I hand over the box of cigarettes and she waits while I fiddle in my wallet for the money I drew on the way here. I hand that over, too. She takes a handful of cigarettes out of the pack and peels off five hundred rand from the slim sheaf of money. She gives the rest back to me.

“I don’t understand.”

“This is for the guard. If I don’t give him his cut, he won’t allow us to give anything to your father. It is against the rules, but he will look the other way if we make it worth his while.”

Ms. Nkabinde looks at the meagre amount of money left in my hands.

“Is that all you brought? It’s not much, is it?”

“It was all I had in my account. I should get paid for an editing job soon, but until then I can’t manage any more.”

“There was no money at your father’s apartment?”

“Not that I could find. Only coins.”

“You drew your own money to give to him?”

“Yes.”

She opens her mouth to say something and shuts it again. There is a world of pity in her eyes. For a moment, I see myself as she must see me—the very model of a modern Stockholm syndrome. Then it is gone, and she is all business again.

“I’ll see if they are ready for us.”

She goes to the customer services counter and has an emphatic conversation with the constable on duty. When she turns back to me, she is smiling.

“Let’s go,” she says.

She leads me to the same interview room I was excluded from on Saturday. This time I am allowed in. My father is waiting there. He is still wearing his normal clothes. There are shackles on his ankles, but his wrists are unencumbered. There is a guard in the room. Ms. Nkabinde consults briefly with him, and hands over the money and cigarettes. He takes a step back, and leans against the wall, watching us closely.

I approach my father, intending to take a seat at the table opposite him. The lawyer blocks me again. She interposes her body between us in a manner that is clearly protective.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Please don’t approach my client.”

“I was going to sit down.”

“You can sit if my client agrees, but you will not get within arm’s length of him. Please don’t make any sudden movements, Ms. Lurie, or I will be forced to escort you out.”

She looks at my father, and he nods. It is okay for me to sit down.

I slide slowly into place at the table, trying to keep my movements as un-sudden as possible.