12

 

Betrayal in courtroom GD

On 4 May 1994 Eugene de Kock was taken into custody at Johann Rissik House, a guesthouse of the International Police Association (IPA), in Arcadia, Pretoria.1 When I asked around for more information about his arrest the ranks closed.

A few trusted colleagues were with Eugene that day but they wouldn’t talk to me about it. I found it strange – after all, it has been twenty years? And back then Eugene had known it was coming. His brother, Vos, told me how Eugene had been warned not to venture near Pretoria, but was at the IPA that day nonetheless. Like so much else, what took place at the IPA guesthouse remains wrapped in a web of intrigue. ‘Ask those who were there who the Judas Iscariot was who phoned to say I was at the IPA house,’ was Eugene’s terse offering when I asked him about it. With him, nothing is ever straightforward.

Eugene was initially held at the Adriaan Vlok police station (now the Lyttelton police station) before being transferred to the maximum security section of Pretoria Central, where he was confined to a death row cell. In reply to my question about why he did not receive bail, he said, ‘I was refused bail … when I walked into the court the judge said he would supply reasons later, but he refused bail.’ Eugene said it would have been the highest bail ever granted in South Africa: the state suggested R303 000.

Eugene’s trial commenced about ten months later on 20 February 1995 in courtroom GD of the Transvaal High Court in Pretoria. He was charged with 129 counts, ranging from fraud to murder. According to Eugene, the number of charges changed constantly during the trial because of the large number of fraud charges, but he was eventually found guilty of 121 charges. The judge who heard his case was Willem van der Merwe and the prosecutor, the deputy attorney-general at the time, was Anton Ackermann SC – who eventually called upon 87 witnesses to testify for the state. Flip Hattingh SC defended Eugene.2

Top: Eugene was arrested in 1994 at the guesthouse of the International Police Association (IPA) in Pretoria.

Top: The bar at the IPA House.

It was a sensational court case in which the extent of the transgressions by C1 and Security Branch members became public for the first time. Not only was Eugene and Vlakplaas’s dirty linen hung out in public, so too was that of the National Party government. Eugene de Kock became the face of apartheid – in his words, ‘an icon’ who was ‘almost too good (or rather too repellent)’ to be true. ‘I became the living symbol of the horrors and offences of apartheid,’ he said.3

In his application for presidential pardon, Eugene wrote that he had realised the seriousness of the charges against him from the outset.

I knew that the evidence was so overwhelming that I stood virtually no chance of being acquitted. My legal team advised me that I was, nevertheless, entitled to test the state’s case, despite having no defence against the charges. This was consistently done and … throughout the trial … I neither lied nor instructed my defence team to present … false versions to state witnesses.

During the trial it also became apparent that I could have asked for the suspension of the prosecution pending a possible submission to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC). I realised I would still be afforded this opportunity after the trial … The case and the charges against me had, at that stage, generated such a high degree of sensation and interest that I felt I could use the opportunity to expose some of the commanders and senior officers who had issued my orders and who were as guilty as I was of the injustices committed in the name of apartheid.4

At this point Eugene made a critical decision – he would testify himself in mitigation of his sentence. He wanted to reveal information about the security environment, name those who had given him direct orders and identify the politicians who had issued the orders. ‘After the state had closed its case in about April 1996, I began to testify in mitigation of my sentence. In doing so, I made several aspects known.’

During the court case his health took a significant knock. ‘After I suffered a pulmonary embolism [a blood clot in the lung] and had lung capacity of only 20%, Advocate [Anton] Ackermann and [Torie] Pretorius made the court sit, regardless, for one hour per day. This was very difficult for me. There was no time for me to recover, which further compromised my health. The prosecution apparently hoped that [the stress] would lead to another attack,’ he told me on one of my visits.

Eugene would reveal a great deal – but not everything – in his testimony:

I decided on this specific approach to ensure that these people [those who gave him his orders and the politicians behind them] would be publicly exposed and to ensure that they would have no alternative but to approach the TRC for amnesty. I decided, purposefully, not to divulge everything in which I had been involved and not to name all fellow perpetrators.

This may have given the perception that I was not going to make all the names and operations public and lulled them into a false sense of security. It could have led them to believe that they only needed to apply for amnesty for the incidents to which I referred during my testimony in mitigation of sentence.5

Eugene’s intuition about his former colleagues and commanders’ actions proved correct, as later became evident in the Motherwell case: the Security Branch members involved tried to deny their involvement.

Three black police members – Amos Faku, Glen Mgoduka and Desmond Mapipa – and an informant were killed when members of the Security Branch in the Eastern Cape bombed their car at Motherwell outside Port Elizabeth in December 1989. The police initially maintained that the ANC was responsible for the explosion. Eugene was involved in planning the operation and sent Vlakplaas members to help with its execution. Gideon Nieuwoudt6 of the Port Elizabeth Security Branch was eventually sentenced to twenty years for his role in this incident.7

Eugene mentioned to me that halfway through his criminal hearing in Pretoria, he heard that the attorney-general of the Eastern Cape had brought criminal charges against several members of the Security Branch in connection with the Motherwell case.

I followed the proceedings closely in the press … Of course, I realised immediately that there was far more to this trial than met the eye. I knew exactly what the orders had been as I was also involved in this operation and knew that all the parties were, without a doubt, guilty of the charges against them.

Top and below: Newspaper clippings about the so-called Motherwell court case, in which Eugene testified for the state.

The defence, however, was highly successful in its cross-examination of the state witnesses and it became clear that they were on the verge of being acquitted … This particular incident was about the 1989 murder of three black members of the Security Branch and an informer, allegedly because they had committed fraud but in truth because they knew all of Gideon Nieuwoudt’s dark secrets and, naturally, the inner workings of the old Security Branch faction based in the Eastern Cape.

Almost halfway through my own trial, I made the decision to testify in the Motherwell trial. I testified after the state had closed its case, in fact. It wasn’t an easy decision. I had no desire to be a state witness and I had nothing against any of the Security Branch members who were in the dock. But I could see another Harms cover-up looming.

It was clear to me immediately that if the accused were acquitted, virtually nothing would come to light about the atrocities they had committed against freedom fighters and the ANC in general in the Eastern Cape. It was common knowledge that the Eastern Cape was a hotbed of atrocities by the Security Branch but it had always been practically impossible for the ANC to prove the Security Branch’s involvement.

I realised the accused were hoping and praying they would be acquitted and could subsequently close ranks. Then there would be no need for them to apply for amnesty for the Motherwell incident or for related incidents in the Eastern Cape.

I knew that the accused in the Motherwell incident had also been involved in the Cradock Four incident [four activists – Matthew Goniwe, Fort Calata, Sparrow Mkhonto and Sicelo Mhlauli – were abducted and murdered in June 1985 outside Port Elizabeth by members of the Security Branch] as well as the Pebco Three incident [Sipho Hashe, Champion Galela and Qaqawuli Godolozi, members of the Port Elizabeth Black Civic Organisation (Pebco), were abducted in May 1985 and taken to a deserted farm at Post Chalmers where they were interrogated, tortured and strangled. Their bodies were thrown into the Fish River]. I realised, then, how important it would be for the amnesty process, the ANC-led government and the families of the victims to learn what had happened in the Eastern Cape.

I decided to testify as frankly as possible. I revealed, for the first time, that these murders were not committed because the (deceased) members of the Security Branch threatened to disclose offences relating to misappropriated funds, but because they threatened to disclose the fact that Gideon Nieuwoudt, [Gerhardus Johannes] Lotz and some of the others8 were involved in the murders of Matthew Goniwe and the three other members of the famous Cradock Four group …

I was cross-examined exhaustively, but remained truthful. The court, chiefly on the strength of my testimony, convicted all the accused except two. The attorney-general of the Eastern Cape, Advocate Les Roberts, was so appreciative of my efforts and contribution that he wrote a letter to the Department of Correctional Services setting out my participation, as well as my commitment and assistance.

While I was in Port Elizabeth testifying in the Cradock Four case I was approached by Advocate Chris McAdam and Advocate Jeremy Gauntlett (SC) in connection with the criminal prosecution of the former [state] president of South Africa, PW Botha. They discussed Botha’s refusal to co-operate with the TRC and allegations that he had ordered his subordinates to commit atrocities.

I immediately felt duty-bound – almost driven – to accede to their request.9

Eugene’s comprehensive testimony in Port Elizabeth and his willingness to cooperate with the state ensured that astounding evidence about police transgressions was made public. In his own case in Pretoria, however, he stood alone in the dock.

I studied the TRC amnesty reports and applications by the generals who were Eugene’s immediate superiors. They ran to hundreds of pages. In answer after answer during questioning, they remained evasive and denied knowledge of, or implication in, any Vlakplaas activities. It was as if Vlakplaas had never existed.

Yet most Vlakplaas activities were executed under orders from senior officers, claimed Eugene. Today he believes that he and his colleagues were simply the ‘executioners’ of those in control: ‘I took the blame during my trial for the police and military generals as well as members of the former National Party government. I stated in court that the National Party had been party to covert activities – more specifically, former presidents PW Botha and FW de Klerk, the former foreign minister Pik Botha, former ministers of police [later law and order] Louis le Grange and Adriaan Vlok, and the former head of the National Intelligence Service, Niël Barnard … I also referred to the roles that police commissioners Johan Coetzee and Johan van der Merwe had played, as well as a variety of other officers, including the generals Basie Smit, Krappies Engelbrecht and Johan le Roux …’10

But not one of the police generals or senior politicians was in reality prepared to take personal responsibility for what they had done in the name of apartheid.11 Former minister Adriaan Vlok and former general Johan van der Merwe applied for, and received, amnesty from the TRC for isolated incidents. Former minister Leon Wessels – deputy minister of law and order, at one stage – testified before the TRC that he and his colleagues could not justifiably say that they were unaware of the offences. But there was no comprehensive admission of large-scale wrongdoing. How, then, did one person alone become the symbol of apartheid’s offences?

‘I regard Eugene as an Azazel figure, literally a scapegoat,’ says Hennie Heymans, who was a member of the top management of the SAP and served in the secretariat of the State Security Council.

‘He became the symbolic bearer of a group’s sins [those of the security forces]. Leviticus 16:8–10: Aaron had to draw lots for two he-goats. The one was to be selected “for the Lord” and the other “for Azazel” [a demon, in the Jewish tradition]. Aaron was to offer up the goat selected for the Lord as a sacrifice. The goat “for Azazel” was to live, to stand in the presence of the Lord and become burdened with the guilt as an atonement for the sins of the group – and then be chased out into the desert at the mercy of Azazel.’ This, in Heyman’s view, is what happened to Eugene.

What a terrible price to pay – to be held solely responsible for collective sins. During Eugene’s trial, he said to the criminologist Professor Anna van der Hoven that he felt as if the state president at the time, FW de Klerk, had hung the former security forces out to dry. She writes in her report for mitigation of sentence: ‘Today he feels as if the struggle was not worth the effort. He asks: “What did we achieve by it?” He no longer knows what he fought for. He feels that his actions were futile.’12

Van der Hoven holds that Eugene’s prolonged exposure to armed conflict made him susceptible to exploitation. ‘His emotions became blunted and he was able to kill someone in cold blood if it made sense to him why he should do so. He was also accustomed to high-intensity situations.’13

Where does individual accountability begin and end? Eventually Eugene had to – and did – take responsibility for all his choices. But was he, alone, responsible for them? Was he the only one who had to carry this burden? To what extent were his seniors and political heads also responsible? Should someone have intervened? If so, who? The generals? The politicians?

Van der Hoven wrote in her report that the SAP’s line of command ‘tacitly’ let him have his own way. ‘No inspections were carried out at Vlakplaas; top management let things lie. Orders were given to the accused verbally; a blind eye was then turned. The attitude was that it was Eugene’s business how he carried out the orders. There was thus inadequate supervision and control from top structures.’14

Former Vlakplaas operative Neil also points a finger at the generals. ‘Why did no one get involved and say: Stop it, guys – you’re going too far? Instead, there was praise and there were medals – medals that didn’t fall from the sky, but were awarded from the top.’

Eugene was one of the most highly decorated police officers in the SAP at the time.

But there was no intervention. The same can be said of earlier years when SAP top management transferred a battle-weary Eugene de Kock from Koevoet to Vlakplaas. In his book Trou tot die dood toe, former police commissioner General Johan van der Merwe reiterates that General Hans Dreyer, then still a colonel and Koevoet’s commanding officer, advised strongly against Eugene being placed back in the Security Branch when he returned to South Africa. This happened, nonetheless.15

Top and bottom: Two of the medals Eugene received during his career in the SAP: above is the Police Star for Outstanding Service (SOE), awarded twice, and below is the Silver Cross for Bravery, awarded once.

Why, I wondered, was Eugene sent back there against the express recommendation of his former commander? Why was Dreyer’s warning ignored?16

The means presumably justified the end. The fighter known for his ruthless killing ability was the SAP’s candidate of choice for placement at C1. Brigadier Willem Schoon’s testimony before the TRC confirmed police management’s reckless attitude in this regard, and the way in which it had put its own interests above all else. When Eugene – still a captain – was appointed to Vlakplaas in 1983, Schoon was the head of Section C1. They knew each other from Schoon’s days as commander of the Oshakati Security Branch. In November 1996, when Schoon appeared before the TRC, Advocates Glen Goosen and Dumisa Ntsebeza asked him about Eugene’s appointment at Vlakplaas:

ADV. GOOSEN: Is it correct that you were responsible for his transfer to the Vlakplaas unit at the end of 1984?

BRIG. SCHOON: No, I was not responsible. I was approached and asked whether I could place him and I said yes.

ADV. GOOSEN: And you decided to appoint him and the position you chose to place him was the Vlakplaas unit. Is that correct?

BRIG. SCHOON: Yes, that is correct …

ADV. GOOSEN: You fully understood what – what kind of work he had been doing prior to being transferred to Vlakplaas. Is that correct?

BRIG. SCHOON: Yes.

ADV. GOOSEN: Yes, that he was in truth more of a soldier than an ordinary policeman in the work he was doing as a member – or commanding officer – of a unit of Koevoet. Is that correct?

BRIG. SCHOON: Well, I knew that in Ovamboland he performed the work of a soldier and my task was to rehabilitate him so he could be integrated back into society. They could not appoint him in any other position and that is why I was asked to – to take him under my wing.

ADV. GOOSEN: Did you rehabilitate him?

BRIG. SCHOON: I don’t know – I don’t think so.

ADV. GOOSEN: How did you go about trying to rehabilitate him?

BRIG. SCHOON: Well, for example I allowed him to remain [at home] over weekends so that he could lead a normal life, he was for example almost 40 years of age, still unmarried, and I wanted to give him the chance to begin a family life and felt that this would surely put him back on the straight and narrow.

ADV. GOOSEN: Was this your motivation when you appointed him as head of the Vlakplaas unit?

BRIG. SCHOON: There was nobody else.17

Later in the session, Schoon explained how Eugene had ‘gone backwards mentally’ in Ovamboland.18 ‘They used the expression – I don’t know the proper translation – bosbefoeterd [messed up by prolonged exposure to bush conflict] … there is a more explicit word that describes it. For example, if he was sitting in the canteen and someone looked at him sideways, he would get up and attack him physically and say what are you looking at?

‘You know, he was mentally … one could almost say disturbed. As a result of the stress and trauma that he had experienced in the time he fought there. Because almost every day they shot and killed people and under those circumstances you can’t expect a man to last very long emotionally.’

Goosen then indicated that Eugene would surely have been expected to use violence against the state’s targets at Section C1 – that there would be little difference between what he was expected to do at Koevoet and at Section C1.

ADV. GOOSEN: I put it to you, Brigadier, that the real reason why Eugene de Kock was appointed at Vlakplaas was because of the experience that he had gained in his work at Koevoet, that here was a person who could make sure that Vlakplaas undertakings were effective.

BRIG. SCHOON: I believe that this was indeed one of the reasons.

ADV. GOOSEN: Yes, it had nothing whatsoever to do with his rehabilitation; you wanted to appoint an effective person in command of a unit whose primary task was the elimination of enemies of the state. Is that correct? [. . .]

BRIG. SCHOON: I was not unhappy with his appointment – but I did not place him there specifically.

In stark contrast, Johnny – a former Vlakplaas member – said that Eugene blamed those around him ‘for everything – instead of looking inwards and taking the blame himself. The things that happened were his own fault, his own choices. He just doesn’t want to accept that.’

As I see it, Eugene was just one cog in the workings of a larger, more complicated mess for which one individual could not reasonably be expected to take sole responsibility. The security structures in the police were under huge pressure from all sides – the government, the commanders and the public. The directive to the police was to suppress the freedom movements and ensure that ‘white South Africa’ slept safely at night.

General Johan van der Merwe helped to compile a police memorandum submitted as part of a parliamentary inquiry into the stipulations of the law that would deal with amnesty. The memorandum required its contributors to capture the spirit of the 1980s – to recreate, in other words, the decade as experienced by a member of the security forces. Van der Merwe writes in his book Trou tot die dood toe that policemen had to deal with wholesale violence almost daily in the 1980s, including ‘necklace murders, people who were burnt alive, stabbed or chopped up, car bombs that spread body parts, which needed picking up and putting into plastic bags, over a wide area, limpet mines at restaurants and landmines on farm roads …

‘Between September 1984 and April 1992 there were 80 507 incidents of unrest; 9 280 people died and 19 061 were injured. A total of 406 people were burnt alive by the necklace method and 395 burnt alive by other means. The ANC-SACP alliance openly stated that members of the SAP were hard targets; a concerted effort would be made to murder and maim policemen and their families.’19

Van der Merwe emphasises that the political leaders were categorical – the security forces had to halt the revolutionary onslaught at any cost. The state president, ministers, churches, academics, cultural organisations and the media all demanded the extermination of the ‘terrorists’. As an example, Van der Merwe says PW Botha himself gave the order to blow up Khotso House.20

Van der Merwe’s book and the accounts of former policemen make it clear to me that the ideology of a total onslaught that had to be averted consumed them totally; it became their reality, as it was for Eugene.

Former policeman Koos Kotze, author of Mean Streets: Life in the Apartheid Police, lays the blame for police offences squarely at the NP politicians’ door.21 ‘How is it possible that an honourable and proud organisation with respectable and well-educated members became an organisation that instilled fear in the hearts of the majority of the population? What changed?’ he asked in an e-mail discussion.

When I went to see him, we spoke at length about this. According to him, the problem was that Security Branch members suddenly started acting as intelligence officers. ‘As such, other rules applied and, under a veil of secrecy, the policemen decided to take matters into their own hands instead of leaving them to the courts, which was how things worked traditionally. It is also likely that we started believing our own propaganda, and that fear was an unconscious factor – the war was very real, and had already gone on for decades.’

The politicians relied upon the SAP’s strong discipline and believed that it would enforce the laws of the land ‘as a police force is legally obliged to do’, said Kotze.

He makes the argument often put forward in such cases: Eugene was just following orders. ‘Whereas an army in the bush can question unreasonable orders, a policeman cannot … a police force cannot decide which laws to enforce.

‘For all practical purposes, the Nationalists forced the SAP to destroy itself – either by refusing to enforce the laws of its political masters (legally impossible), or by enforcing those laws and losing the respect of the people they were supposed to protect. An honourable institution, thrown into disrepute by unprincipled politicians.’

Although apartheid legislation criminalised the liberation movements, it was important for the state to try Eugene as an ordinary criminal and not as a political prisoner. Yet everything about the trial was political – and the Security Branch could just as well have been called the ‘political police’, said former brigadier Hennie Heymans. Today, Eugene feels that this should have been a stronger focus in his trial. He still feels that the prosecution deliberately downplayed the political dimension of his offences, which could have had implications for his amnesty hearing.

Things may have turned out differently for him if a general amnesty had been granted for members of the armed forces of all parties. It appears, though, that Kobie Coetsee, Minister of Justice at the time, delayed on this issue and missed the opportunity.22 Jan Heunis, then an advisor on constitutional law and the son of former minister Chris Heunis, writes in Die Binnekring: ‘The question of indemnity for crimes committed during the apartheid era was high on the political agenda during 1993. Surprisingly enough the ANC made a suggestion in this regard that would have suited the government’s representatives perfectly. However (Kobie) Coetsee in his capacity as minister of justice turned the suggestion down and said he was working on his own proposal.’23

Initially, Eugene believed the police generals would support and protect him during his court case as they had always done before. In the end, he answered for Vlakplaas’s transgressions alone. For the first five months of his trial, his former colleagues visited him in jail; almost everyone then turned against him.24 When his former Koevoet colleague and close friend Willie Nortjé began testimony against him at the end of August 1995, Eugene was shattered.

In A Long Night’s Damage, Eugene is quoted on the trial: ‘Some people see my trial as the first opportunity for the true extent of covert security force actions to become known; others see it as vindication of the Goldstone Commission’s findings and a triumph of justice. I see it as two years of betrayal – first by the state that had given me my orders, and then by my friends, who lined up to testify against me.’25

The bond of brotherhood had broken.

But what exactly does this type of brotherhood entail? In a wartime situation, what is the role of the individual, and of the brotherhood? I came across a perceptive talk by journalist Sebastian Junger, who spent some time with the American defence force’s 173rd Airborne unit in Afghanistan. He describes the brotherhood as he observed it in the unit as a bond that develops between men who, under normal circumstances, would not necessarily be friends. In a wartime situation, however, they give everything for one another and put the group’s interests and safety above their own.26

Eugene shared a similar bond with his colleagues at Koevoet and Vlakplaas.

I had already spent a fair amount of time with Eugene’s former colleagues when I met neurologist and paediatrician Dr Greg Lamb, an expert in the field of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), specifically in a military context. He cites consistent reliance on brotherhood, the habit of blaming others, the abuse of alcohol and extreme religiosity as ways in which PTSD sufferers try to divert attention from their inherent shortcomings and avoid taking responsibility for their decisions.

In her evaluation report, Professor Van der Hoven also refers to the high incidence of alcohol abuse among Security Branch members. She writes that the policemen were not allowed to talk to their families, or speak out, about work. ‘The Security Branch of the police carried out covert operations that could not, in the interests of the state and the police, be made public. The Security Branch developed specific techniques, therefore, to ensure that covert dealings did not come to light. Because of the type of work the accused did, he often had to assume a false identity. He also had to murder people to prevent certain crucial information from reaching the media. It was an underworld world in which the definition of right and wrong became increasingly vague.

‘They learnt, therefore, to keep their experiences to themselves. The only recreation they had was to go to the canteen and seek comfort in alcohol. Here, with their colleagues, they could lower their masks. Excessive drinking and partying was part of their subculture.’27

In Elaine Bing’s book, Unmaking of the Torturer, I read that the ‘militarised policeman cannot display emotions such as fear and heartache. Nor must he give way to empathy, a soft heart or tolerance. He may indeed show controlled aggression.’28

To try to understand, I went too far, once, when I asked a former operative about the effects of violence on those who commit it. Memory can be a horror movie … his rage exploded, taken back to times and places to which he no longer wanted to return.

The former operatives repress not only their own memories but their colleagues’ secrets, taking them to their graves as the unspoken rule dictates.

Why this silence? ‘Of course avoiding [personal] pain is one of the main reasons for the mystery and silence,’ writes Marlantes in What it is Like to Go to War.29 These memories, this ‘personal pain’, never goes away: it is a can of worms that must diligently be kept sealed.

Why, then, would Eugene’s former confidants – his ‘brothers’ – testify against him? The answer is quite obvious: to save themselves. They were threatened with prosecution if they did not.

It seems, from my discussions with former Vlakplaas operatives, that there had been dissension in the ranks since the early 1990s. The brotherhood was already under pressure; the discord from all sides saw C1 splitting into three sections, at Vlakplaas, Waterkloof and Midrand.

Some former operatives still feel guilty, I noted, that Eugene is the only one of the band of brothers to have served time and that they testified against him; many expressed a need to contact him.

The prisoners in orange who sit around timidly in Pretoria Central’s visiting area seem harmless at first glance. A visit seldom goes by, though, that doesn’t send a shiver down my spine: the semblance of normality is misleading. The world inside those walls is a desperate, terrible place where inmates give over to gangsterism, drugs and moral decline.

One day, the one-eyed Melville Koppies murderer who liked to carry the tuck-shop trays was gone. He died, silently, in jail. Most of the prisoners around me are guilty of serious crimes.

‘If you could choose to do it all again, would you approach your trial differently?’ I wanted to know during one of my visits.

The left corner of Eugene’s mouth pulled down. ‘Well, as I sit here today, I can tell you I could have done what Willie Nortjé did [his good friend from his Koevoet and Vlakplaas days who testified against him]. I should have, from day one. But in my heart, even now, I know I wouldn’t have done it at the time. I think I was stupid not to, but I’m still me. I fulfilled my biggest obligation – to make sure that my family was, and is, safe. After all these years, nothing really matters but the present, the now.’

A clear ray of sunshine broke through the corrugated-iron roof. The sleeves of Eugene’s overall were rolled up; the bright ray fell on his bare arm. Within minutes, his skin was flecked with sickly red. ‘Life happens, we happen, and you have to leave the past behind for ever,’ he murmured.

‘Why did you stay in the country?’

‘I stayed because I felt responsible for my men, that’s all. Little did I know they would betray me.’

‘The defence had pointed out that a large number of accomplices had been called to testify against the accused. They had also been offered indemnity in terms of section 204 of the Criminal Procedure Act. It was submitted that it had been unnecessary to call all these accomplices to prove the case against the accused and to have done so could create an impression that they had been called merely to make it possible to offer them indemnity.
The defence had also pointed out that charges had been withdrawn against many other former members of the police who were accomplices or offenders. Yet others had never even been arrested or charged. This, it was submitted, meant that probably only the accused would be prosecuted, leading to inequality of treatment, contrary to section 8 of the Constitution, Act No. 200 of 1993.
The court held that it was true that courts were required to strive for consistency in sentencing. In addition, people who had committed crimes should, as far as possible, be treated equally. However, this only applied after the institution of prosecutions. It was not known who would still be prosecuted.
It was true that accomplices who had testified and had committed serious crimes, such as having acted as executioners, would get away scot-free. While this was a factor to be kept in mind, this single factor did not mean that an otherwise appropriate sentence should not be imposed.’

– QUOTED FROM JUDGE WILLEM VAN DER MERWE’S SENTENCING PROCEEDINGS IN EUGENE DE KOCK’S CRIMINAL TRIAL, 30 OCTOBER 1996.