A Trojan Affair

by Michael Smorenburg

  “Yes. Well, she’s been fantastic. Poor thing, she can’t come over in the open. She has to keep the visits very covert. I really don’t want to know what will happen when the father gets wind of it, and I’m sure he will, as he seems to know everything around here.”

  “I’ve known the family a long time. Oom Andre is something else. He’s a nice man, just some very strange idiosyncrasies. Very bitter about the new political dispensation, doesn’t like outsiders or change.”

  “Scares the hell out of me.” She watched Pieter carefully as she went on, “What scares me more—and I’m sure JJ has spoken to you about it—is that he seems to be implicated in this whole affair; caused Dara to divert onto the road past the Vermaak farm. I hope I pronounced it right?”

  “Pronounced well enough.” Pieter shifted uneasily in his seat, picked up his pen, and fidgeted with it. “From what I’ve heard, yes, uhmm… it doesn’t look good for that involvement. But if we start making a noise about it, it’s going to… well, you know…”

  “Be awkward?” Marsha suggested, raising an eyebrow.

  “Awkward would be a good word,” Pieter agreed. “Small town; he’s got a long family history. And police, anywhere in the world…” his voice faltered hopelessly, “…hard to challenge. But you’re my client and if you want to go there, I’ll go there. But it will be… awkward, yes.”

  “Well. I’m not sure how we can leave out something that to me seems to be a cornerstone… material, but let’s see where we can go. I’m not being a mum now. Don’t get me wrong, I could easily become unhinged when I let my emotions run and they want to run right now, but that won’t serve us. I’m being a rational scientist if you will… keeping my objective hat on. I’m trying to deal with the facts as they lie within the context we find them.”

  “I’m grateful for that. As I say, I’ll take your case and run with it and take you wherever you want me to take you, but I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t point out the pitfalls too.”

  “Fair enough. Sorry, Dara… we were talking about his state of mind. He’s going through a lot of sentiments; first to get out of here back to England, then next thing he gets angry and wants justice. We’re playing everything by ear.”

  “Granted. Well, let’s dig in and see what we have. Start with the case against Dara. This morning I was over at the police station speaking to the Captain. He’s not remotely interested in it, didn’t even know Oom Andre was pursuing it.”

  “Really?” Marsha was amazed. “That constable said the Captain was up in arms, wanted to make an example out of Dara!”

  “He said there’s an open docket. There can be no question Dara was riding under age and without a license on a public road. A secondary one, but by implication, he also would have needed to traverse a National highway to have got there. He’s not denying he was in Loxton?”

  Marsha nodded in agreement.

  “Good. The Loxton police and the owner of the coffee shop where he met JJ have confirmed someone of his description in their town earlier that day.”

  “Now, this is interesting,” Marsha cut in. “I’d like very much to know when and how the Loxton police made the connection to the Carnarvon police—especially if the Captain is disinterested.”

  “I think I see where you’re going but I doubt anything like that is actually logged.”

  “Are there no recordings of radio traffic?”

  “Indeed, but I don’t think we have a prayer of getting them released to us. If this were a murder case, maybe.”

  “So, someone has to actually be murdered; an attempt is not enough?”

  “It’s an imperfect system,” Pieter agreed.

  “It’s a frustrating one.”

  “Sadly, I think they all are, the world over. Again, small town… things are going to work, well… differently.”

  “You’re preparing me for something.”

  “I am, yes; it’s something we have to deal with, circumstances we have to face without emotion.”

  “I’m a realist,” Marsha assured him. “Much as I’m pissed off and perhaps even frightened, I don’t want a vendetta, because that’s what I think you’re getting at. I simply want resolution and to bring this situation out into the open so that we can put an end to it.”

  “That all my clients were so rational,” Pieter expressed, opening his palms in praise to heaven. “We’re going to get a resolution.”

  “You were saying about the police’s case?”

  “Yes. I’ll massage that—it’ll go away.”

  “So, nothing to be concerned about?”

  “Not in the scheme of things. And from your side, we are alleging that there are two incidents concerning the same individual—the attacker—that are somehow connected. I just want to spell it out so we’re on the same page.”

  Marsha explained in detail all that she knew, adding something unexpected, “Sonja, JJ’s sister told Dara she feels responsible.”

  “How so?”

  “Evidently, that boy, the perpetrator… he considered Sonja his girlfriend.”

  “I pretty much knew that. Again, small town stuff—he’s the alpha lion, she’s the prettiest girl around. And the connection to Dara? Sonja only met Dara at the hospital, I thought.”

  “Yes, only officially at the hospital, but she was there when he attacked Dara. It looks like a racist attack made worse by jealousy from the things he said and the way he ambushed Dara. Neels—that’s his name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sonja says Neels was incensed by Dara’s introductory talk at the school. Neels wasn’t even in the class, but she said it was like wildfire through the school, like Dara had been set up by the teacher, by the preacher stoking xenophobia in the kids. They all knew exactly what Neels was going to do coming in from the fields, and when Sonja tried to intervene, he accused her of having a… a ‘thing for a darkie’.”

  “Hmmm,” Pieter nodded encouragingly, knowingly.

  “After the attack, Sonja split up with Neels, and that sent him over the edge. It set him to bragging around town what he was going to do to Dara. The school principal turned a deaf ear.”

  Pieter let out an agonized sigh. “I can only say it fits a pattern. But courts don’t judge on patterns, they judge on facts, and so far, we don’t have any.”

  Marsha nodded, appreciating a truism the world over.

  “What exactly did Neels say to your boy?” Pieter quizzed.

  “It was in Afrikaans, so it meant nothing to Dara, but Sonja wrote it down for you.”

  Pieter read the note. “Swart moffie duiwelaanbidder.” His eyebrows lifted. “That’s a hate crime. She’d have interpreted for you I'm sure—‘black homosexual devil worshipper’. You prove he said that and he’s in deep water. If he was the other side of eighteen when he said it, he’d be even deeper.”

  “We could scout around for witnesses. I wouldn’t want to put Sonja through it even though she’s willing, I think there are too many implications for her.”

  “And for everyone,” he sighed. “Honestly Marsha, it’s worth a try, but I think you’ll meet a wall of silence; nobody’ll speak out. If I’m wrong, this changes gears and it goes to the Equality Court, and that hits the press. Nobody round here will have that staying power to testify against a prominent family.”

  “And the significance of that court? I can guess but I’d rather ask.”

  “The Equality Courts were created by the Promotion of Equality and Prevention of Unfair Discrimination Act 4 of 2000, which was established to give effect to section 9 of the Constitution of the Republic of South Africa.”

  Pieter stood up and ran his finger along the spines of the books on his shelves as he was talking.

  “So it’s a proper magistrate court?” Marsha asked.

  “Oh, no—it actually falls under the jurisdiction of the High Court, the Supreme Court—it’s a very serious matter.”

  “A Supreme Court?!” Marsha’s voice exhibited alarm.

  “Do
n’t stress—under the constitution, South Africa is one of the few countries in the world where a layperson can use the machinery of State, at the State’s cost, to test the constitution in the High Court if they feel they have been violated.”

  “This country is a real enigma,” Marsha remarked. “In some ways so locked into the past; in other ways—if only in theory—so progressive.”

  “It’s not just theory, it’s very real. If you have the evidence, we can bring the matter and it will be expedited. There is very little case law in this regard so that the courts are hungry to test it, to animate the law and develop jurisprudence and precedent. First, we need the evidence and the witnesses.”

  Pieter pulled down a volume from his shelf and read from it. “‘The purpose of Equality Courts is to adjudicate matters specifically relating to infringements of the right to equality, unfair discrimination and hate speech, with a view toward eradicating the ever present post apartheid spectre which essentially has divided the country along racial, gender and monetary related lines.’

  “‘Equality Court proceedings are more akin to civil proceedings as opposed to criminal proceedings in that the onus of proof of a claim is on a balance of probabilities, and there are no prosecutors present at inquiries.’

  “What this means is that we don’t need to prove something ‘without a shadow of doubt’. It does give us a powerful case, so long as we can find witnesses to testify.”

  “And the… uhmm… what lawyers call the finding?”

  “Remedy?”

  “Yes—the remedy. What’s the outcome if a judgment is upheld?”

  “Depending on the circumstances, a fine, community service. Prison is unlikely but not out of the question.”

  “As you say, it’s speculative unless or until we get witnesses?”

  “Precisely. What we ought to do is cast around. I know this boy’s reputation—people either love or hate him; he’s very abrasive. There’s a lot of talk around town that he’s a real bigot, but, it’s hearsay unless someone credible steps forward with a specific gripe and I don’t know what it will take to make that happen. Ask Sonja if others will come forward, and meanwhile we concentrate on a civil case.”

  They discussed the type of evidence Pieter would need and Marsha came up with the best she could think of.

  “Dara’s bike is in perfect condition after the incident, except for a small damage to the crash bar. It looks like it fell over at a virtual standstill, but he has injuries that the doctors say would be consistent with a very serious high-speed fall.”

  “That’s a lot closer to the kind of facts we need. That can form part of a deposition from the doctor and an expert in crash forensics.”

  “There were no skid marks and I didn’t expect any because Dara’s clothing and the bike showed nothing like the injuries his body had taken. I took a ton of photos at the scene. The two farmers who helped out were brilliant. Jakob van Breda—he’s really my landlord, we stay on his farm.” She read from her notebook, “Frik Hen-something-or-other?” Her pronunciation was poor.

  “Frik Hendriks?” Pieter guessed.

  “Yes—that’s him. Frik, he’s the one who found Dara the night of the accident. He was very helpful. Says he’s a hunter and he sure seemed to have an eye for detail.”

  “I think you’re in luck then because he’s the closest thing to a forensic specialist in this area. Not university trained but he owns a game farm and is a very well-known hunter. You’re especially in luck because he hates the Vermaaks. They’ve had a feud for two generations already. They’ve got adjacent farms and have had countless trips to court. Trips to the doctor too from the dustups they’ve had. If he’s got something, we may have something.”

  “So—finally, our first breakthrough,” Marsha commented, rolling her eyes comically.

  She had a sense of humour and Pieter really liked that in a lady.

  His wife had lost her sense of humour when their income took the knock of leaving the city. She nagged incessantly and found fault in most everything he did these days; he consequently was finding almost every woman attractive. But Marsha didn’t need a man to have a difficult spouse in order to be found attractive—she just was that.

  “We took some pictures of the place and the position Frik found Dara in.” She handed Pieter the prints from the day the two farmers had posed to re-enact the discovery.

  He looked them over.

  “Frik seemed to have a pretty good eye for all kinds of things. He pointed out tire tracks behind a low thorn bush, and I took several pictures of the proximities and the tracks on the ground.”

  “They’re clear—they’re tire marks for sure, but it proves nothing.”

  Then she handed Pieter another sheaf of prints. “These photos are of the helmet, from different angles.”

  He looked through them slowly, back and forth. The tire marks were clearly imprinted. “You still have the helmet?”

  “Yes, in a bag, put away in my cupboard with strict instructions to the staff not to touch it.”

  “To my naked eye those tracks are the same or bloody close to the same.” Pieter put the best of the helmet and the dirt tracks side by side. “I’m no forensic specialist, and I don’t know how many variations there can be on tires but to me this is pretty hard evidence if my instincts are correct.” He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned backward in his office chair, staring into the distance past Marsha.

  “The helmet has stress fractures. From what I’ve learned, that would take quite an amount of force.”

  “Now that sounds interesting…” he kept staring, then stopped and sat upright and examined the prints. “Look… these aren’t official police photos and there are no official police measurements of the scene, so far as I’m aware.”

  “Then how could they charge Dara?”

  “Circumstantial. They weren’t charging him with crashing, they’re charging him with riding. The crash is inconsequential as far as they’re concerned. Honestly, it’s petty of the cops, it’s nothing; they’re just being difficult.”

  Marsha nodded agreement.

  “If that’s all you’ve got, the pics, it’s a hell of a long shot. I doubt you’ll get that boy on criminal charges—the burden of proof required is higher. You may get something though on a civil action.”

  “What does that translate to? Precisely I mean. What does it translate to in practical terms?”

  “Well, on a criminal case, on attempted murder, it’s very sketchy; I don’t think a local prosecutor will touch it. You can sue for damages because the civil evidence requirement is less.”

  “Well, I think a damages case is appropriate. There are some hard costs—medical. Insurance has picked up most but that’s not the point.”

  “This isn’t America, we don’t have a jury or a history of big awards.”

  “I’m… we’re not looking for an award. It’s not about money, it’s about right, and about justice and responsibility.”

  “Then I think we’ve got a case. What I need you to do or I can do, is bring in a forensic expert on the tire tracks. It’s going to cost you out of pocket, and we can sue for costs.”

  Chapter 24

  JJ felt torn by conflict.

  Intrigue and distress now wrestled one another within his mind. The review of his secret video needed completion. Though he wanted its insight, he hated the inevitable wedge it would drive into his family.

  Throughout the long drive back to Cape Town, the arguments with his kin had been a litany inside his head so that he’d decided to take a few days to let the whole matter settle. He’d distracted his thoughts of the awkward trip with the pressing executive duties that had mounted in his absence, contracts needing review, and points of new negotiations requiring his input.

  He’d of course romanced his wife and topped her up with attention and affection before packing her off to see her own family for Thanksgiving. Then he’d gone to his beach house to find some solace.

  All ni
ght he’d tossed and turned, the sound and smell of the sea just meters away was a comfort made of white noise.

  For all the family tensions, the embrace of community in those few weeks of his visit back to Carnarvon had made his beach house seem a lonely place. His yammering TV now created some atmosphere. News, sport, and re-runs of old 1960s Star Trek episodes that he loved for their simplicity burbled away—old human dramas that dealt so innocently with the convolutions of integrity juxtaposed with the unfolding dramas of mid-twentieth century perceptions of modernity out in space.

  Before dawn he’d woken and spilled out of bed to go jogging. Five barefooted laps at the water’s edge—back and forth across the beaches that girded the bay—had given him a short but intense workout. The soft, cloying sand had made his lungs and thighs scream for mercy.

  The South Atlantic was a bath of ice. Diving into it had felt like a slap across his face, the crushing tourniquet of cold mincing his brain. He’d jogged back up to his house and took a cold shower that felt warm in the rising dawn.

  Martha, his housekeeper, emerged from her quarters. “Morning sir, breakfast on the deck?” She inquired.

  “Hello Martha. Please… two eggs sunny side and bacon, no toast, but tomato, mushroom and fried banana out here, please.”

  Twenty minutes later and the first rays of sun had clawed up over the mountain behind the house and began to explore the rocks at the southern extremity of the crescent bay with its headland jutting out to sea.

  JJ sighed and closed out the morning papers in the browser on his MacBook, then opened the video where he’d left off back in Carnarvon.

  The grumbling, cantankerous, aging men in that worn old kitchen of his youth immediately came to life, battling imagined monsters from his forgotten past. The scene came flooding from the screen into his modern haven and it instantly sullied the prosperity he always felt here in his paradise setting.

  The grimness of that suspicion-laden negative world of his father, family and community—self-imposed for countless generations—was like a heavy burden of despair. A mean thing pulling the light and happy mood of his morning into the shadows, into the morose, myopic state that was the siege mentality of his people.