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Deceive and Defend

Page 10

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers


  He’d managed to avoid her over the months, shunning the places he knew she liked to hang out. Even so, she’d continued to demonstrate exactly where he featured in her priorities. Day after day initially, and then with monotonous regularity, allegations, suppositions, scandal and outright lies about him and Tiffany had appeared in the Daily Express, all with the by-line ‘by Tracy Jacobs’. He’d tried to ignore it. After all, Red had always made it crystal clear that her sole ambition in life was to be an ace reporter. He just hadn’t thought she’d be so ruthless about it. He should be happy for her – she was finally realising her dream. He swallowed the sob that threatened to choke him.

  Now she’d even tracked him down to this dreadful cell in search of yet another ‘scoop’.

  Tears leaked out from beneath his eyelids but he didn’t have the energy to brush them away. He didn’t care anymore. It couldn’t get any worse than this.

  He was wrong.

  Chapter 13

  Yair

  Yair’s hand rasped over the stubble on his chin and he grimaced. He’d sworn never to regrow the beard his late, unlamented father had insisted he cultivate. That was back in the days when Alan Silverman had been desperate to build and maintain the façade that the Silvermans were a devout and decent family. His mother’s inquest had quickly dispelled that fallacy. Yair would never forget the exhilarating feeling of liberating freedom wrought by the first scrape of the hastily procured disposable Bic razor down his left cheek. What he wouldn’t give for that cheap, scratchy, orange implement now! But it was against regulations, Darryl had said when his old school friend, recently promoted to junior partner at his law firm, delivered his charcoal suit to the Norwood police station that morning. They’d driven him there, at breakneck speed, sirens blaring, from the Sandringham Police Station on Friday evening – a lifetime ago. The Sandringham police station, the cop who’d taken his watch had gleefully informed him, didn’t have overnight holding facilities and couldn’t keep him until he was brought before a magistrate on Monday as the law required. So off to Norwood he went for the most miserable weekend of his life.

  Yair wondered when Darryl had gone to the house to collect his clothes. It was so early that the lights were still on in the visiting room and the sky, through the dirty window, was a dark pre-dawn blue.

  ‘What about a shower? I really need a shower. It’s been three days already,’ Yair said.

  ‘I really don’t think you want to use the communal shower here. Just use the deodorant I brought you and thank your lucky stars it’s not a long weekend.’

  ‘I didn’t know deodorant killed fleas.’

  Darryl chuckled and then tried to look apologetic. ‘I’m sorry. Hang in there. We’ll get you out as soon as we can post bail and then you’ll be able to go home and take a nice, long, hot shower.’

  ‘So I’ll get bail today?’

  ‘Umm... there might be a problem...

  ‘Darryl! Please tell me I’m getting bail today. I can’t spend another night in this fucking hellhole. Can’t you tell the judge it’s Simchat Torah tonight and I have to go to shul or something? Surely our constitution guarantees freedom of worship?’

  ‘You’re going before a magistrate, not a judge. And I doubt he will care about a fairly minor Jewish holiday. Now, if it was Yom Kippur, we might have had a better chance.’

  ‘So I was arrested a couple of weeks too late, is that it? And because of that I’m going to rot here forever?’

  ‘No, don’t be ridiculous. Look, it’s probably nothing – just hang in here. Anyway, today’s just to have the charges formally put to you. We’ll bring a bail application as soon as we can.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  Darryl muttered something about new evidence and Schedule 6 criminal offences, and serious crimes, and premeditated murder and exceptional circumstances that would be required to get bail.

  ‘Premeditated murder? Are they crazy?’ Yair yelped.

  ‘Look, it’s probably just a ploy to stop you getting bail immediately. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.’

  ‘Not worry? Of course I’m fucking worried. Premeditated fucking murder! Are you really telling me I have nothing to worry about?’

  ‘Yes. No. Yes! Yair, don’t be so negative. We got you a top advocate and... ‘

  ‘Oscar Pistorius had a top advocate – and look where he is now.’

  ‘You’ll get bail. Promise. It just might not be today. That’s all.’

  ‘So when? Don’t forget that it actually is Simchat Torah tonight – and I spent the last few days of Sukkot in a fucking prison cell instead of in a sukkah. And what about Zivah?’

  ‘Zivah’s okay. Her social worker has everything sorted. Just hang in there. You’ll be okay.’

  It was only after Darryl left that Yair realized he still didn’t know what the new evidence was that had turned what his lawyer had assured him would never—could never—be more than a charge of culpable homicide into one of premeditated murder.

  ***

  ‘Hey white boy. Move! I haven’t got all day.’

  Yair stumbled and slammed into the flaking grey-white wall. ‘Don’t push!’ he said.

  ‘What’s that, white boy? You giving me orders, white boy? You don’t give orders around here, white boy.’ A fat finger poked at his shoulder, punctuating each hate-filled word. ‘Here, I’m the boss. Here you scum, like all the other scum, ’cept you more worser cos you white scum. Now get in there with the other scum.’

  Yair fought to maintain his balance as the constable shoved him through the barred door and slammed it behind him.

  ‘Sleep well white boy.’

  Yair was relieved to see that the tiny cell contained only three other occupants. The rest—his weekend roomies who’d been shoved into the back of the police van with him that morning to be driven at high speed to the Johannesburg Magistrate’s Court—were not there. They had probably been granted bail, or had the charges against them withdrawn. He recognised two of the cell’s occupants: the homeless drunk who usually begged on the corner of Grant Avenue and Ivy Road, and the frightened Congolese kid. They were cowering in the corner by the stinking latrine, gazing intently at the crack in the concrete floor.

  Yair appraised his new cellmate – a big guy stretched out on his back on the dubious comfort of the single mattress on the floor, his arms supporting his dreadlocked head. His tight yellow Ché Guevara vest showed off perfectly defined biceps and the clear outline of a rippling six pack.

  ‘Home, sweet home,’ Yair muttered, took a deep breath and approached Ché. ‘Um, please could you move your feet a little so I can sit down?’

  The big guy snarled. Yair nodded, moved to the opposite wall and slid down to the floor. Ché grinned, large white teeth gleaming against his black skin.

  ‘You learn fast, white boy,’ he said in what sounded like a Nigerian accent. He raised himself up on one elbow and glared at him. ‘What you done? Why you here? Need bail money?’

  Bail. He was never going to get bail. Not now.

  ***

  The courtroom had seemed horribly familiar when he’d stumbled up the last few stairs into the dock that afternoon, prodded—unnecessarily—by the cop from the holding cells. Yair was sure it was the same courtroom where he’d made such an idiot of himself four years before, breaking down while giving evidence at his mother’s inquest. He’d kept his eyes glued to his slip-on black shoes as he’d slumped onto the bench in the dock, relieved to be out of the overcrowded holding cells where he’d spent what seemed like hours. His stomach was growling – he hadn’t been able to swallow the thin, unsweetened mealie-meal porridge that was the only item on the Norwood police station’s breakfast—and dinner—menu.

  The cop who’d shoved him up the stairs hauled him to his feet. He could feel the eyes of the public gallery burning into his back. He forced himself not to turn around to see if it was as full as it had been during his mother’s inquest. He could hear the rustling anticipation
of the sensation seekers, preparing to tweet to the world about the humiliation of one of Johannesburg’s privileged finest. He caught a glimpse of Red, squashed in among the throng of reporters on the long bench at the side of the courtroom. She was hard to miss – her flaming hair covered her face as she scribbled in her shorthand notebook. He quickly looked away, before she raised her head and saw him. Not that she could miss him – he was, after all, the reason everyone had crowded into courtroom 15 at the Johannesburg Magistrate’s Court this Spring Monday afternoon.

  Darryl smiled at him from the long table in front of the dock, then turned away and whispered to the man next to him. His advocate. He wished he could remember the man’s name.

  The proceedings passed in a blur. Yair tried to focus on the charges being put to him. He heard the words ‘caused the unlawful death of Tiffany Horwitz Zaldain’ and looked up. A mistake. Red’s accusing eyes were focused on his face. He flushed, and stared at his shoes. He didn’t look up again, not even when he heard the magistrate asking him how he pleaded. He heard the advocate say the words ‘not guilty’. He heard Darryl hissing at him to sit down. He sat. He wondered how his shoes had got so dusty.

  He heard the word ‘bail’, and his heart thumped. They had to let him out of that disgusting, dirty, overcrowded cell at the Norwood Police Station. He’d find the money, whatever they asked. One million. Two. He could swing it. He looked up hopefully. His advocate was on his feet, explaining, in a velvet voice, that Yair Silverman had very strong ties to the community. His enunciation was impeccable. His presentation impassioned. Yair was impressed.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ the advocate continued. ‘Mr Silverman is solely responsible for the care of his younger sister. Should he be held in custody, Miss Silverman would have to be institutionalized. In effect, your Honour, you would be punishing an innocent young women for the alleged offence of her brother.’

  Yair swallowed hard, blinking back threatening tears. He was letting Zivah down again. He was supposed to protect his little sister, but here he was, in jail, accused of murdering a woman he should never have been involved with. If he hadn’t tried to be a big deal, a knight on a white charger rescuing a tawdry damsel in distress, he wouldn’t have forgotten that Zivah was his first—his only—responsibility. His advocate sat down.

  The prosecutor was on his feet. The charges against Yair Benjamin Silverman were so serious, he said, that the state vehemently opposed bail in the strongest possible terms and his legal team was smoking their socks (or words to that effect) for even attempting to apply for it.

  The venom behind those few words shook Yair. He clung to the tarnished bronze rail around the dock and raised his eyes to stare, dumbfounded, at the magistrate who was seated in high solitary splendour on the far side of the courtroom.

  ‘The accused is extremely wealthy with many business interests outside South Africa, making him a serious flight risk,’ the prosecutor continued. ‘And the assertion that he is responsible for the care of his sister is preposterous. Zivah Silverman is twenty-two years old and is perfectly healthy. There is no evidence to suggest that she cannot take care of herself, but even if this were the case, the family has sufficient resources to ensure her ongoing care in circumstances most South Africans can only dream of.’

  That’s not true, Yair wanted to shout. Zivah is a child, she’ll always be a child, she needs me; no one else can care for her the way I can. I promised I’d always take care of her.

  The prosecutor wasn’t finished yet. ‘If the accused is granted bail, he will have ample opportunity to tamper with evidence and influence potential witnesses – particularly Zivah Silverman, who shares the family home with him.’

  Yair shuddered. They couldn’t be planning to call Zivah to testify! When they’d made her do it at their mother’s inquest, it had nearly destroyed her.

  The prosecutor was still on his feet and Yair forced himself to concentrate. ‘... clear and compelling evidence that proves that the death of Tiffany Horwitz Zaldain, a young woman in her prime, was a cruel act of murder that the accused planned and executed in cold blood.’

  Yair ignored the gasps from the public gallery. He could feel Red’s shock radiating across the courtroom. He glared at Darryl and the advocate, willing them to object to the absurd allegations but they remained seated even though they knew it had been an accident. Everyone knew that, even the prosecutor who was just out to get him because he was rich, and white.

  Yair had thought about it virtually every day for almost a year. The only possible explanation for what had happened, the only explanation that made any sense was that Tiffany had become disoriented in the dark, unfamiliar house. She had probably been trying to find her way to the kitchen (or to his bedroom, although Yair didn’t want to even consider that possibility). Because she was pregnant, she had probably got dizzy – didn’t a lot of pregnant women suffer from sudden fluctuations in blood pressure? That probably caused her to lose her balance and fall down the tiled staircase. She had lain there, on the cold, hard floor in the entrance hall, possibly for hours.

  The prosecutor continued: ‘...results of the post mortem show that the deceased had been drugged and...’

  At last, the advocate rose to his feet: ‘Objection. Whether or not there were drugs in the deceased’s blood is not conclusive evidence that she had been murdered by anyone, let alone by Mr Silverman.’

  ‘Objection sustained,’ the magistrate said, but then asked: ‘What drugs were identified?’

  The prosecutor paged through his notes. ‘Umm, some kind of tranquiliser, your honour and... .’

  ‘With respect, your honour, whatever drugs were found in the deceased’s system doesn’t prove that anyone other than the deceased administered them,’ the advocate said, rising to his feet again.

  The prosecutor ignored him, found what he had been looking for in his notes, and looked up. Yair couldn’t see his face, but he just knew the man was smiling. He could feel the tension in the courtroom rising.

  ‘Your honour, the deceased had traces of ben... benzo... benzodiazepine in her blood. That’s a drug that’s more commonly known as Ativan.’

  A cold hand closed around Yair’s heart. The advocate rose to his feet again. ‘Ativan is very commonly prescribed for a wide range of conditions. My wife takes it for her insomnia.’ There was a giggle and some muttering in the public gallery. ‘As I said before, the mere presence of Ativan is not proof of murder.’

  Yair found he was holding his breath. He knew about Ativan – probably a lot more than most people.

  The magistrate told the advocate to sit down. The prosecutor turned to Yair with an ominous gleam in his eyes.

  ‘I acknowledge my learned friend’s assertion that the deceased might have taken Ativan tablets herself.’ He paused, and Yair exhaled. ‘But the evidence suggests otherwise.’

  The prosecutor paused. Yair found he was holding his breath.

  ‘There was more than just benzo... the Ativan... in the deceased’s blood.’

  Yair stained to hear the prosecutor’s words over the roaring in his ears.

  ‘At the time of her untimely death, the deceased also had high levels of insulin in her blood. However,’ the prosecutor paused dramatically, ‘she did not have a history of diabetes.’

  Yair felt the blood drain from his face. He looked across the courtroom at Red. She was staring at him, her mouth open. He forced himself to his feet and gripped the tarnished rail.

  ‘Your honour,’ he croaked.

  Darryl and the advocate turned to him in surprise.

  ‘Sit down and shut up,’ Darryl hissed.

  ‘Your honour. Please. I want to change my plea,’ Yair said.

  Chapter 14

  Tracy

  The penny dropped. The clanging it made as it rattled the very foundation of Tracy’s soul drowned out the pandemonium in Court 15. She realized she was gaping at Yair like a half-wit. It didn’t make sense. None of it. It was crazy. Bizarre. She tried to d
ecipher her shakily scrawled notes to check she hadn’t imagined what she thought she had heard. The words jumped out at her: tranquilizers, Ativan, insulin... It was real. A cold stone of déjà vu settled in her stomach.

  And then Yair asked to change his plea. He said he wanted to plead guilty to murder – not just common-or-garden murder, nor an accidental culpable homicide sort of murder. Not even a crime-of-passion murder. No, the prosecutor had stated that Yair Silverman was being charged with a Schedule Six offence, a lock-up-and-throw-away-the-key crime. And Yair stood there and said that he had done it.

  She stared at him, the once-boy she had fantasized about in her narrow teenage bed every night through her five lonely high school years. She wanted to see into his head but his eyes were fixed on the magistrate who was pounding his bench. How could she have been so blind? And to think he would once have walked over flaming coals for him – a man who had murdered his pregnant fiancée. She wanted to vomit. Yair, pale as a ghost, swayed slightly in the dock, as if he were about to faint.

  ‘Sheeet! What kind of nutcase pleads guilty to premeditated murder?’ the reporter on Tracy’s left muttered while his thumbs flew over his iPhone keyboard. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

  ‘No idea,’ Tracy whispered. But she was going to have to write about it anyway.

  ***

  ‘Thanks for meeting me, Mom,’ Tracy said as Maxine plopped into the chair opposite her.

  ‘What’s up, Trace? You sounded really upset on the phone. I came as quickly as I could. Are you okay?’

  At her mother’s sympathetic tone and look of deep, genuine concern, Tracy could no longer contain the tears that had been threatening since she’d stumbled out of the court. It was so pathetic! She, a grown woman and experienced journalist, calling her mommy because she was upset. She’d never done that before. But she couldn’t face going back to the newsroom and being badgered and berated by Mafuta. Not yet, not until she’d got her emotions under control.

  ‘Tracy! What on earth is going on, sweetie?’ Maxine shoved back her chair so hard that it fell over. She rushed around the table and tried to gather Tracy in her arms.

 

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