Shepherds and Butchers

by Chris Marnewick

  ‘I remembered the trapdoors and the thunder and lightning, and the colours, and then later seeing the bodies.’

  I let my breath out slowly. ‘Let’s go to the next stage. You were in hospital for three days. Did you tell anyone in hospital what had happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No one asked, except the policeman who came to arrest me.’

  ‘Did you tell the policeman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He said I had the right to remain silent, and I didn’t know how to explain to him what I could remember. I thought he would think I was mad, and that they would lock me away until I was old and confused like Mr Tsafendas. I thought he wouldn’t believe me if I said I didn’t remember.’

  ‘Then you appeared in the Magistrates’ Court for a number of remands. Did you tell anyone at or in court what had happened at the reservoir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’ I asked for the umpteenth time.

  ‘I also felt ashamed. I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept quiet.’

  ‘Then Mr Wierda came to see you.’ I put my hand on Wierda’s shoulder. ‘He told you he had been appointed as pro Deo counsel for you. Did you tell him what had happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I didn’t want to speak to anyone.’

  ‘Did you ever tell your parents what you could remember of the incident at the reservoir?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just couldn’t speak to them.’

  ‘Who is the first person you told?’ I asked.

  ‘You,’ he said. I felt all eyes in court turning to me, even Murray and Niemand were paying attention for the moment and dropped their pose of disinterest in the re-examination.

  I had asked enough ‘why’ questions. ‘When did you tell me?’ I asked.

  ‘It was in July, as far as I can remember.’

  ‘Have you told anyone else, other than here in court?’ I asked.

  ‘I told the doctors who came to see me.’

  It was time to introduce our expert witnesses.

  ‘Are you talking of Dr Schlebusch and Dr Shapiro, the two persons sitting here behind me?’ I half turned and pointed at them.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  That was enough on this topic.

  I asked Sanet Niemand to pass me the pistol. It sat on their table. She brought it over to me; she wasn’t going to slide it along the desk like she had done with the documentary exhibits. I thanked her with exaggerated politeness and put the pistol on the lectern in front of me.

  ‘This pistol, Exhibit 1, belongs to you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long have you had it?’

  ‘It was a birthday present when I turned eighteen.’

  ‘Had you fired it before the night at the reservoir?’ I asked innocently. I knew full well what he was going to say.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘Many times.’

  ‘How did that come about?’

  He explained, ‘I was in the shooting club and we practised.’

  Murray objected. ‘M’Lord, this evidence does not appear to arise from my questions.’

  I was ready for it. ‘M’Lord, I’ll get to the point in a moment, but I should perhaps mention that my Learned Friend asked some detailed questions about the shooting. The evidence I intend to elicit is relevant to the points my Learned Friend was making, or was trying to make.’

  Judge van Zyl quickly made up his mind. ‘Carry on, but see if you can speed things up a bit. We’ve had a long week.’ I couldn’t agree more.

  ‘As M’Lord pleases.’ I turned to Labuschagne. The next piece of evidence was crucial to the defence’s case, and if Labuschagne didn’t give it we would have to call the instructors at the pistol club to give evidence after the weekend.

  ‘Can you take this pistol apart and put it back together?’

  ‘Apart in less than a minute, and I can put it back together again in two minutes. I know it well.’

  I picked the pistol up and weighed it in my hand. It was a 9-millimetre Heckler & Koch P7M13. The prosecution ballistics expert who had given evidence earlier had explained its characteristics. The pistol didn’t have an external hammer. You cocked the pistol by squeezing the grip; for that there was a sliding mechanism on the front edge of the grip. It was known as a squeeze cocker, the expert had said, and when you squeezed it, it disappeared into the grip and the pistol would be ready to fire. What is more, you could empty the whole magazine in seconds as long as you kept the pressure on the squeeze cocker and the trigger. It is a unique type of pistol, the ballistics expert had said, one of the very best, and one not many people would have seen before.

  ‘Have you ever timed how long it takes to empty the magazine in one burst?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, it takes less than three seconds.’

  I took another risk. ‘Do you have any memory of the three seconds or so it must have taken to empty the magazine at the reservoir?’

  He answered before James Murray could object. ‘No.’

  Of course, there was no evidence to suggest that the shooting at the reservoir had been over in three seconds. For all I knew Labuschagne could have lined them up against the minibus and shot them one by one.

  I had to clear up another matter, but there was some risk attached to it. I needed to ask the question in such a way that I could get the right answer without telling Labuschagne what the answer was. So I did it in a roundabout way.

  ‘You said the Warrant Officer had you do the drop calculations for him?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Did you do that for every execution last year?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You also said you were present at every execution last year. Why was that, do you think?’

  He got the message. ‘I think it was because I had done the calculations.’

  That would answer at least one of the prosecution’s points.

  ‘I have no further questions, thank you,’ I said, ‘but please remain where you are in case His Lordship or the Learned Assessors have some questions for you.’

  I sat down and watched the Judge. He appeared lost in thought as he paged through his notes. Then he turned to each of the Assessors. Both shook their heads. The Judge turned to Labuschagne. He had just begun to tell him he could return to the dock when Murray stood up.

  ‘M’Lord, I have a few questions arising from an answer given by the defendant in re-examination.’

  Judge van Zyl held up his hand and indicated to Labuschagne to wait. He was still in the witness box. Then the Judge turned to me and asked, ‘Do you have any objection?’

  I took a neutral position. ‘We leave it in M’Lord’s hands.’

  The Judge was too clever for that.

  ‘Since there is no objection I will allow it. But keep it short,’ he said to Murray.

  When Murray turned to face the witness box, I saw disbelief on Labuschagne’s face and his shoulders slumped. His fists were clenched by his sides.

  Murray got to the point immediately.

  ‘You said you did the drop calculations for every execution last year.’

  ‘Yes.’ The answer was given hesitantly.

  ‘You also did them on that day when you had to pull the prisoner up, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it was your fault that he didn’t die immediately, and that you had to pull him back up.’

  Labuschagne looked at Murray in disbelief. ‘It was not my job to do those things. It was the Hangman’s job.’ He raised his voice. ‘Why did I have to do it? Why did I have to do it?’

  The Judge had had enough. ‘If I had known what you were going to ask, I would not have allowed any further questioning,’ he said to Murray.

  Murray sat down abruptly.

  ‘You may step down,�
�� said the Judge and Labuschagne made his way past Murray and Niemand and squeezed behind the Warrant Officer’s chair on his way back to the dock. They didn’t look at him as he passed within arm’s reach of them.

  The Judge adjourned the proceedings for the long weekend. Monday, 10 October, was Oom Paul’s birthday and consequently a national holiday.

  I asked Wierda to drive me to the airport so that we could discuss tactics on the way. I asked him why he thought the Judge had asked no questions.

  ‘We either did a very good job or he has decided the case already,’ he said.

  We had four witnesses left to call. We agreed that Wierda would lead the two lay witnesses and I would lead the two experts.

  I needed a break and the weekend had come just in time. I was going home.

  DAY FIVE

  Defence: 11 October 1988

  Execution: 10 December 1987

  V3541 Khuselo Selby Mbambani

  V3663 Joseph Gcabashe

  V3664 Mnuxa Jerome Gcaba

  V3721 Siphiwo Mjuza

  V3752 Andries Njele

  V3753 David Mkumbeni

  V3771 Willem Maarman

  Maximum Security Prison

  47

  After the tremor of the trapdoors slamming against the stopper bags at seven that morning had subsided, the prison fell back into the regular programme for the day. The prisoners were let out of their cells to wash. Breakfast was served. For the prisoners the dull routine of life on Death Row had resumed. By late afternoon a relative calm had settled over the prison.

  For the gallows escorts a different routine was followed. The subsidiary tasks and formalities of the execution process had been completed, from the removal of the bodies from the ropes to the death registrations and the burials. Their day had been a long one, but they came off duty at four o’clock and with the exception of one of their number, who had left in his bakkie to see his parson, they were relaxing in their common room. They were debating their options for the evening when the Warrant Officer walked in. The mood in the room changed immediately.

  The escorts did not have to stand up for the Warrant Officer – he was not a commissioned officer – but they struck more upright poses wherever they sat. The Warrant Officer stepped over the first pair of legs and, when the second warder didn’t remove his feet from the coffee table fast enough, the Warrant Officer kicked them off the table and took the chair next to the bemused man.

  ‘I have good news for you and I have bad news,’ he announced.

  The warders knew him well enough to know that he would tell them whatever he wanted to say at his own pace; any prompting would only delay the communication of the news.

  True to form he kept them waiting before he broke the news. He looked them in the eye, one after the other, until he was sure he had their undivided attention. He noted the old eyes in youthful bodies, the fatigue in their slumping shoulders, but neither concern nor guilt crossed his mind. He was, as always, focused on the job, the immediate task at hand. If he were to take a step back to analyse himself, the Warrant Officer would have been proud of what he saw, a man who got the job done, a problem solver. He was not a people’s person. His job was to cut through the emotional stuff that came with attachments and relationships and the like. He liked the order and control of schedules, duty rosters and the table of drops; he liked to give orders and to see them followed. He was a man who got the job done, no matter what the cost.

  ‘The good news is that we are done for the year. The Minister has gone on holiday and there is no one else who can sign the documents. That means we have had the last hanging for the year.’

  One of the warders risked a rebuke. ‘So what is the good news then?’

  The Warrant Officer fixed him with a contemptuous stare and held it until the warder averted his eyes.

  ‘Only married staff will get leave over Christmas. I want every man at his post on every shift. We’ll also have a number of fire drills, and some architects are coming in to add another wing. We need another section above A3.’ He gestured with his thumb in the direction of Magazine Hill.

  There was no response. They knew better than to argue with him.

  The Warrant Officer stood up to leave. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,’ he said from the door. ‘We have broken the record. One hundred and sixty-four for the year. Congratulations. Well done.’

  The warders exchanged looks. ‘Really?’ ventured the one. ‘We hanged twenty-one in the last three days. Isn’t that a record too?’

  ‘It is,’ said the Warrant Officer, ‘but don’t tell anyone. You know the rules.’

  When no one said anything he left the room.

  Any elation the escorts may have felt as a result of the news that there would be no further executions until the New Year was offset by the certain knowledge that there would continue to be new arrivals. And indeed, as the warders sat contemplating the Warrant Officer’s news, the fingerprints of Bakiri Nelson who had been sentenced to death in Grahamstown that very afternoon were being placed on a death warrant in preparation for his journey to Maximum. There would be another dozen prisoners arriving before Christmas, and the New Year would start exactly as the one before it.

  The escorts waited until they were sure the Warrant Officer was out of earshot.

  ‘There goes my holiday,’ said the warder whose feet had been on the coffee table.

  ‘Why didn’t you object?’ asked one of the others.

  ‘I don’t feel like doing catwalk or towers for the rest of my life, that’s why, stupid.’

  ‘You can always get married this weekend,’ suggested one. ‘Then you would qualify for leave, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Fok daai liefde!’ Fuck that.

  The meaningless obscenity caused great mirth among them.

  ‘Where are we drinking tonight?’

  ‘Anywhere we can have a good fight,’ said a brawny warder with cauliflower ears. ‘Those soldiers last week were a bunch of pussies!’

  More exaggerated tales of brave feats in bar room brawls were exchanged.

  ‘You know what?’ said the brawny one. ‘If we hanged them faster we wouldn’t need another wing.’

  ‘Yes, but who will tell the Warrant Officer?’

  They collapsed in laughter again.

  Eventually they left to look for trouble.

  Evening Flight to Durban

  48

  I read one of the cases on the flight to Durban. I had not intended to do so; I was too tired and thought I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. The aircraft was packed, mostly with businessmen returning home after a day’s business in Johannesburg. They looked as ragged as I must have. In the relative luxury of business class I had a gin and tonic in my hand before the Boeing started to bank to starboard and headed for the coast. I leaned my seat back as far as it could go without landing in the lap of the passenger behind me and closed my eyes. I tried to relax but Antoinette Labuschagne haunted me.

  A sister’s loyalty knows no bounds.

  I worried about her brother. He had not spoken to his parents since the events at the reservoir; he claimed he was too ashamed to face them. But at some point he was going to have to, I thought. Labuschagne’s attitude to the case was also a concern. There were times when I got the distinct impression that he would have been quite satisfied if he were to be found guilty and sentenced to death. He was not positively courting the death sentence, but his attitude came close to it. His demeanour in the witness box had been a contradictory mix of arrogance and indifference, of self-blame and blame-shift, and of hope and despair. I struggled with the image of him being dragged away to the trapdoors. Would he behave differently from the regular condemned, or would he be resigned to his fate? Would he have to be dragged or would he walk on his own? It nagged at me that I still could not see a clear answer. The outcome of a trial ought to be obvious or at least fairly clear long before the last witness enters the witness box.

  Labuschagne hadn’t been as helpful as he could hav
e been as a witness either, and on several occasions there had been surprises for us in the answers he had given under cross-examination. His words and his actions didn’t quite match. He said he did not care, that he wanted to be dead, but then he put up quite a fight when he was under cross-examination. There was also the atmosphere of the place. Did the escorts really play puerile pranks on each other? What if all those suggestions were true? How would that affect our case? I realised that we were going to have to argue the case on the evidence Labuschagne had given, but how could we ask the Court to reject part of his evidence but accept the useful bits? I would have to ask the expert witnesses for explanations.

  Apart from the day he broke down, Labuschagne’s appearance was in sharp contrast to his sister’s. Concern was apparent in every feature in Antoinette’s face, the tearful, downcast eyes, the white around the lips and the dark rings below her eyes. But Leon Labuschagne’s face showed a lack of concern, his was sullen, withdrawn, with his jaw set. I thought of my sons, carefree boys running and laughing, always at play, never still. Why did some boys grow up to become angry young men? What about all those young men who made up the majority of the prisoners on Death Row? How did it come to that for them?

  That was one thing I had learned from all those cases I had read: that playful boys could grow up to become murdering fiends in one fatal moment. Look at all these young men who had thrown their lives away and in the process had ruined so many other lives. It struck me that Labuschagne’s life was ruined whether he was found guilty or not guilty. How could he have a normal life after what he had been through?

  I must have dozed off and was awoken by a passenger bumping into my seat from behind. The stewardess rushed over to offer me another drink. I sat up and took the next case out of my briefcase. It took me to Cape Town.

  I sorted the contents of the file Pierre de Villiers had prepared for me. There were two death warrants, but they had been issued by different judges. After scratching around some more I found the reason: the one accused had already been sentenced to death before the second had even been caught by the police. For once, there had been some intrepid work by the Cape police.