Deceive and Defend

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  ‘Where is what?’ she squeaked.

  ‘I’ve been through the paper from cover to cover and there is not a single word, not a word about the Yair Silverman bail application. Not a fucking word! Mr Tshukudu said you were not cut out to be a Daily Express reporter, but I’ve always felt you had promise. But this! To miss one of the most important stories of the year – to make the Daily Express a laughing stock. I cannot believe that instead of being in court yesterday, which is where you should have been, you went gallivanting around shopping centres writing back-to-school stories!’

  Tracy felt her cheeks flame.

  ‘I thought Mafuta—I mean Prince—I mean Mr Tshukudu... I thought Duduzile went to court yesterday. She wasn’t in the office – at least I didn’t see her in the office,’ she stammered.

  ‘Mr Tshukudu gave her the day off to prepare for her trip to Dubai.’

  ‘Dubai? She’s going to Dubai?’

  ‘The Gupta family is sponsoring several promising young journalists on a four-day trip to the United Arab Emirates to expand their understanding of international business and regional politics. I thought you should have gone, but I agreed with the news editor that it was more important you stick with the Silverman story. And Mr Tshukudu thought Miss Zulu deserved the opportunity.’

  ‘I’m sure he did,’ Tracy muttered.

  ‘But that’s not the issue. And the point, Miss Jacobs, is that you missed an important story.’

  ‘But I didn’t! I reminded Mafuta—I mean Mr Tshukudu—about it on Monday and he said Dudu had everything under control. So yesterday, when I didn’t see her in the office, I presumed she had gone to court.’

  ‘That’s a pretty poor excuse if ever there was one. You can’t expect to be spoon-fed – you’re not a junior reporter any more. If you knew the bail application was on, it was your responsibility to be there.’

  Tracy swallowed, trying to suppress the flame of fury that was rising in her chest, threatening to erupt.

  ‘But Mafuta took me off the Silverman story. Weeks ago,’ she blurted and nearly laughed at the look of surprise and confusion on the editor’s face.

  ‘Nonsense! You must have misunderstood. He wouldn’t have done that, especially after I told him I thought you were doing a splendid job with it.’

  ‘You did? You do?’

  The editor nodded. ‘Of course. You’ve run rings around the other newspapers. Your little story about the missing Silverman sisters when interest in the case was flagging was inspired.’

  Tracy beamed.

  ‘That’s why I cannot understand how you could have missed yesterday’s bail application. It’s just not like you, Miss Jacobs. Not like you at all. In fact, why are you standing here in my office chatting when you should be in court. Get going, you’re going to be late.’

  ‘But Mafuta—I mean Mr Tshukudu—he said...’

  ‘I’ll tell Mr Tshukudu where you are.’

  ***

  Tracy all but skipped into the courtroom, but her first glance at Yair brought her crashing down to earth. He looked dreadful. She couldn’t bear to see him looking so pale and thin. She couldn’t bear to meet his opaque eyes, pouring scorn and hatred in her direction. She looked down and blinked at the blank page of her notebook. And then she looked up at the public gallery, uncertain if her eyes had deceived her.

  They hadn’t. There he was – bearded and bald. But there was no hiding those blue eyes. Arno van Zyl – and he was with Aviva Silverman.

  Tracy looked away, confused. What on earth were they doing together? And they were holding hands! At least it looked as if they were holding hands. She tried to peep at them from under her fringe, but their hands were below the wooden railing and she couldn’t be certain. They were certainly sitting very close together. She looked away again. She didn’t want them to catch her staring at them.

  Her mind whirled. What if they were holding hands? What if they were a couple? That was unthinkable! She was potentially sitting on a far more explosive story than she’d thought possible. And she wouldn’t even have to write it as a speculative story – she had all the proof she needed. She fingered her smartphone although she’d already taken the precaution of uploading Annamari van Zyl’s confession to the cloud.

  Even if they weren’t a couple, she still had a story that would put Mafuta in his place once and for all. She quickly jotted down her churning thoughts – her mind was racing so fast she was sure to forget unless she got it all down in black and white. Arno van Zyl, Yair Silverman’s secret half-brother, has emerged from years of exile – okay, perhaps exile was too strong a word but he had been missing in action for the past couple of years – to support his younger sibling.

  But it would be so much better if Arno and Aviva really were a couple. Well, perhaps better was not quite the right word – but it would make for a better story, an explosive story, a story that would launch her into a rare and coveted journalistic realm. She would henceforth be known as ‘the award-winning investigative journalist Tracy Jacobs’, not poor Tracy Jacobs, the lowly Daily Express hack.

  She doodled the headline to her story: the outline of big, bold letters, all in caps and closely cross-hatched. INCEST. She wrote the first line of her planned intro: Yair Silverman’s secret half-brother and twin sister are in a relationship. She scratched it out. No, perhaps it would be better to leave Yair out of it. A better angle would be to invoke Alan Silverman. That would give her an opportunity to rehash all the sensational details that had emerged during Brenda Silverman’s inquest. INCEST – Alan Silverman’s bastard son and abused daughter now a couple. Better.

  Actually, she didn’t need to ascertain whether they were a couple or not. The fact that they were sitting together in the public gallery of a public courtroom was sufficient to give rise to reasonable speculation. All that was needed was a little strategic punctuation. She amended her page: INCEST? Alan Silverman’s bastard son and abused daughter now a couple?

  No, it would be better to confirm the allegation, otherwise Mafuta would simply mock her journalistic abilities. She crossed out the question marks.

  Tracy peeped up at them again. Aviva was ramrod straight in her seat, her face pale beneath her shiny, stylish cap of dark hair; her dark eyes, so unlike her brother’s—her twin brother’s, Tracy clarified—huge and impenetrable.

  And then it hit her. What if Aviva and Arno didn’t know they were half-siblings? What if she—and Annamari van Zyl—were the only people in the whole world who knew?

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ the reporter on her left said. ‘No surprise really.’

  Tracy looked at him in confusion. She’d missed the entire proceedings!

  ‘What?’ she asked. ‘What happened? How much is bail?’

  ‘What planet are you floating on? Silverman didn’t get bail. He’s going to sit until the trial – and then he’s going to sit a whole lot longer.’ The reporter smirked, stood and walked away.

  Tracy wanted to weep – and then comforted herself with the thought that she could get all the details of the bail application from Darryl. But the real story – one that would blow everyone’s socks off, was the one only she had. A scoop in the true sense of the word. She glanced up at Aviva Silverman and saw her gazing down at her with that all-too-familiar Aviva expression of superior distaste. Tracy couldn’t help it: the thought of wiping that cold, self-satisfied smirk off Aviva’s face was intoxicating. She smiled and started to hurry out of the courtroom, determined to intercept Aviva and Arno as they left the public gallery.

  Chapter 26

  Tracy

  ‘Hey Tracy, how are you?’ Darryl stepped in front of her, a wide, ingratiating smile plastered on his face. ‘I looked for you yesterday. I was surprised you weren’t in court.’

  Tracy hesitated. She had to speak to Darryl if she was to write the bail story. Arno and Aviva could wait – and anyway, perhaps Darryl could provide some of the details on that story too.

  ‘Darryl! Hi! Hey, I’m so pleased to see
you. I couldn’t make it yesterday – and my news editor is furious with me. Can you fill me in on exactly what went down? I’d really appreciate it.’ Tracy dimpled at the man who’d delighted in calling her Carrots when they’d been in high school. Now he beamed back at her.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Let me just get my things and I’ll meet you across the road, at the coffee shop. You know the one, don’t you – where all the lawyers hang out during court breaks?’

  Tracy nodded and hid her grin. When he hadn’t been tormenting her, Darryl had generally ignored her all through high school. He’d only had eyes for Aviva – as had all the boys. But now that she was a reporter, he was treating her as if they had been bosom buddies. Tracy knew that was only because Darryl hoped that she would quote him, by name, in her article. Junior attorneys like him very seldom got their names into the paper. That honour usually went to their firm’s senior partners and the advocates who actually argued the cases in court, using the information and research provided by the Darryl drones of the legal profession.

  She walked quickly across Market Street to the grimy café and commandeered a corner table. She was pleased that none of her journalist colleagues were there. That meant she could pump Darryl for as much information as she could get without someone butting in. She waved cheerfully at him as he came through the door.

  ‘Hi. I’ve ordered some Rooibos tea and a toasted cheese. I’m starving. I skipped breakfast this morning. I hope you don’t mind,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all. I’ll have the same. The coffee here tastes like dishwater.’

  Tracy giggled. ‘Oh Darryl, you’re so funny. Hey, I really appreciate your help. Can you just fill me in on what happened yesterday?’

  She wrote diligently in her notebook while Darryl repeated everything that had already been published in the other newspapers.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ she said when he eventually finished. Their tea arrived and she took a sip, turning the cup around to avoid the chip in the rim. ‘Are you going to apply for bail again? I can’t believe the magistrate refused to grant bail today. Why would she do that? Oscar Pistorius got bail and he shot his girlfriend.’

  Darryl blew at his tea and sipped. ‘Umm, nice. I needed that.’ He paused, as if weighing his words. Then he leaned towards her and in a low voice continued: ‘The problem with you journalists is that you are conflating the Oscar Pistorius case with this one – when they are really nothing alike.’

  ‘Of course they’re alike. Oscar killed his girlfriend. Yair killed his girlfriend, his fiancée.’

  ‘Tiffany wasn’t his girlfriend, or his fiancée. And Yair didn’t kill her.’

  Tracy put her cup down so sharply the tea slopped into the saucer. ‘Yeah right! Of course she was his girlfriend!’

  ‘She wasn’t. I don’t know where that story came from, but it’s not true and it has caused no end of problems for Yair.’

  ‘But she was!’ Tracy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at Darryl’s ignorance. Clearly, Yair had lied to him about it, as he had lied to her.

  ‘Look Tracy, I’m not going to debate the facts of the case with you now. All I’m saying is that Yair didn’t murder Tiffany.’

  ‘Then why did he try to change his plea?’

  Darryl frowned. ‘To be quite honest – and this is off the record, okay? I have no idea. On the record – the facts are clear, he didn’t do it and we will prove it in court. However, to answer one of your original questions – no, we are not going to apply for bail again. There’s no point really. The charge against Yair—premeditated murder—is far more serious than the charges Oscar was facing.’

  ‘Even though Oscar actually pumped four bullets into Reeva?’

  ‘Yup. Odd, isn’t it? But the magistrate bought into the prosecution’s assertion that Yair would find some way to flee the country – even though we assured the court that he wouldn’t; and that all his money is tied up in his business here and that he is responsible for Zivah.’

  ‘Well, I suppose now that Aviva is back, she’ll take care of Zivah,’ Tracy said and watched Darryl closely for any kind of reaction. There was none.

  ‘Avi arrived a week ago, but from what I understand, she hasn’t even seen Zivah yet. Apparently Zivah won’t talk to her – hey, this is off the record. I’m talking to you now as an old school friend, not as Yair’s lawyer, understood?’

  ‘Of course. Where is Zivah? I tried to pop in and see her at the house – we were pretty close, you know. Before. But she wasn’t there. The whole house looks like it’s been shut up.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I haven’t seen her myself, even though we told Yair that we would have to speak to her before the trial. I thought she was staying at The Lodge but she isn’t there and her damn social worker won’t tell us anything.’

  ‘I know. She’d a real battleaxe, isn’t she?’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘I tried to interview her but she was about as helpful as ice in winter,’ Tracy said.

  ‘Well, perhaps she’s just following orders. Yair has flatly refused to let us anywhere near Zivah so we’re just going to have to do without her testimony, even though she was in the house the night Tiffany died. It’s all rather strange, if you think about it,’ Darryl said.

  ‘Not really. Yair has always been extremely protective of her. No matter how badly she behaves—and believe me, she can behave like a demented two-year-old at times—he always makes excuses for her. What does Aviva say? I mean, can’t she give you permission to speak to Zivah?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t know who the legal guardian is – or if she even has one. I’m not an expert on the Mental Health Act but as far as I know, a lot of people like Zivah don’t need a guardian. Oh my word, look at the time! Sorry Tracy, it’s been lovely chatting but I have to run. If there’s anything else I can help you with, please give me a ring. Here’s my card – and don’t worry about the bill. I’ll settle it on my way out.’

  Tracy gulped down the last of her tea and followed Darryl to the counter. She waited while he paid—with a gold card, she noticed—and then asked as casually as she could: ‘By the way, do you know where Avi is staying?’

  ‘At Genesys Apartments. Avi said it’s better than a conventional hotel because of the baby.’

  ‘What baby?’

  ‘Avi’s,’ Darryl said.

  ***

  ‘Thank you for your incredibly insightful, brilliantly-written story, Ms Jacobs,’ Mafuta said, dripping sarcasm as profusely as the sweat pouring down his fat face. He glowered at her and mopped his forehead with a yellowing handkerchief. ‘Now get back to your desk – please. See, I said please – I’m being polite and kind because I really don’t want to hurt your sensitive feelings and have you running off to the editor to complain again.’

  ‘But I didn’t run to the editor to complain,’ Tracy said. ‘He called me in because he thought I’d missed the bail application.’

  ‘Well, you did miss it – and you had the nerve to try and blame Dudu.’

  ‘I didn’t! And the only reason I missed it was because you told me I was off the story.’

  ‘You clearly misunderstood. I never said you were off the story. I said you had to pull your socks up or I would have to take you off it. There’s a difference Ms Jacobs. I sincerely hope you don’t misunderstand anything that is said in the courtroom too, because you could find yourself in serious trouble, and then even your pal Mr February wouldn’t protect you.’

  Tracy shrugged and turned away. She wasn’t going to stand and argue with the frothing news editor. It would just make things worse. Now that she had finished the bail application story—a stock-standard court report with a comment from Darryl that it was not possible to compare the Yair Silverman and Oscar Pistorius cases and that the defence would not be applying for bail again as there was no new evidence to offer—Tracy wanted to follow up on her scoop.

  ‘Going somewhere, Ms Jacobs?’ Mafuta asked as she headed for the newsroom door.


  ‘Yes. You don’t mind do you? You said my story was fine and I’m going to meet Yair Silverman’s sister.’

  ‘I thought you said they’d disappeared? Don’t tell me you were wrong.’

  ‘I wasn’t. But one of them has turned up again.’

  She ran down the corridor before Mafuta could waddle out from behind his desk and call her back. She switched off her cellphone and scooted down the stairs.

  Tracy’s hands were sweating as she gripped Buttercup’s steering wheel and avoided the minibus taxis down Louis Botha Avenue – a drive made increasingly perilous now that the City Council had decided to start construction on its Rea Vaya rapid bus transit system and convert one lane of the busy thoroughfare into a dedicated bus lane. The result was traffic chaos and the bus lane wasn’t even completed yet. At least there wouldn’t be any of the violence that had erupted when the first Rea Vaya route had been opened a couple of years before and the minibus taxi owners and drivers tried to shut the new system down. Mafuta had thought the city’s solution to halt the violence was brilliant, but Tracy wasn’t so sure. It seemed a little unfair to her to use ratepayers’ money to effectively pay off the taxi owners by making them shareholders in Rea Vaya.

  Tracy thought Maxine had made a good point when she’d maintained that the deal had rewarded thugs for resorting to violence and was no different to paying ransom money to terrorist kidnappers. So when the Louis Botha Avenue Rea Vaya expansion was announced and the city paid every taxi owner hundreds of thousands of rands for each of their vehicles, many broken-down old coffins-on-wheels, just to get them off the road, Maxine had been livid. She’d hooted in derision as the city official in charge of Rea Vaya blustered on television that the payment included compensation for what was effectively a restraint-of-trade settlement. Tracy agreed with her mother, but she’d never tell her that.

  She’d tried to discuss the issue with Mafuta. ‘Imagine if someone decided to build a shopping centre in Soweto, or Alex, or Orange Farm right next to where the hawkers and spaza shops are. The competition would effectively kill off their trade right?’ Mafuta had nodded.