I PRESENTED MYSELF AT the Regional Court early next morning. Though hardly welcoming, it was less repulsive than the courtrooms we had been in the week before. Between Dan, Verne and myself, we had agreed we could probably scrape up R10 000, if necessary. But Robin was downbeat.
“It’s a serious charge, Laura, but the worst thing is that Daniel’s a foreigner, and doesn’t own any property here. We’ve got our work cut out for us, persuading the magistrate that he’s not a flight risk. To be perfectly honest, I’m not hopeful.”
“But what about the lack of evidence? And these stories about rows over how to commemorate the Mendi that Ndzoyiya had with this Thabo Mchunu guy?” I had told Robin what Paul Ndzoyiya had told me, and about the attempted break-in and the threat.
“Look, Paul went to the police, and told them. I’m sure they’re investigating. I spoke to Hannah Bhengu yesterday afternoon, and she said that, although the cops are looking at other angles, she’s still going to oppose bail. Don’t worry. We’ll do our best, and even if it’s refused, we can appeal and try again. Maybe the investigation will have progressed by then.”
I know from watching endless legal shows on television that lawyers are not supposed to ask their clients too much about whether they’re guilty or not, but I’m not a lawyer and it mattered to me. I asked Robin if he believed that Dan was innocent.
“Yes, I do – probably. But that’s not really the point at this stage. It’s about evidence and flight risks. Hang in there, Laura. I’ve told Dan I’m afraid we’re not going to win this time round, but I spoke to Paul Ndzoyiya yesterday, and we’ll work on it.” He gave me an avuncular pat on the shoulder.
I looked round the court, and spotted Verne, but not Chantal. I went over, and reported what Robin had said. He nodded, and then touched me on the arm. “Don’t look round now, Laura.” I immediately began to look – I mean, who doesn’t when someone says that? “I said don’t! But over there, by the door, is Rhoda Josephs. The woman Dan said was with the guy who gave him Phineas Ndzoyiya’s name. I met her last year when we were both on a Heritage and Art committee.”
I pretended to continue to talk to Verne for a moment until I thought it would be safe to turn round. Sure enough, near the door was a woman with a sallow complexion and the kind of straight hair that has been beaten into submission to hide its natural curl. She was wearing a smart black suit with an ochre-coloured shirt underneath, and looked formidable, though not entirely unfriendly. I had seen her around in the past, at exhibitions, but didn’t know her. She was taking a seat on the far end of our bench. “Introduce us,” I muttered to Verne.
He shrugged, and slid along the greasy, mud-brown bench until he was next to her.
“Rhoda, hi. I’m Verne Petersen. Remember? We met at a couple of committee meetings last year.”
She turned to him, wearing a pleasant smile. “Of course. How nice to see you again. Pity it’s such a sad occasion, hey? I couldn’t believe it when I heard Dan had been arrested. And for killing Phineas Ndzoyiya! It doesn’t make sense. I should have been in Durban today, but Dan needs his friends.” She was talking to Verne, but eyeing me.
“This is Laura Marsh, a friend of Dan’s from way back. He was at her house when he found the body. Laura, this is Rhoda Josephs.”
I put out my hand, and she shook it. Her firm grip was cold, despite it being a warm day. And I was quite sure she knew exactly who I was, long before Verne had even uttered a word.
“I believe you introduced Dan to the person who put him in contact with Mr Ndzoyiya.” I could see no harm in being upfront about something like that. If she knew who I was, why not reciprocate?
“Yes, I did. Thabo Mchunu. He’s a civil servant, based in Pretoria, and had met Mr Ndzoyiya over discussions about the best way to commemorate the victims of the SS Mendi disaster.” She drew in a breath. “It is a huge and often dismissed episode in the annals of South African military history; maybe even a war crime.” Her face took on an expression of grief, as if the ship had sunk last week. She was talking to me as if I was the sole audience member at a public meeting. “I have worked closely with Thabo on redressing the balance of our heritage sites and memorials. He told me about this Mr Ndzoyiya and his views on the matter, views we take seriously, even though we don’t necessarily agree with them. I thought, when Daniel told me about his ideas, that it would be good if he and Mr Ndzoyiya could talk, so I asked Mr Mchunu to put them in touch when I saw Daniel that day. But I had no idea what would come of it.” She shook her head, the helmet-hair unmoving.
I nodded. “Yes, Dan was excited about the exhibition when he came to see me. I can’t believe this has happened. I just hope he’ll get bail – the evidence is purely circumstantial.” I watched her as I spoke, but her smooth face betrayed nothing other than a look of concern. “Maybe I could speak to Mr Mchunu? I really want to do everything I can to help Dan. Perhaps if Mr Mchunu would talk to me, or to Dan’s lawyer, we might be able to clarify things.” I made a silent mental apology to Robin for involving him in this. “I mean, Dan hadn’t even met Mr Ndzoyiya when he was killed, so surely there must have been something else? Perhaps Mr Mchunu knows more about who Mr Ndzoyiya’s enemies could have been.”
Rhoda Josephs nodded smoothly. In fact, from her hair to her suit to her expression, she was one of the smoothest people I had ever encountered, presenting the kind of carapace to the outside world onto which no mud or barbs would ever stick. But before she could respond, there was a shout of “All rise”, and everyone shuffled to their feet as the Regional Magistrate entered.
Once again, it seemed to me the court was ignoring its own potential for theatre. What was of enormous importance to the accused and his friends (and maybe his enemies) seemed mundane to those taking part. Robin was no actor who had missed his calling: he had a light, reedy voice, at odds with his teddy-bearish figure. But he was eloquent enough in calling for Mr Moyo, a hardworking man and an artist of enormous promise, to be released. The magistrate, however, didn’t look impressed. He asked Robin about Daniel’s home, and Robin had to say that he was renting a flat in downtown Johannesburg, but that if he was to remain in Pietermaritzburg while proceedings in this case were wrapped up, he would be staying with Verne, another well-respected artist and university lecturer. That didn’t seem to impress the magistrate much either.
He said he would be concerned that Mr Moyo might well be a flight risk. Robin countered by saying that Dan had permission as a political refugee to be in South Africa, and would therefore be very unlikely to go elsewhere – certainly not back to Zimbabwe. From there, they moved on to the evidence, with Robin claiming that it was all circumstantial and effectively a load of rubbish (actually, he didn’t put it quite like that, but that was the gist) while Hannah Bhengu stated that the police were concerned that Mr Moyo had lied about having had previous contact with the victim and had been involved in some violent protests in Johannesburg. It was a depressing business, and the magistrate finally said “Bail denied” and remanded Dan once again. Robin immediately gave notice of his intention to appeal. No one else in the courtroom seemed much bothered one way or the other, and we all stood up and shambled out again.
I caught up with Robin. “Now what?”
“We’re appealing. It’ll probably mean another two or three weeks in jail for Dan, I’m afraid. But Paul Ndzoyiya has given me some leads – and, more importantly, he’s given them to the police. I reckon we should be able to get somewhere. At least far enough for there to be no good reason to keep Dan in custody.” I got the feeling Robin wasn’t telling me everything, but I was anxious to catch up with Rhoda Josephs before she managed to slip away. I contrived to give Dan a quick hug, and tell him we were working on it all, and then I looked around the thinning crowd.
Rhoda Josephs showed no sign of leaving. She was standing in the foyer, looking carefully at everyone. I saw Inspector Pillay and Sergeant Dhlomo, and the latter even gave me, if not exactly a smile, then certainly a slightly less morose look as I tried to convey from across the room my continuing gratitude for his help in changing the wheel. I also saw Paul Ndzoyiya, heading for the doors as inconspicuously as he could. I wouldn’t go up and speak to him there: I had his phone number, and while I wanted to talk to him again, I would respect his fears and do it somewhere where we wouldn’t be seen.
I walked towards Rhoda, and was about to join her when a burly black man in a very smart suit murmured something in her ear before giving her a pat her on the arm and moving on. I’m no fashionista, but that fabric and that cut had not come from Woolworths or any other mall store. That suit had been made strictly for the body inside it, and it looked mighty expensive. Still, whoever he was, he was already on his way out.
“Ms Josephs … Sorry, I’m sure you’re rushing off somewhere, but you were going to give me a contact number for Thabo Mchunu. Could I get that before we all go?”
Rhoda Josephs glanced over towards the door where the well-dressed man was just in view, backlit against the sun, and then turned to me with her smooth smile. “Of course, though I can’t think how he could help. He simply gave Daniel a phone number. It’s disappointing that Daniel hasn’t got bail, but I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of all this. And you – I gather you’re also trying to help?”
“Well, not really.” I had no wish to tell this woman anything about my thoughts or what I was doing. “But Dan’s lawyer is a friend of mine, and if I have any ideas, or hear anything, I’ll pass it along to him.”
“That’s a good idea.” She pulled out a state-of-the-art cellphone that could probably do all kinds of things I had never imagined, and thumbed her way into it, coming up with a number that I carefully wrote down on a piece of paper. I could just as easily have put it onto my own phone, but something about Rhoda Josephs made me want to appear as a bumbling Luddite. It wasn’t that I was trying to hide anything: it was just that such perfection – in her clothes, her smile and gadgetry – irritated me. And, to be honest, I knew it was also beyond me. I mean, I clean up quite well, but at best it’s the cleaned-up art teacher look, not the glossy look of someone who knows how to get to the top without you noticing she’s stuck a dagger in your back. Or the fact that she’s just bludgeoned your head in. I had my doubts about Ms Josephs, though I didn’t really think she was a killer.
However, we parted with mutual expressions of devastation at the outcome of the bail hearing, and, even though out of the corner of my eye I could see Inspector Pillay heading my way, I made my excuses and left. After all, I had told Mrs Golightly I would be back at school in time to take my class and, with a bit of luck and all the traffic lights going my way, I might even do it. Her office window overlooked the staff parking and, while she didn’t obsess about our comings and goings, I had a nasty feeling that this morning a beady eye would be kept on what time I made my appearance.