“You’re not . . . you’re not under arrest, are you?” I feel stupid even asking the question.

“Yes, that is what has happened. I am under arrest. They are keeping me in the police cells, but they let me make a phone call.”

“But that is ridiculous. They’ve gone too far this time. I’ll come right away, and I’ll bring your lawyer. What is his name again?”

“It was Corno Claasen, but I think he has left the firm. He was going to retire. The firm is called Claasen, Nkabinde and Marriot. You need to phone them and get them to send someone to the Mowbray police station immediately.”

Adrenalin floods my body, banishing the last wisps of sleep. I am ready to do this. I am ready to gallop to my father’s rescue. No son could be more capable or more determined. My fear of driving is nothing next to my need to be of service to my father.

Twenty minutes later, I am in my car rushing to Mowbray. I phoned the attorneys and they told me someone would meet me there. They said they took very few criminal cases, but I reminded them that my father was a long-standing client and that this was a matter of alleged insurance fraud, and therefore more civil than criminal anyway.

The traffic is light for a Saturday afternoon and I make good time. I come down off the highway to Main Road in Woodstock, where the traffic lights are in my favour until I get to the big intersection at Roodebloem Road. As I bring the car to a stop, I am boxed in. There are cars in front of me, behind me, and on either side of me. The usual collection of hawkers and beggars moves between the cars, selling phone chargers, and asking for money.

My door isn’t locked. As a hawker approaches, I slide my hand sideways and lock the door with a clicking sound that reverberates up and down the street. The man motions for me to roll down my window, which I do.

“You locked your door as I approached,” he says. “Would you have done that for a white man?”

“Of course. One is always vulnerable at intersections. It had nothing to do with the fact that you are black.”

He stares at me in silence. The interrogation in his gaze unmans me. Unwomans me.

“You’re right,” I say. “It had everything to do with the fact that you are black. I profile black people all the time, especially black men. I associate them with criminality.”

“And how do you suppose that makes me feel?”

“Hurt. Abused. Angry. Overwhelmed by frustration and a sense of injustice.”

“Precisely.”

“I’m sorry. But I do have an excuse.”

“And what might that be? You were mugged by a black man? Your house was broken into? Your mother had a bad experience with a black man?”