“Fantastic. Then if we’re all happy?” He glances around the table, collecting nods. “Great. I think we’re done here. Miss Lurie, we’ll just pop this into the form of an affidavit for you to sign tomorrow. Do you think you could stop by and sign it in the morning? Would that be convenient?”

It would be extremely inconvenient, but I agree like a woman who is not difficult. Then I accept handshakes and thanks from everyone. The mood in the room is buoyant, as though some obstacle has been cleared. I suppose the obstacle was me. They have leaped effortlessly over any difficulty I may have caused them, and now they are giddy with relief.

Being helpful is supposed to make one feel warm and uplifted. Am I warm and uplifted? Possibly. Am I relieved that it is over? Yes.

* * *

Later that day, I am afforded another opportunity to be helpful.

It arrives at my door in the form of two prosecutors from the NPA—the National Prosecuting Authority. Their names are Advocate Meintjies and Advocate Ndlovu. They are accompanied by a young woman whom they introduce as a student who is doing work experience in their office. I am told that her name is Itumeleng. I am not told her surname. I invite them into my house, but don’t offer them anything to drink. They ask me if it is true that I am testifying for the defence.

“How did you hear about that?”

“You were seen going into Huguenot Chambers this morning,” says Ndlovu. “It was an obvious conclusion to reach.”

“They took a statement from me. They haven’t said anything about testifying.”

“But you’re on their witness list.”

“I had no idea.”

“The thing is,” says Meintjies. “We want you to testify for us.”

“Against my father, you mean?”

“That is correct.”

“You must see how awkward that would be. I don’t think I’d be able to do it.”

Advocate Ndlovu frowns. “If we subpoena you, you won’t have a choice.”

I think about this as I play with the crocheted blanket next to me on the chair. I like to stick my fingers through the holes and enlarge them by pulling and fiddling with the wool. My knowledge of legal matters is rudimentary, gleaned from movies and television. I don’t know exactly what a subpoena is, but I have an idea it is something that will compel me to show up in court on a particular day and answer questions in the course of a trial.

“You can do that,” I say. “But you can’t force me to say what you want me to say.”

“Perjury is against the law, Miss Lurie,” says Advocate Meintjies. “If you are found to have lied to the court, you could go to jail.”

I have five fingers stuck into the blanket now. I am twisting and turning them, flexing my knuckles to make the holes bigger.