The Innocence Of Guilt

By Reggie Karam

This book tells the story of the author growing up in Mayfair, a tough cosmopolitan suburb, where Lebanese, Greeks, Italians, Portuguese, Jews, Indians, Coloureds, Blacks and of course Afrikaners, all mingled together to create the famous history and tremendous amount of character of the area. The book follows the author’s humble beginnings whereby being of Lebanese descent, his family struggled to be accepted as South Africans by a minority of Afrikaners in the harsh days of Apartheid. They survived with great honour and pride but personally, the psychological effects of power, violence and aggression during those times lived within the author. As a result, his life, after a solid foundation, spiralled out of control as time progressed ensuing in careless choices of being drawn back in the wrong direction.

This is a powerful and fascinating story; a true account of circumstances leading to drugs, violence and a highly publicised triple murder involving despair, faith, hope and courage, guilt and innocence.

“As a retired accountant, not an author or writer, I was nagged by my children who kept saying, ‘Dad, you have a story to tell so tell it.’ So I decided to tell my story. We all have a story to tell; this is mine.”
Author, Reggie Karam

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reggie Karam
• Release date: Feb 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9780620742344

Book preview

THE INNOCENCE OF GUILT

THE INNOCENCE OF GUILT

REGGIE KARAM

Copyright © 2016 Reggie Karam

First edition 2016

Published by Reggie Karam Publishing at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Author using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Printed and bound by Novus Print Solutions

Edited by Susan van Tonder for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: [e-mail]

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my wife, Jenny; my children, Melanie, Tennille and Michael, and Margaux and Richard; my grandchildren, Gabby, Michela, Tia and Elijah, and, most importantly, my God and grace from above.

Chapter 1

I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was 5 am. Sunday morning, supposedly a day of rest. The 5th of September 1976. The sun was rising and light was beginning to reflect through the curtains of the bedroom window at the house of my girlfriend, Patsy. We lay asleep in bed and were awakened by an insistent and constant banging on the front door of her house. I had spent the previous evening with friends at my brother Johnny’s house. We had smoked a few joints and watched the movie One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest on the old-fashioned projector with the large reels, the household entertainment in those days. I left Johnny’s house at about midnight and all was fine. I had no reason to expect or foresee any problems.

The banging on the door that morning was quite disturbing and it startled us. Looking through the bedroom window, where I had a view of the street, I saw my brother Johnny’s car, a 1959 Chev Comaro left-hand drive and his pride and joy, parked adjacent to the kerb. Johnny fancied the big American cars and as far as I can remember he always had one. In the earlier days, his cars were always equipped with a record player that played the 45 vinyls, of which he had quite a select collection. He wasn`t into heavy rock and favoured a more mellow sound, Tommy Sands, Cliff Richards, and the crooners Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, Sammy Davis Jnr and Nat King Cole, among others. I also developed a liking for that type of music and, even though the music scene of the age had moved on, I would still get a lot of pleasure from listening to these entertainers. Johnny was a mature man, gentle in his later years so, with the knocking on the door being so intense, I knew this was not him. He was 14 years older than me and after his divorce we had become very close.

He accepted and welcomed my friends into his home without question but I was the only one allowed to drive his car so I was surprised to see my friend Barry at the front door. He was extremely pale and his eyes reflected a fear that something was seriously wrong. His words to me were to come quickly, Johnny had been shot. Shocked and confused, I asked no questions as I was in a state of anxiety but, on our way to Johnny’s house, Barry told me that he’d woken up hearing a gunshot. Barry and his girlfriend on various occasions stayed at Johnny’s house. He said he’d raced to the front door, which was open, and saw a Mercedes Benz pull off from the sidewalk. He suspected that it was the jockey with whom Johnny had had an altercation on a previous occasion. Johnny was a frequent visitor to the race course and at times suspected that there was a syndicate of jockeys who were not entirely honest in the game, and he voiced his opinion openly. However, my instincts told me something different as I reminded myself of an incident a few weeks’ prior when a brick had been thrown through the windscreen of his car while parked outside his house. I had an idea that this was a related incident.

We entered the house and there in the lounge on the sofa lay Johnny, lifeless, a gaping hole in his chest that sorely reflected that a high calibre hand gun had been used. I immediately realised the seriousness of the situation. I sat down next to him, my throat dry, my mind lost in doubt, fear and anger. My grief, panic and anxious emotions got the better of me; terrifying thoughts of hate and revenge played havoc with my brain. I looked up into Barry`s eyes as he stood nervously next to me and I instantly knew that he was lying. His story did not make sense. Johnny had a trained Doberman that was his companion and slept in the house. Any stranger coming into the house would not have been welcome unless Johnny restrained the dog and showed his acceptance of the guest or visitor. Of course, there were a few friends and family who the dog was familiar with but Barry`s description of the incident was indeed not the truth. I let it go for now.

My brother lay motionless and it looked as if there had been a failed attempt to remove the bullet from his back. After gathering my thoughts, I instructed Barry to phone my older brother Paul, the patriarch of our family and a man well respected in the community and especially in the suburb of Mayfair. Paul had charisma. He was a man who had a reputation for helping the less fortunate and for standing up against all the bullies in the suburb. Our family was of Lebanese descent and, during the period of time growing up in Mayfair, we were not too popular with the local Afrikaners. For this reason we had to stand our ground, not only as individuals but as a community. Our family consisted of six boys and three girls and at times we were held in awe. Do not mess with this family was the general opinion of all and my brother Paul was the anchor of the family. My father had passed on in 1960 and my mother was the pillar of our existence, kind, gentle but fearless, and so we followed her example.

Paul arrived like a raging bull, his eyes red with shock, anger and grief. When he saw Johnny’s lifeless body, he became still. The seconds ticked by in silence and only after a few minutes did we then fully realise the tragedy of the situation. Uncontrollable tears flowed as we reflected on our brother outstretched on the couch. Suddenly the house was surrounded by police and onlookers. Word had got around of the incident and it seemed as if the whole of Mayfair had appeared on the scene.

Questions were asked, suspicions were aroused, conclusions were formed – a gang-related killing or execution, drugs, extortion – all sorts of nasty and unfounded rumours came to the forefront. Our family’s strong-willed existence was brought into the picture, no positives – all negatives. And so it transpired that an innocent man had been murdered; yet this fact was ignored.

The police ransacked the house looking for clues or evidence and in their search came across a small quantity of dope and prescription pills, much to the dissatisfaction of the critics that had labelled the murder a drug deal gone wrong, a so-called gang war. Much to our disgust, at this point more emphasis was put on the motive for the murder rather than finding the assailants. My nightmare had begun and was about to continue.

Chapter 2

Dennis Holmes and I became acquainted at a very early age. We went to the same school, played in the same sports teams and generally had a distant relationship. Our paths, however, did come together on the sports field and on other social occasions. His uncle, who had adopted him at an early age, was a close friend of my brother Paul and also had a business relationship with my father, so I was aware of his struggle as a kid and of the upheavals in his life. Dennis had come from a broken home and had gone from one foster home to another but generally he was bright and just as normal as I was or so I thought. In our teenage years, we each had our little group of friends or acquaintances in our suburb and, of course, there were arguments and fisticuffs for control of the territory. This we felt was normal, growing up in a tough suburb inhabited with settled immigrants who included Jews, Catholics, Protestants and Muslims, the majority of which were English speaking. And then, of course, there were the local Afrikaners. The National Party, which had the support of most Afrikaners, was in control of all government and municipal departments. The Apartheid system was rigorously in place and there were occasional conflicts between whites, or so-called Europeans, and other communities of colour – blacks, Indians and Coloureds. Arguments and disagreements arose when a certain element of Afrikaners regarded us, who were of Lebanese descent, as being in the same segregated category. Yes, some of us did have a darker skin and were thus treated and disrespected accordingly. They referred to us as Syrians or sea kaffirs, which in that day and age was insulting and hurtful as Syria had invaded our country Lebanon and taken occupation. This act of aggression against our country was a sore and painful deed, so these remarks caused a great deal of animosity between them and us and allowed them to intimidate us. Our older folk still had great patriotism for Lebanon even though they had immigrated to South Africa for a better life, rather than be under Syrian rule.

I can recall two incidents as a kid. The first was on a Christmas mid-morning. We were celebrating. I was riding my new tricycle in the garden and, yes, there was joyful noise coming from our house. Staying up the road from us was