Deceive and Defend

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  Another shrug.

  Tracy tried a different approach. ‘Do you think it was revenge? Were they getting back at the van Zyls for something? Did they treat you badly? Were they cruel to you?’

  Busi laughed – a bitter, angry sound. ‘The police asked that too. Then they left and they haven’t come back.’

  ‘Well, were they? Isn’t there a land claim against Steynspruit? Were they angry about that? Did they take back the kibbutz? Were they racist?’

  ‘And if they were, would that make everything that has happened okay?’ Busi glared at her, and Tracy flushed.

  ‘Well, I told the police and I’ll tell you. Thys van Zyl was not a racist, not like other farmers. He was a good man. MaAnni too, a good lady. If it wasn’t for them... They taught me, they taught all of us. You ask Bontle Maseko – the judge, you know. You ask her if BabaThys was racist. She’ll tell you he wasn’t. They started the school here and ...yes, there is a land claim but they were going to leave. They weren’t going to fight us. They were just waiting for their papers. For New Zealand. They were going to go to New Zealand. De Wet has a farm there. They were going to go and help him with his farm. They were going away. They were leaving. But there was something wrong and the papers were taking a long time. But they were going. BabaThys told me. He was happy about going to New Zealand. He was excited to go. They were leaving. I wish they had gone. I wish their papers had come through. I wish this hadn’t happened. I wish BabaThys was alive. I wish MaAnni...’

  Busi’s face crumpled. She collapsed into her chair and wailed. Tracy watched her helplessly. So much for Mafuta’s revenge theory.

  ***

  Tracy parked outside Bethlehem’s only private hospital. Her Google search had indicated that there were two provincial hospitals in the town, but she thought it highly unlikely that Annamari van Zyl’s sons would have allowed their mother to be admitted to either, given the appalling conditions in the country’s public hospitals. However, there was also a chance that Mrs van Zyl had been taken to a private hospital in Bloemfontein, where it would be far more difficult to track her down.

  She hesitated. Should she simply walk into the hospital and ask at the enquiries counter for Annamari van Zyl’s ward? What if they wouldn’t tell her?

  A tall, bald man with a neatly trimmed, dark blond beard walked past her car, heading towards the hospital entrance. Tracy squeaked in surprise and scrambled after him. She followed him through the foyer and down the corridor. She watched him sign a register at the door to the Intensive Care Unit, spray his hands with an antiseptic spray and disappear into the ward. She walked casually over to the register and glanced down. Arno van Zyl. She thought she’d recognised him, although the last time she’d seen him—in the Silvermans’ kitchen—he’d had a full head of golden hair.

  She waited. And waited. Eventually Arno emerged accompanied by a giant of a man, who was unmistakably Thys van Zyl’s son. Tracy shrank back, but the two men didn’t seem to notice her and walked off, deep in conversation. She walked back to the register and read through all the names until she found what she was looking for.

  Now she had her story!

  She was about to go back to her car when a thought stopped her. Was it possible that there was another story? A story that would be even more sensational than the fact that the 56-year-old father of South African-born, New Zealand Test cricketer De Wet van Zyl had been tortured and murdered, and his mother raped, in an attack on their Free State farm. A story she had tried to break after her first visit to Steynspruit – but had failed because she had been too timid, too afraid of causing offence, to have the guts to ask the hard questions.

  She signed the ICU register—Marie Antoinette—and slipped through the doors. This time she would ask Annamari van Zyl only one question: ‘Was Alan Silverman Arno’s biological father?’

  ***

  Tracy gaped at the news editor in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. She had been so sure.

  She had flown out of the Bethlehem Private Hospital on winged feet, clutching her cellphone in triumph. She had left a hurried message on Mafuta’s voice mail telling him that she was on her way back with information no one else had about the attack. She’d give him the details later. But she hadn’t told him about her real scoop. No, she’d keep that one up her sleeve – perhaps she’d file it during the Yair Silverman trial, if Mafuta still refused to allow her to cover it. That would blow Duduzile—and Mafuta—right out of the water. It was a dynamite story.

  On the long drive back to Johannesburg, Tracy had succumbed to the temptation to stop and replay Annamari van Zyl’s garbled confession with its tearful incoherence, whispered pleas for forgiveness and agitated acceptance of blame for a host of sins and transgressions that made absolutely no sense at all. Even after listening to the recording twice, Tracy found it hard to believe that she had kept pushing the poor woman for the answers she’d wanted. She swallowed her shame and distaste at the way she’d harassed the badly injured and traumatised woman, and listened intently for the confession she knew was coming.

  Now, back in the newsroom, she listened to it again.

  ‘Was Alan Silverman Arno’s biological father?’

  A strangled sob, then silence.

  ‘Please. You just need to answer yes or no. Was Alan Silverman Arno’s biological father?’

  Incoherent muttering and sobbing.

  ‘Mrs van Zyl, do you understand my question? Who was Arno’s real father? Was it Alan Silverman?’

  Tracy could hear the frantic note in her own voice. She had kept glancing at the nurses’ station, worried that the sister would come over to see why the pale, bruised and burned, grey-haired woman tethered to drips and a catheter, was weeping.

  ‘Thys. Thys. My poor, poor Thys. They killed my Thys. My Thys is gone.’ Annamari van Zyl’s voice fades into heart wrenching sobs.

  ‘So you’re saying that Thys van Zyl was Arno’s biological father?’ Tracy again, voice now a sceptical, hissing whisper.

  ‘Forgive me. Oh Lord. Forgive me.’

  ‘Why should the Lord forgive you? You’re lying about Arno, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Lord forgive me.’

  ‘So Alan Silverman was Arno’s real father?’

  ‘Yes. Lord forgive me.’

  ‘Does Arno know? Who else knows? Did Thys know?’

  ‘Lord forgive me. I’m so sorry. Forgive me.’

  ‘So just to confirm. Alan Silverman was Arno’s biological father? Yes?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. So sorry. Yes.’

  Tracy switched off the recording and swallowed hard. The confession was clear. Even Mafuta would have no reason to doubt her word. She only hoped she’d never have to play it for him. It wasn’t her finest hour’s work, but it had done the trick. Once she had written the story, it would be a sensation. No one would be able to doubt her journalistic credentials any more. Her story would be quoted and reprinted by every other news outlet in the country – possibly the world. And the editor would be furious that Mafuta had barred her from covering the Yair Silverman trial in order to give it to his mistress.

  Mafuta’s sarcastic, hectoring tones penetrated her fantasy.

  ‘Ms Jacobs – this is the most pathetic excuse for a farm murder story I have ever read,’ he roared across the newsroom.

  ‘What? Are you kidding?’ Tracy jumped to her feet and gaped at the news editor.

  ‘You’ve made Thys van Zyl out to be a fucking saint. Where’s the story in that?’

  ‘But... but... he was a good man. Everyone I spoke to said so. I even got hold of Judge Maseko and she said the same thing. And what about how he was tortured?’

  ‘Oh come on, Ms Jacobs. He was a farmer, a fucking boer! He obviously deserved it. There’s no story here, no story at all.’

  ‘What about the fact that he was De Wet van Zyl’s dad? Surely that makes the story newsworthy?’

  Mafuta snorted. ‘De Wet van Zyl is just another racist whitie cricketer like Kevin P
etersen who ran off overseas because he couldn’t compete against black cricketers for a place in the South African team. He wasn’t good enough, so he blamed the quota system and ran away.’

  ‘But he’s an excellent cricketer. He’s been in the New Zealand Test side for years.’

  ‘So what? Now if he had been in the All Black side, that might be something to write about. But a New Zealand cricketer – what a joke! He’s no better than those South African rugby players who went to play for Japan. Or Italy. No one remembers who they are, and no one cares!’

  ‘Japan beat us in the World Cup last year – and the Springboks lost to Italy last week!’ Tracy blurted.

  ‘That’s beside the point. The point, Ms Jacobs, is that once again, you have given me a crap, nothing story that the editor may be kind enough to use on page 15. Or perhaps the sports department can make something of it because it’s really not news.’

  Tracy sat down, deflated. Perhaps it was time to start looking for another job. But where? Newspapers were retrenching journalists left, right and centre. Which publication would employ a white, Jewish reporter with a mediocre track record? No – before she could even think of applying for a job elsewhere, she would have to have at least one ‘blow their socks off’ scoop.

  Chapter 21

  Yair

  Darryl slammed his hand on the grimy, grey metal table.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Yair! If you don’t tell us the truth, you are going to spend the next twenty-five years of your fucking life behind bars! And let me assure you, you won’t last two years, let alone twenty-five.’

  ‘I don’t approve of Darryl’s language, but he’s right,’ Advocate Henriette Weinberg said. She fished a tissue out of her enormous black handbag and mopped her face. ‘Jesus, it’s hot in here – or am I just having another hot flush?’

  Yair tried not to grin. He had been surprised to see the large, grey-haired woman seated next to Darryl when the cop had ushered him into the interview room. She stood up and wiped her hand on her black skirt before offering it to him.

  ‘Henriette Weinberg, but only my standard six teacher called me that. I’m Henti,’ she said in a voice that suggested too many cigarettes, too many late nights and, possibly, a fondness for whisky. ‘You can go now,’ she instructed the cop who had followed Yair into the room.

  ‘I have to stay here, he’s a violent prisoner,’ the cop said.

  ‘I appreciate your concern, but I think I can take care of myself. Anyway, young Darryl here will protect my honour if my client decides to attack me.’ She smiled at Yair and winked.

  He found himself smiling back.

  ‘We’ve asked Ms Weinberg to take on your case. We think that because you are accused of murdering a woman, having a woman defend you makes sense,’ Darryl said.

  ‘With respect, counsellor, that’s absolute crap,’ Henti said. ‘We don’t have a jury system in South Africa and my gender will make not the slightest bit of difference to the judge. If anything, it pisses some judges off – well, I tend to piss some judges off. And the media is going to bury you regardless of who defends you. So let’s be honest shall we? Young Darryl’s firm’s first-choice advocate walked out because you were stupid enough to try and plead guilty, in open court of all places. And because you were stupid enough to do that, no other advocate will touch you with a barge pole, hence young Darryl has had to tap dance in front of the magistrate twice already to get a postponement of your bail application.’

  ‘I don’t want bail. I just want to plead guilty and get it over with.’

  ‘On the contrary, young man. This case is not going to be over for many, many more months. We don’t even have a high court date yet. No, don’t interrupt,’ she said as Yair opened his mouth to protest. ‘You are going to trial because the magistrate made the correct decision – for once. He refused to accept your guilty plea.’

  ‘He can’t do that! It’s my decision...’

  ‘Actually, he can and he did. And as far as I have been able to ascertain, the National Prosecuting Authority agrees with him. I’m really not in the mood to give you a lesson on the strange ins and outs of the Criminal Procedure Act – you can ask young Darryl here to bring you a copy and read it for yourself. But the fact is that you are going to trial, you will plead not guilty, and—after we have got you bail and your trial starts in the High Court—I will do my damnedest to convince the court that you are not guilty. Understood?’

  Yair found himself nodding. He suspected that trying to stop this advocate would be like trying to reverse a tsunami – but he was determined to try. Darryl, however, was flushed and clearly unhappy.

  ‘Please stop calling me “young” Darryl,’ he said in a voice that sounded suspiciously like a whine.

  ‘Why? You are young.’ A rasping, throaty laugh. ‘So Mr Silverman. Now we are all on the same page. Right? Good. So, how are you doing? Are the cops taking reasonable care of you?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Good, because you are going to have to be here for at least a few more weeks before we can get your bail application back on the court roll. Unfortunately, you’ll be here for Christmas but as you don’t celebrate Christmas, that shouldn’t matter. Actually, you might find that Jewish police reservists take over the station to give the allegedly Christian cops off for Christmas. They might just be nicer to you. Just don’t expect a nice Christmas lunch. Which reminds me, how’s the food? Any problems other than that it’s probably disgusting?’

  ‘I’m getting food from Kosher Mobile Meals. The other guys in my cell aren’t too happy about that but I share it with them.’

  ‘Good, good. And your health? Have you seen a doctor since you’ve been here? Are you getting all the medication you need?’

  ‘I’m fine. I don’t need to see a doctor.’

  ‘Good, glad to hear it. You need to take care of yourself. So, let’s get down to business. Right, the truth. From the beginning please Yair. You don’t mind if I call you Yair, do you? Good. So – tell me about your relationship with the deceased.’

  ‘Didn’t Darryl tell you...’

  ‘I’m not interested in what young Darryl told me. I want to hear from you. From the beginning.’

  Yair flashed a sympathetic glance at Darryl.

  ‘Okay. I ran into Tiffany in New York. She told me...’

  The advocate learned forward and impaled him with eyes that were a weird shade of greeny-yellow. ‘What part of the word “beginning” don’t you understand? I want to know everything about your relationship with Tiffany Horwitz Zaldain – and I mean everything!’

  Now it was Yair’s turn to flush. ‘I’ve known Tiffany for years. From when we were in high school. You can’t want to know about that, surely? It’ll take ages.’

  ‘So what? Do you have something better to do? From the beginning – and don’t leave anything out.’

  ***

  Yair’s shirt was sticking to the plastic chair. The sun was beating through the west-facing window. His throat felt raw after speaking virtually non-stop for what seemed like hours, interrupted only by the occasional barked question from ‘call me Henti – Mrs Weinberg was my mother-in-law who never said more than two words to this shikse after I married her boykie. May she rest in peace.’

  ‘We argued,’ Yair continued. ‘I went to her room later and put some Ativan in her water – and I gave her some insulin. I don’t know how she ended up at the bottom of the stairs. And then Gilad—Gilad Zaldain—found her. And that’s it. That’s all.’

  Yair swigged the last drops of lukewarm water from the bottle Henti had produced from her voluminous handbag. Henti promptly reached into her bag and handed him another.

  ‘No, that’s not all. Not at all,’ she said, sipping from her own bottle. ‘Jesus, I’m getting sunburned sitting here. Darryl, close the blinds. Now, Yair. Let’s start again – and this time, don’t lie to me.’

  ‘I’m not lying!’

  ‘Of course you are. There’s more holes in y
our story than in my dearly departed mother-in-law’s ghastly crochet blanket that my husband insists on keeping on our bed. Even now, in December, for Christ’s sake. So, let’s try to close those holes. Darryl – shut those damn blinds!’

  Darryl returned to the table looking defeated. ‘I can’t, they’re broken.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ She took another tissue from her handbag and mopped her forehead and the back of her neck. Then she leaned forward and glared at Yair. ‘Listen to me sonny. I’m sweating like the proverbial pig and that is making me very uncomfortable and very cross. I want to go home, but I can’t until you tell me the truth.’

  ‘I have told you the truth!’

  ‘Yair, Yair, Yair, please! I’ve been doing this job for years. I know when someone is lying. And you’re lying. I don’t like being lied to – it makes me very angry. And being angry messes with my hormones which makes me hotter. Right. Who killed Tiffany? It wasn’t you – but you know who did. So? I’m waiting.’

  Yair clasped his damp hands together, bowed his head, and kept his mouth shut.

  Darryl slammed his hand on the table. ‘Yair, tell the fucking truth. You consistently said you had nothing to do with Tiffany’s death. Then all of a sudden you changed your story. Why?’

  Henti wiped her face with the shredded tissue. ‘I’m the one asking the questions here, young Darryl. Understood?’

  Darryl nodded.

  ‘Right – what he said. Why did you suddenly change your story? Piss off!’ she said in response to a knock at the door of the meeting room.

  The door opened and a frightened looking police officer peeped in.

  ‘What?’ Henti demanded. ‘I’m busy with my client. I told you to go away.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but the station commander wants to know how much longer you are going to be.’

  Henti raised her eyebrows. ‘Does he indeed? Well tell him that I’ll stop by his office later – when I’ve finished my briefing with my client. And I’ll explain to him that if he has a problem with me spending time with my client in this hellhole he has assigned to us, we can take the matter up with the regional commissioner, together. Now run along and don’t disturb us again – unless it’s to bring us a fan or better yet, with someone who can fix the air conditioner.’