Deceive and Defend

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  Aviva smiled. She wasn’t sure if Darryl’s interest in Arno was grounded in healthy curiosity about the man his old school friend had married, or unhealthy jealousy borne of an unrequited schoolboy crush, but she was determined to keep their relationship informal and friendly.

  ‘He’s babysitting Mattie. They’re spending the morning with his brother at the hotel pool. What did the advocate say about the information I gave you about Zivah? Is she going to tell the magistrate that there is new evidence so Yair can get bail?’

  ‘No. I told her but as I told you, your suspicions aren’t evidence. But don’t worry,’ he said as Aviva was about to object, ‘we’re working on it.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Yair about it?’

  ‘Yes. He told us to leave Zivah alone. He’s still insisting that he isn’t going to provide any sort of defence, even after I told him that we wouldn’t be able to keep him at Norwood police cells for much longer. He’ll probably be moved to Sun City if he doesn’t get bail today.’

  ‘Sun City?’ asked Aviva incredulously, images of the extravagant holiday and gambling resort made famous internationally by hotelier Sol Kerzner flashing through her mind.

  Darryl smirked. ‘Not that Sun City.’ Then he looked serious. ‘Johannesburg Prison – it’s called Sun City because it’s as far from Sun City as you could imagine. It’s an overcrowded hellhole. Norwood’s a palace in comparison. We warned Yair that that’s where he is probably headed, but it didn’t seem to get through his thick skull that this is not a bloody game.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Yair today? How is he?’

  ‘No, there was some hold-up transporting the awaiting-trial prisoners from Norwood this morning – that’s why the court isn’t in session yet. Apparently a couple of the prisoners missed the transport so it had to go back to fetch them. I hope Yair wasn’t one of them. It’s going to be enough of a strain for him. Oh, looks like we’re about to start. I’d better get back.’

  Darryl hurried back to his seat just as the court orderly instructed everyone: ‘All rise!’

  The magistrate, a diminutive black woman with greying hair, swaddled in a voluminous dull red robe, entered through a doorway behind the bench, nodded to the courtroom and sat down. There was a general shuffling and scraping of chairs as everyone else took their seats. Aviva’s heart dropped as three reporters scampered through the side door and sat on the media bench on the left side of the court. She was relieved that she didn’t recognise any of them. Which probably meant they would have no idea who she was either. Which also meant she had made the right decision to sit right at the front of the public gallery in full view of the media – but also where Yair couldn’t miss her when he came up the stairs from the holding cells into the dock.

  Today seemed to be the day for trial postponements. One after another, an awaiting-trial prisoner came up the stairs and stood in the dock while the prosecutor asked for the trial to be postponed for days or weeks. The magistrate agreed, set a new trial date, remanded the prisoner and the prisoner stumbled back down the stairs. Aviva was shaken out of her bored stupor when one prisoner burst into tears and begged for bail, claiming he had already had his trial postponed ten times and had been in jail for over a year. The magistrate told the prosecutor this was the last time the man’s trial would be postponed, set a trial date for two months’ time – and remanded the prisoner back into custody.

  Aviva wondered what he had done – or hadn’t done. His charge had been read out by the prosecutor, but she hadn’t been listening. Probably something like being in possession of dagga, being drunk and disorderly, petty theft or common assault. She had paid avid attention at the start of the session, but with the prisoners all looking pretty much the same—mostly skinny young black men, some little more than boys, dressed in tattered jeans and torn T-shirts—her mind had drifted.

  She hoped Arno and Mattie were having fun. It was beautiful outside: a typical Johannesburg summer’s day with clear blue skies and a slight breeze ensuring it didn’t become too stiflingly hot. It would probably rain later, a quick cloudburst that would rinse away whatever dust had dared to rise into the atmosphere, and then the stars would come out, a bright twinkling blanket shrouding the harsh realities of the city below where about a quarter of all women and girls are raped at some point in their lives; around ten people are murdered daily and almost one hundred and twenty people are seriously assaulted. Aviva thanked her lucky stars that her mother had been British, and she had been born in London, which had entitled her to a British passport and gave her options beyond the borders of South Africa.

  She wished Arno was with her. She would have liked to have his shoulder to lean on, to have him hold her hand. But they had decided it was better if they weren’t seen together, particularly by the media. Anyway, Arno needed time to relax after the strain of Thys’s funeral, packing up the house on Steynspruit and having Annamari transferred to a recuperation and rehabilitation facility where she could recover fully—physically, if not emotionally—while she waited for her New Zealand residence visa to be approved. Although applications for parent residence visas had been temporarily closed, Arno said De Wet had appealed to the New Zealand immigration authorities to assist.

  ‘It seems they have been horribly embarrassed at what happened to the parents of one of their sports stars, possibly as a result of the visa moratorium,’ Arno had told her when he’d finally joined her in Johannesburg. ‘Apparently, there have been calls in the New Zealand media for Ma to be granted refugee status, but I don’t think the New Zealand authorities are keen to set that precedent. I mean there are thousands of South Africans in New Zealand already – imagine if all their families starting applying for refugee status too. They wouldn’t be able to cope with the demand.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we see if she could come and live in England with us?’ Aviva had felt compelled to ask, and had tried to suppress her guilt at her relief when Arno had shaken his head.

  ‘No, she hates city life. In New Zealand, she’ll be able to live on De Wet’s farm. It’s apparently much smaller than Steynspruit, but at least it’s in the countryside. It actually sounds wonderful. De Wet is trying his hand at viticulture – he says New Zealand’s wine industry rivals South Africa’s. And Steyn has applied for a pilot job with some of the airlines down there – Qantas, Jetstar and Air New Zealand I think he said. If he gets it, he’ll also be based in that part of the world, which will be nice for Ma too.’

  Arno had sounded so wistful that Aviva had looked at him curiously. ‘You sound as if you’d also like to emigrate there.’

  ‘It’s worth thinking about,’ he’d replied.

  ‘But what about Zaidah Ben? We can’t abandon him again.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that to him. But he is ninety-something years old... and he has emphysema. Who knows how much longer he has? We also have to consider Mattie. Wouldn’t it be great for him to be raised close to his grandmother and uncles, possibly even have cousins to play with one day? We don’t have to make any decisions now. But it is worth thinking about.’

  While she waited for Yair’s case to be called, Aviva thought about it. She’d never been to New Zealand, so she didn’t know what to think. She also wasn’t sure how Arno’s mother really felt about her and Arno – and Mattie. It could be awkward. Arno’s brothers had no idea about their secret, but Annamari was its source.

  A sudden flutter of excited anticipation in the courtroom broke her contemplation of what it would be like to have an extended family again – a family she didn’t really know. And then Yair came up the stairs from the waiting cells. Yair was her real family. How could she leave him again and move away to the other side of the world? And what about Zivah? She smiled at her twin, but he didn’t smile back. He looked tired, haggard even. His suit was rumpled and hung on his slender frame; his dark hair curled over his collar. He turned his back on her and faced the magistrate.

  ***

  Aviva was impressed with the passion with which Yair�
�s advocate, Henriette Weinberg, argued for the court to grant Yair bail. The magistrate listened carefully. But then she listened equally carefully to the prosecutor’s equally impassioned argument for the court to refuse bail to someone accused of what he called ‘a premeditated, vicious murder of an innocent young woman’. The ‘Sixteen Days of No Violence against Women and Children’ campaign had barely ended, the prosecutor reminded the magistrate several times. What kind of message would it send to the general public if the court were to grant a man accused of a heinous gender-based crime was allowed to walk free? Particularly when that man was Yair Silverman who had ‘been born with a silver spoon in his mouth’ (the prosecutor actually giggled at his own wit).

  Henriette objected, but the prosecutor emphasised that Yair Silverman had the financial means to flee the country.

  ‘Even if the court sets bail at a million rand, it is small change for the accused,’ he stated. ‘In addition, even if we take away the accused’s South African and British passports, we must not forget that he is Jewish.’

  Henriette jumped up and objected. ‘What do my client’s religious beliefs have to do with anything? This country’s great constitution guarantees freedom of religion. Is my learned friend asking this court to treat my client differently to anyone else because he is Jewish?’

  Aviva nodded. She had been wondering the same thing. She knew there was a strong and growing wave of anti-Semitism in South Africa, with the local chapter of the pro-Palestinian Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions movement having the enthusiastic backing of the ANC. But that this should become an issue in Yair’s bail application seemed to make a mockery of the judicial system’s claim to impartiality.

  ‘The accused can walk in to the Israeli embassy this afternoon, become an Israeli citizen in five minutes, walk out with an Israeli passport and catch tonight’s flight to Tel Aviv where he has probably already sent the bulk of his fortune,’ the prosecutor stated.

  Henriette was on her feet again, protesting loudly. ‘With all due respect, your Honour—although I don’t think that nonsensical allegations from my allegedly learned friend deserve any respect—that is absolute nonsense. No one can get an Israeli passport in five minutes – not even the Chief Rabbi. And the huge sums of money that my allegedly learned friend claims have been sent to Israel by my client are nothing but a figment of his imagination. Virtually even penny my client owns is tied up in his business which he is working hard to rebuild – a business, I may point out, that employs several hundred people. And the longer my client is kept in prison, the more at risk those jobs become. There is no reason, none whatsoever, to deny my client bail.’

  The magistrate nodded. The prosecutor once again insisted that the court deny bail. The magistrate nodded again – and then declared the court adjourned for the day.

  Aviva wanted to cry. She’d been so convinced Yair would be granted bail that she’d booked a table for them to have dinner together in a lovely restaurant in Melrose Arch. And she’d planned that they’d spend tomorrow relaxing at the pool where Yair could get to know his nephew and get a bit of colour back in his face. But now they’d all be back in court again tomorrow, and Yair would have to spend another night in jail. It wasn’t right.

  ***

  Aviva held tightly to Arno’s hand as she led him to the front row of the empty public gallery in the courtroom. It was only 8.30 and the court was empty. But Aviva had wanted to ensure she and Arno had the best seats in the house, so they’d had an early breakfast, handed a delighted Mattie over to his adored uncle Steyn, and taken an Uber to the Johannesburg Magistrates’ Court.

  ‘Are you sure this is the right courtroom?’ Arno asked.

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Do you think the media will come? There wasn’t much in today’s newspapers as far as I could tell.’

  ‘I heard something on the radio. But there wasn’t a word in the Daily Express. It seems Tracy Jacobs has other things to write about these days. She wasn’t even in court yesterday,’ Aviva said.

  ‘I wonder what really happened between her and Yair? I thought they were close.’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly not complaining. She’s a nasty piece of work. She always was, even in high school. I’m sure she suspects something about us and...’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Arno squeezed her hand. ‘Even if she suspects, she has no proof. And we’ll keep it that way. Okay?’

  Aviva nodded and watched several reporters file into the courtroom and take up seats on the media benches. She looked back as a noisy group of people came into the public gallery – and gasped in horror when she turned back to face the courtroom. Tracy Jacobs had slipped in through the side door and was taking a seat on the media bench. Aviva couldn’t take her eyes off her and, as if she’d felt her gaze, Tracy raised her head and stared straight into Aviva’s eyes. Aviva felt like she’d been hooked up to an electric probe as fear and horror in equal measure pulsed through her. She didn’t hear the court orderly’s instruction to rise. Arno pulled her to her feet.

  ‘She’s here!’ Aviva wasn’t sure whether she had actually uttered the strangled whisper or whether it had lodged in her throat, choking her.

  ‘Uh huh. Relax. It’ll be okay. Just breathe, breathe,’ Arno said.

  Aviva sucked air into her burning lungs unable to tear her eyes away from the mass of red tangles that hid Tracy Jacobs’ pale, pinched features as she scribbled furiously in her tatty shorthand notebook. She was barely aware of the courtroom drama unfolding before her, until the magistrate addressed Yair directly.

  ‘Mr Silverman, what do you have to say? Would you like to add anything to what your very eloquent lawyer has said?’ the magistrate asked.

  Yair shook his head. Aviva noticed that the reporters had all stopped writing and were looking at her brother expectantly. All except Tracy Jacobs. She kept her head down, almost as if she was too ashamed or embarrassed to look at him, but Aviva knew that was unlikely.

  ‘So you have nothing to say? Are you sure? I’m sure your lawyers have explained to you that because of the severity of the charges against you, the court has to err on the side of caution when it comes to bail applications. So I’m giving you one last chance to influence the court’s decision. You won’t be able to change your mind later,’ the magistrate said.

  ‘I understand your Honour. I don’t want to do or say anything that will just delay everything even more,’ Yair said.

  And before Aviva could process the implications of her brother’s utter stupidity, Yair was remanded, the trial was set down for June 2017 in the High Court, all the reporters—except Tracy Jacobs—scampered out of the side door of the court, and Yair disappeared back down the stairs to the holding cells.

  Then Tracy looked up, directly at her and Arno, and smiled.

  Chapter 25

  Tracy

  Seeing Arno van Zyl again was so unexpected that it took Tracy a second or two to register who it was sitting next to him in the public gallery; another second to notice that they were holding hands; and what seemed like forever to process the implications of what she was seeing.

  Arno van Zyl was holding hands with Aviva Silverman! Tracy buried her head in her notebook and tried to focus on the bail application. But a little voice kept intruding, a little voice that gurgled with glee. This was turning into the best day of her life. Okay, not the best day – the best day would be when she and Yair finally walked down the aisle as man and wife, but as that was never going to happen, she’d settle for today.

  When her six o’clock alarm had finally heralded her release from incessant hours of tossing and turning, there had been absolutely nothing to indicate that today was going to be any different to any of the other miserable days she’d had to endure since Tiffany Horwitz Zaldain had sauntered back into her life and destroyed her hopes and dreams.

  She’d stumbled to the bathroom and hammered on the door. ‘Mom, I need to pee. What’s taking you so long?’

  Maxine emerged, clutchi
ng The Star. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Yair Silverman’s bail application started yesterday?’

  ‘Yair Silverman’s bail application started yesterday,’ Tracy said and slipped past her mother into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘Tracy? What’s the matter with you? There’s no need to be so rude,’ Maxine yelled through the door. ‘You know how much the girls at book club enjoy hearing the little details that don’t make the newspapers – so why didn’t you tell me all about it last night?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t there, Mom. I told you. That fat fart Mafuta has taken me off the story and given it to his mistress.’

  ‘When did that happen? Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘I did Mom. You just didn’t listen. I’m getting in the shower now – I have to be at work early. I’ve a really busy day today.’

  ‘But Tracy – why...’

  ‘Sorry. Can’t hear you.’ Tracy turned up the water flow. The hot needles stung her back but did little to ease her emotional pain and frustration.

  ***

  Tracy dawdled down the corridor towards the newsroom, the all-too-familiar curl of dread settling in her stomach as she wondered what fresh humiliation Mafuta had in store for her today. Yesterday he’d sent her to Maponya Mall and Sandton City to compare what the black kids of Soweto and the white kids of Sandton were buying for their back-to-school supplies. And then he’d made her rewrite the article five times.

  ‘Miss Jacobs, in my office. Now!’

  Tracy swung around. Mr February was standing at his office door, glaring at her. He did not look happy. In fact, he looked furious. Tracy’s heart started racing – was this it? Had Mafuta finally convinced the editor to fire her?

  ‘Where is it, Miss Jacobs?’ the editor said as Tracy hurried through the door. He was seated behind his desk now, glaring at an open copy of today’s Daily Express.