“Press the accelerator,” yelled the man. “Race the engine!”
Mma Ramotswe did as she was told, and the engine roared throatily. There was a noise from the front, another thump, and then the man signalled to her to switch off. Mma Ramotswe did so, and waited to be told whether it was safe to get out.
“You can come out,” he called. “That’s the end of the cobra.”
Mma Ramotswe got out of the cab and walked round to the front. Looking into the engine, she saw the cobra in two pieces, quite still.
“It had twined itself through the blades of the fan,” said the man, making a face of disgust. “Nasty way to go, even for a snake. But it could have crept into the cab and bitten you, you know. So there we are. You are still alive.”
Mma Ramotswe thanked him and drove off, leaving the cobra on the side of the road. It would prove to be an eventful journey, even if nothing further were to happen during the final half hour. It did not.
“NOW,” SAID Mr Jameson Mopotswane, the Mahalapye attorney, sitting back in his unprepossessing office next to the butchery. “My poor client is going to be a little late, as the message only got to him a short time ago. But you and I can discuss details of the settlement before he arrives.”
Mma Ramotswe savoured the moment. She leaned back in her chair and looked about his poorly furnished room.
“So business is not so good these days,” she said, adding: “Up here.”
Jameson Mopotswane bristled.
“It’s not bad,” he said. “In fact, I’m very busy. I get in here at seven o’clock, you know, and I’m on the go until six.”
“Every day?” asked Mma Ramotswe innocently.
Jameson Mopotswane glared at her.
“Yes,” he said. “Every day, including Saturdays. Sometimes Sundays.”
“You must have a lot to do,” said Mma Ramotswe.
The attorney took this in a reconciliatory way and smiled, but Mma Ramotswe continued: “Yes, a lot to do, sorting out the lies your clients tell you from the occasional—occasional—truth.”
Jameson Mopotswane put his pen down on his desk and glared at her. Who was this pushy woman, and what right did she have to talk about his clients like that? If this is the way she wanted to play it, then he would be quite happy not to settle. He could do with fees, even if taking the matter to court would delay his client’s damages.
“My clients do not lie,” he said slowly. “Not more than anybody else, anyway. And you have no business, if I may say so, to suggest that they are liars.”
Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow.
“Oh no?” she challenged. “Well, let’s just take your Mr Moretsi, for example. How many fingers has he got?”
Jameson Mopotswane looked at her disdainfully.
“It’s cheap to make fun of the afflicted,” he sneered. “You know very well that he’s got nine, or nine and a half if you want to split hairs.”
“Very interesting,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And if that’s the case, then how can he possibly have made a successful claim to Kalahari Accident and Indemnity, about three years ago, for the loss of a finger in an accident in a petrol station? Could you explain that?”
The attorney sat quite still.
“Three years ago?” he said faintly. “A finger?”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He asked for four thousand—a bit of a coincidence—and settled for three thousand eight hundred. The company have given me the claim number, if you want to check up. They’re always very helpful, I find, when there’s any question of insurance fraud being uncovered. Remarkably helpful.”
Jameson Mopotswane said nothing, and suddenly Mma Ramotswe felt sorry for him. She did not like lawyers, but he was trying to earn a living, like everybody else, and perhaps she was being too hard on him. He might well have been supporting elderly parents, for all she knew.
“Show me the medical report,” she said, almost kindly. “I’d be interested to see it.”
The attorney reached for a file on his desk and took out a report.
“Here,” he said. “It all seemed quite genuine.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at the piece of headed paper and then nodded.
“There we are,” she said. “It’s just as I thought. Look at the date there. It’s been whited out and a new date typed in. Our friend did have a finger removed once, and it may even have been as a result of an accident. But then all that he’s done is to get a bottle of correction fluid, change the date, and create a new accident, just like that.”
The attorney took the sheet of paper and held it up to the light. He need not even have done that; the correction fluid could be seen clearly enough at first glance.
“I’m surprised that you did not notice that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It doesn’t exactly need a forensic laboratory to see what he’s done.”
It was at this point in the shaming of the attorney that Moretsi arrived. He walked into the office and reached out to shake hands with Mma Ramotswe. She looked at the hand and saw the stub of the finger. She rejected the proffered hand.
“Sit down,” said Jameson Mopotswane coldly.
Moretsi looked surprised, but did as he was told.
“So you’re the lady who’s come to pay …”
The attorney cut him short.
