Deceive and Defend

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  Tracy stared at the message in astonishment. Aviva Silverman—or was it van Zyl?—was the last person she would have expected to reach out to her. Her first instinct was to ignore the message and try to get some sleep. But she knew she’d never sleep again, ever, unless she heard whatever Aviva wanted to tell her.

  She switched on her bedside light and calculated. It was 10.30 – meaning it was only 8.30 in London. And Aviva had said to call whenever. Tracy loaded Aviva as a contact on her smartphone, opened WhatsApp and hit the call button.

  Aviva must have been waiting for the call because she picked up immediately.

  ‘Tracy?’

  ‘Yes – how’d you know it was me?’

  ‘The call’s an unknown number from South Africa. Anyone else from South Africa who has this number is in my contacts. I know it’s late but I was hoping you wouldn’t be asleep yet. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I really could use your help.’

  ‘No problem, I wasn’t asleep,’ Tracy said with a hint of irony in her voice. ‘And I didn’t call to help you. It’s for Yair.’ She waited for Aviva to speak, but there was only silence.

  ‘Aviva? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I... I just don’t quite know where to start. I know we’ve never really seen eye to eye, but can we please just try move past that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  More silence. But this time, Tracy was not going to be the one to break it. She waited.

  Finally, Aviva spoke. ‘Look, what I’m going to tell you – well, it’s confidential and... I need to know I can trust you.’

  ‘If you don’t trust me, why the fuck did you contact me? Avi, I’m tired of these games. I’m tired of being pushed around by you and... and everyone. I’m just tired. So tell me what you want to tell me and let me go to sleep,’ Tracy said, swallowing hard. She was getting quite emotional and she didn’t understand why. The last thing she needed was to start crying while speaking to Aviva Silverman.

  ‘It’s about Yair. He didn’t do it.’

  I know that, Tracy almost blurted. Instead she said: ‘Says you. He pleaded guilty.’

  ‘That was to protect someone.’

  That’s what I thought, Tracy thought. Aloud she said: ‘Yeah right. Who’s he protecting?’

  ‘Who else would he destroy his life for? Zivah, of course.’

  ‘What?’ Tracy was so shocked she almost dropped the phone. ‘You’re crazy! Aviva, that’s your sister you’re talking about.’

  ‘I know. And Yair is my brother. If you think this is easy for me, I’ve news for you – it isn’t. This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do and that includes when I testified at my mother’s inquest. So please, Tracy, just listen.’

  Tracy listened in growing incredulity as Aviva outlined her initial suspicions about her mother’s death.

  ‘But why didn’t you tell the cops?’ she demanded.

  ‘Why should I? What was the point? Everyone knew—or thought they knew—who’d done it. It made sense. So I thought it best to leave it. I mean, I had no real proof. Anyway, the cops dropped the case after the inquest, even though the inquest court had returned an open finding. I wasn’t going to stir things up. I just wanted to get the hell out of South Africa.’

  ‘But what if... I mean, do you really think she’s done it again? For God’s sake Avi, if you’d spoken up then, Yair wouldn’t be in jail facing a fucking life sentence. And, lest we forget, Tiffany would still be alive!’

  ‘Do you think I haven’t thought about that every single day since I found out how Tiffany died? Do you think Yair hasn’t?’

  ‘Yair knows?’ Tracy squeaked.

  ‘Of course he knows. Why do you think he tried to change his plea the moment he heard what had killed Tiffany?’

  ‘Oh shit – of course! That never made any sense to me. I never thought Yair was guilty but I ...’

  ‘Well, your stories in the paper didn’t exactly proclaim his innocence. You’ve made him out to be a cold-blooded serial killer,’ Aviva said.

  Tracy flushed. ‘That’s different, okay? I didn’t have any evidence to the contrary so I had to publish what I had. I’m a journalist – I can’t just publish a gut feeling,’ she said, paraphrasing Mafuta.

  ‘Look, let’s move on, okay? What we have to do now is try and get the police to investigate whether Zivah could be responsible for Tiffany’s death. That’s where you come in.’

  ‘Me? What do you expect me to do?’

  ‘Write a story that there’s another suspect in the Tiffany Zaldain case – one that the police have not investigated. That should do the trick.’

  ‘You can’t be serious! You want me to write a story that Yair Silverman’s little sister—his mentally challenged little sister I might add—is really to blame for Tiffany’s death. Who the fuck do you think is going to believe that?’

  ‘Well no—couldn’t you just leave me—and Zivah – out of it?’

  Tracy snorted. ‘What are you smoking? That’s not a story – there’s absolutely nothing to the story if I can’t quote you and mention Zivah.’

  ‘Can’t you just quote “sources close to the case”? Darryl said you could say that Yair’s lawyers had hired investigators who had found another suspect who had been overlooked by the police.’

  ‘Well, that’s a possibility. But answer me this: why the hell are you prepared to see Zivah spend the rest of her life in jail? Even if she did... oh my God, I can’t believe this – even if she did murder two people? That’s crazy!’

  ‘That’s the point. Zivah won’t go to jail. She’ll probably never even stand trial,’ Aviva said and told Tracy about the results of her psychiatric examinations.

  Tracy listened in growing astonishment. ‘Good God,’ she said when Aviva finally finished. ‘I always knew Zivah was mentally challenged, and a bit touchy and unpredictable, but you’re saying she’s actually mentally ill?’

  ‘Yes. It’s so sad. It seems a lot of adults with foetal alcohol syndrome suffer from substantial mental illness. Zivah should have been diagnosed years ago, but none of us wanted to admit, openly, that my mom had been an alcoholic. So we all just buried our heads in the sand and pretended. Well at least now we’ll be able to ensure she gets the treatment she needs.’

  Not if she is sent to some public mental institution, if the Esidimeni tragedy is anything to go by, Tracy thought. Aloud she asked: ‘Okay, I’ll write the story – but before I do, I really need to know something. Do you have any real proof that she did it or are you just trying to save Yair?’

  ***

  Tracy dragged the heavy wrought iron chair closer to the table outside Belle’s Patisserie in the BluBird Shopping Centre and shivered. It was probably a little too chilly to be sitting outside this late on an autumn afternoon, but she didn’t care. She was totally drained after writing and submitting the story Aviva had given her, after trying—unsuccessfully—to get comment from the police and the National Prosecuting Authority.

  Mafuta had read it with a snarl of scepticism on his fat face.

  ‘So Silverman’s lawyers have hired an investigator to find another suspect and, conveniently this anonymous investigator has come up with someone? Well, isn’t that a surprise. Not!’ he’d said.

  ‘It’s a real suspect. As I said, the police and the NPA have been given the information, but they won’t do anything about it. They never considered the possibility that anyone else could have done it – right from the start. They fixed on Yair, and then set out to prove it was him. Well, there is another suspect and they need to investigate that.’

  Tracy hadn’t noticed the editor, standing at the entrance to the newsroom, but he’d heard every word. He’d come over and questioned her closely about her sources and their reliability.

  ‘I promise you – my sources are about as close to the case as you can get,’ she said. ‘I trust the information I was given implicitly.’

  ‘Do you know who the suspect is?’ Mr February asked.
r />   ‘Yes. And I think it’s perfectly feasible that that person did it – I honestly do.’

  ‘Well then, Mr Tshukudu, I see no reason not to accept Ms Jacobs’s word on the matter. Let’s publish – and she’ll be damned if she’s wrong,’ he’d said with a smile.

  Knowing that as soon as the editor left the newsroom Mafuta would take out on her the fact that his authority had been undermined, Tracy had grabbed her bag and fled. She was a jumble of mixed emotions – exhilaration that Mr February believed her; joy that she was possibly doing something to help Yair; terror at the retribution Mafuta would extract when the editor wasn’t around – and exhaustion.

  Ignoring the prices on the menu a pert, pretty young waitress had brought her, she ordered a large slice of carrot cake and an iced coffee topped with real cream. After all she’d been through, she deserved a treat.

  ‘That looks good! You don’t mind if I join you, do you?’

  Tracy looked up in confusion as Gilad Zaldain manoeuvred his bulk into the chair opposite her.

  ‘Good heavens. Hi. What are you doing here?’ Tracy asked, her heart dropping. She hadn’t seen Gilad for ages, not since Yair’s party when he’d been pissed out of his skull. He looked revolting – enormously fat, a real Michelin Man, just as her mother had said.

  ‘Same as you, I suspect. Sneaking out for a coffee break, except I don’t drink coffee.’ He clicked his fingers at the waitress who hurried over with a menu. ‘No need for that. I know exactly what I’m having. Bring me a large slice of Death by Chocolate cake, with extra fresh cream, and a large chocolate milkshake. I like chocolate, can’t get enough of it,’ he said and winked at Tracy.

  Tracy started eating her cake. She didn’t want to have to make conversation with Gilad.

  ‘Hey, what’s happening with Yair’s case? Do you know?’ he asked.

  ‘You can read all about it in tomorrow’s Daily Express,’ she snapped.

  ‘Aw, don’t be like that. I’m interested. I like Yair. I still can’t believe he murdered Tiffany.’

  ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘Yeah? So why was he arrested.’

  ‘Ever heard the saying “innocent until proven guilty”? That means that an arrest is not a conviction. That’s why we still have trials.’

  ‘Okay, okay, no need to be so sarcastic,’ Gilad said. ‘I can’t believe it’s almost time for the trial. I’m a bit nervous about it. I have to testify. I found Tiffany, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But it’s really about bloody time. It’s been nearly two years since Tiffany kicked the bucket.’

  ‘Gilad! For fuck’s sake! She was your step-mother!’ Tracy couldn’t resist rubbing that little fact in. ‘Have you no compassion?’

  Gilad’s cake arrived and he shovelled a large piece into his mouth. ‘For Tiffany? Nah,’ he said and cake crumbs shot out onto the table, but he continued eating and talking without missing a beat: ‘She tricked my dad into marrying her – and she screwed up the finalisation of his estate. It still isn’t sorted.’

  ‘Really? That’s too bad,’ Tracy smirked.

  ‘Ja, Dad’s lawyers are fucking useless. They handled his affairs for years and they’re a bunch of old farts who should’ve retired years ago.’

  Based on her knowledge of that particular legal firm, Tracy agreed – but she wasn’t going to tell Gilad that. ‘I think you’re being mean,’ she said. ‘Winding up deceased estates can take time, particularly if they are large and complicated, as I’m pretty sure your dad’s was.’

  ‘Yeah well it’s large alright. And I’ve had to wait for two fucking years to get what is rightfully mine as Cecil Zaldain’s only beloved son and heir. But the money should come through any day now, and as soon as it’s in my bank account, it’ll be adios South Africa.’

  ‘You’re emigrating?’ She really didn’t care, but she felt obliged to ask: ‘Where are you going?’

  Gilad used his fat forefinger to wipe up the last remaining spots of cream on his plate. ‘Australia. I applied a while ago but they turned me down because of my medical. But once I get my money, the emigration lawyer says I can buy my way in by investing a couple of million – dollars, not Rand.’ He licked the cream off his finger, sat back in his chair and burped.

  The smug grin on his face irritated Tracy but she didn’t feel up to picking an argument with him. She decided to try and be pleasant. ‘Are you better? I heard you were in hospital.’

  ‘Oh thanks. I’m fine. It’s nothing serious. Just a bit of a sugar problem that goes a bit haywire every now and again. But it’s all under control now.’ He slurped the last dregs of his milkshake.

  Tracy made no effort to hide her shock. ‘Really? I didn’t know. But you’ve just eaten... are you allowed to eat cake and stuff if you’ve got sugar...’

  ‘Of course. I’ll just inject a couple of extra mills of Humalog. Anyway, the emigration guy said that if I invest a few million, they’ll virtually lay out the red carpet for me at Sydney airport.’

  ‘When do you think you’ll go?’

  ‘Hopefully in June. Will you miss me?’ He leered at her across the table.

  ‘Funny ha ha,’ Tracy said. Her heart was racing. ‘Listen, I’m sorry but I have to run. I’ll see you in court.’

  Gilad laughed. ‘Cool. See you there. Actually, I think I’m going to have another piece of cake now.’ He clicked his fingers at the waitress to come and get his refill order.

  Tracy paid her bill and rushed back to Buttercup, her exhaustion forgotten. She had some investigating to do.

  Chapter 34

  Yair

  Yair stood ramrod straight in the dock, keeping his eyes fixed over the heads of the rapacious, upturned faces of the photographers crowded like a writhing school of piranhas before him. Their camera flashes were blinding but he forced his eyes to remain open. He wondered, ironically, if they approved of his new suit – a well-cut, neutral charcoal that Darryl had bought for him at some fancy store in Sandton City (judging by the price tag). He’d wanted to wear his old suit, but Darryl had said—correctly, Yair had to acknowledge—that it made him look like a hobo. According to the label on the new suit, his old suit was now two sizes too big for him. Yair had insisted Darryl also buy a suit for Promise – for when the boy-man finally got his day in court. If he survived. Nkosi had eventually agreed to accept Yair’s offer to ‘buy’ him, and for a couple of hundred Rand more, had allowed Promise to be taken to the prison hospital, because none of his regular ‘boyfriends’ would touch him anymore, even at bargain basement prices. The ravages of his disease were visible all over his body and face, and his wracking cough and constant sweats indicated that he had also contracted tuberculosis. And so white, privileged, colonialist-capitalist Yair Silverman was now the proud ‘owner’ of a human being, one hundred and eighty years after the abolition of slavery in South Africa.

  The irony of it made him smile, but he quickly blanked his face again, remembering Henti’s warning: ‘Keep your face absolutely neutral at all times, regardless of what happens. Any smiling will be interpreted as a callous disregard for the life of the woman you are accused of murdering. And definitely no crying – the media crucified Oscar Pistorius for that and we want to try and avoid any comparison with him. Although as you’re both white, young, good looking, rich and accused of killing your girlfriends, comparisons are probably inevitable.’

  ‘Yair!’ A voice behind him called again.

  He didn’t want to turn. He didn’t want to see the sensation seekers crammed into the public gallery, along with hordes of journalists. He didn’t want to see Red, if she was there. He wasn’t sure she would be because Darryl had said she would probably be called as a witness by the prosecution. He certainly didn’t want to see Tiffany’s mother, Susan Horwitz who, according to Darryl’s sources, had sold her story to You magazine and was set to publish a book as soon as the trial was over.

  ‘Yair – it’s me!’

  He turned, and blinked back t
ears. There was Aviva, in the front row with Arno at her side. He couldn’t believe that they’d travelled all the way from London. Aviva held up a gold ring.

  ‘It’s Zaidah’s. He wanted you to have it. For good luck. He loved you – we all do. Be strong, little brother!’ she said.

  ‘I’m not your little brother. We’re twins.’

  ‘I’m four minutes older,’ she said, and for a moment, Yair forgot Henti’s warning and smiled at the argument he and Aviva had exchanged from virtually the time he had learned to talk. She, of course, had spoken full sentences before he’d managed to sound his first intelligible word.

  ***

  Yair’s mind drifted. It was easier than listening to the prosecutor, Mr Gaddafi Lefidi, who was dressed in the identical suit to his, eloquently setting out his opening argument. The Honourable Mr Justice Andries Goliath, a tall, dignified man who reminded Yair of Nelson Mandela, sat impassively resplendent in his red robe gazing down at the mere mortals thronging his court. Yair wondered what he was thinking. He was enormously grateful that His Lordship had already flatly refused a media request to broadcast the proceedings of the trial live.

  ‘He’s a no-nonsense judge, is old Goliath. Smart as anything, and fair. He won’t allow the media to turn his court into a circus. And he’ll keep Lefidi in check – me too,’ Henti had grinned.

  Now it was Henti’s turn to deliver her opening address. Yair listened intently, but she gave very little away. ‘The state’s case is flimsy at best,’ she said. ‘What little evidence they have is purely circumstantial or based on hearsay. My client is innocent of any wrongdoing, let alone premeditated murder.’

  The first few witnesses passed through the witness box in a blur. The paramedics who had taken Tiffany to the hospital; the doctor who had examined her and noted scrapes and cuts and bruises all over her body; and the pathologist.