Deceive and Defend

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  Deep in thought, she walked to the kitchen to make herself a cup of strong black coffee, and collided with Russell as he came through the door holding a steaming mug.

  ‘Ouch! Careful!’ he said as the hot liquid splashed over his hand.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What’s up? You look like you’re a million miles away.’

  ‘Of course I’m not. Don’t blame me for your clumsiness,’ she snapped and pushed past him into the kitchen. She felt the kettle – it was still hot enough for her coffee. She didn’t glance at Russell again but hurried back to her office. She knew where to look.

  Her typed process notes were all over her desk. She stacked them into a neat pile and unlocked her desk’s bottom drawer where she kept her hand-written notes of all client meetings. Most of her Zivah meeting notes were in a large plastic folder, but there were still notes that she hadn’t yet filed. She had been so distracted with George and everything that she had neglected this part of her duties. It wasn’t an official part of the departmental processes, but something she had always done as part of her professional thoroughness. Now she had to sort through more than a year’s worth of papers that had been crammed into the drawer to find the last few months’ notes of her interactions with Zivah. God, she had been such a fool!

  Her coffee was ice cold by the time she’d finished sorting the closely-scribbled notes into client and date order. She took Zivah’s pile, added it to her plastic folder and started reading. The more she read, the more discomforted she became. In the full glare of hindsight, and with an unfamiliar and growing sense of humility, she realised there were glaring omissions in her carefully composed process notes about her meetings with Zivah Silverman.

  Her head throbbed. What had she been thinking? Surely she hadn’t allowed her dislike of the girl to cloud her professional appraisal of what was clearly a deeply disturbed young woman? If she had paid more attention to what Zivah had actually said, if she hadn’t been so relieved at the prospect of getting rid of her, she might never had encouraged Zivah’s brother to take her home. She’d completely overlooked a myriad signals and clues that there was something pathologically wrong with Zivah, something that went beyond her intellectual disability. She should have insisted that Zivah be properly evaluated, both by a psychiatrist and a psychologist. She should have interviewed and assessed Yair more thoroughly before sending Zivah back into his care, instead of being so charmed by his good looks, polite disposition and wealth. There was no question that her process notes of her meetings with Zivah were negligently perfunctory – and had become even more so from about the time George had come into her life.

  Carol cringed, but forced herself to continue reading. And then she found it. She knew she hadn’t imagined it. Scribbled in the middle of a tirade Zivah was having about her mother’s death were the words: ‘She got sick and she died. She shouldn’t have died.’ As she continued reading her notes, the same words—‘shouldn’t have died’—jumped out at her, time and again.

  Carol looked back at her scribbled notes from that morning’s meeting with Zivah—‘It was an accident ... She shouldn’t have died’—and her blood ran cold.

  There was something else. She got up and walked to Russell’s office. His door was open and she walked in.

  ‘I’ve got a blister on my hand thanks to you making me spill my coffee,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s your copy of the Daily Express? Oh, there it is. I need to borrow it for a few minutes.’ She took the newspaper off his desk and turned to go.

  ‘Hey, that’s mine. You can’t just walk in here and take it.’

  ‘I just did,’ she said and returned to her office, closing the door behind her.

  As she re-read the front page story, her door opened.

  Russell stalked in and stopped. ‘What the hell is the matter with you? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

  ‘I think I may have,’ she said.

  ‘Carol? Are you okay? This isn’t like you.’

  ‘I’m okay. I’ve just had a bit of an upset. That’s all. Here – you can take your newspaper. I’ve finished with it.’

  ‘What was so important? It must have been important to have shaken you up like this. In fact, you’ve been acting strangely all day. Want to talk about it?’

  ‘If I need to talk to someone, Russell, it won’t be you. Close the door on your way out,’ she said.

  ***

  For the first time in her career, Carol was at a loss. She had to tell someone, but who? She was ethically bound to maintain strict client confidentiality and all she had were suspicions. Russell was a colleague – but that didn’t mean she could share confidential client information with him. Should she tell her supervisor? But tell her what exactly? That Zivah had used the same words in reference to two women who had both died in mysterious circumstances? That Zivah had admitted to hating one of those women—her mother—and had probably hated the second, Tiffany, for becoming romantically involved with her beloved brother? That both those women had died from the same cocktail of drugs – drugs that were in the stash that had mysteriously disappeared from The Lodge just before Zivah went home? Did Yair know? Is that why he said he’d murdered Tiffany?

  It was all circumstantial. If she told anyone, she would be stirring up a hornet’s nest. She’d be risking her own professional reputation simply because of a few words uttered in anger and her own irrational dislike of a traumatised, intellectually-challenged young woman.

  But if she did nothing, and it emerged that Zivah had somehow been responsible for Tiffany’s death—and possibly her mother’s as well—it would also mean the end of her career, and she couldn’t afford that. Not now. Could she be criminally charged for professional negligence? What would she do then?

  Her office door opened slowly and Hannah peeped in.

  ‘Carol? Sorry to disturb you but there’s someone here who needs to see you.’

  ‘I’m busy. Tell whoever it is to make an appointment.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but she is insisting. She says it’s a matter of life and death!’ the receptionist said.

  ‘I don’t care. Tell her to go away.’

  The door was pushed open all the way and a tall, skinny woman with flaming red hair walked around Hannah and approached the desk.

  ‘Hello,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  Hannah didn’t wait for Carol to respond. She quickly slipped out and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter 18

  Tracy

  Tracy quickly slipped into the orange plastic chair facing Carol. She didn’t want to give the social worker a chance to throw her out – not until she’d had time to ask a few questions.

  ‘Do I know you?’ Carol asked.

  Tracy hesitated. Should she introduce herself? She’d rehearsed her opening gambit on the short drive from the Silverman house to the Sandringham Gardens complex, but Carol’s withering glare had frozen her brain.

  ‘Well, what can I do for you?’

  Tracy mentally pinched herself. She had to do this. She had to get the social worker to tell her something, anything.

  ‘Um... yes... um... it’s about... um...I need ... I mean, I have to ... um...’ Tracy’s voice died.

  ‘What is it? It must be very important for you to come here without an appointment. So, tell me what you want.’

  Tracy clenched her hands. She could hear the tinge of annoyance behind the social worker’s encouraging words. But her mouth was so dry, her tongue seemed to be stuck to her palate.

  ‘Look, why don’t you start by telling me your name?’ Carol said.

  ‘Tracy Jacobs,’ she croaked.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘Tracy... Tracy Jacobs.’

  Tracy watched the social worker’s face crease into a perplexed frown.

  ‘I’m sorry, your name is very familiar – and I’m sure I know your face, but I just can’t ... are you a Chev client?’

  �
��No!’ The vehemence of Tracy’s denial seemed to surprise Carol. It certainly surprised Tracy but it was an instinctive reaction to the innocuous question, thanks to years of hearing her mother’s impassioned proclamation that she’d rather starve than approach the Chev for help whenever ‘that effing bastard’—her father—withheld his entire monthly maintenance payment because of a petty disagreement. There was the time he wouldn’t pay for a new pair of school shoes (after her shoes were stolen out of her kitbag at netball practice) because he’d already bought her a new pair that year; or when he flatly refused to pay for her orthodontics because it would set a precedent for cosmetic treatments and next thing his daughter and her mother would expect him to pay for boob or nose jobs.

  ‘So where do I know you from? And why have you come to see me?’ Carol asked again.

  Tracy gulped. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. But what choice did she have? She’d tried phoning the Silverman house but no one answered. So, with Mafuta’s voice ringing in her ears, she’d coaxed Buttercup down Louis Botha Avenue, cursing the marauding minibus taxis, but they at least took her mind off the possibility (probability?) of losing her story—or her job—and the reception that awaited her at Yair’s home.

  By the time she reached the security boom at the entrance to Yair’s suburb, she was so distraught that she didn’t even object when the guard stopped her and asked questions which were illegal, rude and a total invasion of her privacy. She scrawled her name—Marie Antoinette—on the prohibited access register and drove very slowly over the speed bumps to the house. She parked the little yellow car under a shady Jacaranda, knowing that it would quickly be covered in purple flowers, and walked purposefully to the high wrought iron gates. Her hand trembled as she rang the bell.

  No response. She rang again. Still nothing.

  Sighing deeply with regret—and relief—she started walking back to Buttercup.

  ‘Miss Tracy? Miss Tracy! I am sorry. The bell – she does not ring so loud in my room.’

  Tracy turned back and saw Stembiso hurrying down the driveway.

  ‘Hello Stembiso. How are you?’ She could feel her cheeks flame. After what she had done to him—using information he would never have revealed had he not known her, and trusted her—she was surprised he was willing to speak to her again. But Stembiso was ‘old school’. She’d lost count of the times she’d asked the old family driver to stop calling her ‘Miss Tracy’ and that plain old ‘Tracy’ was perfectly acceptable almost two decades after the official end of apartheid.

  ‘I am suffering, Miss Tracy. I am suffering for Master Yair, and for Miss Zivah. Do you know when Master Yair is coming home?’ Stembiso said.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Haw, Miss Tracy. I cannot believe young Master Yair is in jail. Jail is for tsotsis – Master Yair is not a tsotsi, he’s a good man. It is my fault the police arrest him.’

  Tracy was horrified to see two fat tears rolling down Stembiso’s cheeks. He had aged a decade since she had last seen him on that dreadful morning after Tiffany died. His cheeks were sunken, and his hair was almost completely grey.

  ‘Stembiso, no! Of course it’s not your fault.’

  ‘But the newspaper said – and then the policeman ask me if I hear Master Yair and Miss Tiffany fighting. I say no but the policeman, he say I go to jail if I lie and Master Yair tell me I must not lie so I tell the policeman I hear shouting and now my young baas is in jail.’

  Tracy wanted to curl up and die for causing the old man so much pain. ‘Stembiso, I promise you, Yair was not arrested because of anything you said.’

  ‘Haw! So why Master Yair say Miss Zivah cannot stay here with me? I take good care of Miss Zivah, always, since she was like so’—he indicated his knee—‘but now Master Yair say she not safe with old Stembiso.’ More tears slid down his cheeks.

  Tracy’s heart sank. She really needed to speak to Zivah.

  ‘I really don’t think Yair doesn’t trust you. You were like a father to him, to all of them. I’m sure that isn’t why she can’t stay here. Do you know where she is?’

  ‘No. That woman—the one who was friends with the madam—Miss Carol, I think. She come and she take Miss Zivah away. Miss Zivah, she cry and shout that she not want to go but Miss Carol no listen. Maybe Miss Carol take Miss Zivah back to the home for the old people, where Miss Zivah stay before. Miss Zivah not like it there, she tell me. It is not right to make Miss Zivah live in a home for the old people. She is a child, that one. Always a child.’

  ‘Oh Stembiso, don’t worry. She isn’t in the old-age home. She’s probably staying at The Lodge, which is next door. I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll go and speak to her and let you know,’ Tracy said.

  ***

  Unfortunately, that was proving to be easier said than done. Carol Aronowitz was making no attempt to hide her anger that Tracy had weaselled her way into her office.

  ‘But I just want to speak to Zivah. Stembiso is worried about her and I promised him that I would make sure she is okay. She is okay, isn’t she? How is she taking the arrest of her brother?’ Tracy asked

  The social worker folded her arms and leaned forward, her dimpled elbows pressing into her desk.

  ‘Are you deaf or don’t you listen? Let me spell it out for you again. Slowly. I cannot give you any information about any individual who may be a current or former client of the Chevrah Kadisha. I have a legal and ethical obligation to protect their confidentiality. I’d be grateful if you would do me the courtesy of respecting that and leave my office. Now.’

  ‘I understand, I really do. But Stembiso really is worried and I’d like to be able to put his mind at rest.’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything,’ Carol insisted.

  ‘Okay. But why did Zivah have to go back to stay at The Lodge? She really doesn’t like it there...’

  “I never said Zivah was at The Lodge.’

  Desperate, Tracy tried a new approach. ‘What about Aviva Silverman? Where is she? Is Zivah with her?’

  Carol pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘I told you,’ she said, her voice shrill and strained, ‘I cannot tell you anything. I can’t tell you where Aviva Silverman is, I can’t tell you where Zivah Silverman is. Now get out of my office before I call security.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’m going.’ Tracy fled down the corridor, past Hannah who stared at her with enormous round eyes, and across the parking lot to Buttercup,

  She was shaking so much she could barely unlock the car door. She clambered behind the steering wheel and buried her face in her hands. Now what? After all her effort, she had to return to the newsroom with a big, fat nothing. She knew what Mafuta would say: he’d tell her she was useless and tomorrow she’d be on the street dodging stones and rubber bullets as the students continued their #Feesmustfall protests.

  She couldn’t really blame him – he’d told her to interview Zivah and she didn’t even know where the younger Silverman sister was. She was pretty sure Zivah was at The Lodge, but thanks to Carol Aronowitz’s spite, she couldn’t confirm it. And where was Aviva Silverman? Tracy had already tried to track her down on Facebook, Twitter, Linked-in, Pinterest, Instagram and Tumblr, without success. It was as if Yair’s twin had disappeared off the face of the earth.

  ‘Where the hell are they?’ she muttered... and then she said it again, and again. She laughed out loud, waved cheerily at the security guard at the exit to the Sandringham Gardens complex and ignored Buttercup’s protests as she floored the accelerator and headed back to the Daily Express.

  ***

  Tracy was stunned. She stood mutely in front of Mafuta’s desk, head bowed like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, and let his tirade wash over her. She bit hard on her bottom lip to stop its quivering. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She’d been so sure of her angle, and so proud when she had filed it.

  ‘This is fucking crap, Ms Jacobs. Get over here now!’ Mafuta had roared across the newsroom. The sarcast
ic emphasis on the Ms (as opposed to the Miss he usually used when he was just being his usual nasty self, not a full-on, misogynistic bastard) warned Tracy that her worst fears were about to materialise.

  At the first desk to the right of the news editor’s desk, Duduzile giggled. Tracy kept her eyes glued to her scuffed, black pumps, determined to hold her tongue and let Mafuta run out of steam – which he would. Eventually.

  ‘Where are the Silverman sisters?’ Mafuta read her suggested headline in an exaggerated falsetto. The fact that Tracy’s rather deeper tones often caused telephone canvassers to address her as ‘Sir’ made little difference to the fat little man’s determination to humiliate her.

  ‘Mystery surrounds the whereabouts of murder accused Yair Silverman’s sisters,’ Mafuta simpered. ‘Neither is staying at the family home in Johannesburg and blah, blah bullshit.’ His falsetto declined as the volume of his voice rose. ‘Fucking hell, the only fucking mystery there is how you have the cheek to call yourself a journalist.’

  ‘Well, they are missing!’ Tracy’s face was burning with embarrassment, and anger.

  ‘Just because you can’t find them doesn’t mean they’re missing. Where are your fucking brains? Do you really expect us to publish this crap and risk having The Star coming out with a fucking interview with them at the same fucking time? Huh? An interview, I remind you, that you have fucking been promising me for fucking weeks!’

  ‘The Star won’t – can’t. I’m telling you they’ve disappeared. Well, Zivah has. Aviva went ages ago. There was a mystery about that too, remember? It’s all there – in my story, if you’d just read it.’

  ‘For Christ sakes, Ms Jacobs, this is supposed to be a news story, not fucking history,’ Mafuta roared.

  Behind her, Tracy could hear Duduzile snorting with laugher. She clenched her fists. She wasn’t going to let Dudu’s snickers provoke her into trying to defend herself any further. That would simply infuriate Mafuta more.