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the thick folded envelope of cash in his jacket. The back of his knees itched maddeningly.
    Richard’s cellphone vibrated in his suit pocket as it registered a new SMS. The phone identified his wife Amanda as the sender. He stood in the shade of a stunted plane tree while he read the lengthy note: she had a book club meeting; Raine must be in bed at a decent time; supper was in the fridge; the dogs must be fed. Richard felt a surge of irritation. The message felt like an intrusion into his rarefied business world, as if his status as breadwinner was slighted by inconsequential domestic instructions. The implication was that he needed guidance to attend to his own family’s needs. Or, perhaps, just that Amanda had enough time on her hands to tap out such comprehensive instructions.
    He became increasingly aware of a stale smell as he scrolled down the message. He put the phone away and glanced down at the base of the tree. Among the scattered pieces of chip packet and cigarette butts lay a curl of drying human turd, inches from his right foot. ‘Jesus,’ he exclaimed, jumping back out of the shade into the sunlight. He looked around him, as if he expected the culprit still to be present, walking away and pulling up his trousers. An old bergie was sitting on the low wall, his arms draped over his knees like limp seaweed. He opened his mouth wide, as if he were yawning, and revealed a haphazard assortment of broken teeth. Richard did not wait to listen and quickly strode after Svritsky, trying to elude the odour that trailed after him.
     
    The preliminary hearing was held two days later in front of regional court magistrate Mrs Shirley Abrahams. Abrahams was a middle-aged and experienced criminal-court magistrate who had handled some of the most serious trials to come to the regional court. Her standards were high and she did not adopt the same flexibility towards procedural formalities that had crept into some of her colleagues’ courtrooms. She was known for being tough on crime, but Richard was certain of her impartiality. Several years before, when she was still in the district court, she had presided over a bail hearing where Svritsky was charged with attempted murder. As Richard expected, it was the first matter to be raised in the new case.
    ‘Mr Calloway, as you are no doubt aware, your client is not unknown to me. I heard a bail application some time ago in case number 1043/06 in the district court. Does your client have any difficulty with me presiding in this matter?’
    ‘No, Your Worship, thank you. I have discussed the matter in anticipation with my client and we are both perfectly happy that you preside.’
    Abrahams nodded briefly in acknowledgement. ‘Fine. Now, before we proceed further, I understand you have something to say?’
    Richard shuffled his notes in front of him. ‘Yes, thank you, Your Worship, with the Court’s leave.’ He glanced across at his opponent. The NPA had entrusted the prosecution to a relatively junior prosecutor, Bradley Dumbela. Dumbela had risen rapidly through the ranks of the district prosecutors, impressing with his preparation, his courtroom manner and his efficiency. He was a slim, well-groomed young man, an impeccably conservative dresser who never removed his black suit-jacket and wore only a restrained choice in ties. Dumbela was watching Richard closely, his pen poised above a fresh page.
    ‘Yes, Your Worship,’ Richard repeated, looking up to the bench. He paused, waiting for his thoughts to clear. Once he felt his mind focus, he continued: ‘It is our submission that my client will be prejudiced in his preparation for this trial, and indeed in proceeding with this trial any further, until such time as we have clarity firstly on the identity of the witness referred to in the State’s only eyewitness statement and, secondly, on the content of that statement. Your Worship, if I may hand up a copy of those notes, Your Worship will see what I am talking