A court-appointed lawyer meets with Siya before he is taken up to the dock on Monday morning. The lawyer is young, not much older than Siya.

“You will get bail of R500. Will you be able to pay? If not I can argue for free bail but that will take longer. Maybe I can get you out later in the day. Or tomorrow,” says the lawyer.

Siya uses the lawyer’s cellphone to call his sister.

“Nohnle, it’s me, Siya. Are you in court already?”

“I am outside the court,” says Nonhle. “You said court D, right?”

“Yes, Court D. How much do you have with you? The lawyer said bail will be R500.”

“Ma gave me R1000.”

“OK. Great.”

“When will it be your turn, Siya?”

“I will be up in an hour or so.”

Siya ends the call. He turns to the lawyer, giving back his cellphone, and says, “Yes I will be able to pay bail. My sister is bringing the money.”

“After I get you bail, do not go. I want to talk to you during tea time. We need to discuss a few important things,” says the lawyer.

An hour later, Siya’s name is called. He climbs the stairs into court. The first person he sees is Nonhle. He also makes out Bhekani sitting on the bench behind his sister, but does not make eye contact with him. The process does not take long. His lawyer is eloquent. Siya is granted bail in ten minutes.

He waits for his lawyer outside the consulting rooms with his sister.

“I could not stand three days in jail. Three days there broke my heart. I can only imagine how people who spend years in prison feel,” he tells his sister.

“But you are out now, Siya. And this lawyer knows his business so hopefully all of this will be behind us soon. I brought your cellphone. You have some missed calls. I did not answer it because I did not want to broadcast it to the whole world that you were arrested,” she says.

There are five missed calls from Makhendlas, two from the taxi owner. He is thinking of getting up to buy airtime when his lawyer appears around the corner.

“You come in with me, Siya Mahlangu. Let’s hear your story,” he says when he gets to Siya.

At the end of Siya’s long explanation, the lawyer nods and takes a deep breath.

“What I am getting from your story is this. You did not open a case against this Bhekani for stealing your stuff but he opened a case against you for GBH. He also said you robbed him of his money. The court works with what you can prove. The police saw his injuries and their report says he came in with a bleeding nose, and he was bare-chested. He was taken to hospital where a doctor confirmed his injuries to be consistent with his story. What I am about to tell you, you may not want to hear, but this is how it is.”

Siya nods.

“There is a high possibility of getting a jail sentence. I am talking about three to four years here. GBH is taken seriously by the courts, plus he says you robbed him.”

Siya drops his head into his hands in despair.

“However, I can squash this. But that depends on you doing as I say,” his lawyer continues.

Siya leans forward in the chair, paying close attention to every word the lawyer says.

“The solution to this hinges, first of all, on getting Bhekani to withdraw the case. If he withdraws the case you can get a community service deal and attend classes on anger management. This is the best solution. I know you feel aggrieved but this is how the law works. You can press charges against Bhekani afterwards but I am telling you it won’t hold. It would hold if you had pressed the charges first, and not hit him or even chased him. You say he confessed to the crime but he can say he confessed because you were hitting him.”

“As long as I get out of this sticky situation and carry on with my life I will be more than grateful,” says Siya.

“Yes, I am glad you feel this way because cases can drag on for a long time,” says his lawyer. “It is important that we look at reality here. Maybe you will be employed by the time the case goes to trial. What will that convey to your employers? Yes, I believe he stole from you. By all accounts it looks like he did, but can you prove it? Are your witnesses willing to take the stand in court? Did they see him in the act of stealing? I know this is not what you want to hear but it is the way it is. So, that is what I can do for you.”

“Do that. I don’t want to ever go back to jail. Please work on a deal that will mean I never set foot in these buildings again.”

“OK, I will need your contact number. Make sure your cellphone is on at all times. I’ll be in touch in a day or two.”

“It will always be on. Thank you very much,” says Siya.

“Now you need to do me a favour as well. Make sure Bhekani withdraws the case. Get your parents to talk to his parents. Try to convince him with all your might – beg him, and pay him if you have to. My plan will work smoothly if he withdraws the case. It is also extremely important,” says the lawyer, looking straight into Siya’s eyes, “that if all goes according to plan, you make sure you attend the classes that will be recommended. The whole process can be reversed if you miss these classes.”

“Not a problem. Where are the classes held?”

“I will be in touch with the details.”

“Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done without you,” says Siya. “I never want to set foot in that place ever again.”

“It’s good you say that, because prison is not a place for a young man with a future ahead him. Time is up, I need to get back to court,” says the lawyer standing up, shaking Siya’s hand.

***

Tell us what you think: Has the lawyer given Siya good advice?