Memo From Turner

by Tim Willocks

  ‘Winston restored order. Like a magician. He bulldozed the shanties, gave every man without a job a fifty-rand note and bused them out of the province. He had them dumped by the road in townships all over the country, a hundred here, a hundred there, not enough to cause an outcry. No one knew if it was legal or not but who were they going to complain to? The police? Winston convinced them they were getting a good deal.’

  She wondered now if there wasn’t more to it than that. She loved Winston. She didn’t want to think of him strapping a man to a chair.

  ‘You know, I’ve never seen him wear a gun. He says he doesn’t need one to the keep the peace. Like Gaston Boykins.’

  ‘I don’t know Gaston Boykins.’

  ‘He was an old-time lawman in Texas, so Winston says.’

  ‘How did you and Winston team up?’

  ‘I was a hairdresser in the salon. He asked me if I could type and handle a computer. If you watch him trying to navigate online he looks like he’s dismantling a bomb every time he clicks the mouse. And in case you’re wondering, he’s never suggested anything sexual.’

  ‘I could see that.’

  ‘He paid for me to do a bachelor’s degree online. Politics and economics. I just started on my master’s.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Turner.

  ‘My thesis is on the history of the mine workers’ unions. It’s a bleak story, but it needs to be told.’

  ‘Would you say Dirk Le Roux is an honourable man?’ asked Turner.

  The question took her unawares. Before she could answer it she saw the memorial flash by in the edge of the headlights.

  ‘Stop the car, we’re here.’

  Turner braked and slowed.

  ‘It’s behind us,’ she said, ‘set back from the road.’

  Turner made a U-turn, crunching through scrub before regaining the tarmac. A few metres from the edge of the road rose a cairn of stones, a cone about waist height. Turner angled the car to flood it with light and stopped. Iminathi got out and Turner followed her.

  The cairn was mounted on a concrete base and was composed of rocks of various sizes bonded together with mortar. Threaded down the centre of the cone by its wooden handle was a pickaxe. The work was crude but honest. There was no plaque to identify its meaning. Iminathi had sometimes wondered why the company didn’t destroy it. But in leaving it untouched they announced that they didn’t care what it represented, and why should they? No one else did. If the cairn was a heartfelt memorial, its continued existence was an expression of contempt not respect.

  Turner studied it without expression. He looked at her. ‘A grave?’

  ‘No, a memorial,’ said Iminathi. ‘This is the place where my father died. This is where they found his body.’

  12

  The council of war on the terrace: Margot, Winston Mokoena, Simon Dube and himself.

  Hennie had broken the seal on a bottle of Bruichladdich and was on his third dram. He could neck a quarter of a bottle without noticeable effect so he was well within the zone of responsibility. Winston had made a performance of refusing the Scotch, opting instead for mint tea, but Hennie sensed he’d knocked a few back before coming out here.

  In the meantime Hennie and Simon had between them laid out the whole sorry tale and Winston had filled them all in on this motherfucker from Cape Town and the fact that by tomorrow he’d be knocking on doors. All of it – all of it – thanks to that fucking stupid ox, Jason.

  To Hennie it was a mountain out of a miserable, meaningless, molehill. But that would suit Winston, wouldn’t it? Winston to the rescue. Give him a new car, another house, another fucking hair salon. A suitcase of those krugerrands he loves to run through his fingers of a night. The bald gloating bastard loved to see Hennie on the spot, too, and boy did he like to keep him there. ‘Measured by the square metre, Nyanga is more dangerous than Mogadishu.’ ‘So you let Dirk have the car keys?’ ‘So Jason knows everything?’

  Hennie would love to have known what really passed between him and this Turner character. It looked to be the perfect opportunity to squeeze more blood from Margot’s balls. It wouldn’t have surprised Hennie if Winston had put Cape Town up to it. ‘Good morning, Captain Mokoena, we’ve got a sack of human shit here that someone in your manor turned into a sack of human shit with a ruptured uterus, or whatever the fuck it was. We don’t give two shits, but what do you want to do about it?’ ‘I’ll tell you what to do about it, son. Get up here on the first bus and we’ll put their lily-white feet to the fire.’

  Simon was solid, of course. Hennie had picked him himself, straight from 1 Parachute Battalion after Simon had been wounded at the battle for Bangui, when two hundred paras had given three thousand well-trained rebels a bloody nose. Simon was as ruthless a bastard as a Zulu could be, and given their history what more could you ask for in a head of security? One of the great warrior nations of the Earth. Even the British at their best had needed Gatling guns to put them down. It wasn’t ’ardly fair, as Kipling said, but that was nothing compared to what they’d had to swallow under apartheid. Oh well, the wheel turned. Decline and fall. Look at Britain now – if you could find it. In any event, Simon would be in, whatever was necessary. And being Zulu, he despised Winston and his ANC bullshit too. This comedian from Cape Town had no idea what he was getting into.

  Hennie knocked back the third dram and poured a fourth from the blue bottle.

  There had been a pause while Margot lit a Dunhill and dwelt on the information. She leaned forward and looked at Winston and Winston prepared himself to spout more pompous bilge.

  Margot said, ‘Exactly how serious is this, Winston? Legally speaking.’

  Winston didn’t disappoint them. ‘Nothing is more serious than death.’

  ‘That’s a pile of mouldy old cock,’ said Hennie. ‘There’s fifty murders a day in this country – that’s murders, not killings, suicides, dead babies, or buildings that fell down because your pals built them on the cheap. Death is the national sport.’

  ‘What are the possible charges?’ said Margot.

  Hennie made himself relax. Let Margot handle it.

  Winston spread his palms as if displaying his wares. ‘Culpable homicide. Drunk driving. Leaving the scene of an accident. Failure to render assistance –’

  Hennie couldn’t let that pass. ‘It would take days for an ambulance to show up in that pisshole.’

  Winston continued. ‘To which, it seems, you have added destruction of evidence and conspiracy.’

  ‘What evidence?’ said Hennie.

  ‘You said you washed and waxed the car.’

  ‘They can’t prove any of that,’ said Hennie. ‘They can’t prove Dirk was drunk, they can’t prove Dirk was driving, they can’t prove we ever knew she was there.’

  ‘The calibre of criminal lawyers you can afford might well get the lesser charges dropped in a plea bargain. But whatever else happens the charge of culpable homicide will stand. Res ipsa loquitur.’

  ‘This isn’t the time to show off,’ said Margot.

  ‘The facts speak for themselves,’ said Winston. ‘No one is entitled to kill someone with a car, even if it happens all the time. If you do so, negligence – and hence culpability – is automatically presumed. The driver is held to blame until proved otherwise and in this case it appears that no such proof is possible. The girl did not, for instance, unexpectedly run in front of a moving car. The car reversed at speed and crashed into a dumpster. The dumpster proves this was an irrefutable act of reckless and negligent driving. Culpability is established. The girl was indisputably and unlawfully killed. Hence, culpable homicide.’

  Margot said, ‘Let’s say this Turner has his way, and he arrests Dirk. Walk me through it.’

  ‘He’d be fingerprinted, charged in Cape Town, and held in custody until bailed. Then it would depend on whether or not he fights the charges or pleads guilty. I would advise the latter.’

  ‘Why not fight?’ said Hennie. ‘We’ve got the money.’<
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  ‘The world is surprisingly forgiving of dangerous driving. Most of us are guilty of it from time to time. But drunk driving and leaving the scene propel us into much more odious moral territory. Plus a sentence of up to fourteen years in jail.’

  ‘Fourteen years?’ said Hennie. He looked at Margot. For a moment he saw something in her eyes that he’d never seen before. Naked fear.

  ‘And if he pleads guilty?’ said Margot.

  ‘The criminal justice system is overwhelmed, not least in Cape Town,’ said Winston. ‘A plea bargain limiting the charge to culpable homicide, by negligent driving – no alcohol, no leaving the scene – would be welcomed by the court. You can call in some favours, spread some cash. A defendant with a stainless reputation, the appropriate expressions of contrition, et cetera. The driver could expect community service and a fine.’

  Hennie thought it sounded reasonable, all things considered. A slap on the wrist. If that was all Dirk was looking at, Hennie’s gamble in leaving the girl had been a good call. A hell of a lot better than if Dirk had been breathalysed, fingerprinted and tucked up in Cape Town. They’d all be in jail right now, waiting for the lawyers to cut through a jungle of red tape. He relaxed a little. Winston glanced at him. The captain sensed a win, too. Margot’s expression, on the other hand, was unreadable. An unreadable Margot usually meant trouble.

  Winston tried to push her. ‘You certainly want to avoid a jury trial,’ he said. ‘The charges would multiply. Blood would be in the media water. Crocodiles the world over would weep for the girl. Dirk would be on TV for weeks. So would you. The pressure for a harsh sentence would be intense. Your allies would distance themselves –’

  ‘There won’t be a jury trial,’ said Margot.

  ‘I’m glad you see it my way,’ said Winston. ‘A plea bargain is by far the most harmonious solution. There’d be some brief media exposure but no ongoing drama.’

  Hennie saw a change in Margot’s eyes. ‘But Dirk would be convicted of homicide.’

  ‘Well, that’s what justice requires,’ said Winston. ‘He killed her.’

  ‘Am I right in believing that he’d never be allowed to practise law?’

  Winston’s confidence wavered. He stared at her.

  Margot had that set look on her face, her no retreat, no surrender face. Hennie fancied he heard the toll of a distant bell.

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Winston. ‘A conviction that serious would see him disbarred for life.’

  ‘Years of effort wasted,’ said Margot. ‘His character stained forever. His career ruined before it’s even started. Dirk’s an idealist. He has a vision. He wants to do good, to work for the unfortunate. What about them?’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Hennie. ‘Dirk’s not in it for the money. He wants to make a difference. He’s told me that many times.’

  ‘All that thrown away,’ said Margot, ‘for a poor nameless girl who wasn’t long for this world anyway.’

  ‘It’s a double tragedy,’ agreed Winston, ‘but –’

  ‘Where’s the justice in that?’ said Margot. ‘Tell me, what earthly good will come from destroying Dirk? Who will it help? Where is the utility? Where is the logic?’

  If she expected an answer, Winston didn’t have one. He looked at Hennie, as if for help. He wasn’t going to get it. If it was that important to Margot, the argument was over. If the Devil himself drew a line in the sand, Hennie would stand with Margot, whichever side she chose, right or wrong. He didn’t have to make a decision; it was just the way it was.

  ‘That’s a non-starter then,’ said Hennie. ‘So I’ll cop to it. I’m as “culpable” as Dirk is, maybe more so. No one will notice another stain on my character.’

  ‘I appreciate the offer,’ said Margot. ‘And I know you mean it. But that’s unacceptable.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It would be a stain on the company, on me. Mining’s a dirty business – Brett Kebble, Marikana, the rest – but we’ve worked hard to create a pristine reputation. Investors like it, the market likes it. I don’t want this to come anywhere near any of us. Winston, we’ve pulled bigger strokes than this together. You must have an alternative.’

  ‘A ringer,’ said Winston. He didn’t seem enthusiastic.

  ‘Jason,’ said Margot.

  ‘It was that stupid fucker who lit the fuse,’ said Hennie.

  ‘Jason does have a record,’ said Winston. ‘The charges were dropped, but it’s there. The system never forgets. There’s also the matter of the gunshot. It’s a portrait of reckless disregard for the law. The judge might well feel obliged to impose a custodial sentence.’

  Margot said, ‘So Jason does three months and comes home to a real job with a big fat signing bonus.’

  ‘It might be rather more than that.’

  ‘Then we’ll pay him more.’

  ‘What if he’s unwilling?

  ‘Jason will do as he’s told,’ said Hennie.

  ‘I’ll deal with Jason,’ said Margot.

  ‘We’re missing the point here,’ said Winston. ‘By a ringer I mean I know any number of men who would confess to being the driver – your chauffeur, so to speak – for a plate of beans. He wouldn’t have been seen in the shebeen, we keep Dirk out of it, we give the prosecution a nice neat clearance. Some legal acrobatics and some money and it would be done. But all this is to ignore our new friend Turner. I already explored that solution with him. He rejected it out of hand.’

  ‘He rejected letting some poor stooge take the fall,’ said Hennie. ‘You said he can’t prove Dirk was driving.’

  ‘He can prove it with witnesses. That would be you and Jason. We can count on you to stand up to the pressure. Can we count on Jason?’

  ‘Then let’s tuck Jason up,’ said Hennie. ‘Jason was there, he fired the gun, he caused this girl’s death. And Turner gets to put a white man inside.’

  ‘I don’t think that would satisfy him.’

  ‘What would?’ asked Margot.

  ‘The truth,’ said Winston.

  ‘He must have a price,’ said Margot. ‘Maybe not in hard cash, but there are other currencies that carry no risk and needn’t prick his conscience. Advancement, a transfer, a new career.’

  ‘He’s chasing corpses in Nyanga,’ said Hennie. ‘It’s not much better than digging their graves. Who wouldn’t want to move up? You just made the first offer so of course he turned it down. He’s trying to pump up his price.’

  ‘Some men have no price,’ said Winston. ‘They can’t be bought, they can’t be persuaded.’

  ‘Then we’ll put his tail between his legs and send him home,’ said Hennie.

  ‘They can’t be scared off either.’

  ‘You think Turner’s like that?’ said Margot.

  ‘I think he’s waiting for you to try.’

  ‘What’s he trying to prove?’

  Winston thought about it, as if he had an answer but couldn’t put it into words. He said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He’ll obey orders, won’t he?’ said Margot. ‘Who’s his boss?’

  ‘Captain Eric Venter. I don’t know him but I’ll look into it. Now, I am a great believer in greed –’

  ‘And don’t we know it,’ said Hennie.

  Winston blinked at him slowly like some giant lizard. ‘– but you can’t just pick up the phone and buy a police captain.’

  ‘That’s news to us,’ said Hennie. ‘It’s true there must be a few fresh apples in the barrel but it’s worth a try. The president of Interpol was bent, the police commissioner of the whole country, drugs, assassinations – Jackie What’s-his-name?’

  ‘Jackie Selebi,’ said Winston. ‘But he went to jail and that’s my point. It would be a blind bet and if you lost it would be a disaster. Such things take time. Discretion. Research. We don’t know these people. We don’t know which boss to buy. Turner is here. He plans to make arrests tomorrow.’

  ‘You don’t have the authority to stop him?’ asked Margot.

  ‘
Not if he doesn’t want to be stopped. I can’t fire him, I can’t suspend him or arrest him. He’s doing nothing wrong.’

  Hennie looked at Margot. ‘A hundred cops a year die on the job. Why not a hundred and one?’

  Winston stood up. ‘I can’t listen to this.’

  ‘You do have a price and we pay it so drop the performance,’ said Hennie. ‘Give Turner a choice between a hole in the desert and a wad of cash and he’ll change his tune as fast as anyone else. The kind of man you describe doesn’t exist, especially not in this country.’

  ‘I once knew one well,’ said Mokoena.

  ‘We all know the edge of your spear isn’t that sharp any more, but Jesus, Winston, what did he do to you to get you running this scared?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to be scared about, Hennie. I didn’t leave a girl to die on a garbage heap.’

  Hennie lunged up from his chair and fronted him, chin up, eyeball to eyeball.

  ‘I won’t take lip from a man who smells like a kicked dog.’

  ‘You can kick your dog all you want. It won’t change what I saw in Turner. Walk softly, my friend, or you will see it too.’

  Winston held his eyes and Hennie saw the contempt buried in there. It enraged him.

  ‘Now that they’ve done their pissing, can the dogs sit down?’ said Margot.

  Hennie had other things to say but he swallowed them. He backed off and sat down.

  ‘Simon,’ said Margot, ‘this concerns you as well. What’s your take?’

  Simon Dube had followed the proceedings with his customary impassive cool.

  ‘Take it out of Turner’s hands, get ahead of him, cut him out. Let Jason carry it. Captain Mokoena can arrest him and wrap up the legal paperwork – write the confession for him, Jason signs it. Normal procedure. We present Cape Town homicide with a fait accompli. If Jason doesn’t like it, threaten to throw him to the wolves on the gun charge and leaving the scene. Let him sell some sheep and hire his own lawyer. He’s going down whether he likes it or not. If Turner objects, that’s a war he’ll have to fight with his own boss, not with you, Captain.’

  Hennie was slightly peeved that he hadn’t put it that way himself. He gave Simon an approving nod.