Tandia (77 page)

'I'd like to validate this document, your honour. As you know, it is relatively easy to reproduce material of this nature. What's in a receipt? A few hastily scribbled words, such a thing is easy to forge. Nobody knows this better than you, your honour!'

Magistrate Coetzee looked up over the top of his glasses at the government lawyer. 'Advocate Opperman, if I am such a expert on forgery, then I would also be in a position to know whether the document seems genuine. In which case, I take it you will be satisfied with the court's decision on this matter?'

Opperman sat down heavily. 'Certainly, your honour.' Magistrate Coetzee had mixed feelings about the new evidence. He was now sufficiently convinced by Peekay's conduct during the hearing that some prima-facie evidence existed against the police for conspiracy and that there was also sufficient cause for charges to be laid against Geldenhuis and Klaasens for assault leading to the death of the young black boxer. On the other hand, cases against members of the police force usually ended up in a horrible shit fight and he hated the idea of ruling for the crown that the two senior policemen in the Special Branch of the South African police force had a case to answer.

Magistrate Coetzee knew nothing of the hate which Geldenhuis felt for Peekay, but he knew how difficult it would be for a young barrister's career if he earned the enmity of the police force at the outset. Peekay would almost certainly lose his case; but win or lose he could expect a rocky road ahead in his career.

The tired old magistrate hoped that it might be otherwise for the young lawyer; but he told himself that if he knew anything about men, Peekay wasn't going to give up easily. Momentarily he wished that he wasn't so old and cynical and that his gout didn't play up as much as it did. He would have liked to keep the hearing in the Magistrates Courts and preside over it himself. It would have given him the opportunity to match wits against the young advocate who carried a flaming sword and a fine mind into battle. He told himself he would also, in the process, have tried very hard to see that justice was done.

But Magistrate Coetzee had too much brandy under his belt and too many years on the bench to want to take on a trial which could last who knows how long? His transfer from Durban to Johannesburg was his last before he retired and he wanted his remaining few years to be as peaceful as possible. At his age he knew better than to be caught in the crossfire. He had fifty acres waiting for him in the Eastern Transvaal where his land formed part of a bend in the Crocodile River. There, small buck and guinea fowl and an occasional warthog came to drink at sunset and when you lay at night in bed you could hear the distant crash of the rapids as the water swept across the rocks in a bend in the river.

Magistrate Coetzee comforted himself that he could look forward with some anticipation to following the ensuing court case. He would take great pleasure in watching the way this upstart from Oxford would conduct it. On the other hand, the young advocate was about to make a lot of trouble for everyone, trouble which could be avoided if Magistrate Coetzee now ruled that insufficient evidence existed for the case to go on trial. The police would be happy and, in the long run, he'd be doing the young rooinek lawyer a real favour. Personally he wasn't under any illusions; a Bantu death, no matter how you looked at it, wasn't equal to a white one. Why then should he care? His duty in this matter was plain: he would serve Pretoria best by declaring that no proper evidence existed to justify a trial.

At the end of the third day's hearing, at two in the afternoon, immediately after the court had returned from luncheon recess, Magistrate Coetzee announced that, in the opinion of the court, a prima-facie case existed against the two members of the South African police force, Lieutenant J. Geldenhuis and Colonel N. J. P. Klaasens, together with persons unknown, for conspiring to abduct a patient from his hospital bed and, as a result, to cause him such grievous bodily harm as to lead to his death. Peekay had won the right to go to trial.

For Jannie Geldenhuis the news was devastating. His defeat by Mandoma had left him severely depressed, to the point where he'd considered taking his own life. He knew he would never step into the ring with Peekay and to add to this, he would now have to appear for cross-examination before the man he hated the most in the world. He, Jannie Geldenhuis, a brilliant young lieutenant in the police force would have to stand in the dock, not as an officer of the law, but as someone whose reputation and career was on trial. And what for? For the death of a stinking black kaffir, a meat bag whom they'd tossed into a cell because he'd been stupid enough to talk to Peekay and Mandoma. What the fuck did the black bastard expect? They'd paid him good money to be a sparring partner. In his sick head, Geldenhuis told himself that Tom Majombi had been a plant. How else would Peekay have known about him? He had gone directly to Baragwanath the day Majombi had been admitted. It was too bloody neat. It was a conspiracy, a conspiracy to make sure that he never got a chance to fight Peekay. Majombi was a deliberate plant, he'd been feeding Mandoma information prior to the fight. The reason he'd lost was because Tom Majombi had told Gideon about his weaknesses. The rooinek and the Jew had framed him. Jesus! He and Klaasens had played right into Peekay's hands! By stupidly allowing the Zulu fighter to die in an isolated police cell, there was now no possibility of proving that such a conspiracy had existed. Geldenhuis felt sick at the stupidity he had shown.

The more Geldenhuis thought about it, the more convinced he became that
he
was the victim and not Tom Majombi. What did they care about another shit black fighter? It had to be a set-up! Otherwise why. would Peekay agree to pay Majombi's hospital expenses? Since when do white guys go around paying the hospital fees for kaffirs they don't even know?

Geldenhuis shook his head, disgusted with himself. If only he'd realized sooner, he would have made the black bastard confess. He was suddenly angry again. It was fucking Klaasens! He'd assumed control of the abduction and in the process he'd totally fucked things up.

Geldenhuis told himself that had he been in charge he'd have thought it out. He'd have discovered the plot. Klaasens hadn't even talked to Majombi. Christ! That was fundamental police stuff, routine, the sort of information you fall over without even trying when you're conducting an interrogation. He would have kept Majombi alive to confess in court and then later quietly killed the black bastard.

Geldenhuis winced at the stupidity of the whole thing. The rooinek and the Jew had played him for a sucker. Now Peekay had him crucified. He, Jannie Geldenhuis, was indicted on a fucking murder charge!

When the young policeman had fitted all the pieces together his physical reaction to his total dismay was a compulsion to throw up. The vomiting and retching continued for an hour until he was so weak he sank to his knees in front of the toilet with his head hanging into the bowl. Every time he threw up he swore to God that, come what may, he would spend the remainder of his life dedicated to the destruction of Peekay. The kaffir didn't matter; he'd get Mandoma anyway; but it was Peekay and the Jew - above all, Peekay. He wouldn't rest until he'd killed him, but before he did that he would humiliate him. He would find a way to discredit him in the eyes of everyone, to totally destroy him.

Finally someone found Geldenhuis unconscious, with his head resting in the toilet basin, his hair swimming in his own sick.

Magistrate Coetzee set a date for the trial to come before a judge six months ahead. Peekay immediately filed for a further three-month postponement so that he could defend his welterweight title against Gideon Mandoma. His request was rejected by the chief magistrate and Peekay faced the prospect of going into court three days after the first defence of his title.

Peekay's title defence proved to be as big an affair as the fight with Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson, though this time the home crowd was torn between the Tadpole Angel and the charismatic young chief, Gideon Mandoma.

Gideon had meanwhile fought Togger Brown in Orlando Stadium for the British Empire title. Peekay and Solly Goldman were in Togger's corner; Dutch Holland, who'd moved over to train Gideon after Peekay's world title fight, handled the black boxer with Mr Nguni. Mandoma's aggressive punching, especially with the left hand, proved too strong for the mercurial Togger; Gideon defeated him fairly convincingly by knocking him out in the thirteenth round of the scheduled fifteen-round fight.

Dutch Holland now owned fifteen per cent of Gideon which, if Gideon made it to the world title, would prove to be a nice little earner for him. Peekay had persuaded Gideon to allow Hymie to draw up his new contract; when all was said and done, Hymie had managed by a combination of implied threats and cajoling to get Mr Nguni to agree to a maximum of twenty per cent for himself with all out-of-pocket expenses exceeding twenty 'per cent of the gate coming from his cut.

At the outset Mr Nguni had opposed the new arrangement although, properly handled, it was a decent enough cut. Peekay was hugely surprised when he discovered that Gideon's manager had previously owned seventy-five per cent of the black boxer.

Peekay confronted Gideon when he'd heard of Mr Nguni's cut. 'Gideon, how did you get this insane contract?

'You're not stupid.'

Gideon laughed. 'It was a long time ago. I was sixteen years old and hungry. Nguni, he told me to touch the pencil and he would feed and clothe me and put money in my pocket. It is the same with all his fighters and soccer players also.' He looked at Peekay. 'Nguni is a chief, but he is also
namandla
and he has many, many cattle. He is very powerful; these boys they come from his
isigodi,
they must do what he says.'

'And you?'

Gideon drew back, puffing up. 'No, Bra! I am same like him, I am chief, I am not from his
isigodi.
That paper, it was because I was hungry and still
umfana,
but I am not a boy now, now it will be okay, you will see.'

Hymie asked Peekay not to make a fuss about the other black sportsmen until they'd sorted out Gideon's contract with Mr Nguni. He patiently persuaded the black boxing manager that, should Gideon become world champion, Mr Nguni stood to be infinitely better off. Furthermore, Gideon could well defend his title as many as a dozen times. The profit opportunity represented was a hundred times greater than seventy-five per cent of a good undercard fighter.

Hymie felt a little foolish explaining all this to the huge black man. Mr Nguni was a shrewd and resourceful businessman and Hymie told himself he would have seen the advantages immediately. Why was he making him spell things out so laboriously in front of Peekay and Gideon? What was Nguni up to? Mr Nguni seemed reluctant at first to agree. What he seemed to be baulking at was the principle that his fighter would receive the bigger share of the prize money. It was essentially a matter of face.

Peekay was aware that it wasn't the money but the percentages which concerned Mr Nguni. They made Gideon of greater importance than himself in the partnership. Peekay pointed out to Mr Nguni that Gideon was a chief in his own right, that the contract in the tribal sense was between two equals and that therefore a precedent existed for the uneven split.

Although nothing had been said, Peekay was certain Mr Nguni would be aware he was prepared to hold up the contract for the title fight indefinitely unless he agreed to Hymie's proposed contract. Nevertheless, he was surprised when Mr Nguni seemed suddenly to capitulate and accept his argument of the equality of two chiefs and also, without equivocation, all the clauses that Hymie had drawn up to protect Gideon's principle sum.

Mr Nguni was no fool. He knew Peekay held the better hand. His only concern was not to lose face in front of Gideon. Zulus talk and if it got out that Gideon's
isigodi
had got the better of his, he would be shamed. This he prevented by making Hymie spell out the deal in Gideon's presence and also by forcing Peekay to use the precedent of the two equal chiefs. The huge Zulu was an ambitious man with long-term plans for himself, most of which relied heavily on the possibility of Gideon becoming the world champ. Hymie was right, he'd end up making more money anyway, even though he controlled a smaller share of Gideon. But, for the time being anyway, money alone wasn't at the root of his ambition.

To be the manager of a world champion was a position Mr Nguni wanted more than anything. It would put him on a par with the black American fight promoters, which in the eyes of South Africa's black people, would earn him enormous kudos. But it would do something else as well. Mr Nguni's secret political ambitions had very little to do with the ANC's struggle for freedom, which he basically saw as a waste of time. He wanted to be seen as a black man among important white people in the capitals of the world. This would do a great deal for his future status in the white political arena.

Mr Nguni was a hard-eyed realist. Come the black revolution, he was confident that he could buy the political leverage he needed. Revolutions always need money and when the time came he would trade it for power, which in turn would earn him more money. It was all very simple. Keep your nose clean and don't confront either side, the ANC or the white government. But what about the other consideration? What if the revolution didn't come? What if the
amaBhunu,
the Boers, won the fight again, as seemed more than likely? Already they were talking in Pretoria of creating separate bantustans, separate independent countries for the various black tribes. The Zulu tribe was three million strong, nearly one quarter of the total black population. When the time came for the independent state of the Zulu people, they would need a president. This president would have to be carefully chosen. He would need to be a chief in his own right, a man of impeccable credentials who outwardly seemed to be his own man, acceptable to his own people, both the migrants from the townships and the peasants on the land. It would also help if he appeared independently wealthy, a man of the world who believed in the capitalist system and was respected by the white-political leaders of other countries. But, above all, he would need to be someone the white government in Pretoria could trust. President Nguni had a nice ring to it.