He frowned before he spoke. ‘There is nothing to do in the guard towers. You just sit there with your rifle and wait for your shift to end. On the catwalks you have to patrol.’
I glanced at Judge van Zyl. He was watching Labuschagne without taking notes. Before I could speak again, Labuschagne said, ‘That’s about it. There is nothing much to do on those days.’ He shrugged his shoulders as he said it.
‘Could you describe the general layout of the place, please?’ I asked.
Murray was caught off guard and his objection came belatedly. ‘With respect, M’Lord, the layout of the prison is not relevant to any issue in the case.’
‘I would have thought so myself,’ said the Judge before I could respond. I took a moment before I answered.
‘The defence centres on the defendant’s state of mind at the time of the events at the reservoir. The prison environment is relevant to that. It is important for a proper understanding of the defence case to know what happened to him in the different parts of the prison. We do not intend to compromise the security of the prison.’
Judge van Zyl did not bother to make a ruling. ‘Carry on,’ he said.
I repeated the question. We’d received a detailed description on the interior of the prison.
There were three cellblocks, A, B and C sections. Most prisoners were in A Section, which had three blocks or wings. There were about fifty-five single cells in each wing of A Section and about half a dozen communal cells. Each of the communal cells accommodated about five men. Each block also had a padded soundproof isolation cell where they put troublesome prisoners. The individual cells were about two metres by three, with a steel door. At about head height there was a grille with steel bars in each door. Every cell had a wooden bunk fixed to the wall and a wooden flap serving as a table. There was a toilet and a radio speaker mounted on the wall. The catwalk where the warders did their rounds was above the cells and protruded some distance over the cell so that the warder on the catwalk could look down into the cell. There was a barred window between the cell and the catwalk, quite high up.
The Judge looked down at James Murray and asked, ‘Are we going to have an inspection of the prison?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Murray, half rising from his seat and glancing in my direction.
‘We think it would be very helpful, M’Lord,’ I said. ‘It is crucial to the defence that the Court should be aware of the atmosphere that prevails in the prison. It may also be helpful for the Court to see the various parts of the prison where the defendant worked and where important events occurred.’
‘Well, we might have to inspect the prison in order to follow the evidence in any event,’ the Judge explained.
Murray was not convinced. ‘Could we perhaps present Your Lordship with a plan of the prison and perhaps some photographs?’ Niemand handed him a note.
‘On second thought, M’Lord,’ Murray said quickly after reading it, ‘it may not be a good idea to distribute plans and photographs of the prison. May I take the matter up with the authorities during the next adjournment and advise M’Lord of their attitude?’
‘You may carry on,’ the Judge said, nodding in my direction. ‘We may have to reconsider the issue later depending on how the evidence develops.’
I rose to my feet and placed my trial notebook back on the lectern.
‘Mr Labuschagne, we were dealing with the routine in the prison and you have mentioned the roll call at seven. Who conducted the roll call and how was it done?’ I asked.
None of the important details of the warders’ confinement with the prisoners had been exposed during the prosecution evidence earlier and I wanted to show the Court how boring their existence was on days when no hangings were scheduled compared to the high drama of hanging days. It was either boredom or high anxiety.
The Judge suddenly leaned forward. ‘Has there ever been a case where someone was missing?’ he asked. He continued before anyone could respond. ‘Didn’t Vontsteen get out?’
‘Sir, that happened long ago. The Warrant Officer said only two men ever escaped and he said they had been allowed to escape by corrupt warders.’
We must have looked doubtful, for Labuschagne added, ‘You can’t escape from there unless they let you out. They would have to unlock about six or seven different grilles or doors for you. Every door has a warder with a key. You can’t get from the cell to the catwalk and any prisoner in that space will be shot immediately. The warders in the guard towers have orders to shoot anyone in the yard that is not with a warder.’
The Judge was intrigued by this. ‘So the only way a prisoner can leave the prison is if he is released through the front guardhouse or if he goes through the gallows chamber?’
Labuschagne disagreed. ‘Four were shot trying to escape, and there have been suicides.’
Wierda came to life next to me and slipped me one of the registers. It was opened at a page in 1962. I did not have a chance to look at the details.
‘How do you know this?’ the Judge wanted to know.
‘It is in the registers. And we often spoke about it.’
I asked Labuschagne to deal with the issue of the keys.
The keys to the cell were locked in the safe at night. Only the Warrant Officer could open the safe between lock-down at night and roll call in the morning. He alone carried the keys to the safe.
One of the Assessors sought the Judge’s attention. After a whispered conference between them the Judge turned to the witness box and asked, ‘But what would you do if there was a fire?’
‘If there is a fire in one of the cells we can put it out from above, from the catwalk. But we cannot get into the cell without the key.’ Labuschagne was speaking in the present tense but I was more interested in the past.
‘What were your duties after the roll call?’ I asked him.
He spoke quickly, reciting the relevant details as if he were a tour guide. The cells were unlocked at quarter-past seven. When the prisoners came out of their cells, they were searched. They went to the showers in batches of about eleven. They were searched before and after they had their showers. Each batch had five minutes for this. Then it was back to the cells for them. They were expected to spend the day reading their Bibles. They had breakfast in their cells, porridge and coffee, at about eight o’clock. After that there was a medicine round. A medic came around asking if anyone needed medicine and handed out sleeping pills. The Major did an inspection round at ten o’clock and saw every prisoner every day.
‘What arrangements were made for the prisoners to get some exercise?’ I asked.
The prisoners were allowed to exercise in the hall after the inspection round. They were allowed to walk but not to run or do exercises. At the end of each block of A Section was an exercise yard. Prisoners were taken there in small groups with two warders to each prisoner. They were searched going out and again coming in. Outside they were allowed to walk in a circle for an hour a day.
‘Were you involved in that?’ I asked Labuschagne.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So what do you do during the hour that they exercise?’
He sighed. ‘You stand and watch.’
I changed the subject. ‘What about visitors? Are the prisoners allowed to receive visits?’
‘Yes, if they have not been stripped of privileges. Visiting is from nine till eleven in the morning and again from two to three in the …’
‘For what reasons could they be stripped of privileges?’ I interrupted without an apology.
He returned to the theme. ‘We search them before they enter the visiting room, the prisoners and the visitors. Then we search the prisoners again when we take them back to their cells.’
‘Yes,’ I said as if the searching did not matter, ‘but what about the loss of privileges? What offences could trigger a loss of privileges?’
He rattled off the Warrant Officer’s rules. ‘No talking between five-thirty in the morning and five-thirty in the evening. No tal
king in the showers. No swearing at warders. No touching a warder. No running. Stand still when spoken to and look at the ground …’ He paused for a moment. ‘There were lots of other rules.’
‘And what did you do during a visit by their family or lawyer?’
‘You watch and listen.’
I suggested a new topic. ‘Tell us about the routine for the rest of the day, from eleven onwards.’
Labuschagne spoke about a cleaning squad moving around polishing floors, with the warders watching. Everything had to be done in absolute silence. Lunch was the main meal and was served between twelve and one. Supper was at three-thirty.
I decided to cut the evidence short. ‘What duties did you have to perform while the prisoners were going about cleaning the place or having their meals?’
‘We watch.’
‘During all of this, from sunrise until after supper, did anyone in the sections speak?’
Labuschagne looked up in surprise. ‘There is no talking from sunrise to sunset.’
I feigned ignorance. ‘Do you mean there was no talking by the prisoners?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘The warders too. We are not allowed to speak to the prisoners except to give them orders or to help them with their Bible study.’
‘Did you say the prisoners got their supper at three-thirty in the afternoon?’ I asked.
‘Yes, the day shift goes out at four and by that time supper has to be over and the prison in lock-down for a roll call.’
‘Please continue. What happens after supper?’
Judge van Zyl intervened without a glance in my direction. ‘What’s all this searching about? How many times a day do you search the prisoners?’
‘We search them every time they come out of their cells and every time they go back in.’
‘Well tell me, how many times would that be in an ordinary day?’
Labuschagne thought about it for a while. ‘It could be between twelve and twenty times, depending on whether there is a visit or a haircut.’
The Judge nodded in my direction, so I took over again.
‘And after the day shift has gone, what happens then?’ I was interested in the nights.
‘The prisoners are locked in their cells and may write and read. They can get reading material from the library or buy their own from the tuck shop. After five-thirty they may talk but the bell rings for bedtime at eight o’clock. Then they have to be in their beds.’
‘What time is lights out?’ I asked with an eye on the Judge.
‘Oh, come on!’ said the Judge from the back of his chair. ‘Everyone knows they never turn the lights off in that place.’
I did not wait for an answer. ‘How did you participate or to what extent did you participate in the daily activities of the prisoners?’ I needed to stress an important aspect of the defence case.
‘Well,’ he said and bit his lip, ‘I’m with them all day.’
‘Could you elaborate on that, please?’ I asked. Why did I have to drag it out of him? ‘Tell the Court about the things you did with the prisoners.’ I let the ambiguous question hang in the air.
‘I am with them all the time. I sometimes help them read the Bible. I speak to some of them during the evening shifts when they are allowed to talk, but that is all. Most of the time I just stand and watch.’ His recital was as boring as his shifts on non-hanging days must have been.
It was a game of watching and waiting.
‘How well did you get to know them then?’ I asked.
There was no pause. ‘By the time we hang them we know them very well.’
Were we still in different tenses. The thought crossed my mind that by using the present tense Labuschagne was dissociating from the past. It was time for a break. Before I could ask my next question the Judge asked, ‘Would this be a convenient stage to take the short adjournment?’
He looked surprised when I did not immediately agree. ‘I wonder, M’Lord, if we could perhaps deal with one more topic? It should take no longer than five minutes.’
He nodded. I wanted to strike a solid blow before the tea break.
‘What happened just before you came off duty on your first day in Maximum?’
Labuschagne took a deep breath before he answered. ‘The Warrant Officer asked me to come with him. He took me to A1 Section. There were seven prisoners there. He told me to look in through the small window. I looked inside. Pick one, he said. I did not understand what he meant. He said, Pick one, because you are going to escort one of them when we hang them tomorrow. I said no, I’d rather that he just give me one, but he said it was tradition that the new boy had to pick one. I said I would take the first one. Then he said that it wasn’t such a good idea to take the first one for my first hanging, as I would have to learn what to do by watching what the other escorts did. He said, Take the last one. I said that was okay, but I did not know which of them was the last one. He told me to be at his office at six o’clock the next morning. He said that the escorts had to come in early on hanging days.’ This was one of the prepared answers and he gave it well.
It was time to finish off this topic.
‘Did he tell you what you were to do the next day?’ I asked.
‘No, he said I must watch the others.’
‘Did he show you where the gallows chamber was and what you had to do there?’
‘No.’
I turned to the Judge. ‘We are ready to take the adjournment now, M’Lord.’
The courtroom had become very quiet; there was none of the usual shuffling and sniffing or coughing. What a job! What a first day! I wanted them to think. And what a second day to look forward to!
Judge van Zyl looked at me for a long time before he said, ‘The Court adjourns for half an hour.’ Then he rose abruptly and left.
In the robing room I looked at the page in the register Wierda had moved under my nose during the evidence. There were post-it notes against four names:
NO DATE NAME OF PRISONER JUDGE PLACE OUTCOME DATE
1163 27.4.62 Philemon Mhlungu Kennedy Durban Fatally shot in attempt to escape 30.9.62
1166 27.4.62 Titus Malinga Kennedy Durban Fatally shot in attempt to escape 30.9.62
1196 14/6/62 Sam Ndlovu Snyman Johannesburg Fatally shot in attempt to escape (Died 2/10/62) 30.9.62
1219 25/8/62 Robert Shangase Caney Durban Fatally shot in attempt to escape 30.9.62
These four at least did not go without a fight. I closed the register and decided after tea to ask Labuschagne to talk about the use of violence by warders and resistance from prisoners.
The robing room was deserted. I was stiff from standing for the past hour and more. I sat on the table, swinging my legs and turning my torso from side to side to relax the strained muscles. Wierda asked if I was ready to discuss the next case. I was.
He opened his notes and handed me a copy of the indictment. ‘This was a cell murder case,’ he said. ‘It happened in Leeuwkop.’
There was nothing to it, a cell murder. Everyone in the profession knew that no power on this planet could save a man who has killed another prisoner.
I had been to Leeuwkop many years earlier. I remembered that visit too. I had been on a prosecutors’ training course in Pretoria. Our instructors had taken us to Leeuwkop to see where those we had prosecuted would go after they had received their sentences. I read the indictment and as Wierda spoke the smell of Leeuwkop came back to me: soap, wax polish, Brasso, sweat and stale tobacco – not from cigarettes but pipe tobacco smoked in rolled brown paper.
I didn’t know it then but what I had thought was the sweet smell of the oily brown paper was the smell of cannabis oil, the soporific of the prisoner.
V3564 Willy Jacob Mpipi
V3565 Johannes Mohapi
21
Five men were charged with the murder of their cell mate in Leeuwkop Prison, situated between Johannesburg and Pretoria. They were Willy Mpipi, Johannes Mohapi, Ben Wesie, Jabulani Dube and Daniel Koopa. Mpipi and Mohapi were in their
mid-forties, the others in their early thirties. They had killed Johannes Modise during the night of 18 December 1984.
This had happened in Cell 4 of C Section in Leeuwkop Prison. C Section is the maximum-security section of Leeuwkop. At six o’clock in the evening of 18 December 1984 eighteen long-term prisoners were locked in Cell 4 for the night. These men had been in prison so long that it had become their natural habitat. Almost all of them were members of prison gangs. Within the militaristic subculture of a gang there were ordinary members and officers of different ranks. Mohapi was a senior officer in the Big Fives gang, the Big Boss, or President, of the gang. His co-accused were all members of the Air Force 3 gang. Mpipi was a colonel, Dube was a chief inspector and the other two were ordinary airmen. There were also members of the 26s, the 28s and the Air Force 4 gang in the cell. Prisoners belonged to gangs for protection and survival. The price they paid for this protection was unquestioning loyalty to the gang and absolute obedience to the gang leaders.
The deceased, Johannes Modise, was placed in Cell 4 for the first time that afternoon. He was only twenty-two years old and had become Mohapi’s personal sex slave. Modise had tried to leave the 28s. The punishment for leaving or attempting to leave is often death, slowly and brutally meted out in front of as many other inmates as possible, for maximum deterrent effect. When Mohapi learned of Modise’s defection, he arranged for Modise to be transferred to Cell 4. It is not clear why he plotted to kill Modise for defecting from the 28s.
Shortly after six o’clock, after the cell had been locked for the night a gang meeting, or a skumba, was called for the members of the Air Force 3 gang and Mohapi of the Big Fives. The meeting was attended by Mpipi, Wesie, Dube, Koopa and Mohapi. At the time of the meeting Wesie, a common soldier in the Air Force 3 gang, was in trouble of his own. He had warned another prisoner, Thomas Mathebula, that he was about to be killed by the Air Force 3 gang and Mathebula, thus forewarned, had made arrangements to be transferred to another cell. Mathebula’s crime had been to obliterate his Air Force 3 gang tattoo on the inside of his arm and replace it with that of another gang. Because of his betrayal, Wesie was given a choice: he would be killed unless he played his part in killing Modise.
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