Any court day followed a quiet ritual for Captain Kgole. After a hearing, he would steer his way to Cori Coffee Bar at Gandhi Square, his chosen spot to let the day�s weight settle. He almost always claimed the same seat, and more often than not it was free�court tended to adjourn around two in the afternoon, an odd hour for coffee, which meant the place was usually hushed. Perfect for unwinding, He�d order his drink, and then pull a docket from his bag, leafing through its pages with the slow, deliberate air of a man searching for a thread he might have missed. He wasn�t a lawyer�just an investigating officer�but he liked passing the occasional hint to the prosecutors. It gave him confidence. It made him feel complete.
Today, the ritual would break.
The morning had begun differently�sharper, heavier. It had started with the takedown of a four-boy crew at Lillian Ngoyi and Quartz Street, where Kgole himself had slapped on the cuffs. He�d instructed the officers who collected them to lock the group up and wait. As arresting officer, he�d be the one to build their docket, to dig into the threads until the whole story came loose.
Court could wait, but not forever. He still made the hearing, his mind split between the judge�s words and the scene from that morning. Now, instead of his quiet coffee ritual, he would have to return to the station, case notes forming in his head like puzzle pieces waiting to be locked into place.
By the time Kgole pulled into the station yard, the clock was edging toward three. He had made an unscheduled stop at the Plein Street branch of Kentucky Food Company�better known as KFC�to grab a cappuccino. It wasn�t a drink that saw much traffic here; most customers came for buckets of chicken, not frothy espresso. The staff, caught slightly off guard, had to make it from scratch while he waited. Out in the Nissan Hardbody, the other three men sat drumming their fingers, their patience thinning as they watched him emerge with the lone, steaming cup.
�Do we need to be present while you interrogate them?� Mkhize asked.
�No� I don�t think so,� Kgole replied, easing himself out of the vehicle, careful not to spill his coffee. �Just give me a written account of the arrest, and you�re free to go.�
They moved toward the entrance of Johannesburg Central Police Station in single file, almost like a parade. Kgole trailed a step behind, eyes on the cup in his hand, guarding it as though it were evidence.