culpable homicide charges and alternatives.
‘How does your client plead, Mr Calloway?’ Abrahams asked.
‘Not guilty, Your Worship. No plea explanation and no Section 220 admissions.’
‘Mmm, unsurprising. Do you confirm that, Mr Svritsky?’ Abrahams was one of the few magistrates still to insist that an accused confirm his plea on record. She pronounced his name perfectly, as if she had been practising it for a while. Svritsky nodded truculently. ‘On the record, please, Mr Svritsky. Nice and loud now,’ she added, as if she were addressing a child.
‘Yes,’ he scowled back, ‘yes, that’s right.’
‘Okay, then,’ she continued, more pleasantly as she turned her attention back to Richard. ‘Trial will commence in three weeks’ time, on 5 March. Mr Dumbela, I expect the witnesses to be lined up and ready to testify. Mr Calloway, I don’t grant postponements, as you know by now. I expect you to be ready to proceed. Let’s try and complete this trial in one sitting, shall we?’ She did not wait for a reply, rising to her feet as soon as she had finished speaking and moving towards the side door to her office.
‘Rise in court,’ the court orderly shouted belatedly, struggling to get out of the broken chair in which he had been slouched all morning.
Richard walked across to Dumbela. The prosecutor stood with a straight back, adjusting his carefully knotted tie. ‘Bradley, we both know this is going nowhere without your eyewitness. What’s happening on that score?’
Dumbela smiled thinly. ‘Mr Calloway. I have already spoken to Miss du Toit. She told me you’d been to see her.’ He paused, as if weighing the significance of this for the first time. ‘So, don’t worry, we’ll find him. We have some good leads. He left the scene after talking to the policeman who took the statement, but we’re confident we can find him again. We have some good leads,’ he said again, still smiling. ‘So you don’t have to worry, Mr Calloway.’
Richard found Dumbela’s politeness mocking rather than respectful: it was almost as if he were belittling him. An unarticulated racism perhaps, Richard thought, as Dumbela walked away.
‘What did he say?’ Svritsky hissed at him.
‘He says they’ll find the witness.’ Richard became aware of a rancid odour and took a pace back. ‘He seems very confident about that,’ he added distractedly.
‘Yes? We’ll see, no? We’ll see about that,’ Svritsky responded, bright-green eyes glinting in the clinical lighting of the courtroom.
TWO
I FASEN COULD SMELL the simmering pepper soup even before he reached the door: the sweet but unmistakeably acidic aroma of obe ata , made from stewing ripe tomatoes, ground peppers, red palm oil and, if today was a good day, a cheap cut of mutton or goat. The smell displaced the sour odours of urine and cigarette smoke that pervaded the corridor. Tonight they would spoon the stew onto their plates, letting the sauce soak into the steamed rice, eating it in clumps that would stain their fingers and mouths like lipstick. The aroma filled Ifasen with childhood nostalgia: Abeni their housemaid standing in the cool kitchen of his old home. There she diced okra and skinned speckled beans with quick fingers, shooing him away as he tried to pick at the cooling bell peppers. She always worked with the windows pushed out wide, letting the breeze waft through the room, standing at a table close to the open door so she could flick the translucent skins to the clucking chickens waiting outside. Sometimes a skin would land on a hen’s back and they would laugh together as they watched it being pecked by the others, charging around the backyard in confusion. ‘You see, little one,’ she once told him with affection, ‘in Nigeria it is not always so good to have something that everyone else wants.’
Abeni was a thickset Yoruba woman, with stout legs and a soft belly. Her wide face seemed to be permanently crinkled
‘How does your client plead, Mr Calloway?’ Abrahams asked.
‘Not guilty, Your Worship. No plea explanation and no Section 220 admissions.’
‘Mmm, unsurprising. Do you confirm that, Mr Svritsky?’ Abrahams was one of the few magistrates still to insist that an accused confirm his plea on record. She pronounced his name perfectly, as if she had been practising it for a while. Svritsky nodded truculently. ‘On the record, please, Mr Svritsky. Nice and loud now,’ she added, as if she were addressing a child.
‘Yes,’ he scowled back, ‘yes, that’s right.’
‘Okay, then,’ she continued, more pleasantly as she turned her attention back to Richard. ‘Trial will commence in three weeks’ time, on 5 March. Mr Dumbela, I expect the witnesses to be lined up and ready to testify. Mr Calloway, I don’t grant postponements, as you know by now. I expect you to be ready to proceed. Let’s try and complete this trial in one sitting, shall we?’ She did not wait for a reply, rising to her feet as soon as she had finished speaking and moving towards the side door to her office.
‘Rise in court,’ the court orderly shouted belatedly, struggling to get out of the broken chair in which he had been slouched all morning.
Richard walked across to Dumbela. The prosecutor stood with a straight back, adjusting his carefully knotted tie. ‘Bradley, we both know this is going nowhere without your eyewitness. What’s happening on that score?’
Dumbela smiled thinly. ‘Mr Calloway. I have already spoken to Miss du Toit. She told me you’d been to see her.’ He paused, as if weighing the significance of this for the first time. ‘So, don’t worry, we’ll find him. We have some good leads. He left the scene after talking to the policeman who took the statement, but we’re confident we can find him again. We have some good leads,’ he said again, still smiling. ‘So you don’t have to worry, Mr Calloway.’
Richard found Dumbela’s politeness mocking rather than respectful: it was almost as if he were belittling him. An unarticulated racism perhaps, Richard thought, as Dumbela walked away.
‘What did he say?’ Svritsky hissed at him.
‘He says they’ll find the witness.’ Richard became aware of a rancid odour and took a pace back. ‘He seems very confident about that,’ he added distractedly.
‘Yes? We’ll see, no? We’ll see about that,’ Svritsky responded, bright-green eyes glinting in the clinical lighting of the courtroom.
TWO
I FASEN COULD SMELL the simmering pepper soup even before he reached the door: the sweet but unmistakeably acidic aroma of obe ata , made from stewing ripe tomatoes, ground peppers, red palm oil and, if today was a good day, a cheap cut of mutton or goat. The smell displaced the sour odours of urine and cigarette smoke that pervaded the corridor. Tonight they would spoon the stew onto their plates, letting the sauce soak into the steamed rice, eating it in clumps that would stain their fingers and mouths like lipstick. The aroma filled Ifasen with childhood nostalgia: Abeni their housemaid standing in the cool kitchen of his old home. There she diced okra and skinned speckled beans with quick fingers, shooing him away as he tried to pick at the cooling bell peppers. She always worked with the windows pushed out wide, letting the breeze waft through the room, standing at a table close to the open door so she could flick the translucent skins to the clucking chickens waiting outside. Sometimes a skin would land on a hen’s back and they would laugh together as they watched it being pecked by the others, charging around the backyard in confusion. ‘You see, little one,’ she once told him with affection, ‘in Nigeria it is not always so good to have something that everyone else wants.’
Abeni was a thickset Yoruba woman, with stout legs and a soft belly. Her wide face seemed to be permanently crinkled
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