Refuge (2 page)

Svritsky had first arrived at Richard’s office, nearly twelve years earlier, charged with possession of cocaine. Relying on the combined ineptitude of the investigating officer and the prosecutor, Richard had been able to secure his acquittal. Then one of the Russian’s henchmen had been charged with extortion. The case proved to be Richard’s first glimpse into the unforgiving world that Svritsky inhabited. A mediocre investigation and the reluctance of frightened witnesses to testify had allowed him to undermine the State’s case, although the matter had dragged on in the district court for months. A series of high-profile cases followed, and Svritsky soon became Richard’s most profitable client. But it was an ambiguous prosperity: his client repulsed him, both in his physical being and in his sordid business practices. Richard wondered at the romantic perception of organised crime, still portrayed in films and books as somehow noble in its dogged loyalty and courage.

In spite of his misgivings, it had initially amused him to drop his client’s name at dinner parties, shocking the staid middle-class couples. For a while, he had entertained them with wicked stories of the underworld. But these opportunities were scarce and hardly compensated for the hours he had to spend sitting close to his client, soaking up his oily vitriol. He sometimes felt he needed to shower after consulting with Svritsky, and had an urge to scrub the sticky back of his neck and pour hot water through his hair. He was tired of the unremitting posturing. And bored.

When he had read the new criminal docket three days ago, the allegations had all had a feeling of jaded inevitability. Even as he read through the witness statements, he could hear the cross-examination in his head, the repeated objections, the accusations of deceit, the courtroom antics that would play out. Closing the file, it felt to him as if the trial had already concluded. He had no energy to proceed with the minutiae of instructions, to explore factual disputes and open up the cracks in the case. But lurking behind the pages was an anxiety about what failure would bring with it. Svritsky expected success, and the thought of losing on an instruction from the Russian mobster always quickened Richard’s heart. He had tried to refuse a case, once, but his client’s eyes had blazed with unspoken threats.

Svritsky’s restrained aggression towards Du Toit put Richard on edge now. Bringing his client along had been a tactical decision designed to unsettle – perhaps even intimidate – his adversary, but as he watched Svritsky’s body tilt forward like a taurine wrestler about to charge, he wondered whether the strategy had not been too adventurous. He placed a hand on his client’s bare arm, but Svritsky’s eyes were locked on Du Toit.

For her part, she stood unmoved, ignoring the snorting figure before her and addressing Richard directly. ‘Mr Calloway, I have no interest in seeing your client,’ she snapped. ‘In fact, I have no interest in seeing you either. But since you requested an appointment in advance, I will do you the courtesy of listening to
you
. Briefly.’

Du Toit’s hair was cut short, with thin tails plied against the skin in front of her ears. She wore almost no jewellery and dressed in unremarkable outfits – monotone slacks and loose jackets. Her face was thin and pointed and her voice tended to be strident and grating, but her body language was always self-assured. Richard found dealing with her in person unnerving, often feeling like a scolded child, despite the fact that they were contemporaries. He had to remind himself that he had repeatedly warded off her legal assaults against his client. Yet with each renewed challenge, he felt the nagging certainty that her tenacious pursuit was sure to bear results in the end.

This time the charge was culpable homicide. It was alleged that, soon after New Year, Svritsky had been the driver of a Ford V8 Coupe that had run down, and killed, a young man crossing a deserted street near the city centre. The State alleged that Svritsky had stopped his car, got out and, on discovering that the man was dead, fled the scene. Aggravating circumstances included failure to report the incident and failure to call for any medical assistance. Instead, the State alleged, the morning after the accident, Svritsky had arrived at the police station and reported the vehicle stolen. The charge was unusual; it had nothing to do with his client’s business dealings, and Svritsky was dismissive. But Richard was wary: it was precisely because the incident was accidental and not deliberate that it could prove difficult to manage and was therefore potentially dangerous.

‘Cerissa,’ Richard countered, forcing an attempt at warmth in his tone. ‘I know it’s February already, but, still, compliments of the season and let’s hope the year is a good one for us all.’

‘Mr Calloway, don’t try and schmooze your way around me. We both know that a good year for me is a bad one for you and your client. So let’s cut the crap. Tell your client to wait outside and you can see me. Though God knows what you think I’m going to do for you.’ With that, she turned on her heel and clipped back into her office, leaving the door ajar as an invitation for Richard to follow.

‘Cute,’ Richard said light-heartedly to Svritsky, but his client was seething.

‘I will cut her fucking heart out and show it to her while it is still beating. Bitch.’ Richard flinched at the heat of the response. Svritsky’s jaw was clenched tight and the tattoo on his arm seemed to move, the snake and the naked woman dancing lasciviously as he flexed his muscles.

‘It’s okay, Stefan. She’s just playing tough. That’s her job. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bring you along after all. Let me speak to her and I’ll meet you outside. Have a smoke and I’ll tell you what she says.’

Svritsky did not look at him, but relented, striding down the corridor towards the stairwell. His tennis shoes squeaked on the polished floor and he muttered something under his breath. Richard watched the broad back of his client with a mixture of loathing and apprehension before entering the office.

Du Toit’s workspace was cramped. She was already positioned behind her scratched table, extracting a wad of documents from a Manila envelope. Richard had been here many times before, but it still surprised him to note how ill-equipped a senior controller’s office was. Dockets and files were piled on the desk and the floor, spilling their contents like carcasses. There was no filing cabinet and no shelving to contain the onslaught. He wondered how she managed without a filing clerk or personal assistant. A small area of table top had been kept open against the wall, enough for a brown-stained kettle and a thick coffee mug. Richard glanced at the inscription splayed on the side – ‘Don’t make your problems mine,’ it said in blue capitals – and grimaced inwardly. Granules of instant coffee had formed tacky pools around the base of the mug. The aluminium-framed windows looked out onto grey buildings, and the walls of the room were largely bare, haphazardly adorned with torn and faded departmental posters of sad children and women with bruised wrists. Richard could not imagine working in such a place and yet its stark authenticity was somehow alluring.

He thought of his own firm’s offices situated in a newly renovated building in De Waterkant. The double-volume expanse made use of natural light through a series of cleverly designed portals, allowing the light to filter in without the heat or glare. The roof had been converted into a deck, complete with umbrellas, reclining chairs and a bar counter hewn from a massive slab of wood. The rooftop displayed the full vista of Cape Town, a sweeping view from the base of Signal Hill around the cupped bowl of the city to the harbour and the sparkling bay surrounding Robben Island. The office furniture was modern but friendly, with chrome-and-glass coffee tables, leather couches and broad conference tables surrounded by high-backed chairs. Ice clinked in the pitchers of fresh water, adorned with sprigs of mint. Colourful but unostentatious artwork had been chosen by the interior designer, the wife of one of his partners. A series of highly textured canvases, resembling the bark of trees, greeted the visitor in the foyer. The nature theme was carried through to reception, with a delicate Japanese garden and bonsai tree (changed every week) at the centre of each coffee table. Palm ferns and bamboo reached towards the beamed loft. One partner had gone so far as to suggest releasing a family of doves into the office space, but the prospect of presenting clients with contracts splattered with bird excrement had dampened the firm’s enthusiasm for the idea.

Richard rather wished he was in his office now, skimming off the foam of a cappuccino with a chocolate biscotti. Nophumla, the bustling tea lady, always slipped one onto his saucer, even though they were meant for clients who sat waiting at reception for their expensive consultations to begin. ‘Trinkets and cleavage’ was the office manager’s way of diverting attention from the staggering hourly rates charged by the senior partners. And the receptionist’s breast-line was certainly terrific.

Yet, despite all the attention to detail, there was more fervour in the prosecutor’s grimy room than in the entirety of his own plush offices. Her degraded resources only reminded him of the ferocity of her commitment and his own increasing lack of passion. Du Toit would not need to grandstand, he felt, or tell stories at dinner parties. In truth, he could not imagine her holding a dinner party. She did not have the lightness or mendacity to pursue such things. But in bed, lying alone with her own tired thoughts, she would know what she had achieved. Trite as it was, he felt a gnawing misgiving about the egotistical achievement of keeping his client out of jail. The money and self-aggrandisement no longer sustained his interest.

‘Mr Calloway’ – Du Toit did not let him dwell on his thoughts – ‘if you ever rock up here with your client without first clearing it with me, I’ll have you reported to the Law Society. You know full well that you didn’t advise me that you wished to bring him along. And I’d never have sanctioned it.’

‘Sorry,’ he replied, a little too meekly he felt. ‘It must’ve slipped my mind to mention it to you. Please accept my apology. He’s outside the building having a smoke.’ He regretted his tactic now; she had not been intimidated, only annoyed. The eczema in the joint behind his knees felt dry and itchy – he longed to be able to pull off his trousers and soothe the irritation, rubbing in the cream his dermatologist had given him.

Du Toit grunted, pulling out a creased pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket. She opened the sliding window, frowning for a moment at the gritty breeze that swirled into the room. The plastic lighter looked flimsy but produced a strong blue flame. She drew on the cigarette, blowing the smoke back out into the warm wind. Richard was repelled by the sight of the smoke trailing over her skin and hair as it blew back into the office. He imagined the smoky acidity of her body by the end of the day.

‘Can’t even smoke in my own office these days,’ she said ruefully, softening slightly.

Richard took the opportunity and moved opposite her across the table. ‘Cerissa, look, is the NPA really going to pursue this one?’ He tried to lower the tone of his voice in order to sound more solemn. ‘I’ve gone through all the statements and it just doesn’t add up to a case. As far as I can see,’ he added, seeing her face darken again. ‘That witness statement … the only eyewitness … I mean, that statement is useless. You can’t go to trial on that. It isn’t properly signed, we all know the name on the statement is false, and it tells us almost nothing about what he supposedly saw.’ He felt he was becoming plaintive and stopped, waiting for her response.

‘Yes, we know the name is false,’ Du Toit replied coolly. ‘That doesn’t make his
testimony
false, Mr Calloway.’

‘Sorry, are you saying that you’ve found the witness? Have you spoken to him?’

‘No, I am not saying that. I’m saying that if you’d read the statements as you say you have, you would’ve seen that we have a witness who saw your client get into the vehicle outside his club, a matter of minutes before the collision. We have a witness on the scene who describes someone who sounds terribly like your client getting out of his car to inspect the dying pedestrian. Sounds like a case to me. So, if you had indeed read the paperwork as you say, Mr Calloway, you’d know all that. So what are
you
really saying?’

Richard reddened slightly and changed his approach, trying to harden his voice. ‘Ms du Toit, unless you can
find
that witness, identify him and provide us with a proper version of his evidence, I’m going to bring an application to have this charge stayed. I cannot, with respect, be expected to defend a man on a culpable homicide indictment when the only
real
eyewitness is unidentified and says nothing more than “I saw the car run him down.” And I don’t believe that the court will force me to continue in those circumstances, not for one minute.’

‘So what’s your client’s version, Mr Calloway?’ Du Toit folded her arms, the cigarette still gripped between her fingers. ‘He wasn’t there? He wasn’t driving? He didn’t flee the scene?’

Du Toit had pursued Stefan Svritsky long enough to know that this was always a vulnerability. Svritsky never disclosed his defence at trial. Richard’s instructions were unfailingly the same: no admissions, no statements, no explanation of plea. The State would have to prove everything, from the most mundane fact to the essential elements of each alleged crime. Richard was not in a position to give the NPA any version of events. As a result, he could not bargain on a plea or make representations, and he could not provide the court with any guidance as to his client’s contentions. It was a strategy that had served Svritsky well in the past, but it placed his attorney in an invidious position. It was in Richard’s nature to be cooperative; he enjoyed trials where he could form part of a team. He liked to be part of a gathering of legal professionals that dealt with disputes – somewhat paternalistically – between laypeople, those who did not know the law, who needed legal counsel, who might benefit from their joint deliberations and his expertise. But there was nothing like this with Svritsky. Richard was obliged to adopt the approach of a difficult, obstructive trial lawyer, forcing the hand of the State at every turn.