Читать книгу A Just Defiance - Peter Harris - Страница 13

You really have to admire these guys for their attention to detail. They occupy the lowest level of the security apparatus and they wear a mud-brown uniform. But the buttons shine, the boots gleam and the belt buckle is a beacon. There are, incongruously, three straight lines ironed across the middle of the back of their shirts. Having done my military service in 1974, conscripted at the tender age of seventeen and ending up a platoon commander with the rank of lieutenant, I know that these lines, so painstakingly ironed into the back of the shirt, serve no purpose whatsoever other than to indicate that some cretin, wishing to impress his superiors, has spent a precious extra two hours ironing them in. Welcome to the logic of South African military life.

To me, these men with their chests puffed out and their brown shirtsleeves rolled the regulation three fingers above the elbow, when the arm is extended, are familiar animals. Warder van Rensburg is in good shape. Tall, broad shouldered and fit, he regards me as dirt. I am used to this. He nods and ushers me to a yellow line one metre inside the room. I move quickly and stand on the line, knowing that if you don’t step smartly, you run the risk of being crushed to death by the massive steel door as it silently swings closed. What a mess. Sometimes, they close the door while you’re entering and when you curse they fake irritation with their colleague who is operating the system but they never apologise. This is all part of the game.

As the door shuts behind me, the barred steel door in front of me opens. Cameras mounted high on the wall watch as my briefcase goes into the metal detector. I follow Warder van Rensburg through the doorway, pick up the case, wait for yet another barred door to open and enter a brick-lined passage with steel mesh walkways above it. Warders patrol the walkways. At roof height are triangular windows of bottle-green glass behind which sit more warders. It always makes me think of those advertisements for luxury resorts, which claim to offer great service by virtue of having five staff members for every guest.

I have been to this prison many times and should be inured to its charms. But I’m not. The cold hostility of the building and the warders depresses me. This place is not about rehabilitation, this is confinement, a fortress in a war with no foreseeable end. And that is a lonely thought.

Warder van Rensburg carries that most essential item of equipment, a large bunch of keys, attached to his belt by a length of olive-green nylon cord. He uses the keys to unlock a succession of steel-barred doors as we go deeper into the prison and finally reach the consulting room. In fact, it is not a proper legal facility: it’s the prison doctor’s consulting room and surgery. I go in and the door slams shut behind me. Warder van Rensburg and I have not exchanged a single word.

I am alone, except for the small square window in the door at which the head of my host, like Banquo’s ghost, appears periodically. He stares at me intently.

This is what is called an ‘in-sight but out-of-sound’ consultation. It will be some time before they bring my clients. These warders are in no rush, and why should they hurry? Prisons are about spending time.

It may seem strange that a prison should have no consulting room, but I suppose when it was built no one could imagine prisoners affording legal advice, or that such advice would be allowed even if they could. Not this type of prisoner anyway. But here I am and I have to be accommodated, and so the surgery suffices.

On another occasion, I consulted in the garage into which the top security prisoners were driven in escorted armoured vehicles. Once, seated at a table in the middle of the cold and echoing space, I was talking with clients who faced charges of sabotage and high treason when the garage door rumbled slowly open. We faced the street, stunned. Jaws dropped. Freedom beckoned, but where to run? Was it a trap? Would they be waiting outside and open fire as my clients ran into the road? Was it just a mistake, a trick, a game? Then wild shouts and swearing sounded above and the door slowly closed. No one said a word except me. ‘Shit!’I said.

Consulting in a doctor’s surgery inside a prison may bother some attorneys, but I rather like it. It makes a pleasant change from the dull tranquillity of a lawyer’s office. Maybe it’s because I admire doctors greatly. I feel that if I were a doctor, I would do something useful. I suppose that because I am constantly afflicted by a variety of illnesses which require serious and immediate medical attention, I have real respect for doctors. I admire someone so learned that he can listen calmly to my complex and disturbing symptoms then nod sagely and prescribe Streptomycin twice a day for the bacteria, Clarityn at night with dinner, an Imovane sleeping tablet to assist my slumber, and then an assortment of Myprodol and Stopayne at breakfast for the pain and generally to see me through my day until I can get to some refreshment in the evening. Now that’s service. In my book, people who are on first-name terms with the rare illnesses I suffer from, not to mention the remedies for these afflictions, warrant real respect.

No sign of my clients.

Bored, I weigh myself. Seventy-four kilograms. Take a look around. This place is not one your average patient would feel at home in. No windows, no air, mean-looking pieces of surgical apparatus lying about, huge needles and steel implements, rubbish bins filled with used bandages and other items too sordid to describe. I so fear these things that I take a white towel from the back of a chair and cover the bin, as if to prevent some dreadful disease from leaping out. I imagine prisoners, warders and a lawyer desperately crawling down the passages of the sealed prison that is to be our common tomb. I need to see my clients before I deteriorate further.

A metal rattle at the door and Warder van Rensburg’s face at the small window. Then my clients walk in. All four of them. I give them the familiar handshake. Surprisingly, they look in good shape, strong and fit. I am greeted by the one who walked in first. Tall, dark, well built, a handsome man with strong features and a smile curling his lips up at the edges.

‘My name is Jabu Masina, we are glad that you have come. It has been a long time. We thought you would come earlier.’

He is followed by a man who introduces himself as Ting Ting Masango. He is shorter, broader, smiling as he takes a seat at the table. His left eye squints. I have to avoid focusing on it. Lighter in complexion, he wears a spotless white T-shirt, beneath which I can see he is carrying a bit of weight. He has that kind of build.

Neo Potsane is shorter than Jabu and Ting Ting. Small featured with a pockmarked face, wiry and alert. He’s nervous, constantly glancing around, unlike the first two who seem at ease.

The last is Joseph Makhura, the smallest and the youngest of the four, seemingly out of place among these older and tougher men. I wonder how he got here.

I am nervous. The first time you meet clients is always difficult. If they don’t like you from the start, they generally fire you quickly. I’ve never been dumped by a client, and I don’t want that to happen now. At the beginning, we merely need to like each other; the trust can come later.

I smile and say, ‘I have just weighed myself, but I must tell you, I think they have loaded some extra kilos on this scale just to discriminate against me, these swinish warders.’

Jabu smiles sardonically, gets up and weighs himself. Just on eighty-three kilos. Satisfied, he sits down.

With Ting Ting the scales dip and clang and he has to slide the weight along. Exclaiming, he turns to me. ‘I agree with you, this machine has been sabotaged.’

We burst out laughing in relief.

‘I am sorry that I didn’t get here sooner,’ I say, ‘but I only got the call this morning.’

Jabu raises his eyebrows but makes no comment.

We exchange pleasantries as if we are meeting for the first time in the lobby of a hotel.

‘How was your trip here?’ Jabu asks.

‘Not bad, but you know they’re redoing the highway and at times it can be frustrating. Are you okay here? How is your health?’

‘Here it is much better, at least there are rules, although the weather is very hot.’

‘Are you getting any exercise?’

‘There’s an exercise yard, but it’s very small.’

‘You look in good shape,’ I comment.

‘Not bad, not bad,’ says Ting Ting politely.

Ending it, I say, ‘I think it’s important before we start for you to know who I am and where I come from, so that you can make a decision about whether we should go forward together.’

I know that many prisoners in their position are only too overjoyed to have someone come and visit them, never mind represent them. But these guys are different. At ease with their situation, they will make their own decisions, and anyway, I want them to know that they have a choice.

I tell them I’m from the law firm Cheadle, Thompson and Haysom. That it’s a human-rights firm that started a few years back. Most of us came from the big established law firms. In the early 1980s, we felt there was a need to build a practice that would represent resistance organisations and individuals needing representation in their battle against the apartheid government. At that stage, there’d been only two or three firms, small ones, prepared to do political work. In fact, this kind of work was tough, poorly paid and made you unpopular in certain circles. All good reasons why most lawyers avoided it.

I tell them about Halton Cheadle who specialises in representing the black trade union movement. Banned and under house arrest in the 1970s, a brilliant lawyer. Fink Haysom, a former Nusas president frequently detained and held in solitary confinement. Also Azhar Cachalia, one of the leaders of the United Democratic Front, detained more times than I can remember. All fine lawyers. I talk about the cases the firm has handled, including the big treason trials like the Maritzburg Treason Trial and the Alexandra Treason Trial, both run by Norman Manoim, one of the partners.

I mention a few of the cases I’ve handled, trying to pick on those that show my experience and expertise in these areas. They listen intently, occasionally putting questions. It turns out they know some of the accused we’ve represented, many having been trained in the same MK military camps in Angola.

We’re using valuable time but the links need to be made. As in most new relationships, the sniffing out is important, how you relate to the client, the way you speak, avoiding legalese and jargon, not being flashy with your knowledge but showing enough, revealing political sense but not taking your clothes off or dropping too many names. Just saying enough to show you have some connection.

I have to see it from their point of view. They’ve probably been inside for some time, been tortured and maybe face serious charges. Then in walks this white boy in a suit (although, unlike some colleagues, I’ve never been a snappy dresser) who says he’s been told to assist them. Hell, I could even be in the pay of the security police. In their shoes, I would be cautious if not suspicious. Although simply being asked to represent them is an indication of some degree of credibility. But who knows?

For me, it’s important that I like my clients. They may irritate me, which some of them do, but it isn’t enough to have a working relationship. I need something stronger. I need to be motivated, otherwise it becomes a chore and I get bored. This isn’t just a job.

Out of the blue, Ting Ting, who has been quiet, asks me what car I drive. I’m taken aback. I know that a lot of clients like their lawyers to drive large, fancy cars. I reply sheepishly that I drive a Honda Ballade. Ting Ting’s silence is telling. After a moment, perking up, he says, ‘We were driving the latest Audi when we were caught.’

‘Sies man,’ I exclaim. ‘That’s the car of choice of the security police.’

‘I know,’ says Ting Ting, ‘that’s why we drove it. But it didn’t help.’

We laugh and move into other areas. Family stuff. I need the details of parents and contact addresses, phone numbers, financial obligations. Girlfriends? They laugh and look at each other.

‘Do we have time for that?’ Neo asks.

I leave it there for the moment. I need to find out what we’re facing. ‘Do you have a copy of the charge sheet?’

‘No,’ says Jabu.

Typical, they have been given nothing.

‘Okay,’ I say, ‘then tell me some of the details so I can get a sense of it.’

They exchange glances and Jabu says, ‘They say we have done everything.’

I lean forward. ‘Help me to understand. “Everything” is a big word.’

‘Everything means undergoing training, possession of weapons, sabotage, assassination and murder, planting landmines and a bomb.’

Shit, I think, they are right, there is nothing else. I clear my throat, which has gone tight. ‘The assassinations,’ I say quietly, ‘give me an example.’

Masina looks me in the eye. ‘Have you heard of Brigadier Molope?’

I go cold. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him.’

We are in trouble.