There were some people, of course, who clearly had no intention of doing their best—Violet Sephotho, for instance, but that was another matter … Fanwell’s trial: that was the thing she would have to think about now. Poor Fanwell—how would he be feeling now? She imagined that he would not sleep that night—how could one be expected to sleep, knowing that at nine o’clock the next morning one would be standing in the dock facing the full force of the law of Botswana?

She looked down into her cup. If only she could speak to the magistrate, whoever he was, and tell him what sort of young man Fanwell was; of course he would be reading the letter that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had so painstakingly drafted that would say much about Fanwell’s character—and she had drafted one too—but it was one thing to receive a letter, quite another to have somebody express her feelings to you in person. If she were to be given five minutes—only five minutes—with the magistrate, she would explain to him that it was simply impossible that Fanwell would knowingly fix a stolen car. He was not like that; it was just not in his character. She would say, “Rra, I beg you. Rra, I beg you: listen to what I am saying. I have met many wicked people in my work, Rra—just as you have—and I’m telling you, Rra, from the bottom of my heart I do not think this young man could have done what they say he has done.”

She sighed, and took a sip of her tea. Magistrates must hear that sort of thing day in, day out. They could be forgiven if their eyes glazed over, or if they looked out of the window in the face of such pleas. Everyone has a mother who believes in them; everyone has somebody who says that they would never do anything wrong; of course they have. And the job of a magistrate was not to let everybody off just because their mother, or their aunt, or their employer spoke highly of them.

Again her eyes moved over the members of the group. It was interesting, she thought, to see how different people held their teacups: that woman over there, for example—the woman who sometimes arranged the flowers and whose daughter had married that man whose brother was a pilot with Air Botswana—that woman held her cup round the rim, ignoring the handle. And the man she was talking to was balancing the saucer on his palm as if his hand were a table; it was very strange. And the man next to him, the one in the dark suit … he was a lawyer. She stopped; a possibility had occurred to her. He was a lawyer.