I wait for my father to turn towards me, eyebrows raised in incredulity, demanding to know the meaning of this. Instead he grasps her hand and shakes it warmly.

“Hello, ma’am. Hello. Thank you for coming. This is good. This is very good.” He turns to me, rubbing his hands together. “You’ve done well, girl. Now we’ll get somewhere at last.”

I bask in the unaccustomed praise. “We’ll get you out of here soon, Dad. It’s ridiculous for them to have arrested you at all. This is a misunderstanding. Just tell Ms. Nkabinde exactly what they’re accusing you of, because I would have thought that insurance fraud was more of a civil matter than a criminal one.”

A glance passes between my father and the lawyer. She steps forward, interposing her body between us. “Ms. Lurie, I’d like to speak privately with my client. Could you wait outside?”

“That’s not necessary. I know all about it. I was part of it, in a way. They’ll probably call on me to testify.”

She touches my elbow and guides me out of the room. “This won’t take long, Ms. Lurie.”

The door is shut in my face. I try not to take it personally. Attorney-client privilege is king. This isn’t about me. I need to let the process run its course.

I take a seat on a bench in the passageway. I smell dust and lemon polish. It is the smell of boarding schools and public institutions. It is a smell that strips away one’s illusions of selfdetermination. You become a cog in the machine, but not a useful cog. Not a cog that knows its place. You become a cog that rattles around uselessly while the other cogs move together with oiled precision. They are going about their business—policemen and women in uniform striding up and down the corridor, clutching paper. Their weapons jut from their hips, thickening their silhouettes and giving them a wide-based gait.

I retreat into the world of my phone, scrolling through social media posts and news sites. It is a soothing world. Everything that appears in my feed is designed to reinforce my world view. I permit no cognitive dissonance to intrude. It is a world I can lose myself in for hours.

I am in the middle of reading about “10 things that Muslim women wish white feminists would stop doing” when I become aware of a weight descending onto the bench next to me. It is a policewoman. She is fanning herself with a manila folder.

She glances at me and smiles.

“Whoo!” she says. “Hot today.”

I nod in agreement, although it isn’t particularly hot. The way she is sweating, I suspect she is having a hot flash. She is of menopausal age and seems grateful for the opportunity to sit down.