?Your Honor, the accused . . . excuse me, the witness is evading the question.?
?No, Mr. Singh, it is you who are leading the witness.?
?Very well. Mr. Mpayipheli, you say you did not charge at the accused in a threatening manner??
?I did not.?
?You did not have a wheel spanner or some tool . . .?
?I object, Your Honor, the witness has already answered the question.?
?Mr. Singh . . .?
?I have no further questions for this liar, Your Honor . . .?
4.
I think he believed he could make things right. Anything,? she said in the twilit room. The sun had dropped behind the hills of the town and the light entering the room was softer. It made the telling easier, she thought, and wondered why.
?That is the thing that I admired most. That somebody stood up and did something that the rest of us were too afraid to do, even if we wanted to. I never had the guts. I was too scared to fight back. And then I read about him in the papers and I began to wonder: maybe I could also . . .?
She hesitated a fraction and then asked with bated breath: ?Do you know about Artemis, Reverend??
He did not react at first, sitting motionless, tipped slightly forward, engrossed in the story she was telling. Then he blinked, his attention refocused.
?Artemis? Er, yes . . .? he said tentatively.
?The one the papers wrote about.?
?The papers . . .? He seemed embarrassed. ?Some things pass me by. Something new every week. I don?t always keep up.?
She was relieved about that. There was an imperceptible shift in their roles?he the small-town minister, she the worldly-wise one, the one in the know. She slipped her foot out of its sandal and folded it under her, shifting to a more comfortable position in the chair. ?Let me tell you,? she said with more self-assurance.
He nodded.
?I was in trouble when I read about him for the first time. I was in the Cape. I was . . .? For a fraction of a second she hesitated and wondered if it would upset him. ?I was a call girl.?
At half-past eleven that night he was still awake on his hotel bed when someone knocked softly on his door, apologetically.
It was the public prosecutor, her eyes magnified behind the spectacles.
?Sorry,? she said, but she just looked tired.
?Come in.?
She hesitated a moment and he knew why: he was just in his shorts, his body glistening with perspiration. He turned around and picked up his T-shirt, motioning her to take the single armchair. He perched on the end of the bed.
She sat primly on the chair; her hands folded the dark material of her skirt over her plump legs. She had an officious air, as if she had come to speak of weighty things.
?What happened today in court?? he asked.
She shrugged.
?He wanted to blame
?He was doing his job. That?s all.?
?His job??
?He has to defend them.?
?With lies??
?In law there are no lies, Mr. Mpayipheli. Just different versions of the truth.?
He shook his head. ?There is only one truth.?
?You think so? And what one truth is there about you? The one where you are a farmer? A father? A freedom fighter? Or a drug dealer? A fugitive from the state??
?That has nothing to do with Pakamile?s death,? he said, anger creeping into his words.
?The moment Singh brought it up in court, it became part of his death, Mr. Mpayipheli.?
Rage flooded over him, reliving the day of frustration: ?All that Mister, Mister, so polite, and objections and playing little legal games . . . And those two sitting there and laughing.?
?That is why I have come,? she said. ?To tell you: they have escaped.?
He did not know how long he sat there, just staring at her.
?One of them overpowered a policeman. In the cells, when he brought him food. He had a weapon, a knife.?
