The Top Prisoner of C-Max

by Wessel Ebersohn

  He reappeared when he was sent to prison after being involved in a robbery in which a shop owner was killed by having his carotid artery slashed. Of the two who had been charged, Hall had turned state witness. He confessed to being present, but not to having taken part in the killing. He had made an excellent impression on the court, the judge commending him for answering questions ‘in a truthful and forthright manner and without hesitation’. He had been sentenced to just five years. His accomplice, a simple-minded man, was sentenced to death and hanged. In three years, Hall was out. The police had found no fingerprints on the knife.

  On his release, Hall had been recruited by the liberation movement and sent to the notorious Quatro camp in Angola. Within weeks he had gravitated to the intelligence division, but had only lasted a few months when he had been expelled from the movement. Yudel had made a few enquiries, but had not been able to discover the reason for his expulsion. People who had been part of the struggle did not want to share the movement’s darker secrets with anyone, let alone someone who had been in the pay of the apartheid government during those years. It was on the basis of those few months that Hall declared himself to have been a freedom fighter. Yudel believed that none of those who campaigned for his release on political grounds had ever studied the case.

  Four years after his summary discharge from the movement, he killed again, this time dismembering a farming family. A large hunting knife had been recovered by the police and this time an identifiable palm print had been found on the base of the handle. By now, Nelson Mandela’s hour was at hand. He had been freed from his long sojourn in apartheid jails and he was just months away from the presidency.

  Hall was caught and convicted, but rescued from the gallows by the removal of the death penalty as a method of punishment. He pleaded before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission that the farmer had been a racist of the worst sort who was cruel to his workers, and that killing him had been a political act in keeping with his status as a freedom fighter. Although there were no witnesses to his testimony, the commissioners had agreed and he had been released, after spending just eight months in Barberton Prison.

  His file held no trace of his movements until eight years later, when he was part of a gang that robbed a suburban bank. The bank manager had died of a knife wound, again the carotid being the target, but the alleged killer had himself been killed in the shoot-out that followed. Yudel recognised the similarities between that incident and the killing of the shopkeeper. Neither death had been necessary if the only motive had been robbery. And the method of killing was an unlikely one for a gang that was carrying firearms.

  Yudel believed that the facts in the file and his own knowledge were both hopelessly incomplete. According to Hall’s file, the only time he had been guilty of murder was when he had struck down the supposedly racist farmer. The rest of Du Toit’s family, a wife and two children, had also paid for the father’s sins.

  Hall’s role in the assassination of a fairly obscure politician in the Mpumalanga province had never been more than a prison rumour. He had been living in that province at the time and had been questioned about the incident, but well-connected people from that province had placed him elsewhere at the time. The killing in Mpumalanga had been the first of many in the area, but the others had taken place while Hall was already in prison. Again, a knife had been the weapon of choice.

  Yudel thought about the use of a knife. To use a knife, the killer had to be up close. He would be able to smell his victim and feel the life leaving the body. It was the most intimate possible way of killing.

  Hall had never attended any institution of higher learning, but he had long since discarded the speech inflections of the Cape Coloured community he had grown up in. He sounded more like a professional or even a university lecturer than a criminal who had spent much of his life in prison. He used his elegant manner of speaking to try to win trust and often was successful.

  Yudel was so deep in thought when the phone rang that it woke Rosa before he answered. She was standing in his study doorway by the time he started listening to the voice on the other end of the line. She heard him say, ‘Phone Deputy Police Commissioner Jordaan immediately. Ask him to come to the scene personally. Tell him I request it.’

  ‘Yudel, what is it?’ Rosa asked after he had hung up.

  ‘One of our people has been attacked in his home. Apparently his wife is badly hurt.’

  ‘How awful. It just shows that no one is safe any more, not even in your own home.’ She looked at Yudel when he did not respond. ‘Yudel, it’s terrible that people are not safe in their homes.’

  Yudel only glanced at her. He had not heard anything she said.

  ‘Yudel?’

  But he was on his way back to the bedroom to get dressed.

  EIGHT

  TWO POLICE CARS were parked on the grass verge in front of the building that housed just four flats. As Yudel pulled up next to them, a car turned the corner to enter the street. It belonged to Brigadier General Freek Jordaan, deputy commissioner of police for the province and Yudel’s friend of many years. Yudel waited for him in front of the building. ‘One of your men?’ Freek asked.

  ‘Ordinary warder,’ Yudel said. ‘I saw him yesterday. He’d been screwing a prisoner.’

  Freek’s eyebrows rose only a fraction. It was not the most extreme transgression by a prison officer he had ever dealt with. ‘Forcing her?’

  ‘No. He’d been paying her.’

  ‘That’s a new one. Pretty woman?’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Yudel said.

  ‘Good figure?’ Freek wanted to know.

  ‘For God’s sake, Freek, I’ve only seen her in prison uniform and that doesn’t reveal much. But Dongwana said resisting her was impossible.’

  ‘What’d you do about it?’

  ‘I recommended that he be moved to a male section.’

  Freek nodded. ‘Any reason you wanted me here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The flat was on the ground floor. The door was standing open and, as they approached, a plain-clothes detective came into the passage and stopped when he saw them. His surprise at Freek’s arrival showed on his face. ‘General?’

  ‘Sergeant Motsepe, what’s happening?’ Freek asked. Yudel was a step behind him.

  The detective spoke quickly. The matter had become a lot more urgent since the province’s deputy commissioner had appeared on the scene. ‘The man’s inside. We sent the wife to hospital. She’s not looking good.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She’s hurting inside. They hit her a lot and raped her. Her face is finished.’

  ‘And the husband?’

  ‘They drugged him.’

  ‘You sure it’s not the husband who did this?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s him.’

  ‘Good.’

  Another man was coming out of the flat. Yudel knew him to be Dongwana’s immediate senior in C-Max. ‘Yudel,’ he said, ‘this is a hell of a thing. It must have been another one of our men.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Yudel said. ‘Where’s Dongwana?’

  ‘Inside. He’s getting dressed. It’s a hell of a thing. If it’s not one of our men then how did they get in?’

  ‘You say Dongwana’s getting dressed?’

  ‘Putting on his uniform to go to work. A hell of a thing to happen.’

  Yudel glanced at Freek. This time his friend really did look interested. ‘Going to work?’ he muttered, but more to himself than Yudel.

  The living room showed few signs of a struggle. A coffee table had been overturned and the police had marked the place in the centre of the room where Penny Dongwana had been left. ‘That’s where she was,’ Sergeant Motsepe told them. ‘He never moved her. He just put a blanket over her.’

  Yudel found Dongwana in his bedroom. He was leaning against a wall. So far, he had been able to pull the pants of his uniform up to mid-thigh, but was struggling to move them any further. His fingers did not seem t
o be working well. Yudel helped him with his pants, then took him by an arm and directed him to the bed. ‘Mister Gordon,’ he tried to say, but his speech was also not working well.

  When he was seated, Yudel crouched in front of him. ‘Alfred, look into my eyes,’ he said. Dongwana looked vaguely in his direction. ‘No, look straight into my eyes.’

  ‘I’m looking,’ Dongwana said. ‘All the time I’m looking.’

  ‘His eyes can’t focus,’ Yudel told Freek. ‘Why do you want to go to work?’ he asked.

  When he answered, Yudel had to listen carefully to make out the words. ‘Go to work,’ he muttered.

  ‘He should stay home,’ a voice from the door said. It was the senior warder.

  Yudel had a hand on Dongwana’s nearer shoulder. ‘Alfred, you can’t go to work while you’re in this state. A man will stay with you, and when you feel better he’ll take you to the hospital to be with your wife.’ Dongwana’s senior was nodding. ‘Do you know why this happened? Do you know who did it?’

  ‘Must go to work,’ Dongwana said, more clearly and decisively this time. ‘Must go now.’

  With a tilt of his head, Freek indicated to Yudel to follow him. They found Sergeant Motsepe talking to a fellow warder, the resident of a neighbouring flat. ‘True’s God, I heard nothing,’ the neighbour was saying.

  ‘Thank you, friend,’ Freek said to the neighbour, waving him away. He spoke to Motsepe. ‘You need to find out what’s in his bloodstream.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the sergeant said. He was standing upright in almost military fashion. ‘It’s already done. When they took the wife away, the medics took a blood sample from the husband. I sent it to Silverton.’

  ‘Good man,’ Freek said. ‘This is a big one. I want to know what happened here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The sergeant looked pleased with himself. Why not? The deputy commissioner was pleased with him.

  Yudel’s attention was drawn by a movement at the bottom of the passage. To his great surprise, the minister was coming towards them at a quick, purposeful walk. Behind her and doing her best to keep up was Miss Moseke, her PA, followed by her chief of staff and another functionary whom Yudel did not recognise. ‘Mr Gordon, this is a frightful thing to happen,’ the minister said as she came within earshot. ‘Where is Mrs Dongwana?’

  ‘She’s already in hospital.’

  ‘Good. Very good.’ Her eyes fixed on Freek. ‘Who is this man?’

  Inwardly, Yudel translated the question to mean, not another old, white guy? ‘Deputy Police Commissioner of Gauteng Freek Jordaan,’ Yudel said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, shaking Freek’s large, heavily veined hand. ‘I didn’t expect you here.’

  Yudel translated that to mean, you old white guys stick together, don’t you? ‘It’s a police matter, ma’am,’ Freek said, then he added warmly, ‘Of course, I’ll see that your office is kept informed at all times.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the minister said. ‘Where is Member Dongwana?’

  ‘Inside,’ Yudel said. ‘I’ll take you to him.’

  The minister stopped in the doorway of the flat. ‘Mr Gordon, I want you to take responsibility for something else.’

  ‘Madam Minister?’

  ‘I want Mrs Dongwana to receive the best reconstructive surgery available, whatever it costs. I will give you written authority. But I want you to monitor the process personally.’

  ‘Madam Minister?’ Yudel had never received an instruction anything like this.

  ‘You’re a healer, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, Madam Minister …’ Yudel thought about it. He was not in the habit of seeing himself that way. ‘… I suppose so.’

  ‘You’ll have the written mandate today. If the cost exceeds one hundred thousand, you’ll need further authority from me – and you’ll get it.’

  ‘I’ll do as you say. I’ll keep an eye on the process.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Gordon.’ She had turned towards the door, but stopped halfway, seeming to reconsider. ‘Yudel,’ she corrected herself.

  NINE

  THE LENGTH of passage that connected A-Section to the offices and interview rooms was almost always empty at this hour. Senior officers and professional staff had not yet arrived, and the kitchen was cleaning up after breakfast. It had cost Elia Dlomo two hundred to get past the gate from A-Section and to have a suitable message delivered. But that was as far as he would be able to go. There were still two gates between him and the main entrance. But this was far enough. It would serve his purpose.

  The part of the passage that fell within his field of vision was empty, as he expected. And there was no sound from it. He was hidden by the open door of a cupboard that should not have been there. It had been positioned against the passage wall some three months before as a temporary measure, but had been forgotten there.

  Dlomo, the prison’s highest-ranking member of the Twenty-Six Gang, should have been mopping the passage beyond the gate that led to the communal area, where the entrances to Sections B and C were located. He should have been supervised by Member Peme, but it had been ten minutes since he had last seen the warder.

  The bucket and mop had been left down at the end of the passage to show any other passing warder that he was busy and would not be far away. Perhaps Peme had taken him away to attend to some other chore.

  Dlomo had been waiting too long. His message should have found its destination minutes ago. So why had nothing happened? No one hesitated when a message came from the prison’s director to say that he had a visitor.

  While he waited, six or seven other prisoners passed at the end of the passage. He had not counted them. All were moving in the direction of the hall and gymnasium. A warder by the name of Sebenza followed a few minutes later, probably to ensure that no one loitered in the passage. None of them even glanced in his direction.

  In his right hand Dlomo carried the kana-kana that he had spent the last month preparing. Apart from Peme, the warders in A-Section had followed their instructions conscientiously in dealing with him. His reputation for violence was well known. Over the last six months, since an incident with a member of the Twenty-Eights, all material that could have been used to make a sharp instrument had been taken away from him. He was allowed to work on his scrapbook though. The authorities assumed that, if the pictures were folded and torn out and the glue came from a flexible plastic dispenser, there was nothing that could be used to manufacture a weapon.

  They were wrong about that. From time to time, he received glossy magazines for his scrapbook. The pages were sharp-edged, though far too light to cut anything. The process required to turn them into a weapon was a long one. It had been taught to him by an older convict on his first stay in prison long before.

  Dlomo had started with a single page. This he had rolled more tightly than seemed possible. After that he allowed it to unroll in order to spread a thin layer of glue across it, then he rolled it again, as tightly as the first time. After that, it had to be allowed to dry for a few days. The process was repeated with another page, this time wrapped tightly around the first, but set back a fraction of a millimetre from the tip of the first to start forming a point. By the time the glue had set on page two hundred, he had a kana-kana with which he could easily punch a hole through his mattress. The skin of the solar plexus and the flesh between that point and the heart would offer more resistance, but that simply meant that the strike would have to be faster. It also meant that there would not be a second chance. He knew that if he struck with his weight right behind it and if his hand speed was fast enough, the blow would be fatal, but the moment before he died, the victim would know who had killed him. That was important. He wanted his face to be the last Oliver Hall ever saw.

  He was holding the kana-kana just above his right knee. With his thumb along the length of it on the upper side, the strike would come from below. While the other man was held by his eyes, even for a moment, the kana-kana would be coming at him from beneath his line of vision.

>   Dlomo changed position slightly, moving closer to the cupboard into a position where he was even less likely to be noticed. In making the move, he accidentally touched the open door, moving it only a millimetre or less. Then he was again unmoving, waiting.

  The man Dlomo was waiting for had been watching from the end of the passage for almost five minutes. Oliver Hall had no visitors for years now. His son-of-a-bitch brother had stopped coming and, despite what he had said to that swine Gordon, those bastards who had been with him in the freedom struggle did not even want to talk to him. Eventually, in disgust, he had cancelled all names off his visitors’ list, making it impossible for anyone from the outside to see him. It was a rule of the department that no one was allowed to visit a maximum-security prisoner without his consent.

  So who was this visitor? And what was that bucket and mop doing at the end of the passage? They had been there too long unattended. And why was the door of the cupboard standing open? And who might be waiting behind it?

  And why had the message been brought by a member of the Twenty-Sixes? The messenger’s name was Luther and he was a little moffie who would do nothing himself. He should have been working in the kitchen at that moment. He was one of the few that the brown boers who were in charge of the prison trusted with sharp pointed objects. Instead he was running a message.

  Then he remembered whose wyfie that one was. The story that had been told to Kruger was that Elia Dlomo had paid to have Luther moved to his cell. No one seemed to know how much money had been paid, only that Dlomo had paid it.

  He saw the movement of the door, so slight that it could almost have been a trick of the light. If Dlomo was waiting for him, he would be armed, probably with a kana-kana that he had made or that his wyfie had made for him. They may have got hold of a piece of wood and sharpened it. A dagger could be made of almost any wood. He would be waiting behind the door and holding the weapon low to strike upwards. He would have it in his right hand. That would be his stronger arm and the natural hand in which to hold the knife.