My World Cup, Part 3

Enter stage left the criminal justice system of the Republic of South-Africa.  Last time we dealt with The Brothers they drank a lot of tequila and watched the game on TV they should have watched live. That was Friday night.

That Monday I received a phone call from the bank.  Now these are the same people who normally just want a few minutes of my time to explain why I was specially chosen for a product that will cost me money.  This time though it was about an account I forgot about from ten years ago.  My theory is they wanted to appropriate the money, but has to show they tried to contact the owner.  We had an iffy moment when he (from the bank) and I (from myself) wanted to establish identities.  He asked for my ID number, I asked him to tell me something only the bank would know.  We achieved a generally accepted truce and did some business.  On hearing about this, my cousin The Philosopher told me that I am a loser.  His argument is that in our society money is the way of keeping score. ⁽¹⁾ Not his rules, but society’s.  By forgetting about money, obviously I am a loser.  Not forgetful, overpaid or stupid.  No.  A loser. 

I believe these things happen for a reason.  My first instinct on hearing about the money (over ten years compound interest is powerful) was “This will fast track my year of hedonism”  Something I’ve been putting off due to stinginess and 20 years of indoctrination that hedonism is bad.  In the end I listened to my mother.  Should do that more.  Or at least the way I remember what she said.  So I checked whether some disillusioned fans returned their tickets.  And they did for both semi-finals and the 3rd play off.  So my forgetfulness of 10 years ago funded my brother’s dream.

He went with his brother in law to the semi-final in Durban where he saw Spain beating Germany by a late goal.  Luckily they drove down and did not fly.  The now infamous delayed planes story can be read here.  I watched the game at my usual place.  Pearly’s on the Beach.  But soccer is not that important for this story.  Spain won the competition.  Now it’s done.

This time, really, enter stage left the criminal justice system of the Republic of South-Africa.  By knowing how it should work The Skinny kept up to date.  He checked with the investigating officer and got me the court date.  This is the only bit of disappointment in the process.  We should have been kept up to date from their side. 

So there we were on a Friday night, the arresting officers, the chief prosecutorn and the prosecutor meeting in an office of the court.  When the prosecutor walked in dressed to the hilt, I thought this was a light weight fashion slave.  Long time since I got a person that wrong.  He was very good indeed.  And the chief prosecutor was somewhat absent minded, but turned out to be very good.  During this whole time (and we spent hours that night together) everybody was very good to us. 

We were the only case scheduled for that night, but we waited for the accused, let out on bail earlier.  Things started to get interesting as the interpreter were there, but the accused not.  It came to light that the perpetrator was an Ethiopian asylum seeker.  It turns out that if you are convicted of ANY crime whilst living in South-Africa on an asylum seeking visa, you are deported immediately.  So there we waited for the guy to appear.  Eventually he showed up and a deal was struck.  If he would refund my brother for the price of the ticket, charges will be withdrawn.  It would mean he can stay in the country.  It was put to the magistrate and he agreed to postpone to Saturday morning. 

When he called us forward, he asked us what our mother tongue was.  After that when he addressed only us, he spoke to us in Afrikaans.  As did the chief prosecutor.  A touch I really admired.  When he told us to appear in court the next day and when he berated the incriminated for being late he spoke English.  When we left, we saw the accused and the translator getting into the same car and driving away.  So it turns out they thought I would not travel all the way from the cape for this case.  But because I showed up, the charges were not withdrawn.  I saw the guy, therefore I was key.  I thought the video would help⁽²⁾, but apparently the state thought my word was worth more than my video.  A case of a video being worth 1/1000th of a word.

Saturday morning the prosecuting team met again.  Happy reunion for us all.  The Ethiopians appeared and produced R2000.  The ticket cost R2100.  The prosecutor became angry and demanded the rest of the money.  After all, we agreed to meet on a Saturday to allow the dude to get the cash.  The defence team went out and “miraculously” produced another R100.  The money was handed to my brother and the prosecutor turned to the accused “Now we will decide to prosecute or not!”  That rattled them. 

There is a part of South-African law that deals with restorative justice.  It allows for the victim to address the offender ⁽³⁾So my brother gave a speech to the Ethiopian telling him how lucky he was my mother did a good job when teaching forgiveness. He also hoped that he will use this chance in this country he is being given.  That mother person did a thorough job

So all’s well that ends well.  The offender that stole a soccer experience from the brothers Laurel and Hardy ⁽⁴⁾ received a lesson.  Justice was done, and seen to be done.  I have only high praise for the process.  The media tend to hammer on the bad side, but this was good right through.  And because it is South Africa I have to say this:  With the exception of the one detective at the game, and ourselves, all other participants were black.  Probably still are.  And it never was an issue.  The bonding the brothers went through was worth it all.  As was the push to myself to start writing for public consumption.  A avocation I’ve only indulged in for my own edification.⁽⁵⁾ 

(1)    Cattle being notoriously difficult to raise in flats
(2)    See world cup part 2
(3)    This word bothers me.  There should be something better, but I can’t find it.  R100 to whoever first put me out of my misery with a better word.
(4)    I’m Hardy
(5)    Once again ending with my pompous sentence.