ONCE MORE AGAIN
During the post-mortem examination it was noted that there were a number of lacerations of the deceased’s scalp. There was bruising around the lacerations. Four of the lacerations overlay linear fractures of the skull, causing bleeding in many areas of brain tissue. There were multiple injuries mainly of the nature of bruises and abrasions on the deceased’s right shin and thigh, right shoulder, forearm and chest. He had injuries consistent with being burnt with boiling water or paint thinners on his chest, abdomen and right thigh. The cause of death was determined to be bleeding throughout the brain.
The murder weapon was a carpenter’s file weighing almost a kilogram and about forty centimetres long. The police recovered it from a wardrobe in the ironing room of the house.
The three accused were linked to these crimes and the crime scene by circumstantial evidence and by their own admissions and confessions to the local Magistrate. In these statements they admitted participating in the events that led to Mr Marx’s death. The three men were unemployed and out of money. They knew that Mr Marx was living on his own. They planned days ahead to rob him. Marotholi drew a sketch plan of the house and showed it to the others. They waited for the domestic and the gardener to leave before they approached the house.
Kodisang’s statement bears the closest relationship to the facts accepted by the Court. According to Kodisang, the events unfolded as follows:
Mokone went in. After a while Richard and I followed him. When we got there we found that he had already tied the dog to a pole with a rope. We went into the ironing room. Its door was open. The door between the ironing room and the kitchen was locked. Mokone broke the door handle with a file. Then he pushed a sheet of newspaper under the door and pushed the key through with a piece of wire until it fell on the newspaper. We then pulled the newspaper back and the key protruded under the door […] We went in. However, the door leading to the lounge was also locked. Mokone went out again and went to the old man’s bedroom window. The top part of the window was partly open. He unscrewed the burglar guard with a knife […] He then went in and opened the door for us […]
We went and sat in the dining room to wait for the deceased […] After a while we heard the deceased’s car arrive. We pulled masks over our heads. Mokone and I stood in the passage behind the lounge door. Richard went into the room opposite the deceased’s bedroom. When the deceased entered, Mokone grabbed hold of him and clamped his hand over his mouth. The deceased pulled a firearm from a holster in the front of his pants. I grabbed the hand with the firearm.
I had a file and hit the deceased with it on his head twice. Richard arrived and also started hitting the deceased with the file […] Richard then stuffed a handkerchief in the deceased’s mouth. The deceased fell down and Richard covered his head with a carpet […] I tied the deceased’s arms behind his back with a rope and his legs with a belt.
I took the pistol and went and stood at the kitchen window to check if I could see anyone. Mokone had given me the order; he said I was more scared than they were. While I was standing there, Mokone called me and said I had to help open a can of paint … I stirred the paint with a bread knife to mix it well.
At this stage the deceased was still alive. Mokone and Richard carried the deceased to the bathroom and laid him down next to the bath. Mokone poured paint on the floor. Richard started painting over the blood splashes on the walls. He poured the paint over the deceased. The deceased was still alive. Richard took a paintbrush and started painting the deceased’s head. Richard painted the wardrobes and mirrors with the remaining paint. He said he was painting over the fingerprints.
At that stage we searched the deceased […] and found keys in his trouser pocket. Mokone […] unlocked a wardrobe in the deceased’s bedroom. Mokone found boxes containing cuff links as well as an electric shaver. In another container we found bullets, watches and bracelets. I took the five bullets and a silver watch […] Richard also took a watch. Mokone took all the other goods we had found and put them in a suitcase. Mokone also found handkerchiefs belonging to the deceased and put one pair of shoes in the suitcase.
Richard also took a pair of shoes. Richard also took the waistcoat he is still wearing. Because it was slightly cold, Mokone put on a white pair of overalls of the deceased. I put on a grey jacket of the deceased. Mokone also took a mouth organ and a guitar. In the dining room Richard took a box with gold knives, spoons and forks. Mokone furthermore took two and a half dozen eggs. There were dried fruit rolls in the refrigerator. I took one, broke a piece off and gave it to Richard. Mokone took the other one. We put everything we had taken on the dining room table.
It was then about half-past six. We decided to wait until it was dark so that we could take the deceased’s car. I found five rand fifty in the deceased’s possession. I sent Richard to the café to buy each of us a packet of cigarettes. When he returned I was busy drinking a litre of milk. Richard took a spoon and spooned peanut butter from a bottle and ate it […]
Mokone went to fetch the dog. He throttled the dog with a rope but the dog wouldn’t die. Richard took the paint and poured it into the dog’s mouth. However, it still would not die. Mokone thereupon took an axe and chopped the dog. When the dog’s tongue protruded he said, ‘Yes, now it is dying,’ and threw the dog on the deceased’s legs. I don’t know if the deceased was still alive at this time.
The deceased had spoken only once. He said, ‘Did you come to take my car?’ […] we decided to flee with the car. While we were fleeing we sold spoons, forks and knives as well as a few of the handkerchiefs. In Carletonville we ran out of petrol. I tried to sell the firearm at a service station. While I was busy trying to sell the firearm the police arrived and arrested me.
I took the police to Richard and Mokone. There was nothing else I could do because I was homesick. My parents did not know where I was, because I had not told them that I was leaving. I end here.
The evidence was overwhelming. The Court unanimously convicted all three of them on both charges and they received double death sentences on 9 May 1986. Leave to appeal was refused.
They went to the gallows on 8 December 1987 after having spent nineteen months in the death cells. Marotholi was twenty-two, Kodisang twenty-three and Busakwe twenty-one years old.
People started streaming past us to get back into court.
‘What do you think happened there?’ I asked Wierda as we moved down the passage towards the door on our side of the court. ‘Why would they confess so readily?’
Neither Wierda nor Roshnee answered.
‘And why did they kill the old man? Couldn’t they just have tied him up and driven off in his car? Why did they have to pour paint over him? And why did they kill the dog?’
Wierda, as usual, adopted a sceptical approach – a realistic approach, he would have said. ‘They were evil, that’s what. Nothing they did can be explained by applying reason to it. They were evil, and their bizarre message on the wall can make sense only to them.’
We had become so engrossed in our discussion that I had forgotten that it was raining outside. When we walked into the courtroom, rain was pelting down on the skylights above our heads and the usher had turned on the lights. A few lights flickered weakly and we completed the morning’s proceedings in poor light.
The matter-of-fact manner in which Kodisang had described the murder of Mr Marx persuaded me to present our case with greater emphasis on its emotive aspects.
Palace of Justice
30
I wasted no time as we had a long session ahead, an hour and a half, eleven-thirty to one o’clock.
‘What is the daily procedure in the Pot? Or rather, how does the routine in the Pot differ from the ordinary daily routine?’ I asked Labuschagne as soon as everyone had settled down.
He focused his eyes on the wood panelling behind the Judge’s chair. I surreptitiously watched the Warrant Officer. He did not look at Labuschagne, even though the witness box was barely three metres away. The
Warrant Officer kept his eyes fixed on his hands on the table in front of him.
Labuschagne started slowly but picked up speed.
The prisoners were allowed to have only the minimum of their possessions with them in the Pot, like their clothing, pyjamas, Bible and writing materials. They were locked up in single cells. They were taken to the showers individually, each accompanied by two warders. They were taken to the exercise yard individually, each accompanied by three warders at least. If they wanted to go to the chapel, they were again taken individually, accompanied by at least two warders. They could receive visits from their family. All visits were monitored.
When he had finished, Labuschagne looked at me. ‘That’s about all I can think of. They spend most of the time reading their Bibles and praying.’
‘Did the warders deal with the prisoners in the Pot differently from the way they dealt with the other prisoners?’ I asked.
‘We had to watch them to make sure they didn’t commit suicide.’
The Judge intervened. ‘Were there ever any suicides?’
Labuschagne nodded. ‘Two.’
‘How is that possible?’ asked the Judge. ‘I thought you said there is always a man on the catwalk doing rounds and that you watched the prisoners around the clock, twenty-four hours a day, and that the lights were never switched off. And from what I was given to understand earlier the prisoners were not permitted to have any items they could use to kill themselves in their cells. So how could it possibly happen, under your nose, so to speak?’
‘The one hanged himself and the other one cut his wrists.’
‘That’s my point,’ said the Judge. ‘Hanging yourself takes some time. And the prisoner must have had something to cut his wrists with, mustn’t he?’
‘Sir, can I explain what happened?’ Labuschagne took the Judge’s questions as criticism and became defensive. ‘I was … I can explain exactly how it happened.’
He then stopped himself as he must have remembered our instruction not to volunteer information. He waited for the Judge.
‘Go ahead,’ said Judge van Zyl, off on a frolic of his own. I could only watch.
Labuschagne picked up the register and turned to the right page. ‘The first one was Bongiane Israel Mbele, V3325,’ he said, tracing the details in the register with his finger. ‘He had come in with two other prisoners who had been sentenced to death together. They were called out to meet the Sheriff. I remember it very well because we called out four white men the same day, a father and son and two who were brothers. We called out seven. The other two in Mbele’s case got twenty years. Mbele and the four whites were told they would be going up the next week. We took Mbele’s fingerprints and his measurements and then put him in the Pot. On the way there he fought with us. We had to force him into the cell. I went off duty at four o’clock. That night he hanged himself behind the door. He used his pyjamas and one of his socks to make a rope and put a towel through the bars on the cell door. The night shift found him dead.’
He looked around the court before he continued at his own pace.
‘They couldn’t get in, because the Warrant Officer had the keys. One of the warders used a screwdriver to cut the towel through the bars. Mbele fell to the ground, dead. The key and the medic arrived only much later. But there was nothing anyone could do.’
Judge van Zyl nodded for Labuschagne to continue.
‘There was an inquiry. The Warrant Officer accused everyone of sleeping on the job. He put the nightshift on the duty roster for the guard towers. The Major and the Warrant Officer also blamed the day shift. First they said that he could not have hanged himself like that. He had to have had help, or maybe we even killed him ourselves. But we pointed out that he was alive when the cells were locked after dinner and that we could not get into his cell without the key. Later they said that the District Surgeon had found strange injuries to his abdomen. They said the day shift had trampled on him and jumped on him.’
Judge van Zyl took this in without making notes. Then he asked, ‘What makes you remember this so well?’
‘The reason I remember is that I was one of the warders blamed for it. We were also one short on the gallows when the four white men went up, I remember that well. We had to explain why to the Sheriff. And we also had to go to the Magistrates’ Court for a formal inquest.’
‘Tell us about the other suicide, but keep it brief, please.’ I had to stand and watch as the Judge went down an avenue that was not part of the defence case.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Labuschagne. He paged through the register and put his finger on an entry. ‘This is the one. It was Frikkie Muller, V3666. We called him out on 7 August last year. He was going up on the fourteenth. We took his weight and everything and put him in the Pot. They told us to watch him carefully, because he had already tried to commit suicide twice before. He had also told us many times, Julle sallie vir my kry nie. Frikkie Muller is te slim vir julle, my Kroon. The first time he cut his wrists with a piece of wire, but we caught him in time. The second time he tried with a nail in the handle of his toothbrush but we found him in time again. Each time he recovered. Then he tried it again on the twelfth. We got the medics out, they stitched him up and we put him in a straitjacket. This time he had taken a nail from his shoe and melted the end of a ballpoint pen and stuck the nail in it.
‘During the night he tore the straitjacket and pulled the stitches out. The Warrant Officer gave him some water to drink and put him back in the straitjacket. He kept screaming that he would kill himself if he got out. The next morning the Warrant Officer and the Major took the straitjacket off and spoke to him and they gave him oxygen, but he died.’
Wierda was tapping his pencil against his teeth again. I felt my jaw tightening. Labuschagne continued, but I did not really listen. I was looking for a way to use this evidence in the defence argument.
‘We then searched his cell again and found a message in his shoe,’ said Labuschagne. ‘There was a drawing of a coffin and the words Dood is Muller written in ink on the inner sole of his shoe. This time the Warrant Officer did not say anything. He was the one looking after the prisoner during the night so he couldn’t blame us for what had happened.’
I had stood motionless during the questioning by Judge van Zyl. After a while the Judge nodded in my direction. I took a deep breath. Up to this point I had been at pains to control the flow of information very strictly by asking closed questions that called for short, direct answers. The next topic could not be dealt with in that fashion if Labuschagne’s personal anguish was to be displayed to the Court.
I thought I could see a way to use the suicide to advance the defence. ‘How well had you known this prisoner, Frikkie Muller?’ I asked.
‘Very well.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘I had to help him read his Bible.’
‘How did you feel when he died?’
The question caught him off guard. ‘We hadn’t finished the last Bible lesson. And we had already prepared his rope.’
‘You read the Bible with him, and you prepared the rope for his execution?’
There was no answer and I changed the topic. ‘What happened during the week of the twenty-third November?’ I asked. The question was deliberately vague.
Labuschagne looked slightly perplexed. ‘Do you mean at work?’ he asked.
‘At work and at home,’ I explained.
He started slowly, looking at me from time to time as he spoke. ‘It started that weekend. We went out on the Friday evening. We got into a fight with some soldiers. They were drunk. I can’t remember how it started, but what I know is that we were looking for a fight. I must have passed out, because I came to on the front steps at my house. Magda – my wife – was wiping blood from my face. I was sick on the steps. She washed me and put me in bed. The next morning I saw that she had not slept in our bed and she told me she was going to leave me and take our daughter with her. She said she couldn’t live like that.
; ‘She accused me of things.’
‘Such as what?’ I asked.
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘She said I had lost interest in her and that I did not love her anymore. While we were arguing her father and two brothers arrived. They said they had come to fetch Magda and Esmè and that she was going to live with them. I told them to leave. I got into a tussle with her brothers. Magda walked out of the house with our child. She sat in the back of her dad’s car and wouldn’t get out.’
Labuschagne stopped talking and stood head down looking in front of him.
‘What did she do then?’
Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘They left.’
‘What was the last thing you saw as they were leaving?’
He mumbled the response through his sobs. ‘Esmè’s face through the car window.’
It was a cliché but effective and I waited a moment for the image to linger. But I needed more detail.
‘How had you treated them before they left?’
Judge van Zyl watched Labuschagne intently as he answered. He was still crying. ‘I was bad.’
I stood still. I still wanted more.
‘Very badly,’ he said. ‘I was bad.’
I thought he would tell us more but he clammed up. I decided to leave the matter there. We could get the detail from his wife, even if she proved to be a reluctant witness.
‘What did you do when they had left?’ I asked when he looked back at me again.
‘I went there Sunday and Monday evening and asked her to come back, but her father wouldn’t let me in. When I tried to telephone, they put the phone down. They wouldn’t even allow me to hold my daughter.’
‘How did this affect you at work?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘How did the week progress? Tell the Court what happened at work and what happened in your personal life. Start with the Tuesday afternoon. What happened that Tuesday afternoon when you came off duty?’
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