The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “So, Mma, how are you?”

  She might have replied that her world, in various respects, was falling down about her head, but she did not. “Everything is fine, Rra, and you?”

  Everything was fine in his world too, he said; indeed, it could not be better—he had recently won a major case and his client had given him a large Brahmin bull as a present. “Your late father would have approved of this bull, Mma Ramotswe. He is a very fine beast, and we will breed many good cattle from him.”

  Mma Ramotswe expressed her satisfaction at this. “A good bull is better than—”

  “A bad bull,” the lawyer chipped in, and laughed. “There is no doubt, Mma Ramotswe, that it’s worth paying for the best.”

  She smiled at this, but ruefully. This man was a good lawyer—everybody said that—and his clients obviously paid well for his services. Fanwell’s lawyer, by contrast, was reputedly hopeless, and yet Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had already paid handsomely for him.

  “My husband has a young mechanic,” she said. “He works in the garage—a very good young man. But unfortunately he has got into a bit of trouble.”

  The lawyer shook his head. “Young men and trouble—those two things go together, Mma.”

  “Yes, Rra.”

  The lawyer gave her a searching look. “Are you wanting me to help him, Mma?”

  She looked at him hopefully. “He has a lawyer,” she began. “But I am not sure about him.”

  “Well, in that case there won’t be anything I can do, Mma. Lawyers are not allowed to steal clients from other lawyers. I’d get into big trouble if I did that.” He took a sip of his tea. “I imagine it’s the same with private detectives. You cannot take another detective’s clients, can you?”

  She wanted to explain to him that there were no other private detectives in Botswana, but he had more to say.

  “That can be a good thing, I suppose, but it can also be a bad thing. Particularly if you get a bad lawyer. But I’m sure this person you have is fine. Tell me, who is he? Or she?”

  Mma Ramotswe gave him the name just as he was taking another sip of his tea. She was not prepared for his reaction, which was to splutter, almost to choke, sending a spurt of tea down his chin and onto his shirt-front.

  “Oh, Rra, I’m sorry. Please let me.” She fished for her handkerchief to wipe at the tea stain.

  “I’m all right, Mma Ramotswe. Don’t worry. It’s just that … well, it’s just that that man is absolutely useless. I know I shouldn’t speak about a fellow member of my profession like that, but I can think of nothing else to say. He knows no law at all, Mma—none. In fact, none of us knows how he ever managed to get his LLB in the first place. Maybe they’re putting law degrees in cornflakes boxes these days.”

  There was little comfort in this conversation. She had been hoping that somehow this man might offer to help, yet he seemed to have precluded the possibility. But then he lowered his voice and said, “Don’t tell anybody this, but the young man could fire him. Then, once he has no lawyer, he could contact me and I could see what I could do.”

  Mma Ramotswe reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Oh, Rra, that is such good news.”

  “When is he due to appear in court?”

  “Tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”

  The lawyer recoiled. “Tomorrow? Oh dear, Mma, that will not be possible then. He cannot dismiss his lawyer at the last moment, because I won’t have time to read the papers in the case, and anyway, I am busy for the next three weeks. I have a big case for the Government.”

  “So he’ll have to stick with the lawyer he has?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mma. And maybe it won’t be too bad. You never know with the law. It’s a bit of a lottery, as they say: you win some and you lose some.” His tone was sympathetic. “This young man, of course, might be one of the losers.”

  She thanked him. “You have been very kind, Rra.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything, Mma, but I hope all goes well … if he’s innocent. If he’s guilty, well, then he’s guilty.”

  She felt she could not argue with that. Perhaps that was why this lawyer had the reputation he did: because he put things succinctly, in a way that anybody could understand.

  MR. J.L.B. MATEKONI drove Fanwell to court the next day in his garage truck, with Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi following in the white van. The magistrate’s court was in a handsome new building of an open disposition that in no way spoke of the distressing events which it witnessed daily: the accounts of petty crime, the tears and protests of litigants, the outrage and the untruths—in short, the business of the average court. This court stood on the road to the jail, a fact that both Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi could not help thinking about as they drove there that morning but also secretly hoped would not be relevant to Fanwell.

  From behind the wheel of the truck, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni dispensed a few final bits of advice. “When you speak,” he said, “look at the magistrate as you give the answers. Don’t look at him cheekily—don’t stare—but look at him as you would look at a priest or a headmaster: with respect.”

  Fanwell nodded miserably. “I will, Boss.”

  “And here’s another thing. The person who’s going to be asking you questions is called the prosecutor. He may try to make it look as if you’re lying.”

  “But I’m not lying,” protested Fanwell.

  “I know that,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “But you have to remember that the people in the court don’t know that. So what I was going to say to you is this: you mustn’t lose your temper with that person, whatever he asks you. You just reply very calmly and say, ‘I am telling the truth, Rra.’ That is what you must say. Understand?”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni glanced at his young employee. His heart went out to him—it really did; sitting there in that ill-fitting suit with a white collar and tie, and all the time inside he must be shaking and trembling. Poor, poor boy—and he really was just a boy, this young man; he may have been in his early twenties, but at that moment he looked not much more than fifteen. And he had worked so hard and been so good to his demanding family.

  “I want you to know something, Fanwell,” he said. “Whatever happens today—whether they listen to you or not—Mma Ramotswe and I both believe you. And we will never lose our faith in you. We will not. You remember that.”

  Fanwell said nothing.

  “Did you hear that, Fanwell?”

  The young man nodded. “I’m scared, Boss.” His voice was small and timid.

  “Of course you’re scared. Who wouldn’t be? But you be brave now, Fanwell. You do that for me. You be brave. And remember what I said.”

  They drew up in front of the court, where Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni parked the truck. Mma Ramotswe’s van drew up next to the truck, and the four of them walked into the court.

  “Charlie’s already there,” whispered Mma Makutsi as they approached the public seats. “He said he would be here early.”

  They slid into one of the bench seats, with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni sitting next to Charlie. Fanwell had reported to the office and was now in the custody of the police, along with a handful of others awaiting trial. They glimpsed him as he was led away, and Mma Ramotswe’s heart lurched. He’s too young for this, she thought. He’s far too young.

  The next to arrive was the lawyer, who was wearing a black gown over his suit and was carrying a pile of dishevelled papers. Mma Makutsi looked at these papers critically, and Mma Ramotswe, noticing this, realised what lay behind this critical look: it was a filing issue. She closed her eyes. Cornflakes, she thought.

  The lawyer greeted them absentmindedly. “They have found his fellow-accused,” he said, reading a name from the paper at the top of his pile. “One Mr. Chombie.”

  “Chobie,” hissed Mma Makutsi. “You should get the name of your clients right, Rra.”

  The lawyer looked up in surprise. “But he’s not my client, Mma. They have very different interests, you see.”

  Mma Ramotswe leaned forwa
rd to ask the lawyer a question. “Is this Chobie going to tell them that Fanwell did not know that the vehicle was stolen?”

  The lawyer looked at his papers. “Not according to his statement,” he said. “He is going to say that Fanwell knew that it was stolen and that he, Chombie, did not.”

  Mma Makutsi exploded. “But that’s a lie, Rra! That’s a big, big lie.”

  The lawyer shrugged. “These fellows are always telling lies,” he said. “You know, Mma, if this building were a cinema and they had a big board outside saying what was showing, they would have to put LIES in big letters. Then they might add, EVERY DAY ADMISSION FREE.” He laughed at his joke, which was greeted with silence from the others.

  “This is very serious …,” Mma Ramotswe began, but could not finish, as Fanwell and Chobie were now being led into the dock and the court had gone quiet.

  “The trial is about to begin,” whispered the lawyer helpfully. “You must stop talking now.”

  The lawyer representing Chobie had now arrived—a small man with a bustling sense of energy. He seemed to be much more in command of the situation than Fanwell’s lawyer, whom he acknowledged with only a curt nod of the head.

  “That is a real lawyer,” whispered Mma Makutsi. “See how different he looks.”

  It was now the turn of the magistrate to enter, which he did through a door at the back of the court. A policeman indicated that everybody should stand up, and there was shuffling and murmuring as people got to their feet. Unfortunately, Fanwell had been looking down at the floor when this happened, and did not see either the policeman’s gesture or the figure of the magistrate entering the court. He remained seated.

  “Fanwell!” hissed Mma Ramotswe. “Fanwell, stand up, stand up!”

  It was too late. Fanwell heard his name, but being unaware of where the voice came from he looked in the wrong direction. And by that time the magistrate had taken his seat and everybody in the court had sat down too.

  The magistrate had noticed. Frowning, he nodded to the policeman who was standing immediately behind Fanwell. The policeman leaned forward and seized Fanwell’s arm, pulling him to his feet. Fanwell looked completely dismayed; he had now realised what was going on and glanced desperately in the direction of the lawyer. But the lawyer simply shook a finger at him.

  “Young man,” the magistrate said. “Do you know what contempt of court is?”

  Fanwell looked blank.

  The lawyer now rose to his feet. “I represent this man,” he said.

  “I know you do,” snapped the magistrate. “Can your client speak?”

  The lawyer nodded. “He can speak, sir.”

  “Then tell him to answer me. Does he know what contempt of court is?”

  The lawyer looked at Fanwell. “Do you know what contempt of court is?”

  Fanwell shook his head.

  “Well,” said the magistrate, “let me tell you. It is the offence that is committed by a person who fails to show proper respect for the court. So not standing up when the magistrate or judge enters is contempt of court, and it can be punished there and then with a fine or imprisonment.”

  Fanwell groaned. “I’m sorry, sir. I did not hear.”

  The magistrate looked at him in silence. “Well, remember what I said to you.” He looked down at his papers. “Pleas?”

  Fanwell’s lawyer stood up. “My client is not guilty, sir.”

  The magistrate looked at him incredulously. “That is not for you to say, don’t you think?”

  The lawyer looked flustered. “He is not guilty, sir.”

  The magistrate sighed. “Listen, Mr.…” He consulted a piece of paper in front of him. “Listen Mr. Mapoeli, the point I’m making is this: whether or not your client is guilty is a matter for the court to decide—it is not for you to say. What I want from you is his plea. Is he pleading guilty or not guilty?”

  The lawyer smoothed the front of his jacket. “He is pleading guilty, sir.”

  The magistrate nodded. “Very well. Guilty.”

  Mma Ramotswe gripped Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s arm. “He’s got it wrong,” she whispered. “He’s pleading not guilty.”

  Fanwell was now tugging at his lawyer’s sleeve. The lawyer, however, was attempting to brush him off. “Not now, Fanwell. You can speak later.”

  Witnessing this, Mma Ramotswe could not contain herself. “He’s pleading not guilty,” she said in a loud voice.

  The magistrate looked up sharply. “Who is that? Who’s speaking?”

  Mma Ramotswe raised a hand. “Me, sir.”

  “The public is not to address the court,” said the magistrate. “I will not tolerate any disturbances. Is that quite clear?”

  Fanwell’s lawyer cleared his throat. “For the avoidance of doubt, your honour, my client is pleading not guilty to the charge.”

  The magistrate took off his spectacles and polished them with his handkerchief. “He’s changing his plea, is he?”

  “Not changing it, your honour,” said the lawyer. “That is what he is pleading.”

  “Do you mean that was his original plea?”

  “No, sir.”

  The magistrate’s irritation was now very evident. “You mean that he originally pleaded guilty?”

  “No. He has always said he is not guilty.”

  The magistrate tapped his pen on his desk. “So the position is this: your client is pleading not guilty and always has.”

  “Has what?” asked the lawyer.

  “Has always pleaded not guilty.”

  The lawyer nodded. “Only in this case, your honour. He has not pleaded not guilty any other time. Nor has he pleaded guilty.”

  The magistrate ignored this. “Not guilty,” he said tersely.

  The lawyer seemed surprised. Turning to Fanwell, he made a gesture to suggest that it was all over. “Not guilty,” he said. “The charges are being dismissed.”

  The prosecutor now sprang to his feet. “I think the defence misunderstands the situation,” he said.

  The magistrate stared at Fanwell’s lawyer. “What is this about the dismissal of charges, Mr. Mapoeli? Who said anything about that?”

  The lawyer started to shake. “You said it, your honour. You said my client was not guilty.”

  The magistrate grinned. “Did I? I don’t think I did, Mr. Mapoeli. I merely said that his plea is one of not guilty. That’s what I said.”

  “Oh,” said the lawyer lamely. “I see.”

  “I hope you do, Mr. Mapoeli,” said the magistrate. “Now the other accused? Accused No. 1, Chobie?”

  Chobie’s lawyer rose to his feet. “He is pleading not guilty, sir.”

  It was at this point, while the magistrate was making a note of the plea, that Mma Ramotswe noticed that Charlie was staring at Chobie. For his part, the young man in the dock initially seemed to avoid the stare, but then returned it. Charlie had made a gesture, not a very obvious one, but a gesture nonetheless. Chobie watched, and shifted in his seat. Charlie then made another gesture—a small movement of the hand that seemed, to Mma Ramotswe’s surprise, to be pointing towards her. Or was it something else altogether?

  The magistrate cleared his throat and invited the prosecutor to begin. Chobie and Fanwell were prodded to stand up by the two policemen seated one on either side of them. The charges were then read out. A section of the Botswana Penal Code was mentioned, and there was reference to something having been done knowingly and willingly and then there was silence.

  Mma Ramotswe was watching Charlie, who was still looking at Chobie. Again there was a surreptitious gesture. Mma Ramotswe shifted her gaze to Chobie and noticed, rather to her surprise, that he was staring at her.

  The prosecutor mentioned a police witness, but before he could finish what he was saying, Chobie stood up. “I am guilty, sir.”

  His lawyer spun round. “He has entered a plea of not guilty, sir.”

  “No,” said Chobie. “I am saying I am guilty now.”

  The magistrate adjusted his spe
ctacles. “That sounds like a guilty plea,” he said.

  Chobie, still standing, spoke again, ignoring the policeman who was tugging at his shirt, urging him to sit down. “This one here”—he gestured to Fanwell—“this one didn’t know the car was stolen, Rra. I am the one who did it. I am very sorry.”

  The magistrate sighed. He looked at the prosecutor, who was busily conferring with Chobie’s lawyer. “It seems that this is going to need a bit of sorting out,” he said. “I shall adjourn the court for fifteen minutes while the State decides what to do. But it seems to me as if it might be an idea to dismiss the charges against accused No. 2.” He paused. “A cursory examination of the papers seems to point that way. And if accused No. 1 is saying that accused No. 2 had no knowledge of the fact that the car was stolen, then that rather changes things, doesn’t it, Mr. Prosecutor?” He then answered his own question. “Frankly, this is a bit of a mess, and I propose to dismiss the charges against accused No. 2. We can come back to deal with accused No. 1’s revised plea in a quarter of an hour. No. 2 is discharged. You can go, young man. You, No. 1, you stay.”

  They went outside. As she left the building, Mma Makutsi ran out into the sun and uttered the traditional ululation of delight that women contribute to any great Botswana occasion. Mma Ramotswe would have joined her, had she not been busy explaining to a shocked and shivering Fanwell that his ordeal was over.

  “I cannot believe it,” stuttered Fanwell. “What has happened?”

  Fanwell’s lawyer shuffled his papers about officiously. “A very satisfactory result,” he said. “I am very pleased with this case.”

  “But what happened, Rra?” asked Fanwell. “How did you get me off?”

  Mma Ramotswe watched the lawyer, who hesitated momentarily. She realised that he had no idea, but she did not want to spoil his moment of victory. This, she thought, was probably the first case he had won for a long time—if ever.

  “You just thank your lawyer,” she said to Fanwell. “The important thing is that he has won your case for you. That is what counts.”