Deceive and Defend

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  The scene was just so ridiculous—short, fat Maxine trying to cuddle her tall, skinny daughter—that Tracy had to giggle. Maxine stepped back at looked at her daughter in alarm.

  ‘Trace? You’re not having a nervous breakdown are you? Here, take one of these – they’ll calm you down. Dr Levy prescribed them for me after I had that huge fight with your father about – oh I can’t remember,’ she said, and began scratching frantically in her voluminous red handbag.

  ‘Mom, you haven’t spoken to Dad in years – I haven’t spoken to Dad in years. Not since I graduated,’ Tracy said.

  ‘Well, the tablets will still do the trick, if I can find them.’

  ‘Mom, it’s okay. I’m fine. Really. I don’t know why I called you – I was just upset. But I’m okay now.’

  Maxine looked sceptical, scratched a little more in her handbag and produced a miniature packet of Kleenex three-ply. ‘Okay, if you say so. But you look dreadful. You’ll have to fix your makeup before you go back to work.’

  ‘I don’t wear make-up!’

  ‘Well, you should. Your nose is shiny and your freckles need covering up. And you really could do with some colour on your eyelashes. I think you need to get them tinted, but not black.’ She clicked her fingers at the waitress. ‘I’ll have a decaf, skinny latte – double shot. And my daughter will have the same – but not decaf, and not skinny. She can do with a bit of flesh on those bones. Anyone would think she was anorexic. And make it snappy – my daughter is a very busy journalist at the Daily Express. She has an important deadline to meet.’

  Tracy wondered how she could have forgotten why she never called her mother when she was upset and needed someone to talk to. All her mother was interested in was what gossip she could glean from Tracy to impress her book club friends.

  ‘So Trace, what upset you so much?’ Maxine looked like a five-year-old anticipating the arrival of Father Christmas.

  ‘Oh, I just had another run in with Mafuta and I let it get to me. But it’ll be okay. Really. Now tell me what the hot topic of conversation was at book club last night.’

  Maxine needed no further encouragement. Tracy sipped her latte while Maxine rattled on cheerfully about people Tracy didn’t know. Maxine had it on good authority that someone called Myron was definitely having an affair with Mercia; Ann seemed to have developed bulimia—absolutely shocking to see—since her husband left her because she ate like a horse but had lost far too much weight and looked like a scarecrow; and Felicity’s father had had a stroke, or a heart attack.

  ‘And you’ll never believe who was in the ward next to his.’

  ‘Who?’ Tracy said dutifully.

  ‘Gilad Zaldain! Have you seen him lately? He looks like the Michelin Man, he’s so fat. Anyway he was in hospital because apparently there’s something wrong with his glands. Well... that’s what Felicity thinks because he’s being treated by Dr Kruger – Felicity saw Dr Kruger coming out of his ward. Dr Kruger’s Felicity’s father’s doctor’s partner. He’s a gland specialist.’

  ‘I thought you said Felicity’s father had a heart attack – he would be seeing a cardiologist, a heart specialist.’

  ‘No, Dr Kruger is the gland man.’

  ‘An endocrinologist, you mean?’

  ‘Oh don’t be such a know-it-all, Tracy. Yes, an endo – a gland doctor. Anyway, Dr Kruger is treating Gilad. I wonder if that’s why he’s so fat. But that’s not surprising, Denise saw him at Mugg & Bean a few weeks ago, and he was eating a huge slice of cake. Why fat people eat cake in public like that is beyond me. It’s disgusting. Which reminds me, it’s my turn to host book club next week so I think I’ll try that new place, Paul’s in Melrose Arch. But I imagine they charge the earth. And actually, I’ve heard their cakes aren’t that wonderful...’

  Tracy stopped listening.

  ***

  ‘TT, are you going to sit there all fucking night staring at your computer? Can we expect some sort of story from you any time soon – preferably before deadline?’

  Tracy jumped as Mafuta’s fat hand slammed down on her desk and his bellowing voice penetrated her frozen brain.

  ‘I’ve finished it. It’s just that... It makes no sense. None of it,’ Tracy said.

  ‘Lemme see.’ Tracy tried not to grimace as Mafuta leaned in to gain a better view of her monitor, his protruding belly pushing against her shoulder. She shifted slightly in her chair and glanced across at Duduzile. Tracy grinned. The furious expression on her colleague’s face was compensation enough for the discomfort of Mafuta’s proximity. Dudu was clearly not at all happy at the attention she was getting from the news editor, nor at the prospect of Tracy getting yet another front-page byline as the Silverman story continued to unfold.

  Tracy knew Dudu was desperate to get her beautifully manicured claws into the story. Over the past year she had tried everything, from more frequent lap dances for the fat news editor in the disused photography darkroom, to telling the editor himself that Tracy could not do the story justice or handle it objectively because of her personal relationship with the Silvermans. So far, she hadn’t succeeded in prising Tracy off the story – but Tracy knew that Duduzile Zulu was nothing if not persistent. And she was making progress, particularly as Mafuta seemed to hold Tracy personally responsible for the ANC losing control of the Johannesburg City Council in the August municipal elections.

  Mafuta had sat immobile, eyes glued to the television screen, as the results were announced at the massive communications centre set up by the Independent Electoral Commission. It had quickly become apparent that the ANC had haemorrhaged votes everywhere, but Mafuta had remained confident that his beloved Parks Tau would continue as ANC Mayor of Johannesburg. ‘No one in their right mind would choose that DA lapdog, Mashaba, over a genuine hero of our people,’ he’d said.

  ‘I interviewed Herman Mashaba and he had some really interesting ideas,’ Tracy said, and then wished she’d kept her mouth shut as Mafuta turned on her – again.

  ‘And you wrote a piece of fawning crap about him, making him out to be godlike saviour instead of nothing more than Donald Trump in a black skin. God only knows why Mr February insisted on publishing that fairy tale—anyone would think our esteemed leader voted for the DA—but then he’s not really one of us, is he?’

  Tracy had hidden her grin, because she had long suspected that the editor, like so many other well educated, upper-middle-class ANC cadres, had changed his political allegiance as despair deepened about the antics of their Teflon president. But she couldn’t be sure, because a change in the editor’s political allegiance did not augur well for his job security, particularly as he had somewhat less melanin in his skin than Mafuta and the newspaper’s owners would like. As the token white in the newsroom, however, Tracy was expected to harbour racist DA ‘tendencies’: for blacks—even if, like Mr February, they weren’t quite black enough—to do the same was nothing short of treason, according to the Mafuta gospel of political correctness.

  So when the DA—regarded by Mafuta as the political home of liberal whites, right-wing Boers/Afrikaners, apartheid-apologists, Uncle Tom blacks, monopoly capitalists and other assorted racists—later formed a loose coalition with the rabidly anti-white, anti-capitalist, pro-poor, pro-worker, nationalise-everything Economic Freedom Fighters, to oust the ANC from power in Johannesburg (and Pretoria and Port Elizabeth), Mafuta had been incandescent with rage. Whites, he declared, had used Jew money to con or threaten vulnerable black voters, and to buy the votes of the duplicitous Indians, cowardly, drunken Coloureds—and the commander-in-chief of the EFF and his red-beret-wearing thugs. Tracy—who bore the double sin of being both white and a Jew—had prayed she would not have to bear the brunt of Mafuta’s anger. So far, her prayers had gone unanswered.

  ***

  Mafuta finished reading her ‘Yair confesses’ article and stood up. ‘It’s a bit thin, TT. You need to make the link between Silverman junior and the death of his mother more obvious,’ he said.

&
nbsp; ‘But that’s the problem. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Don’t talk crap. When you phoned me from the court, what’s the first thing you told me? You said that Yair Silverman had confessed to killing his fiancée. And as I have always told you – the first thing you ever tell anyone about a story is the angle of that story. So that’s the story. Only you know more – you know that that’s how his mother died.’

  ‘Well yes – but...’

  ‘Listen to me. Everyone is tweeting that Silverman confessed. That’s what you tweeted, for fuck’s sake. Do you want me to show you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Tracy snapped. ‘That’s what I thought at the time – but I was in shock. But I’ve had more time now to think. And thinking about it—writing about it—I have a real problem with it. It’s too obvious. I know Yair. He isn’t stupid. There is no way he would have...’

  ‘Well, maybe that’s the problem right there. You think too much. You think you know Yair Silverman. He’s your boyfriend. You can’t be objective.’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend!’ Tracy said bitterly. ‘He never was. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that. It’s just that, like I said, it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Look TT. I know this is difficult for you – and it’s going to get worse. I think it might be best if you don’t go on with it.’

  ‘No! You can’t take me off the story. It’s mine. I can’t understand why you’re still questioning my objectivity. I’ve written dozens of articles about him, and the Silvermans, so don’t tell me I can’t do my job! Don’t... just don’t.’

  Tracy fixed her eyes on her computer monitor and blinked rapidly. She wasn’t going to let herself cry. She would die before she’d let Mafuta and Dudu rob her of her one chance to prove that she could be... that she was... a bloody good journalist.

  ‘Well then – fix that drivel you’re trying to pass off as a decent news story. Get going. I want it in twenty minutes. And if it isn’t good enough, Dudu will take over the story tomorrow and you can carry on with the #feesmustfall nonsense.’

  The news editor turned and headed back to his desk, not even bothering to mask the wink and smile he threw in Duduzile’s direction.

  Tracy shuddered. The last thing she wanted was to have to go out and deal with those student hooligans again. She’d had enough of being targeted by both the students and the police in their running battles through the streets of Pretoria and Johannesburg. While she’d initially sympathised with the students who were demanding free higher education, their behaviour over the past few weeks and months had become increasingly unpredictable and violent. She was tired of trying to explain to Mafuta, who continually badgered her to get an interview with the leader of the protestors, that there didn’t seem to be a single leader. Anyone with a loud voice, an axe to grind and a megaphone claimed to be a leader. Trying to make sense of their rapidly changing demands was all but impossible. It was the worst story to have to cover and now that her story, the Yair Silverman-Tiffany Horwitz Zaldain story, was gaining momentum again, she had thought she was off the hook.

  ‘Prince, please,’ Tracy called. ‘Let me explain. Listen. Yair didn’t do it. I know he didn’t.’

  The news editor swung around, his eyes wide in astonished incredulity.

  ‘What? Are you crazy? The evidence is all there. You even wrote it in your pathetic little attempt at the story. As you pointed out, it’s the same modus operandi someone used to kill Brenda Silverman – that’s what the evidence has showed. How can you dispute that? Your boyfriend pleaded guilty. He admitted, in court today, that he had done it. But you – you say he didn’t? Because you know he didn’t? Okay, I’m listening. Where’s your proof?’

  Tracy swallowed. She had to make Mafuta understand. She had to make him let her write the story the way she wanted to write it – the way she needed to write it.

  ‘Yair didn’t kill his mother. He didn’t! Prince, look, I know I don’t have any proof, not yet, but I know Yair. Like I said before – he isn’t stupid. He’s one of the smartest people I know. He wouldn’t be so dumb as to kill someone, anyone—let alone his fiancée—using the identical method that killed his mother. He isn’t a murderer!’ Tracy faltered. Even to her desperate ears, she sounded lame.

  Mafuta sneered. ‘You know that for a fact? How? Brenda Silverman’s murder was never conclusively solved.’

  ‘He told me. He said he hadn’t... he loved his mother! He wouldn’t do that...’

  ‘So you asked him if he had killed his mother?’

  ‘Well no, not exactly but...’

  ‘So he just decided one day to whisper in your pretty pink ear that he hadn’t murdered his mother? Is that right?’

  ‘No. We never discussed it. He said his father had done it. I agreed. Everything pointed to that.’

  ‘Well, maybe Alan Silverman was the killer then. Who knows? There’s no evidence that it was Alan, just as there’s no proof that it wasn’t Yair. But this time, there’s no doubt that it’s Yair Silverman who killed Tiffany Zaldain. The man confessed, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I know. That’s what I don’t understand. It was so odd. I mean it was so out of the blue. The prosecutor was talking about the drugs found in Tiffany’s blood and then Yair just stood up and asked to change his plea. The defence lawyers looked like they had been sandbagged – and Yair looked... well, he looked as if he was in a daze. Like he wasn’t really aware of what he was doing.’

  ‘Oh, come on! Really? Enough! Ms Jacobs – when you have real evidence, something other than the fact that you think Silverman is clever, or looked strange, then you can write about it. For now, we have a deadline to meet and you have a story to rewrite.’

  Tracy nodded. When Mafuta called her Ms Jacobs, it was time to stop arguing and do as she was told. If she didn’t, the next Yair Silverman story would carry Duduzile Zulu’s byline, not her’s.

  She rewrote the story as the news editor had instructed. Without saying it in as many words, she had made it abundantly clear that, despite the fact that the magistrate had refused to accept his guilty plea, Yair Silverman had planned and executed the murder of his pregnant fiancée, Tiffany Horwitz Zaldain, as well as of his mother, Brenda Silverman, nearly four years before.

  As she submitted the article, Tracy hoped she wouldn’t have to write a retraction if it turned out that Yair was innocent. And then she prayed that she would. This time, she hoped, her prayers would be answered.

  Chapter 15

  Aviva

  ‘Going somewhere?’ Arno asked.

  Aviva swung around and looked at her husband standing at their bedroom door, and her heart turned over. She always got a slight shock at the sight of him, before her brain kicked in to remind her that he was still her Arno, even with his shaven head and trim beard. He was still so strikingly handsome that women of all ages would ogle him despite her presence at his side, her arm proudly and possessively through his.

  ‘Yes. To Johannesburg,’ she said, adding another pair of jeans to her open suitcase.

  The look of stunned surprise on Arno’s face nearly made her laugh, but she didn’t dare. She had to keep a tight rein on her emotions; if she didn’t she’d burst into tears.

  ‘Why? What’s happened? What about Mattie?’

  ‘He’s coming with me – there’s no one who can take care of him while you’re at work. I’ve already packed his case. I’m just waiting for the travel agent to call me back to tell me which flight she can get us on...’

  ‘Avi, slow down. You can’t just go like this.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I have to.’

  ‘No you don’t. You can’t do anything there. You’ve told me that often enough.’

  ‘I have to try.’

  Arno raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Yair has been charged with murder.’

  ‘Murder! When did that happen? When he was arrested on Friday, everyone thought the charge was culpable homicide, not murder
. But Avi, we’ve spoken about this. We agreed there’s nothing we can do, nothing you can do. You know that going to South Africa will only make things worse.’

  ‘I don’t have a choice.’

  ‘Why?’

  Aviva switched on her iPad and touched the Safari browser. The screen opened and she handed it to him. ‘Read that.’

  For the past eleven months, since she’d received that awful phone call from Carol Arnonowitz, the social worker at the Chev, she’d woken every day with Zivah’s name on her lips. Then she’d grab her iPhone and scour the various South African news sites for the latest on the death of Tiffany Horwitz Zaldain which, invariably, mentioned Yair. There were days, and more recently, long weeks when Tiffany was not mentioned and Aviva would start to feel a cautious optimism that the story of Tiffany’s demise had finally died a natural death. But then, it would all suddenly flare up again, usually as a result of a story written by Tracy Jacobs. That wretched woman was obsessed with Tiffany – and Yair. Why couldn’t she just drop it? Fortunately, her stories never mentioned Zivah, which was both a relief and a curse. Aviva was desperate for news of her little sister, although in this case, she comforted herself, no news probably was good news.

  She had also started to see more articles about Yair that didn’t mention Tiffany. These were in the business sections and spoke about how well his business was doing. Aviva was surprised that she was actually starting to feel a glimmer of pride in her twin brother – Yair appeared to be getting on with his life and if he was okay, it meant Zivah was okay too.

  She also hated to admit to Arno, and herself, that much as she had tried to cut herself off from South Africa, she was mesmerised by the drama and revelations swirling about the president, Jacob Zuma. She devoured articles about his antics, and those of the corrupt clique around him. From all accounts, the corrupters-in-chief were a trio of expat Indian brothers, the Guptas, who operated out of what was now jeeringly referred to as the ‘Saxonwold Shebeen’. Their machinations and those of other members of President Jacob Zuma’s inner circle made the American TV series, House of Cards, seem like a comedy, and Aviva was riveted.