“This should be easy to sort out,” I tell Ms. Nkabinde. “They suspect my father of insurance fraud. I’m not saying they are right, but there is no reason to detain him over the weekend. Perhaps he will have to forfeit his insurance payout, or even pay a fine or something, but there is no reason for this excessive zeal on the part of the police.”

The lawyer gives me a look. “Why don’t you take me to my client?”

I squirm. Watching my father interact with black people like a feudal lord bossing the serfs around makes me uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable enough to confront him about it. Not since I was a teenager and steeped in self-righteousness. But that’s what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it? As politically aware white South Africans we are supposed to take every opportunity to educate our less conscientised brethren. We are supposed to take a stand at braais and around dinner tables. We’re meant to pound our fists and say, “Enough. Your attitudes are unacceptable. You can’t treat people like this. We won’t allow it.”

How many of us do that, I wonder? I imagine myself saying to my father, “Don’t speak to Abigail Nkabinde like she’s a lesser human being. She is your lawyer. She knows more about the law than you do. She is here to help you and she deserves the same respect you would give to a white man in her position.”

It would lead to an irrevocable breakdown in our relationship. I would become estranged from my only living relative. A wave of self-pity washes over me as I think of the sacrifice I’d be making in the name of political duty.

“Why don’t I go and speak to my father while you negotiate with the police?” I suggest.

“I need to speak to my client.”

She will pay for her implacability by being patronised.

We announce ourselves at a desk called Customer Services. A police officer disappears for a minute. Then he comes back and escorts us to an interview room where my father is sitting. I half expect to find him in an orange jumpsuit, but he is wearing normal clothes. A crocodile peeks out at me next to the breast pocket of his mauve shirt.

I step forward to run interference between him and the lawyer.

“Hello, Dad. How are you? I’m so sorry this has happened. But we’ll get it sorted out, I promise. I phoned the lawyers like you asked and it turns out that Corno Claasen has retired, just as you thought. They’ve sent their very best criminal attorney, Dad. This is Abigail Nkabinde, Dad—she’s one of the partners.”

I have to breathe in deeply before I pass out.

The lawyer steps forward with her hand extended. “Mr. Lurie, it’s good to meet you.”