My father is denied bail.
One of the police officers at Mowbray police station testifies that my father tried to bribe him to fetch his passport from the apartment. The state uses this as evidence that my father is a flight risk. The magistrate agrees, and my father is sent to join the awaiting-trial population at Table Bay Prison.
I don’t attend the bail hearing, but I read about it on every news site in the country. Interest is not quite at Oscar Pistorius levels, but it is higher than it was for the Monster of Modimolle trial. This case ticks all the boxes. The protagonists are white, middle-class and English-speaking. In media terms, that is the perfect trifecta.
When the protagonists in a crime are black, the matter is believed to be of interest to the black community only. When the protagonists are white and Afrikaans-speaking, it will be covered by the Afrikaans press, with limited spill-over to other media. But when they are white, middle-class and English-speaking, the matter is presumed to be of interest to everyone, and will receive blanket coverage. If there is a celebrity angle, or salacious sexual details, the international media will also take an interest.
The international media is taking an interest.
I receive interview requests from CBS, ABC and the Independent of London. I take my phone off the hook, block their domains on email, and screen all calls on my mobile phone.
I puzzle over why my father didn’t ask me to fetch his passport for him. Did he think of it only after I had already brought him the cigarettes and money? Was he afraid I would say no? That I would rat on him? Did he trust a chance-met security guard more than his own daughter?
What would I have done if he’d asked me? Probably agreed, going on past form. My track record of turning down morally dubious requests from my father is not good. Inflate the value of home furnishings in order to defraud the insurance company? Sure. Pretend we owned items that we didn’t? Of course. Slip him his passport so he can flee the country to avoid prosecution before the court requires him to hand it over? Why not?
But he didn’t ask me, so the question doesn’t arise. My father has been denied bail, and it is through no act or omission of mine. The drama will play itself out without me.
I settle down to work. I have someone’s PhD thesis to copyedit. It pays a pittance, but will keep me in white bread and peaches next month. Or possibly the month after that, depending on when the client pays. My rent for next month is already taken care of. A series of Geography textbooks I edited saw to that.
I manage to concentrate for forty-five minutes before my phone beeps to alert me to an incoming email. It is another interview request. But instead of deleting this one, I stare at it for a long time.
Ms. Lurie,
Jacob here from the Journal of Literature of the African Diaspora. If you have time, we would like to interview you about how your real-life narrative has diverged from that of John Coetzee in his celebrated novel, Disgrace.
It is for our special issue on “Fiction and faction: how real-world narratives inform fiction streams in the diaspora.”
If you would be interested in participating in this project, please contact me on 093 678 9876.
Two thoughts spring to mind. The first is that I might persuade them to pay me for this. When journals bring out a special edition, they often have a budget for doing so. This is only disbursed when someone asks for it. The money is there. You just have to refuse to work for free.
If I only get paid for the PhD thesis the month after next, I will need rent money for next month. The Journal of Literature of the African Diaspora could provide that. Yes, I would probably get a better payment from CBS News, but I have more chance of controlling the story in this forum.
My second thought is that this could be the platform I’ve been looking for to talk about precisely how my real-life narrative has always diverged from Coetzee’s fictional version. This could be what I’ve been waiting for.
I decide to reply.
Lucy: For R8000, I will give you an exclusive interview about what happened that night, along with access to inside information about my father’s trial. Regards, Lucy Lurie
He has either stepped away from his phone or he is thinking about it, because ten minutes pass with no reply.
Jacob: Our other interviewees are not being paid for their contributions. They are doing it for the exposure and for the chance of being part of something historic.
I’ve heard this nonsense before and know how to deal with it.
Lucy: Exposure is something you die of. If you want my story, the fee is R8000.
Silence again. I’m not worried. If these people turn me down, I will go to CBS after all. But this time, I will ask for five figures, not four, and I will ask for them in US dollars.
Jacob: I need to speak to my editor.
I smile. My rent for next month is as good as paid.
Lucy: You do that. And remember to tell him or her not to kid a kidder. I know you have a budget for this project, so no pleading poverty.
There is a brief pause, and then:
Jacob: Give me twelve hours.
* * *
Unlikely as it seems, I have another date with Eugene.
I have my father to thank for this. If he hadn’t been arrested for conspiracy to commit rape, sexual assault, and common assault—thereby making national and international headlines—I doubt I would ever have heard from Eugene again.
We are meeting for coffee. He suggests the vegan café on Kloof Nek Road. I suggest Starbucks. I feel no urge to apologise for my global capitalist tendencies. I have something he wants, so it is time for him to accommodate me.
I order a double-shot caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream. Eugene orders black coffee after quizzing the barista about whether it is fair trade and ethically sourced.
Each time I am about to see him I wonder if my memory has exaggerated his beauty. It doesn’t seem possible that a real person could be as flawless as the Eugene who lives in my memory, but invariably he is. Today it is warm, and he is wearing a tight, white T-shirt and a pair of knee-length khaki shorts. The T-shirt is obviously an old favourite because it has been washed as thin as paper and as soft as down.
I watch his skin rippling over the muscles in his arms. It takes a while, but I finally recognise what I am feeling. It is lust.
My libido is stirring into life after more than two years of dormancy. I was starting to think it would never happen in the daytime.
I have a window of opportunity here, but I’m not sure how long it will remain open. Will the trial be enough to keep Eugene coming back to me? Or will he get his fill from news reports and social media, and not feel the need to stay connected to me? Perhaps this is the last chance I will get.
“When does the trial start?”
It seems he is thinking along similar lines.
“In four months,” I say. “The prosecution has been working on this for a long time. They say they are ready to go, but the defence team has asked for more time. My father has chosen to waive his right to a speedy trial.”
“Four months? That’s a long time to wait.”
I agree. It is a long time. Especially when it is quite likely that Eugene will have moved on. He will probably be in a relationship by then. I don’t want to take the chance.
“What are you doing after this?” I ask.
“I need to go back to work. I’m on a team that’s busy with a big design project, and our deadline is next week.”
This might be true, or it might not. Even if it were true, he would offer to blow off work if he really liked me. Or he would suggest meeting up later, or tomorrow. But I already know that he doesn’t really like me, so this revelation is no great, ego-damaging shock.
On balance, I believe I could get him to sleep with me, but the moment would have to be propitious. He would have to have absolutely nothing better to do. That moment is not now.
Instead of trying to steer him towards my place or his, I answer his questions about my father’s trial.
“Will you be testifying?” he asks.
“Testifying?” This hadn’t occurred to me. “For which side?”
“Either?”
“I don’t think so. No one has asked me to.”
He seems incredulous. “I don’t see how the trial can go ahead without your testimony.”
I don’t want to think about this. It kills my burgeoning libido, and makes me want to get as far away from him as possible.
* * *
A week passes.
It is enough time for me push the uncomfortable thoughts away. Then my father phones me.
A stranger’s voice asks if I am Lucy Lurie. When I concede that I am, she asks if I will accept a reverse-charges call from Mr. David Lurie in Table Bay Prison.
“Yes, okay.”
There is a long pause. I feel as though I am in a period film, set before the invention of mobile phones.
“Are you there, girl? Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you.”
“You must go to a meeting with the lawyers tomorrow. They will tell you what to do.”
“Must I go to the head office of Claasen, Nkabinde and Marriot?”
“No. You must go to see the advocate in Queen Victoria Street. His name is Imraan Deshen, and he works in Huguenot Chambers.”
“What time?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Okay.”
It feels as though Eugene has conjured this into being by asking me about it. If he had just kept quiet, the lawyers might have forgotten about me. I battle cross-town traffic the next morning. At least my car is being used more often these days.
I announce myself to a receptionist. A clerk comes to take me upstairs to Advocate Deshen’s chambers. Abigail Nkabinde is waiting there for me. She introduces me to two colleagues from her firm, as well as the advocate, his pupil, and the clerk who brought me here.
We sit down around an oval conference table. It seems Advocate Deshen and Gregory Marriot from the law firm have different ideas on strategy. They were arguing when I walked in, and they are still arguing.
“Diminished capacity is a non-starter,” says Deshen. “I’ll be laughed out of court. Maybe if he had done it himself rather than hiring a proxy, we’d have something to work with. But as it is . . .”
“Imraan, I respect your judgement, I really do, but I don’t think you’re familiar with the PTSD suffered by white farmers in this country. There is a lot of literature on it. I’ll get my secretary to email some of it to you. Just because there is the distance of time and place to separate him from the act, doesn’t mean he couldn’t have snapped. For him, the act of snapping was calling the proxy.”
“He has never been attacked in his life. How could he be suffering from PTSD? PTSD from what? Living a life of unassailable ease?”
“There are studies to show that white farmers suffer from PTSD even if they haven’t been attacked themselves. They are affected by the long history of violence against their peers. It’s a real, documented syndrome, suffered by thousands of farmers due to . . .”
“If you use the words ‘white genocide,’ I swear to God I am going to . . .”
Abigail calls them to order. “Gregory . . . Imraan . . . with respect, I think we should confine this consultation to matters that affect Ms. Lurie. We can discuss strategy once she has concluded her business with us.” This is accompanied by a significant look.
“You’re right,” says Advocate Deshen. “Of course.”
Marriot opens his briefcase and takes out a case file loosely tied up with green tape. When he opens it, I see my name and my father’s name. He tilts the file, so I can’t read the words.
“Now, Miss Lurie, we’ve been over the statement you originally gave to the police on the morning after your attack, and I have to say, well done. It has been of great help to us in building your father’s defence strategy. There are just a few matters we want to go over with you.”
“You want me to go over that night again?” I say. “I suppose I can if I have to. The first thing I remember is . . .”
“No!” Advocate Deshen almost shouts.
“Stop!” says Marriot.
I recoil.
“You have to understand that we can’t unhear anything you may choose to say to us,” explains Abigail. “As a member of the bar, Advocate Deshen has an obligation to disclose any relevant evidence he may come across that might assist the court in making its finding. Even if that evidence goes against us.”
“You don’t want me blurting out anything that might hurt my father’s case?”
“Yes.” She looks relieved by my understanding. “It would be best if we were to ask you questions and you were to confine yourself to the briefest possible responses. Then we will put it all into an affidavit for you to sign.”
“If we do a good enough job, this might not even go to trial,” Deshen says. “The state will see that they don’t have a winnable case here, and either offer a deal or drop charges altogether.”
“Then fire away.”
Everyone in the room is smiling now, pleased by my co-operative attitude. Before the rape, I prided myself on being easy to deal with. I was afraid of being labelled “difficult,” so I made sure I was the very opposite. Since the rape, I have tried to regain that easiness. It hasn’t always worked that well.
There are parts of me that are thornier than they were. And parts that are stickier.Where previously I was smooth, now I am abrasive. But I keep trying.
“Would you agree,” says Advocate Deshen. “That you saw no communication pass between your attackers and your father that made you think they were in league with each other?”
“Yes, I would agree with that. I had no idea at the time.”
“And do you stand by your earlier statement that you did not recognise these men at all? You had never seen them in your father’s company, for instance?”
“No, never. I didn’t recognise any of them.”
“Excellent. Good. And would you say that after the attack your father behaved in a solicitous manner towards you, leading you to think he was concerned for your welfare?”
“After the attack? Yes, I suppose he did. He brought me a blanket and offered to run me a bath. But then the fire started, and he helped me get out of the house.”
A frisson zips around the room at my use of the word “bath.” Glances pass from one lawyer to another like a rapid-fire game of pass-the-parcel.
“And finally, Miss Lurie, would you concede that the sexual assault you suffered was in no way necessary for the kind of insurance fraud that the prosecution is alleging?”
“Yes. Only the fire was necessary for that.”
Advocate Deshen puts down the pen he has been making notes with. “Thank you so much, Miss Lurie. I think that is all we need at the . . .”
“I have a question,” Gregory Marriot interrupts. “Miss Lurie, would you agree that your relationship with your father was not antagonistic before the incident, and has remained that way subsequently?”
“Not antagonistic? Yes, that is correct. It was not and is not antagonistic.”
“Fantastic. Then if we’re all happy?” He glances around the table, collecting nods. “Great. I think we’re done here. Miss Lurie, we’ll just pop this into the form of an affidavit for you to sign tomorrow. Do you think you could stop by and sign it in the morning? Would that be convenient?”
It would be extremely inconvenient, but I agree like a woman who is not difficult. Then I accept handshakes and thanks from everyone. The mood in the room is buoyant, as though some obstacle has been cleared. I suppose the obstacle was me. They have leaped effortlessly over any difficulty I may have caused them, and now they are giddy with relief.
Being helpful is supposed to make one feel warm and uplifted. Am I warm and uplifted? Possibly. Am I relieved that it is over? Yes.
* * *
Later that day, I am afforded another opportunity to be helpful.
It arrives at my door in the form of two prosecutors from the NPA—the National Prosecuting Authority. Their names are Advocate Meintjies and Advocate Ndlovu. They are accompanied by a young woman whom they introduce as a student who is doing work experience in their office. I am told that her name is Itumeleng. I am not told her surname. I invite them into my house, but don’t offer them anything to drink. They ask me if it is true that I am testifying for the defence.
“How did you hear about that?”
“You were seen going into Huguenot Chambers this morning,” says Ndlovu. “It was an obvious conclusion to reach.”
“They took a statement from me. They haven’t said anything about testifying.”
“But you’re on their witness list.”
“I had no idea.”
“The thing is,” says Meintjies. “We want you to testify for us.”
“Against my father, you mean?”
“That is correct.”
“You must see how awkward that would be. I don’t think I’d be able to do it.”
Advocate Ndlovu frowns. “If we subpoena you, you won’t have a choice.”
I think about this as I play with the crocheted blanket next to me on the chair. I like to stick my fingers through the holes and enlarge them by pulling and fiddling with the wool. My knowledge of legal matters is rudimentary, gleaned from movies and television. I don’t know exactly what a subpoena is, but I have an idea it is something that will compel me to show up in court on a particular day and answer questions in the course of a trial.
“You can do that,” I say. “But you can’t force me to say what you want me to say.”
“Perjury is against the law, Miss Lurie,” says Advocate Meintjies. “If you are found to have lied to the court, you could go to jail.”
I have five fingers stuck into the blanket now. I am twisting and turning them, flexing my knuckles to make the holes bigger.
“There’s a difference between lying to the court and being a hostile witness. You can punish me for doing the former, but you can’t stop me from being the latter. You also can’t force me to go over my testimony with you in advance. So think about what you really want.”
“We can force you to appear in court and tell the truth,” says Advocate Ndlovu. “That’s all we need.”
“You will have no idea what I’m going to say. You can ask me questions, but you won’t know what answers I’ll give. Isn’t that the first rule—never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer? I’m the only one who knows what happened to me, and what I saw that night.”
The men are angry. Their voices are raised and their postures bullish. The tang of testosterone hangs in the air like ozone after a lightning strike. I am a little afraid of them, but my urge to taunt is stronger than my fear.
“We don’t need you to co-operate,” says Meintjies. “We just want the judge to hear what happened to you.We need that to be on the record. And all the reporters in the courtroom will hear it too. Your testimony will be on the front page of every newspaper. It will be the lead story of every news bulletin.”
I almost laugh. “Do you think that scares me? Public exposure? My rape was turned into a bestselling book. Disgrace is the most talked-about novel of the last two years. It won major international prizes. People all over the world have read about my rape. I don’t care about adding a few more South Africans to their number.”
“I think you’ll change your mind when it happens.”
“What are you trying to do here? I thought you were persuading me to testify for you. Now you’re saying I won’t be able to handle the invasion of privacy.”
Meintjies pulls himself together. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper. We do want you to testify for the prosecution. We do.”
“But you must understand how difficult it will be. He’s my father.”
Meintjies and Ndlovu look stumped. The student I know only as Itumeleng starts to speak, then stops. Meintjies turns to look at her. He frowns and shakes his head, as though it is not her place to speak in this forum.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I don’t understand you, Ms. Lurie,” she says. “You keep saying how difficult and awkward it would be to testify against your father, but did he ever stop to think how difficult it would be for you to be raped? How awkward it would be for you to have him there watching? I don’t understand why you feel you owe him any filial duty after that.”
“He is still my father.”
“Was he your father when he hired six men to rape you?”
“That hasn’t been proven yet.”
“And it never will be without your testimony.”
“That’s circular logic,” I say. “You’re saying I must testify against him because he is guilty, but then you say he can’t be proven guilty unless I testify against him. You can’t have it both ways.”
“But that’s the thing, Ms. Lurie. I think you already know he’s guilty. Everyone in this room knows he’s guilty. Even the defence team knows he’s guilty. You were there. You saw how he reacted. Was he surprised and horrified when those men broke into his house? Was he shattered when they assaulted you? Did he plead with them to stop? Did he do anything—anything at all—to try to stop them?”
“He was in fear of his life.”
“Really? Is that how he seemed to you? Afraid?”
“He rushed at them and they stopped.”
“They stopped because a single, unarmed man rushed at them?”
I nod.
“Then answer me this,” she says. “When you heard he’d been arrested for conspiracy to commit sexual assault, were you surprised?”
“Surprised? Of course I was.”
“Or did everything seem to click into place at that moment? All your unanswered questions, your lingering doubts? Did everything begin to make sense for the first time since your assault?”
“No. That didn’t happen.”
“I don’t believe you. You have that look in your eye. The one that says you know the man in your life is guilty, but you’re choosing to protect him anyway. You’re the enabler that every abusive man needs in order to keep on doing what he does.”
I don’t like this woman. She is rude and meddlesome. She makes me want to do the exact opposite of what she says.
I get to my feet.
“I want you all to leave now. The defence lawyers are drawing up an affidavit for me to sign this afternoon. You can subpoena me if you like, but the answers I give won’t help your case.”
The advocates start speaking, but Itumeleng rolls over them.
“You’re not helping your own case by living in denial,” she says. “You need to get over whatever Stockholm syndrome you’ve got going on in your head. Wake up and smell the patriarchy. You won’t heal until you do.”
I point to the door. “Leave. Now.”
The men are displeased by the disruption Itumeleng has caused. I can imagine the scene in the car on the way back to the office. They will berate her for speaking up and blame her for my lack of co-operation. She may even lose her place on their work-experience programme.
Good.