Shepherds and Butchers

by Chris Marnewick

  I found myself next to James Murray. I knew that he disapproved of my tactics, but he knew as well as I did what we had to do. It was dirty work but we were both trapped in it by our respective duties, his even more onerous than mine. My conduct was defined by my duty to the Court and to my client. The prosecutor’s duty was to ensure that justice was done. We stood side by side, looking into the drain in the pit. I walked with him to the next room.

  There we found autopsy tables and refrigerators. There was a stack of coffins in the corner waiting for the next batch of executions. Everything was spick and span, as spotless as military barracks, but with the smell of the operating theatre of a hospital.

  ‘We don’t use the autopsy room any more,’ said the Major. ‘There is no need to determine the cause of death because we know it in advance and there is a doctor present when death occurs.’

  He must have noticed the sceptical look on my face; everything was just too organised for the room and its equipment not to be in use. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘from time to time we have one of the professors from the medical school to conduct an autopsy and then we allow a class of their students to witness it.’ He looked uneasy as he spoke, apologetic perhaps. ‘And sometimes, when we have a suicide, the District Surgeon may do the autopsy here too.’

  The warders had laid on tea and biscuits for us in their common room and we could not refuse. We sipped guiltily at the sweet brew while we made polite small talk. One of the Assessors mentioned the rugby and speculated on the outcome of the Currie Cup final. The biscuits were dry in my mouth. We left the main section of the prison with the clanging of the doors and the rattle of heavy keys still ringing in our ears. A troop of warders accompanied us to the main gate. We stayed close to them.

  We were made to sign out again at the front guardhouse. The warder on duty smelled like the prison – of sweat, fear and cheap tobacco.

  It was good to be out in the open air again. The air smelled sweet with the perfume of the jacaranda flowers. I heard a faint tune and African voices behind us as I walked with Wierda to his car.

  Kumbaya, my Lord

  Kumbaya

  Judge van Zyl walked away with the rest of us. ‘I’ll see you back in court tomorrow at ten,’ he said.

  DAY THREE

  Defence: 6 October 1988

  Execution: 8 December 1987

  V3506 Ishmael Mokone Marotholi

  V3507 Zacharia Molefi Kodisang

  V3508 Richard Busakwe

  V3747 Stanley Allen Hansen

  V3768 Nicholas Prins

  V3769 Sizwe Goodchild Leve

  V3770 Stanley Smit

  Mamelodi Cemetery

  27

  By the time the escorts had returned after seeing the relatives out the death notification forms had been completed by the admin office. One coloured and six black men had been hanged, so the deaths had to be registered at two different Home Affairs offices in the city.

  The escorts engaged in a game of paper, rock, scissors; the losers would be the two who had to register the deaths and the winners would join them later for the burial detail. The game ended quickly and the losers collected their documents. They checked them cursorily. The cause of death in each case was stated as Judicial Execution.

  The two escorts departed together in a prison car. They were well known at the Home Affairs departments and were given preferential treatment. At the first office they went to the front of the queue and were admitted to a back office with a window and a red carpet where a supervisor occupied the desk.

  ‘How many do you have today?’

  ‘Six,’ said the escorts in unison.

  Within half an hour the department’s records had been amended to record the deaths of the six men and the escorts left with their certificates for the second office they had to visit. There they had only one death to register: Willem Maarman’s. Back at Maximum they handed in the certificates to admin and set off with the other escorts on the next leg of their mission.

  At the chapel they collected the coffins and manoeuvred them through the passages to the garage behind the gallows building. Two minibuses were waiting there. They quickly sorted the coffins according to the race of the occupants and loaded them in the minibuses. Just as there were two Home Affairs offices for the registration of the deaths, so there were two cemeteries for the bodies. One would go to Eersterus Cemetery and the other six to Mamelodi.

  The prison had only one minibus with panelled windows for the purpose and they had had to rent another from an undertaker, whose assistant was to drive the coffins to Mamelodi. With six coffins loaded in the minibus there was no space for a second escort and, after playing paper, rock, scissors again, only one escort accompanied the bodies to Mamelodi. He was heading for a nightmare of a different kind.

  On the way to the cemetery a car approaching from the right failed to stop at the red light. Its brakes must have failed, for it didn’t stop even when the undertaker’s minibus drove through the green light, right into its way. A perfectly executed ballet followed. The errant car lurched to the right as the minibus veered left just enough for the two vehicles to touch sides for half a second, and for the two drivers to recognise mutual fear in the short time they had eye contact before the car went on its way and the minibus spun out of control into the parking lot of a shopping centre.

  Coffins crashed about the minibus, spilling their contents. By the time the minibus came to a halt, its interior was a mess of planks and mutilated naked bodies. The undertaker’s driver took one look and ran away, leaving his door open, the minibus idling and the prison warder on his own in the disarray.

  At Eersterus the two escorts paid a passer-by to fill in the grave for them. They made themselves at home under a tree and smoked one cigarette after another. The body underground would still have been warm when they left. They were back at Maximum in time for lunch.

  It was a different story at the other cemetery. Long after midday the lone man at Mamelodi was still struggling with his rickety load of coffins. When he had arrived the graveyard was deserted. It was midsummer and hot; swirls of wind chased red dust devils across the flat expanse of untended soil.

  He dragged the first coffin by its front end and slid it out the back of the minibus. When the rear end of the coffin fell to the ground, the lid, hastily nailed back after the near accident, popped open again and fell off. The escort refastened the lid with a few blows of his shoe and picked up the front end of the coffin a second time. By the time he had dragged the coffin to the open grave a few yards away he was sweating profusely. He stopped next to the fresh mound of soil and pondered the best way to get the coffin into the grave.

  Still bent over the front end of the coffin he half turned to look into the shade below. This was a job usually done by two men, now he had to find a way of doing it on his own. He decided to slide the coffin across so that its front end protruded over the edge of the grave. First he pushed the coffin over and then jumped into the grave. He grunted with the effort as he pulled the coffin over further and further until its back end was right on the grave’s edge. Then he gave it a final tug and stepped back, but there was insufficient space behind him and he was trapped when the coffin crashed six feet down into the hole and fell against his shins.

  A cloud of dust rose from the grave and when it had settled he saw that the cheap coffin had disintegrated; its occupant lay on his side, an arm flung wide. Oblivious of the blood seeping from the abrasions on his legs he scrambled out of the grave, crawling like a spider with his hands and feet in the earth. Streams of sweat traced white lines in the dust on his face.

  He struggled with each coffin in turn, dragging them from the minibus and across to the allocated graves. Five more times he disappeared into the shady hollow of a grave, getting dirtier with each drop until he was as red as the soil, with sand under his fingernails and clinging to his scalp. He did not bother to put any of the coffins and bodies together again, leaving them as they had landed, in a mess of planks
and limbs.

  Filling in the graves on his own took yet more time and greater physical effort, and he became progressively more dehydrated. His throat was parched as he toiled, shovelling soil into the graves.

  It was late afternoon before he arrived back at Maximum. He returned dog-tired, incoherent with dehydration and with a pounding headache, only to be mocked by his fellow escorts and castigated by the Warrant Officer for having taken so long to complete the job.

  Palace of Justice

  28

  Judge van Zyl broke with tradition and announced that he would not be producing a sketch plan of the prison to incorporate in the record of the trial what we had observed of the various sections of Maximum Security Prison. ‘We all know what we have seen, and I am not going to compromise the security of the prison.’ He ignored the fact that any member of the public could pick up a copy of the aerial photograph from the municipal offices around the corner.

  Labuschagne’s family were sitting in the front row immediately behind the wooden barrier between the well of the court and the public section, on the defence side. His sister Antoinette sat between their parents. I wondered what went through her mind as she watched her brother admitting to the things he had done. Antoinette had attended every session so far. It reminded me of my grandmother’s wisdom: a sister’s loyalty knows no bounds.

  One of the spectators on the balcony coughed and I looked up. A row of faces looked down on us. I wondered about them as they must have wondered about us. What did they think of us? Did they see us as gladiators or as monks, dressed in secret robes and engaged in a strange, ritualistic duel? I imagined I could feel their hostile gaze on the thinning spot at the crown of my head. I hoped that they had been properly searched at the entrance. Who were these people? Were they capable of killing? What business did they have here? It was, after all, a work day.

  Judge van Zyl interrupted my thoughts. ‘Are counsel in agreement with the details I mentioned to them in chambers?’ he asked.

  James Murray and I stood up and faced the bench. We exchanged a glance and then spoke at the same time. ‘We are, M’Lord.’

  ‘I will read my observations into the record then.’ The Judge turned the page and continued recording the Court’s observations during the inspection. I had to concentrate because everything recorded in this fashion would become evidence in the case.

  ‘The different sections of the prison will be described here in the order that we inspected them yesterday. C Section and the kitchen do not feature in the evidence and will be ignored. Special features pointed out by counsel will be described in detail. Where necessary I shall endeavour to give my own impressions of the atmosphere of the prison.’

  The Judge paused for a moment when the Assessor on his left tugged lightly at the sleeve of his robe. They had a quick, whispered conversation. The Assessor pointed at Labuschagne, who was standing in the witness box. The Judge spoke directly to him.

  ‘There’s no reason for you to stand through all of this. I’m sorry, I should have noticed earlier. You may return to the dock and sit down until we have finished recording the Court’s observations at the inspection in loco.’

  Labuschagne stepped out of the witness box and walked around the prosecutors’ end of the table to the door in the dock. For a moment he faced the spectators in the gallery behind the dock. He briefly made eye contact with his parents, but immediately lowered his gaze, turned and sat down.

  The Judge resumed, and spoke for a long time before he concluded. ‘That completes our observations with regard to Section A1, with the exception of the atmosphere. We were there for about half an hour, from about two o’clock, and it was very quiet during the whole of that time. The prisoners were in their cells. The doors were locked. The only movement or sound was that of the guard on the catwalk; he came around every so often.’

  Wierda slipped me another sketch. He must have made it overnight. It showed A Section in fine detail but we would not be able to use it.

  So this was Wierda’s escape, I thought. While I was looking at the sights and features of Pretoria to take my mind off the case, he was making sketches.

  I was looking at his sketch, my thoughts elsewhere, when the Judge asked, ‘Is there anything counsel would like to add to the observations I have recorded thus far?’

  I spoke first. ‘We have nothing to add, M’Lord.’

  Murray had nothing to add either.

  ‘I turn now to describe B Section and, so far as it may be relevant, C Section.’

  I studied Wierda’s work more carefully as the Judge read more of his observations into the record. This was Labuschagne’s place of work, the place where the agony of the Pot was felt most keenly. The sketch reduced all of that to a few strokes of a pen on a page.

  I vaguely heard the Judge say, ‘There is another door in the chapel that takes one into the main passage of B Section. B Section, like A1 Section, consists of a passage with a catwalk overhead, and steel doors on either side.’

  Wierda handed me yet another sketch, of B and C sections. He had near perfect recall.

  The Judge droned on about B and C sections and concluded, ‘It remains for me to record the details of our observations in that part of the complex described as the gallows building. I’ll record those details after the long adjournment.’

  Then he turned to me. ‘Would the defence be able to continue with the examination-in-chief of the defendant in the meantime?’

  I stood. ‘Indeed, M’Lord, we are ready.’

  ‘You may proceed then.’

  I motioned to Labuschagne to return to the witness box. The registrar stood up and reminded him that he was still under oath. Labuschagne nodded. We settled down for the session.

  I made room for my notebook and adjusted my reading glasses. I could feel in my voice that the stress of the trial was beginning to take its toll. My voice had dropped half an octave as it always does under stress. The examination-in-chief had now already taken more than a day. When the Judge caught my eye I nodded and continued.

  ‘Mr Labuschagne, let’s move on to what happened during the three weeks from the twentieth of November to the tenth of December 1987. How did you experience those three weeks, as a whole?’

  He was ready and spoke immediately. ‘We were very busy. There was never a day’s rest. It felt as if we were emptying the place, but as fast as we carried coffins out through the garage they were processing new arrivals at reception. It was like a conveyor belt.’ That sounded rehearsed.

  ‘Can you recall the numbers involved?’ I asked, knowing well that he had memorised the details.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He opened the register in preparation for the next question.

  ‘Could you give the Court an idea of the numbers involved, please?’

  ‘Yes. We had been quiet the first half of November. We hanged three on the sixth and another one on the twentieth. Between the twenty-sixth November and the tenth December we had to hang thirty-two. We hanged four on the twenty-sixth November and then seven on the third, seven on the eighth, another seven on the ninth and the last seven on the tenth.’

  I held my hand up to indicate that I wanted to interrupt.

  ‘Were you present at any of those executions in November and December?’ I knew the answer, of course, but the Court needed to hear it from Labuschagne’s mouth.

  He looked at me. ‘I was an escort at every execution in 1987.’

  ‘So how many executions did you attend during the year then?’

  He thought for a while. ‘About twenty-five to thirty.’

  ‘Please continue. What else happened during that period, from the twentieth until your arrest?’ I realised my question was too vague to make sense. ‘Tell the Court about the arrivals and departures from the prison. Take your time and use the register to refresh your memory.’

  Labuschagne took his time before he answered. ‘Two prisoners came off the rope on the twentieth and transferred out.’

  I had to interrupt.
‘What do you mean by came off the rope?’

  ‘That’s what we said when someone won an appeal or got a reprieve. The ones waiting under sentence of death we said were on the rope, and the others came off the rope.’

  I asked him to continue. ‘So what happened to the ones who were reprieved?’

  Labuschagne checked the register before he answered. ‘Some warders came across from Central and took them away. On the twenty-third we let two more out as they were found not guilty on appeal. We took them to the gate and handed them over to their lawyers or their family. On the thirtieth five more were found not guilty on appeal and we let them go too. On the same day three others were reprieved. They were transferred to Central. On the first of December another one was found not guilty on appeal. He had been under a double death sentence; we took him out through the guardhouse at the front gate. He didn’t want to wait for his family to come and pick him up, so we took him to the main control boom at Potgieter Street and let him go. He just walked down the street.’

  Labuschagne concentrated on the register, turning from page to page where we had stuck notes to guide him to the relevant parts quickly. ‘The same day another one’s sentence was changed to twelve years and he was taken away to Central. On the tenth one prisoner died of natural causes. I can’t remember the details because I was involved in escort duties.’

  ‘What about new arrivals?’ I asked. ‘How many were there in that time?’

  ‘Thirty-two or thirty-three came in between the first of November and the tenth of December.’