herd of wildebeest lying in the shade, and two Burchell’s zebras standing nose to nose, unmoving. The Parks Board had shot all the fallow deer brought by Cecil John Rhodes, but the grey squirrels and starlings that had accompanied the colonial powers were still abundant throughout the city.
It would still take him over half an hour to get home, he realised, suddenly fatigued by the day and unenthused by the prospect of another evening at home. He had spent much of the day with Svritsky, trawling through documents looking for inconsistencies that could be used to their advantage. His client had been uninterested in the process, refusing to switch off his cellphone and repeatedly standing up and walking around Richard’s office while shouting in Russian into the receiver. Twice he had used Richard’s landline, barely asking before dialling, and had conducted lengthy and boisterous conversations on both occasions. Richard was sure that the calls were international and made a mental note to adjust the sundries entry in his bill.
Richard’s secretary, Nadine, nurtured a vicious dislike for Svritsky and refused to have anything to do with him. She was a wiry, hard-faced divorcee who smoked incessantly. Yet, despite being constantly away from her desk to feed her addiction, she managed to run Richard’s life with clinical efficiency. She expected others – Richard included – to conduct themselves with a similar degree of competence and was often curt. Lapses in memory, vagueness, confusion – these were all regarded by her as tantamount to full-scale dementia, and her withering ire was unforgiving. She was feared by all the other staff in the office, sometimes even by the partners themselves. Having worked for Richard for over a decade, she and he had reached a working arrangement that kept friction to a minimum. But Svritsky stretched this relationship, sometimes to breaking point. On one occasion, many years earlier, he had stood swaggering at the open door of Richard’s office and told him in a loud voice that he needed to get rid of the ‘bag’ and employ someone with ‘good tits and a wide mouth’. Nadine had hissed at him and promptly disappeared for the afternoon, leaving Richard scrabbling to find a free typist. At the next consultation, Svritsky’s silver-plated lighter went missing after he had left it on Richard’s desk. Richard had no doubt that Nadine had disposed of it in some energetic and terminal fashion.
Richard’s partners were no more enthusiastic about Svritsky. At a meeting a few weeks earlier, Igshaan Solomons had raised the possibility of bad publicity in the media. He had been solemn and patronising, treating Richard as if he were ill-versed in the subtleties of modern legal practice. It was particularly problematic at a time when the other partners were trying to attract a higher level of corporate clients, Igshaan had argued, looking to Selwyn Mullins for approval. Selwyn was the firm’s senior partner and a founding member; like an aged warhorse, he had the experience and scars of a lifetime of legal skirmishes. He typically sat at the head of the conference table at each board meeting while he listened to his children squabble. But Selwyn battled to appreciate the importance of new strategies and the ever-shifting nature of corporate priorities. Communications and PR, internet capability, empowerment imperatives, political correctness – these were concepts that he found difficult to take seriously, and he had Richard’s deepest empathy.
‘These days, all respectable businesses need a good criminal lawyer,’ Richard had quipped, raising his eyebrows at Candice Reeves, hoping for a smile. She stared back at him dubiously.
‘Just don’t let anyone from Quantal hear you say that, okay?’ Igshaan had shot back, looking across to David Keefer and Selwyn meaningfully, as if only he was sensitive to the black-empowerment issues at stake for the firm.
‘Perhaps we should have a
It would still take him over half an hour to get home, he realised, suddenly fatigued by the day and unenthused by the prospect of another evening at home. He had spent much of the day with Svritsky, trawling through documents looking for inconsistencies that could be used to their advantage. His client had been uninterested in the process, refusing to switch off his cellphone and repeatedly standing up and walking around Richard’s office while shouting in Russian into the receiver. Twice he had used Richard’s landline, barely asking before dialling, and had conducted lengthy and boisterous conversations on both occasions. Richard was sure that the calls were international and made a mental note to adjust the sundries entry in his bill.
Richard’s secretary, Nadine, nurtured a vicious dislike for Svritsky and refused to have anything to do with him. She was a wiry, hard-faced divorcee who smoked incessantly. Yet, despite being constantly away from her desk to feed her addiction, she managed to run Richard’s life with clinical efficiency. She expected others – Richard included – to conduct themselves with a similar degree of competence and was often curt. Lapses in memory, vagueness, confusion – these were all regarded by her as tantamount to full-scale dementia, and her withering ire was unforgiving. She was feared by all the other staff in the office, sometimes even by the partners themselves. Having worked for Richard for over a decade, she and he had reached a working arrangement that kept friction to a minimum. But Svritsky stretched this relationship, sometimes to breaking point. On one occasion, many years earlier, he had stood swaggering at the open door of Richard’s office and told him in a loud voice that he needed to get rid of the ‘bag’ and employ someone with ‘good tits and a wide mouth’. Nadine had hissed at him and promptly disappeared for the afternoon, leaving Richard scrabbling to find a free typist. At the next consultation, Svritsky’s silver-plated lighter went missing after he had left it on Richard’s desk. Richard had no doubt that Nadine had disposed of it in some energetic and terminal fashion.
Richard’s partners were no more enthusiastic about Svritsky. At a meeting a few weeks earlier, Igshaan Solomons had raised the possibility of bad publicity in the media. He had been solemn and patronising, treating Richard as if he were ill-versed in the subtleties of modern legal practice. It was particularly problematic at a time when the other partners were trying to attract a higher level of corporate clients, Igshaan had argued, looking to Selwyn Mullins for approval. Selwyn was the firm’s senior partner and a founding member; like an aged warhorse, he had the experience and scars of a lifetime of legal skirmishes. He typically sat at the head of the conference table at each board meeting while he listened to his children squabble. But Selwyn battled to appreciate the importance of new strategies and the ever-shifting nature of corporate priorities. Communications and PR, internet capability, empowerment imperatives, political correctness – these were concepts that he found difficult to take seriously, and he had Richard’s deepest empathy.
‘These days, all respectable businesses need a good criminal lawyer,’ Richard had quipped, raising his eyebrows at Candice Reeves, hoping for a smile. She stared back at him dubiously.
‘Just don’t let anyone from Quantal hear you say that, okay?’ Igshaan had shot back, looking across to David Keefer and Selwyn meaningfully, as if only he was sensitive to the black-empowerment issues at stake for the firm.
‘Perhaps we should have a
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