‘Yes.’
‘Exactly as if the Executioner had broken their necks when he pulled …’ Murray had to correct himself, ‘or rather, when he pushed the lever?’
‘Yes.’
The Judge intervened. ‘Mr Murray, where is this going? You’ve made your point, surely?’
I also thought Murray had made his point, but he had not yet succeeded in his secondary purpose with this line of questioning, which was to unsettle Labuschagne, to soften him up for the cross-examination that was still to follow.
Murray was diplomatic. ‘I’ve nearly finished with this topic, M’Lord.’
‘Continue,’ said Judge van Zyl and Murray wasted no time.
‘When the prisoner’s neck broke after the trapdoors had opened, you saw the Executioner’s hand as the one that had done the killing, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. It was his hand.’
‘And by the same token, when you hauled the prisoner up, dropped him down and his neck broke, it was not the Executioner’s hand that did the killing, was it?’
‘I see what you mean,’ Labuschagne conceded, looking down at the floor.
‘So it was your hand that did the killing.’ Murray turned to his left towards Sanet Niemand and let the statement hang in the air. The answer did not matter. Labuschagne’s own evidence now showed him to be capable of killing, with his own hands.
Labuschagne didn’t have to answer.
It was time for lunch, but Murray was keen to strike another blow.
‘And it was your hand that did the killing at the reservoir, wasn’t it?’
Again Labuschagne did not have to answer.
Labuschagne was taken back to Cell 6 and Wierda and I at first headed for the Square, but changed our minds to walk around the building. Wierda hadn’t spoken to me since before the tea break.
‘What’s up?’ I asked him when we got to the first corner. ‘Are you cross with me?’
Wierda sighed heavily. He didn’t look at me. ‘I don’t know how you could have done that to him. Why didn’t you give him some warning that you were going to do that?’
It was one thing getting this from Antoinette, but quite a different matter coming from my own Junior. Wierda was supposed to be above the emotion of the moment. Still, with him I could argue the point, and I did.
‘It would have been less effective if he knew what was coming. He would have been unconvincing. He would have sounded prepared, artificial, unemotional, and unpersuasive.’ I ran out of words to describe Labuschagne’s emotional flatness when he had to deal with matters involving his emotions.
‘Maybe, but it would have been less traumatic for him, and for his parents too.’
It was my turn to sigh. I saw that I couldn’t win this argument so I just changed the subject. ‘What’s the next case about? Is there anything we can use?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s just another cell murder.’
We strolled along in the sunshine. I took in more of the features of the Palace of Justice.
‘So tell me about the cell murder,’ I said. ‘Anything special about the case?’
‘Nah,’ he said, ‘it’s a common Cape Town prison case.’
We walked slowly as Wierda briefed me on the events that had taken place in the Allandale prison near Cape Town and gave rise to seven men from that cell being hanged in Pretoria on 9 December 1987.
I interrupted him when we were behind the building. ‘Why is the dome so low? I thought the whole idea of a dome was that it should dominate, but this one is almost obscured and the towers at the corners are inconspicuous too.’
Wierda’s response was immediate. ‘They added an extra floor after the architect had completed the design, but they wouldn’t allow the expense of raising the dome and towers to compensate and to get the proportions right. That nearly broke the old man, my grandfather said.
‘And look at this monstrosity here,’ Wierda said, ‘just look at this building here.’ He pointed to a building in the back courtyard of the Palace. ‘That should be open space, a park, but they allowed the police to build a seven-storey building there. It looks crap, doesn’t it?’
I had to agree with him. We returned to our discussion of the cell murder case.
V3625 William Harris
V3626 Brian Meiring
V3627 Christoffel Michaels
V2628 Herold Japhta
V3629 Jan Swartbooi
V3630 Pieter Botha
V3631 Anthony Morgan
44
Eight prisoners were charged with the murder of one of their cellmates and with two counts of assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm to two others. Seven of them were convicted and sentenced to death. Pieter Pienaar was found not guilty.
Cell 6 in the Allandale Prison near Cape Town was about ten by five metres and its regular occupants were the eight accused and at least seventeen other Category A prisoners. In the corner of the cell were a toilet and a shower; neither had a door. The cell was so overcrowded that when the prisoners rolled out their sleeping mats there was no more than a hand’s width between them. When an additional prisoner was allocated to Cell 6, there was no space for another sleeping mat and arrangements had to be made so that three prisoners were to occupy two sleeping mats. There were members of at least two prison gangs in Cell 6, the 26s and the 28s, who were mortal enemies.
The scene was set for murder.
About two days before his death the deceased Sharief Hendry was sent to Cell 6. For a night or two the existing sleeping arrangements were kept in place: the 26s slept in a row against one wall and the 28s against the other. There were a few independents in the cell, prisoners who had not joined either gang, but even they had formed a loose alliance with the one gang or the other in order to secure some protection. The prisoners were all classified as Category A prisoners, which meant that they were still thought to be relatively manageable and capable of being rehabilitated, notwithstanding that every one of them had many previous convictions and that all were serving medium to long sentences.
Hendry decided to rearrange the sleeping positions on the evening of 5 January 1985. This was achieved by moving three men out of the right-hand side where the 26s had their territory to the opposite side, traditionally the 28s’ side, and moving two men from that side over to the right. The result was that space in the 28s’ territory became more cramped than before. Two of the accused, Meiring and Botha, were directly affected by this move. Although they were independents, it was known that their sympathies lay with the 28s.
The 28s decided to do something about the newcomer’s cheek. Earlier in the day there had been an altercation between Harris and Swartbooi on one side and Hendry and another prisoner on the other. The two sides exchanged threats. The consequence was that the 28s held a formal gang meeting in the early evening, wearing their full prison uniform, with caps on their heads, as was the custom of their court. They did this in full view of the other inhabitants of the cell and everyone knew that trouble was on the horizon. Their decision was evident from their subsequent conduct.
First they put on their pyjamas and went to bed. Some time after the rest of them had fallen asleep, Japhta came around to wake them up. They got dressed. Then, with Harris at the front, armed with a home-made knife, the eight accused went to Hendry’s bed at the opposite end of the cell. Harris pulled the blanket from Hendry who was lying face down. Harris then stabbed him in the lower back, just above the cleft of the buttocks. Hendry turned over and Harris stabbed him twice in quick succession in the upper chest below the left nipple. Hendry started squirming and Harris stabbed him a fourth time, at the top of the left shoulder blade. Hendry was in distress immediately because both stab wounds of the chest had penetrated his heart.
Then the gang turned their attention to other inmates. They beat up Leon Jacobs with a belt reinforced with a padlock. Michael Erasmus fled to the toilet. Harris stabbed him in the back as he went past. In the toilet Meiring, Michaels, Botha and Pienaar set upon Era
smus with their belts. Each belt had a padlock tied to the end. Erasmus shouted for help and the prison warders came to the window to see what was going on. Japhta told the others, ‘You haven’t finished your work,’ and pointed towards Leon Jacobs. The warders outside the cell heard this and sounded the siren for the officers to bring the key they needed to open the cell.
By the time the cell was eventually opened, Hendry was dead. The eight prisoners who were later to be charged with murder were standing to one side, dressed in their day uniforms, with their bedrolls neatly tied up and stacked. They had anticipated their removal from the cell.
After a messy trial in which no two witnesses other than the prison officials told the same story, the Court convicted seven of the accused of murder. The Court entertained a reasonable doubt whether accused number seven, Pieter Pienaar, had taken part in the killing or had committed any act in pursuance of a common purpose with the others, and acquitted him. Harris, Meiring and Swartbooi were further convicted of assault with intent to cause grievous bodily harm to Michael Erasmus. Swartbooi and Harris were convicted on a similar charge in respect of the assault on Leon Jacobs.
Cell murderers always get the death sentence. Over the years the Supreme Court in Cape Town had sent many of them to the gallows. The Judge could see no extenuating circumstances in respect of any of the accused. She imposed the death sentence on all seven. She also imposed prison sentences for the assaults, but they were soon to become of academic value only.
On 9 December 1987 the seven men went to the gallows together. They had spent a year and two months in the death cells.
Palace of Justice
45
When I came into the courtroom, James Murray was already on his feet at his lectern. Labuschagne was in the witness box with the sergeant sitting behind him. We waited for the Judge to enter. Murray and Labuschagne ignored each other. When the usher left to call the Judge, Murray leaned down to speak to Sanet Niemand. After a whispered conference she handed him a folder. He put it on the lectern without opening it. What would the theme of the next series of questions be? I didn’t have long to wait to find out; it was ingenious.
Judge van Zyl and his Assessors came in and Murray went straight on the attack again.
‘So you say you can’t remember what happened at the reservoir?’
Labuschagne did not respond.
‘What’s the question?’ I whispered.
Murray obliged. ‘You can’t remember what happened at the reservoir. Is that what you say?’
Labuschagne shrugged. ‘I’ve told you what I can remember.’ He looked uneasy, but the puffiness around his eyes had gone.
‘Well,’ said Murray, ‘let’s retrace your steps as the events developed. You were driving your bakkie, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were very tired, you have told the Court, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your bakkie has a manual gearbox, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
I was beginning to see where this line of questioning was going.
‘It was raining very heavily and the roads were awash with water and debris from the storm, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were travelling at speed up Magazine Hill and down to the reservoir, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the road was narrow and winding going up the hill, and going down to the reservoir it was even worse, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You had managed to avoid a collision with the minibus earlier, at Saxby Road, when it was a near thing, hadn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ The answer came reluctantly. Labuschagne could sense a trap, I thought. He was right, but it was well hidden.
‘And the road from the signal station to the reservoir is just a dirt track, isn’t it?’ suggested Murray.
After our own inspection I could visualise the track on the ridge of the koppie. It was undulating, narrow and wound its way through the trees.
‘Yes,’ said Labuschagne, a puzzled frown on his face.
‘Please look at these two photographs.’ Murray produced a stack of photographs mounted on A4 paper from the folder on his lectern and handed them to the usher. Sanet Niemand slid two sets across to me. When the Judge and Assessors had received their copies, Murray continued, ‘These two photographs show the rising and falling topography of the track in the last fifty metres or so to the reservoir, don’t they?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The route you had taken that afternoon?’ Murray had not listened to the answer.
‘I haven’t been back there.’
Murray ignored the answer – deliberately, I thought.
‘The light was fading?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were driving in the fading light, in pouring rain, at speed?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the same time you were duelling with the minibus, weren’t you? That’s how I understood your evidence,’ he added.
‘Yes.’ The answer was tentative.
‘And there were trees on either side of the track, very close to the track, weren’t there?’
Labuschagne studied the photograph as if he had never been to the scene. He looked up and said, ‘Yes, I can see them.’
‘And you managed, despite the difficult terrain and all the obstacles, to steer your bakkie safely all the way down to the reservoir, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
At this point I might have stopped if I had been the cross-examiner, but Murray was not content with having made his point with such subtlety that the lawyers in court could admire his skill. He wanted to make it brutally clear to Labuschagne and to the spectators.
The Judge tapped with his pen on the edge of the bench above the registrar’s head and she immediately stood up and faced the Judge. ‘What is the number of that exhibit?’ he asked her. She turned to pick up her notes and whispered an answer before she sat down again.
Murray scribbled down something and was ready with his next question. ‘And once you had stopped, you sat in your bakkie for a while, taking in the surroundings, didn’t you?’
Labuschagne thought about the matter for some time before he answered. ‘For a moment,’ he said.
‘And you knew exactly where you were and how you had got there, didn’t you?’
‘I didn’t know where I was. I had never been there before.’
Murray thought about the answer. ‘Well,’ he suggested, ‘you might not have been there before, but you would have been able to find your way back home from there, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘So we have you at the reservoir in your bakkie, the bakkie you had driven there, and the minibus was slightly ahead of you and to your right. Do I have the scene correct so far?’ Murray was setting Labuschagne up for something, I could see it coming.
‘Yes.’
‘And you had the pistol to hand, on the seat between your legs?’
‘Yes. There is no other place for it in the bakkie.’
‘And it was ready to fire, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it always is.’
I could see that the riders Labuschagne was adding to the answers were beginning to rile Murray, but he resisted the temptation to deviate from his path.
‘Then, in the words of your advocate, you killed them?’ he said.
It was a foul blow, but there was nothing I could do about it. Labuschagne looked at me for a long time before he answered. ‘Sir, I know that now.’ It was no more than a whisper.
I thought again that I would have stopped at this point and moved on to something else, but Murray followed a different approach.
‘You used a gun, a pistol?’ he suggested. He was holding the pistol in his hand. It was Exhibit 1.
‘Yes.’
‘It held thirteen bullets, one in the chamber and twelve in the magazine, right?’ Murray pointed at the relevant parts of the pistol.
‘
Yes.’
‘And you fired thirteen shots, didn’t you?’ He had his finger on the trigger, but he did not pull it. I fully expected him to.
‘Yes, I accept that.’ The answer came from Wierda’s briefing. ‘What should I say if they ask me whether I shot them? I don’t remember it,’ Labuschagne had asked early on in our preparation. Wierda dealt with it well. ‘You have to accept that you did shoot them, even if you have no memory of it. So I think you should make that clear.’
Murray was relentless. ‘And every shot you fired struck one of the deceased; every shot struck someone in a vital place, the upper torso or neck, didn’t it?’
The answer was a faint yes.
‘But you claim that you have no memory of the shooting, this very accurate shooting that you did; is that how we are to understand your evidence?’
Labuschagne seemed lost for an answer for a while. ‘But I don’t remember it,’ he said eventually.
‘So,’ said Murray, ‘your defence is not that you didn’t shoot them, but that you can’t remember shooting them? Is that how we are to understand your defence?’
I had to object.
‘M’Lord, it is not for the defendant to answer questions of law. He is entitled to give evidence of the facts and the events that occurred; I alone answer questions such as the one posed by my Learned Friend. And I answered that question in the plea explanation and in my opening address.’
‘I’ll move on to something else,’ said Murray, who hadn’t even bothered to sit down when I objected.
‘Yes,’ said the Judge, ‘carry on.’
Murray stood for a moment, then said, ‘On second thought, I do have a few more questions about what happened at the reservoir.’
Labuschagne immediately tensed up again. James Murray watched him intently, like a cat about to pounce on an insect.
‘You must have some memory of what happened at the reservoir. Surely you must remember pulling the trigger and seeing them fall over, and their blood staining their karate uniforms.’
‘I remember crashes of thunder all around me, and flashes of lightning, bright lights, and then everything was very still and white, and then there was some red too.’ Labuschagne’s head was sagging almost to his chest. He suddenly seemed at the end of his endurance again.
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