This time he did not hesitate. ‘Yes, sir, that’s the day when we had to pull one back up and drop him down again.’
‘What part did you play in that incident?’ I asked.
‘It was my prisoner.’
It was time for me to be cruel. ‘How did you feel, what went through your mind during and after that incident?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.
I had not primed him for the question because I wanted a spontaneous response.
‘There was no time for thinking.’
I hurried the next question. ‘I would like you to tell the Court how you felt after pulling the man up and dropping him and hearing his neck break.’
‘I felt nothing. I was just tired.’
‘How did you feel inside?’ I insisted.
He resisted. ‘What do you mean inside?’
‘What emotions did you experience, that’s what I mean,’ I explained, manoeuvring him to the position I wanted.
But Labuschagne wasn’t giving in. ‘I can’t remember.’
Judge van Zyl had been watching this exchange with his head cocked to one side. Now he intervened again. ‘Are you telling us that you felt nothing at all inside while you were doing that and after the man was dead too, that all you felt was a physical sensation of fatigue?’
It was a troublesome question, but the Judge had the right to ask whatever he wanted.
‘Sir, all I can remember was that I was so tired. I was finished.’ Labuschagne was not looking up; his eyes were fixed on the floor a few feet in front of the witness box. ‘That’s all I can remember, how tired I was, how tired I was of everything.’ He leaned heavily on the witness box.
That was the answer I had been looking for. I gauged that his emotional state was ripe for what I had in mind and started dealing with the day’s events in detail.
‘You had to report for duty before six o’clock that morning?’ It was a leading question but Murray did not object.
‘Yes.’
‘And you lined up behind the Warrant Officer and went into the Pot to call out the ones who were going up that morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘Their fingerprints were taken and you took them to the chapel for the service?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sang and prayed with them?’
‘Yes.’ The answer was almost inaudible.
‘You then handcuffed them?’
‘Yes.’ It was now hardly more than a nod of the head.
‘Please speak up, and speak towards me,’ the Judge ordered.
I didn’t wait for Labuschagne to acknowledge the caution.
‘And you took them up to the top floor?’ I suggested.
‘Yes.’
I decided to make him tell it himself again. ‘Did you have any difficulty getting them all the way up the steps to the top?’
He answered automatically. ‘Not more than usual.’
This gave me the opening I needed. ‘Well, what amount of trouble is usual?’
‘They drag their feet. They plead and beg. Some faint and some fight. I can’t remember anything specific about that day. We got them to the top, that’s all I know.’
I kept up the pace of the questions. I did not want to lose momentum now that he was talking. ‘And you put the white hoods on their heads after the Sheriff had asked them if they had any last words?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you took them into the gallows chamber and made them stand on the painted feet on the trapdoors.’
‘Yes.’
Gcaba, Gcabashe, Maarman, Mbambani, Mjuza, Mkumbeni, Njele.
‘And, you have said, your prisoner was difficult?’
‘Yes.’
I had asked a whole series of leading questions deliberately. I was trying to get Labuschagne into the habit of dealing with the hanging step by step, without leaving out any important detail. James Murray had not objected, but I could not carry on leading indefinitely.
‘Tell the Court what happened then.’
He began haltingly, then slowly picked up the pace. As he spoke, his voice became stronger. I let him do the talking, but he left out some crucial details, so I had to take him back to clarify some of these. The way he had described it, it was just another hanging.
‘Did anything unusual happen during the execution process?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He did not look at me any longer when I asked the questions.
‘What happened?’ I kept the questions short.
‘As I said, my prisoner did not die when the trapdoors opened.’ His voice sounded reproachful. I ignored it.
‘How did you deal with that?’ I pressed for the detail.
He explained the whole process again.
‘How did you feel at the end of that?’ I asked.
‘I was tired.’ He became defensive. ‘It is very difficult to pull a man up by the rope, and there were only two of us, it was hard, hard work. We had to hold him steady. He was kicking and gasping. I just didn’t have the strength.’
‘Carry on,’ I said. ‘Please tell the Court what happened from then on.’
When Labuschagne had finished with the events in the pit room, step by step, I led him through the funeral service with the relatives and the registration of deaths at the various departments.
‘And when you returned from the offices where you had to register the deaths, you still had to bury the bodies?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And on that occasion you had six black men and one coloured to bury,’ I suggested.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Where did you have to take the bodies?’ I could have told him, but I needed him to say more than yes or no.
He obliged. ‘The coloured had to go to Eersterus Cemetery. I had to take the blacks to the Mamelodi Cemetery.’
‘Where is Mamelodi in relation to Maximum?’ I asked. The Judge looked at me and shook his head. He must have remembered that I was from a distant jurisdiction.
‘It is on the other side of the city.’
Judge van Zyl helped out. ‘I think I can take judicial notice of the geography of the city where the Court sits. Mamelodi is on the north-eastern outskirts of the city, approximately twenty kilometres from the prison complex. Is that about right?’ he asked Labuschagne.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And from the prison you would have to travel through the centre of the city to get to Mamelodi, wouldn’t you?’ The Judge had also fallen into the habit of asking leading questions.
‘No, sir, we went along Jacob Mare Street, then Rissik and Walker, then left into University Street, and from there we took Lynwood Road until we got to the Wilgers Hospital. We turned left there, but I don’t know the name of the road, and carried on until we were in Denneboom Road. The cemetery is not far from there.’
The Judge nodded. ‘I know exactly what you mean. It is much quicker that way, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
When I didn’t take over, Judge van Zyl looked at me and said, ‘Carry on.’
‘How did you transport the bodies to the cemetery?’ I asked immediately.
‘We used a minibus that belonged to a funeral undertaker.’
‘How many people went along?’
‘It was just me and the driver, Isaiah.’
‘Was he a warder?’
‘No, he works for the undertakers.’
‘How many coffins did you have in the minibus?’
‘Six.’
‘Did anything unusual happen on the way to the cemetery?’ I asked, holding my breath for the inevitable objection, but no one stirred.
‘We had an accident.’
‘Can you tell His Lordship what happened and what you did?’
‘Yes.’ For a moment I thought he was going to make me ask another question. A long ten seconds passed before he spoke again. ‘When we were going along Lynwood Road we came to a shopping centre on the other side. A car coming from the right di
d not stop and came right across. Isaiah braked and swerved and went up on the pavement on the other side and we went down a bank into the parking area. The minibus jumped and nearly rolled. I hit my head on something and I fell under the dashboard. Then everything went black.’
Labuschagne stopped speaking and looked at me. I nodded for him to continue.
‘When I woke up there was one of the bodies on top of me. The coffins were open and the bodies were out. I crawled out and got out of the minibus. I saw Isaiah running away. There was a lot of blood in the minibus. I had to put the bodies back in the coffins, but I didn’t know which body went with which coffin. The name tags were on the coffins. I kept the doors shut so that people could not see inside. After that I had to get a hammer and nails. I locked the minibus and went to a hardware store. They gave me a hammer and nails. Then I went to Mamelodi and buried them.’
‘What did you do at the cemetery, with six bodies to bury on your own?’ I asked.
‘I must have buried them.’
‘Tell His Lordship how you did it.’
‘I don’t remember,’ he said.
‘Do you have any memory of what happened at the cemetery?’
‘No. I can’t remember anything after fixing the coffins with the hammer.’
I stood for a while, contemplating whether I needed to ask the next question. I could not make a decision and asked it anyway.
‘Why were you alone at the cemetery when there were six bodies to bury? Shouldn’t there have been some of the other escorts?’
Labuschagne pursed his lips. ‘The minibus was full. We should have had an other one, but it was the Warrant Officer.’ He glanced in the direction of the seat behind the prosecutors. ‘He was angry with me because I wanted to leave.’
I was tired and was beginning to make mistakes. There was no need to antagonise the Warrant Officer.
‘What is the next thing that you remember, after the cemetery?’ I asked, not looking at the Warrant Officer. I saw Sanet Niemand turning in her seat to talk to him. The Warrant Officer sat with folded arms, his face expressionless.
Labuschagne spoke very slowly. ‘I remember being in the shower.’
‘What was the time then?’
‘It was three o’clock.’
‘What duties did you still have to perform that afternoon?’
‘We had new arrivals.’
‘How many were there?’
‘Five, I think. Yes, there were five.’
‘How did you handle them?’
‘As usual.’
‘What part did you play in the initiation of the new arrivals?’
He did not answer the question directly. ‘I was sick. I wanted to throw up, but my stomach was empty. I think I fainted. They took me to the medic.’
The court had become very quiet again. There was always some ambient noise in the courtroom. People shifted in their seats, coughed and sneezed and made the ordinary noises people make when they are at ease or bored – but on this occasion the court was absolutely quiet. I knew that we had everyone’s attention.
‘Did you suffer any injuries in the accident in Lynwood Road?’ I asked. The question might have sounded mundane but I was trying to lay one of the cornerstones of the defence case without drawing too much attention to it just yet.
‘I had a bump on the left side of my head and I was bleeding from my ear.’
‘Did you receive any treatment for your injuries?’ I asked. I looked towards the Warrant Officer. Arms folded high across his chest, he sat motionless and gave no hint whether he agreed or disagreed with the evidence.
‘No, the medic just cleaned my ear and gave me some headache tablets.’
‘How did you feel at that time?’ This was another innocuous question laying an important stone for us.
‘My head was sore and I was tired.’
We had come to the final phase.
‘At what time did you come off duty that day?’
‘The day shift came off at four.’
‘Where did you go from there?’ I asked.
‘I went to my bakkie.’ I waited, but he did not give the additional detail I had anticipated.
I prompted him. ‘What did you intend to do when you left?’
‘I was going to see my pastor in Lyttleton.’ He saw that I wasn’t going to prompt him about this and added, ‘I wanted to ask him to speak to my wife and her father.’
‘Did you see the pastor?’
‘No, he wasn’t at his home. The maid said he would only be back on the Sunday.’
‘So what did you do next?’
‘I went home.’
‘What route did you take?’
‘I came down the Old Johannesburg Road.’
‘What was the weather like?’
‘It was raining hard and the wind was blowing. There was hail too, I remember.’
‘How were you feeling at the time?’
He did not expect the question and just looked at me.
‘How were you feeling at the time?’ I asked again, in the same tone of voice.
‘I was tired. My head was sore. I couldn’t see. I just wanted to get home. There was a lot of noise and thunder and lighting. I could not see anything.’
‘Why couldn’t you see?’
‘It was the rain.’
‘What is the next thing that happened, as you were driving along?’
‘I was in another accident.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘A minibus came from the left and nearly sideswiped me.’
‘And then? How did you experience the events from that point onwards?’
Labuschagne did not answer at first. I pressed ahead.
‘Let me remind you of the evidence of the prosecution witnesses. Then you can tell the Court whether they described the events correctly,’ I suggested.
Before I could continue Labuschagne spoke up. ‘They are right. It happened like that.’
I had to make sure. ‘You have heard the prosecution witnesses describe to the Court how you and the other man were driving and you agree with that evidence.’
‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘That’s how it happened.’
But there were no eye witnesses to what had happened at the reservoir, so I had to lead him to that point.
‘Let’s pick up the events when you were on the track between the signal station and the reservoir on Magazine Hill. You were still driving?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it still raining?’
‘Yes, very hard.’
‘Where was the minibus?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? Either it was in front of you or behind you.’
He hesitated. ‘I don’t know if it was in front or behind.’
‘What happened next?’ I wasn’t going to give him any more help; he had to tell it in his own words.
‘We stopped.’
‘Where?’
‘At the reservoir.’
‘What were your relative positions?’ I looked at the prosecution’s photo album. One of the photographs showed the precise positions in which the vehicles were found later. Labuschagne watched me as I paged through the album.
‘We were as the photographs show, sort of side by side.’
‘The photographs show your bakkie to be slightly behind and to the left of the minibus.’
‘Yes.’ The answer was ambiguous and I had to try again.
‘Well, were they like that?’
‘I can’t remember,’ he said.
I went for broke. ‘Tell the Court in your own words what happened next.’
The answer was as confusing as it had been when he told me the first time months earlier, even if the words were different and his emotions had got the better of him.
‘I heard the trapdoors open and …’
The Judge interrupted before he could continue. ‘Could you say that again?’
‘Sir, I heard the noise of
the trapdoors opening.’
The Judge raised an eyebrow. I stood perfectly still. The answer had to come out exactly right.
‘Proceed,’ I said. ‘Take your time and tell it slowly.’
Labuschagne took a step back in the witness box until his back was against the wood panelling behind him.
‘I know you won’t believe me, but I heard the trapdoors opening.’ He smacked his fist into his palm. ‘And then I saw the bodies falling down with their white hoods flapping, and then I heard the Warrant Officer shouting, Trek hom op! Maak gou! Maak gou! I knew I had to hurry to help and I stepped over and the place was lit up by the lightning and then everything went dark again and I couldn’t see anything for a while and I heard thunder and thunder and thunder. I just felt the water on my face.’ The words had come out in a flood, like the rain pelting down on the roof of the court.
I stood still and watched in silence as he breathed in and out, as we had instructed him. I gave him some time to recover. He was as pale as a sheet. I didn’t want to make him tell it twice, but I was going to have to, I thought. I decided to return to the reservoir later. I checked if Judge van Zyl had another question, but he didn’t.
In the witness box Labuschagne shivered and squirmed like a prisoner on the trapdoors. All we needed to complete the picture was the white hood and the rope. I found that I was breathing quite heavily myself. I heard a tap tap tap and something snapped between my fingers, and when I looked down, I saw that I had Wierda’s pencil in my left hand. It was in two pieces.
‘What did you do when you felt the water on your face?’ I asked.
‘I ran. I just ran and ran.’
I decided to cut it short. ‘Well, we know from the prosecution evidence that you were nearly run over by a car in the valley below the hill and that another motorist found you lying in the grass near the Voortrekker Monument. An ambulance was summoned and you were taken to hospital. Can you remember those events?’
‘I remember them shining a light in my eyes and I remember being put on a stretcher and being on a stretcher at the hospital.’
‘I have to ask you,’ I said, ‘I have to ask, do you remember what you did at the reservoir?’
‘I don’t remember.’ The answer sounded earnest.
I pressed him a little. ‘Have you tried to remember?’
Labuschagne didn’t answer. I asked another question.
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