‘Then you will see a big black Mercedes. He will force his way along, like a big lion, and hoot with a loud horn, forcing other cars off to the side, pushing people with his bonnet, cutting a space for himself. The people sell anything: fruit and meat and baskets, jewellery, radios, cheap drugs, foreign currency, Chinese imported goods. There is no black market, because there is no proper market. If nothing is legal then nothing is illegal. Anything goes here; this is Nigeria. And no one is watching; no one cares. Every politician is being bribed, every military official, every local official, they will all take your money. Some will keep their promise; some will not. Life is desperate and hard and dirty. This is Nigeria. This is what my people have become.’ Abayomi reached down for her bag, preparing to leave. ‘My country’s soul is rotting away.’
Richard watched her in wonder. But when she looked up, her face was saddened: ‘So do not judge us when we escape from this living hell. When we come here and grab an opportunity. And compete with you for something better. Here you are used to receiving. We in Nigeria have learnt that to survive is to take.’
R
ICHARD REVERSED HIS
car out of the double garage. He was soothed by the familiarity of the bricked roadway drumming on the wide tyres. The day was clear and already warm, generating a sense of well-being that made the recent disruptions to his life seem a little foolish. For a while, the meeting with Abayomi had left him more miserable than before. He had squabbled with Nadine at work, and Amanda remained distant. After two days of agonising, he had woken up with a clear resolution: he would regard the Nigerian temptress as a passing client. His intimacy with her would be a receding memory, and over time it would release its hold on him. He would recommit himself to stability, to a family life. He spoke the words to himself in his mind, willing them to hold together, to suppress the tickling thrill that still fluttered in his stomach.
The car glided down the estate lane, shaded by the overarching oak trees. The rising sun shone through the young vine leaves, casting a pale-green glow across the vineyard floor. He would take his family on a holiday, he thought, to escape the dreary Cape winter. A surprise two-week trip to somewhere exotic, where they could play in the sun and be easy in each other’s company. Bali perhaps, he mused, as the booms lifted for him and he drove out of the grounds into the gathering traffic. Tanned bodies lying sultry on the beach, soaking up the rays while Cape Town hunkered down into its rain jackets and damp shoes. Or somewhere more interesting, like Morocco or Egypt. Yes, he thought, somewhere in the north of Africa, where he could show his family the real beauty of the continent. The dark richness of her soul. Richard sighed loudly as his heart again tightened, aware that his thoughts were returning implacably to flirt with the prospect of seeing Abayomi again.
‘Godammit!’ He slammed both hands down onto the steering wheel, causing the tyres to shudder on the road. He could not escape the irritating childishness of his captivation. Yet he continued to revel in the rush of new emotions that coursed through him. He was both repulsed by and morbidly drawn to the possibilities.
The traffic entering the highway was backed up down the on-ramp and his SLK rolled to a standstill. The headline boards of the competing newspapers were strung up on the telephone poles. Richard stared at them through the passenger window on his left. ‘Crisis in SA cricket’, ‘Tourists mugged’. Richard thought of what Abayomi had said. The paranoia of the advantaged, feeding off the doomsday prophets like jackals on poisoned carrion. The tabloids were no better, aiming purely for shock value without the pessimistic analysis: ‘Man eats child’ and ‘Druggie kills bergie’, the posters proclaimed.
Richard looked away. He was startled to find someone standing next to his window, patiently waiting for him to finish reading the boards. The young man had painted his face in ludicrous streaks of white and red and wore a sickly yellow wig made of foam and string. He grinned inanely at Richard and pushed a folded page of jokes against the window. Richard was trapped and started to pat his jacket pockets as if trying to find his wallet. The lights turned green and he pulled away immediately, taking the corner with a small squeak of tyres, only to come to a halt again as he joined the traffic on the highway.
His cellphone jarred his nerves further, vibrating in the plastic holder and increasing in volume with each ring. Richard kept looking up while he fumbled with his free hand for the phone. He pushed the green button on the phone and spoke towards the small microphone that protruded discreetly from the car’s visor.
It was Nadine. Richard was amazed at how early she started work each morning. It had never been a requirement of the job, but she was unerringly at work well before him, sorting through his mail and arranging his diary.
His secretary did not waste any time on pleasantries. ‘I have a message from Dumbela.’
Richard frowned: the trial was not due to start for another week and all the pre-trial exchange of documentation had already taken place. There was no need for the prosecutor to speak to him. Unless they have located that witness, he remembered, suddenly alert. He waited for Nadine to continue.
‘Dumbela says they want you to bring Svritsky to court first thing this morning. Otherwise they’ll be arresting him.’ She paused briefly for effect. ‘They want to revoke his bail.’ There was a glimmer of pleasure in the way she shared the news.
‘What? For fuck’s sake! Did he say why?’ Richard was immediately running through his appointments for the day in his mind. An unscheduled day in court would cause havoc with his diary. ‘Did Dumbela explain what’s going on?’ He knew that this was a pointless question. The prosecutor would never have volunteered such information and Nadine would not have asked.
‘No. Just said that it was serious. He wants to hear from you urgently,’ she said. Richard heard her tapping on the computer keyboard. ‘I’ve shifted your morning appointments around. Mrs Heath will come in tomorrow. Lionel Jowdry has moved his to this afternoon.’
‘Ja, good … Thanks.’
‘I haven’t phoned the Russian,’ she said, ringing off.
‘Of course not,’ he said out loud to himself.
He called up Svritsky’s number on his phone and pressed the dial button. His client sounded half-asleep, his voice groggy and slurred. But he soon woke up when he heard that the State wanted to revoke his bail.
‘They just try to fuck me around, Richard,’ Svritsky boomed. ‘Nothing has happened. You tell them to fuck off and leave me alone, okay? I’m not coming to court. This is rubbish. Tell them I say that.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Stefan,’ Richard countered. ‘You’re on bail and they call the shots on this one. If you’re not there, they’ll issue a warrant for you. Then no one’s going to get you back out.’ His phone vibrated again, registering a waiting call from Dumbela. ‘Look, the prosecutor is trying to get hold of me. Just be at court. Leave now.’ As he accepted the second call he heard the beginnings of an expletive before the phone cut Svritsky off.
‘Bradley, what the hell is this about revoking my client’s bail?’ The adrenaline made Richard abrupt.
‘Your client has intimidated one of the witnesses.’ Dumbela was no less abrasive. ‘If he’s not in court by nine o’clock this morning, I’m going to ask Magistrate Abrahams to revoke his bail and the police will pick him up. Make sure he’s there.’ The call went dead before Richard could respond.
He glared out at the trundling traffic, furious at the turn of events. ‘What the fuck have you done now, Svritsky?’ His voice sounded hollow and tinny in the enclosed space of the car. He leant forward and punched the power button on the radio, bouncing his left leg impatiently on the clutch as the car jerked along.
Magistrate Shirley Abrahams gave Richard a stern look from the bench when he walked into court, Svritsky at his side. They were ten minutes late and Abrahams had started with the postponements on her roll. She waited for them to sit down before pointedly asking Dumbela to continue with his roll. The prosecutor gave Richard a thin smile before calling his next matter. The postponements took another half-hour, during which time Svritsky hissed and sucked next to Richard like an over-pressured steam engine.
Finally the postponements came to an end and Abrahams beckoned to Richard. He picked up his briefcase and made his way to the defence table.
‘Mr Svritsky, in the dock please.’ Abrahams held up her hand to stop Dumbela proceeding while she waited for Svritsky to labour his way into position. The Russian sighed heavily as he sat down.
Dumbela stood up and announced the case. Richard rose to place himself on record but the magistrate was quick off the mark. ‘Yes, yes, Mr Calloway. You’re on record already. All as before. Now, what’s this about? Are you bringing an application?’
Richard shook his head and pointed his chin in Dumbela’s direction. He sat down once Abrahams had turned her attention to the prosecutor.
‘Your Worship,’ Dumbela began, ‘the State is bringing an application in terms of Section 68 of the Criminal Procedure Act for the cancellation of the accused’s bail on grounds that he has threatened a material witness, or has caused others to threaten such witness, to the extent that the witness has broken off contact with the investigating officer and his whereabouts are now no longer known.’
‘I see,’ Abrahams said, carefully writing down some notes. The court waited in silence until she was finished. ‘And the evidence to be tendered?’ Although the question was addressed towards the prosecutor, Richard was aware that she was now staring directly at Svritsky.
‘I shall be calling the investigating officer.’
Richard half-rose to interrupt the proceedings, but Abrahams glared at him before saying: ‘Right then, let’s proceed, shall we? You’ll need to satisfy me on urgency and the necessity for a full withdrawal of bail, Mr Dumbela. But you may call your witness. Let’s hear what he has to say.’
The investigating officer, Captain Riedwaan Faizal, swaggered to the front, stepping up into the witness box and closing the low swing-door behind him. He looked disdainfully across at Richard before smoothing his zipped leather jacket and adjusting the obvious bulge of a firearm on his hip. His performance brimmed with aggression, and Richard felt his resolve tighten. There could be only one victor.
Abrahams administered the oath, and Faizal raised his right hand almost defiantly. He stood to attention as the prosecutor started his examination. Yes, he was a captain in the police force. Yes, he was the investigating officer in the case against Svritsky. Yes, he was intimately involved in every aspect of the investigation. The questions were standard, but Faizal answered with contrived seriousness, his voice booming across the courtroom. Richard thought he could detect the scent of his Old Spice aftershave.
‘Now, Captain, can you please tell us why we are here today?’ Dumbela asked. Behind him, Richard heard Svritsky snort. Faizal turned and stared at him, before giving his evidence to the bench.
‘Your Worship, Mr David Matsuku is a car guard who worked outside a club that is owned by the accused. The club is situated at the bottom of Loop Street in the city centre. Mr Matsuku provided me with a statement in the investigation. Mr Matsuku identified the accused …’ – Faizal paused and turned again to Svritsky, as if to make sure that he was still the right man – ‘getting into a motor vehicle, a green Ford, just shortly before the accident occurred. Mr Matsuku is a material witness in the State’s case, particularly as the accused alleges that the motor vehicle we believe caused the accident and the death of the deceased had in fact been stolen earlier that day.’
‘Yes,’ Dumbela nodded, encouraging his witness to continue.
Faizal rocked slightly on his feet, squaring his shoulders before continuing: ‘Mr Matsuku was initially reluctant because of his fear of the accused. But we managed to find him another area to work in and he agreed to give us a statement.’ He stopped and looked at Svritsky. Richard held his breath, sure that his client was making some inappropriate gesture and that the magistrate would notice. But Abrahams was writing notes and did not look up.
‘Your Worship,’ Faizal continued, ‘we have reason to believe that over the weekend Mr Matsuku was visited by the accused. On Saturday night, the accused was seen parking his car in the area where Mr Matsuku now works as a car guard. We are not aware of any reason for the accused to be in that area. He does not work or reside in that area. Yesterday I went to find the witness, Mr Matsuku. I was informed by his associates who work the same street that he has left. They told me that they do not know where he is.’ Faizal was looking straight ahead into space, reciting his monologue in even, clipped phrases. Richard had to concede that he presented the evidence well.
‘When I asked them why, they informed me that a man had threatened him on Saturday night. The description of that man matches the features of the accused. We accordingly believe that the accused has broken his bail conditions. Your Worship, we believe that the accused has approached a witness and has threatened that witness directly, causing him to flee. We cannot rule out the possibility that the witness has been harmed—’
‘Objection, Your Worship.’ Richard was on his feet. He had anticipated an attempt by Faizal to slip in a statement like this. ‘Good grief, this is pure speculation,’ he said in an exasperated tone. ‘A policeman of this witness’s experience should know better than to try this kind of trick.’
Abrahams turned a cold eye towards him. ‘And Mr Calloway, you should also know that this judicial officer is far too experienced to take note of such a statement. So please, keep the melodrama for someone else’s court.’ She sighed and gestured to Faizal to continue.
‘Thank you, Your Worship,’ Faizal said, his mouth set in a thin smirk. Abrahams did not bother to react to his attempt to ingratiate himself, but Richard still seethed.
‘Your Worship, we also have reason to believe that the accused is actively seeking out the identity of the main eyewitness to the fatal incident. We have discovered that the accused, or his associates, have been actively questioning the car guards and the informal traders. They have been attempting to ascertain the identity and whereabouts of the witness. We are concerned by this. Given what has happened to the witness Matsuku. We are concerned that, should the accused learn the identity of this witness, he too will be intimidated and will refuse to give evidence.’ He stopped and looked Richard straight in the eye before adding, almost under his breath: ‘Or worse.’