The life-changing day that George Bizos came to my rescue and revealed his magnanimous spirit

With the passing of George Bizos and all the wonderful tributes being paid to him, I have to share a story about this incredible man.

In 1993/94 I was an articled clerk at Webber Wentzel working in the firm’s media law department. The Sowetan newspaper was one of our clients. In January 1993 the Sowetan published a story about a policeman, Johnny Mokaleng, who claimed he knew where the body of the missing political activist Stanza Bopape was buried. The story caused a huge stir and the police demanded that we bring Johnny to the alleged gravesite in the veld outside Phokeng near Rustenburg and that the site be exhumed.

A huge media contingent gathered as a mechanical digger got to work. No body was found. The information was wrong and the police charged Johnny with defeating the ends of justice. It later emerged at the TRC that they knew all along that Johnny’s story was bogus but went along with the charade.

Technically Johnny wasn’t our client but the Sowetan felt responsible for his legal plight and asked us to represent him. One day my phone rang. It was George. He was then the director of the Legal Resources Centre (LRC) and had followed the story in the newspapers. He offered his services, free of charge. That was so typically George. He spotted the underdog and knew how he could help.

I roped in my good mate Myron Zlotnick as a junior advocate and together we went to the LRC offices in downtown Joburg to brief the great man. I remember the offices being quite cramped and piled with law books and legal files. As we discussed the matter George suddenly jumped up and urgently said “no more talking! We must get out of here!” We were quite startled. George herded us out of his office and down a narrow staircase onto the street. “We have to be careful of the tamatie” he told us in a hushed voice. Myron and I were confused. We knew George loved his vegetable garden but this was taking things a bit too far. It turned out a tamatie was a listening device. George was concerned that his offices were bugged by the police and he didn’t want to discuss sensitive matters in case someone else was listening. So the important part of the conversation took place, somewhat bizarrely, on the pavement with pedestrians walking around us.

As the case progressed, I made a serious mistake. I forgot to keep an eye on the time frames set down in terms of the Criminal Procedure Act. We were out of time to file certain documents and we desperately needed a postponement to give us time to fix my blunder. The problem was that we had absolutely no grounds on which to ask for the postponement. The articled clerk is useless is not an excuse.

So I went to see George to ask for help. He really should have torn a strip off me for my negligence. But he didn’t. He simply said “don’t worry. I’ll sort it out.” To my amazement he said he would come with us to the Rustenburg Magistrate’s Court where the trial would take place and argue for the postponement. This was not the work of a senior advocate of the stature of George Bizos, but he insisted.

In accordance with good legal manners, we went to introduce ourselves to the prosecutor. His face went ashen as George walked into his office. George calmly told him we’d be seeking a postponement. The prosecutor was appalled and voiced strong objections pointing out, quite correctly, that we had no grounds for the postponement. George was undeterred. “Let us talk to the magistrate,” he said.

As we walked into the magistrate’s office, she jumped to her feet. “Mr Bizos! What are you doing here?!” George told her he intended to apply for the postponement. “Not a problem!” said the magistrate, forgetting in her excitement that she first needed to hear argument on the matter and grabbing her diary to find another court date. George reminded her that she had better canvas the views of the prosecutor first. The prosecutor was steadfast – no postponement.

George was utterly unperturbed, but Myron and I were still slightly panicky that we had nothing to argue before the magistrate. We could only trust George.

We got into court and George rose to address the magistrate, formally requesting the postponement. The magistrate turned to the prosecutor and asked “any objection?”. The prosecutor’s body language had changed. His shoulders were now slumped and he looked terribly forlorn and unhappy. He stood up slowly and muttered “no objection”. “Very well!” said George and pulled his diary out of his pocket, offering a date months and months away, effectively kicking the can far down the road and giving us plenty of time to fix my mistake. Who knows what transpired after we left the magistrate’s office? George quietly knew that his presence alone would influence proceedings in the sleepy little courthouse.

On the drive back to Johannesburg, George chatted away in the back seat and nodded off now and then in mid-sentence. When he stirred, he’d pick up where he left off without missing a beat. He told us about growing up in Greece and how the sides of the hills were covered in olive trees. He moaned that there weren’t enough trees on the hills in what was then the Western Transvaal. He could have moaned about having to do the long drive to and from Rustenburg for the small matter of the postponement. He could have moaned about the useless clerk. But he didn’t. His work was done. Many, many lessons had been learned. Including that people needed to plant more trees, particularly olive trees.

If anyone asks me why I didn’t continue with my career in law and chose to go back to my previous profession as a radio journalist, I refer them to the Mokaleng saga. I was such a terrible lawyer that I needed George Bizos to fix my mistakes. DM

David O’Sullivan is the co-host of KayaFM’s breakfast show. He has been in media for 35 years, working mainly in radio and TV. For two years he was an unhappy articled clerk in Webber Wentzel’s media law department. He is a Maverick Insider. This tribute was republished from his facebook page with permission.