor grunted but made no effort to continue the exchange. He bundled out of the lift as soon as it reached the ground floor, as if on urgent business.

Svritsky lit up a cigarette even before they had exited the court building. He offered one to Richard, although he knew that his lawyer did not smoke. As they turned to walk to the parking area, a white Volkswagen Polo drove slowly past. The hard-faced driver watched them closely. Faizal was sitting in the passenger seat, talking on his cellphone, no doubt informing Du Toit of the bad news.

‘Pigs!’ Svritsky shouted, pushing his grubby middle finger into the air. The car slowed further, then pulled off and turned the corner. A court reporter, lazily sunning himself against a parking meter, took out a notebook and scribbled something down.

‘C’mon, Stefan.’ Richard said, concerned that his client’s antics would attract bad publicity. The Quantal deal loomed large in his thoughts. ‘I know you think that was easy, but I promise you, next time they’ll get their act together. If they get evidence from people who
saw
you intimidating a witness, you’ll spend the whole trial in jail. Just remember your bail conditions and stay away from all the witnesses. All of them, okay?’

‘What, you do not trust me?’ Svritsky said, feigning hurt. ‘My own lawyer, he does not trust me? My God, what is the world coming to?’ The plaintive expression turned into a dark scowl, and he gripped Richard’s arm, the red nipples of his tattoo pointing at the lawyer like two fire-points. ‘You worry about your job, my friend. I will worry about mine. Then we have no worries, okay?’ He stubbed out his cigarette with his shoe, swivelled around and headed for his car.

Richard was pleased to see the back of his client. Despite Svritsky’s acidity, Richard still retained the excitement of the win. It made him feel reckless and young, a master of his boundaried universe for the moment.

As if sensing his captured virility, his cellphone beeped with an SMS: ‘I am free now. Wd like to see u again. A.’

Richard climbed into his car, starting the engine and flooding the interior with cool air from the air conditioner. ‘Just what the doctor ordered!’ he replied, punching in the letters spontaneously, but checking his spelling before pressing the ‘send’ button.

He drove across the city with his new
Popular Hits
CD turned up loud, the bass beating out through the back speakers. Adderley Street bustled with jaywalkers, streaming in front of his car with their laden packets. As he approached the Slave Museum, a pretty coloured woman stood at the robots, waiting to cross. Richard made a point of slowing down and flashed his lights for her to go. She smiled in appreciation and kept her eyes on him for a while as she walked in front of the car. He started to move forward and she waved her hand over her shoulder. Richard hooted and laughed out loud. The city seemed more alive than ever before, releasing torrents of colour and sound down its undulating streets. He turned up Wale Street, passed the provincial government buildings. A minibus taxi pulled in front of him and stopped suddenly, forcing Richard to brake sharply. The guard jumped out to entice two women walking past to use his services. They clucked, waving their hands at him as they carried on walking. The guard, a scrawny man with no front teeth, turned to Richard and delivered a long, dramatic bow by way of apology. Richard pretended to bow back, lowering his head towards the steering wheel. The guard guffawed, giving the sleek SLK an exaggerated thumbs-up before leaping back into the waiting taxi. The sliding door slammed shut and the vehicle jerked forward, the guard’s skinny arm appearing out of the window, still sticking a thumb into the air.

Richard pulled into Buiten Street, facing up towards Signal Hill and the Bo-Kaap. His car slid into a waiting parking place. The day was starting to feel effortless, as if it had been pre-ordained for his satisfaction. The plain façade had no sign or number, just a small metal buzzer, which he pressed without delay. The door clicked and opened halfway. As he stepped inside, he felt her hand feeling for his. She closed the door behind him and led him down the passage, their fingers hooked like girlfriend and boyfriend.

T
HE GRAVEL PATHWAY
was bordered by red and purple petunias, their trumpet-shaped flowers opened wide towards the sun. The surrounding earth was free of weeds and had been neatly raked; thin lines of soil traced patterns around the green leaves. The clipped lawns on either side were absolutely even, two symmetrical rectangles that ended abruptly at the foot of the first towering fence of barbed wire. The glittering wire sank deep into the ground. A short strip of bare earth intervened, marked with the paw-prints of patrol dogs, before the second fence rose up, even higher, topped with three high-voltage electric strands. At each corner stood a watchtower painted in military khaki with tinted windows. The gates through the fences were both operated remotely from the guardhouse. The warder’s face appeared warped behind green-blue bulletproof glass, as if he was looking up from deep below the ocean surface. He would not open the second gate until the first had been pulled closed, leaving the visitor momentarily panicked, surrounded by a forest of angled wire and barbs. With a buzz, the second gate would be unlocked, quickly pushed open in relief.

Once inside the perimeter, the brutal reality of Pollsmoor’s awaiting-trial section revealed itself in discrete stages. First the pretty walkway, its flowers and grass offset by the dulled razor-wire and electrified fencing, followed by the concrete guardhouse. Then the reception area, with its bureaucratic wooden counter and vase of plastic roses, where the prison staff still presented a mask of concern and control. The forms and signatures suggested that they were managing an institution with rules and procedures in place. Their trousers were ironed into straight pleats and they moved about the small office area with purpose. Names were taken, questions asked, identification perused. Visitors were taken through a pastel-coloured internal door into a large visiting area, lined with cubicles and thick panes of glass. Finally, seated at one of these booths, the visitor could gaze upon the face of their incarcerated family member, watched by an expressionless guard. The visiting area provided no glimpse into the prison, and the loved one sat before a blank concrete wall. The only entrance to the prison itself was from the reception area, through a single metal door. On the other side, all pretence of prettiness and concern fell away like a lifeless husk.

The unrelenting barbarism of prison life shocked Ifasen. The stark concrete walls and polished floors reflected back the basest of behaviour, providing no crevice for compassion. Even in the depravity of the holding cell at the police station, the inmates had some sense of each other’s humanity, a shared injustice that at times resulted in a glimmer of camaraderie. But the prison was a place powered by the raw need to survive. Any show of weakness was exploited without mercy, and relationships were governed by aggression and self-interest. It was a return to a primeval state of being, where every interaction was regulated by its potential risk and possible benefit. The prisoners circled each other like wild animals, stalking and watching, assessing the strength of their opponents, considering the desirability of their meagre wealth. Communication was reduced to glowering stares and flexed muscles, to snarls of invective and ragged expletives. It was a world in which physical strength dominated completely, and it was utterly foreign to Ifasen.