“I brought the things you asked for.” I take out the rest of the cigarettes and the money and slide them across the table. I glance at the guard, but he is staring over our heads.

My father is happy with the cigarettes, but disappointed with the money. “Is that all?”

“It’s all I have. I should get paid later this month, and then I can bring more.”

“I won’t be here later in the month,” he says with a look at his lawyer. “I’ll be out of here on Tuesday.”

Abigail Nkabinde’s face urges caution. “One way or another,” she says.

“What do you mean?” My father’s face falls. The whole superstructure of his cheeks, lips and chin sags downwards. It is the look of a baby processing its disappointment and about to cry.

“You will either be released on bail or you will be taken to join the awaiting-trial population at Table Bay Prison. I already explained this, Mr. Lurie.”

“If you do your job properly, I’ll be released on bail. You will do your job properly, won’t you, Ms. Nkabinde?”

“I will, but it’ll be up to the magistrate to decide. There is always that element of unpredictability in any court proceeding.”

“But they’ll listen to you, won’t they? A black woman, I mean. They know you wouldn’t argue something unless you really believed it.”

“Mr. Lurie, I will represent you to the very best of my ability because that is my duty to you as my client. My personal beliefs don’t enter into the matter. They are irrelevant.”

“Okay, but for you as a black woman to stand up and defend a white man . . . well, it looks good, doesn’t it? It looks like I can’t be such a bad guy after all if I’ve got this black woman representing me.”

The lawyer’s mask of professional courtesy disintegrates for a second and I glimpse the frustration beneath. She composes herself.

“I promise to do my very best for you, Mr. Lurie. You can count on it.”

My father seems satisfied with that.

I turn towards him. “Where are they keeping you?”

Again, Ms. Nkabinde moves to body-block me. “Please keep your distance from my client, Ms. Lurie.”

“I’m not going to hurt him.”

My father subjects my face to a long and anxious scrutiny. Then he laughs. “You don’t have to worry about the girl,” he says. “She doesn’t want to hurt me. You can let her stay there—she won’t do anything to me. I told you she would understand.”