Oscar Pistorius: Almost alone

It is only a building. An ugly face-brick building with a green corrugated-iron roof and green gutters. Nine storeys and multiple windows.

Every so often, a human figure appears behind the glass, a flash of movement, the fraction of a gesture, some important document being exchanged under fluorescent light.

But it is not a building. Not for now, at least. The news vans and marquees outside it have determined that. The policemen hanging around outside its entrance have made it so. Even the rain, the floods of rain, are part of this. The broadcast tents are being used by people seeking nothing more than shelter from the drops. Photographers get wet. The streets turn glassy and cold.

If you are not inside with him, you are outside because of him. Because he made a mistake, or because he did something else.

His was never a six-syllable name. When he was glorious, you only needed to rap out the first two - Os-car - and everyone knew who you were talking about. It is still the same - Os-car - except now the intonation is different; what those two sounds suggest has been altered. No longer said in reverence, the cadence of the name has become one of suspicion, presumption and anger. Sadness too.

"Oscar in the dock."

"Oscar's tears."

"Oscar's defence."

"Oscar retches."

Oscar all over the street poles on your way to work.

There are satellite dishes everywhere. All day, his name travels invisibly upwards along digital cords. The world knows his story, but not believing it makes for better conversation, makes for men in navy blue suits broadcasting right outside the court, makes for lengthy evening panel discussions with experts in all fields.

Meanwhile, only he knows. Os-car.

A makeshift takeout service has been set up across the road. It serves chicken burgers and curries and fish and chips and half loafs under a red tent and fake grass.

A flatscreen TV has been bolted to a fence. You can watch the coverage here. It is the day when we are seeing inside his house. A grand tour from the front door right into the bathroom where it all happened. A series of photographs that are like some bizarre real estate mistake. "Don't worry about the blood splatter on the stairs, that will come right out."

All day there is a warning on the bottom of the screen. "Graphic evidence", it says, viewer discretion advised. Still, everyone is pushing burgers and chips into their mouths.

When court adjourns for lunch, the channels cross back to the men in navy blue suits who throw those words around again. The words that have been forced into the fabric of our conversation these past few weeks: Cricket bat. Bashed. Stumps. Toilet door. Blood spatter. Discrepancies in the witnesses's recollections.

Only Os-car knows. He sits there in a good suit. Did you know he wore reading glasses? He looks down. He looks straight ahead.

Sometimes he looks as though he is listening with the interest of a bystander, intent on the information, trying to piece it all together like the rest of us.

There are thick cables on the street and bored cameramen. It was fun when he arrived this morning. He got out of the grey Land Rover and walked into the court. Now they are waiting for the same, but in reverse. He will be a different man to the one who went inside. That is the power of this building. It changes people, ages them.

A young guy and his two female companions walk past the court entrance. "If you want to see Oscar," he says, looking at the building, "if you actually want to see him..." Then they disappear around the corner. Maybe they waited to see him.

Because it is not the same as you see on TV. It is like going to watch a sports event live. You realise it is somehow more glamorous, more important when it is on a screen. It is like that here. Without the graphics and the inserts and the men in navy blue suits to give analysis, it is like nothing is really happening. It is a just an old building with some people inside it.

At the takeout place, everyone who is watching the TV has their back turned to the actual, live object. This is real and that is something else over there.

What do you believe? What do you know? Did you ever meet him? People used to say that about Nelson Mandela, remember? "Oh, I met him once." Now people have stories about the time they met Os-car.

It is nearly time. Yes. Court has been adjourned for the day. It is, what, 3.30pm. Photographers lick their fingers and get up from their tables.

Cameramen erect small aluminium ladders outside so they can get unobstructed views of him. There are blue lights, sirens. A path gets cleared. There are schoolchildren with cellphones ready. The photographers are in place. Other people have just ambled in from the sidewalk opposite, chance visitors eager for a little distraction from their daily routine. An accused man leaving court will do for today.

They come out. You do not know who, but they come out. Journalists. Witnesses. Nobody you recognise. That grey Land Rover is here again, idling.

Then, without much fuss, he comes into view. Os-car. He is almost alone. Nobody says anything. It is not that there is a hush, it is just that nobody knows what to say anymore. It used to be "Wow, Os-car! It's Os-car!" Now it is just eyes and thoughts.

There are perhaps 30 people parting the way for him, but he looks straight ahead, focused completely on the open door of the Land Rover. That tailored pinstripe suit. The handsome Olympian flood-lit face turned timid and gloomy, a man suddenly aware of the weight of his heart.

The Land Rover disappears into the drizzle. Nobody can say where he has gone, or where he is going.

Scenes from front row of trial of the decade

Tongue twister: Let's face it, South African interpreters simply do not measure up. If we could not get it right in sign language for the memorial service of our greatest statesman, what were the chances for a murder trial followed by "only" tens of millions around the globe? In the hands of an interpreter translating Afrikaans to English this week, the witness's "The person was already dead when the paramedics arrived" became "The body died on their arrival". We suggest the court summon legendary newsreader Riaan Cruywagen from semiretirement to save us from this fiasco.

You're so vain, you probably think this trial is about you: There's a running joke in media circles about a certain "media personality" who likes hogging the spotlight. This individual, who will not be named for fear he might "photobomb" another event in retaliation, came to court this week in his capacity as some big chief in some big international club he constantly reminds us about. He proceeded to make friends with Pistorius's former girlfriend, Samantha Taylor. Judging from her sketchy memory under cross-examination, we assume they did not discuss world peace.

Always better on the big screen: A lively crowd has started to gather in the overflow room next to the main court, fitted with a big screen and smaller TVs for journalists who can't find a seat next door. It has mostly filled up with ordinary people, whose reaction to the drama is much more entertaining to watch than defence advocate Barry Roux grilling witnesses. When the camera showed Pistorius throwing up in a bucket, the crowd screamed in disgust; when a witness replied sarcastically to a question from Roux, they clapped. All the room needs is popcorn and 3-D glasses.

Ready to bowl him over: Remember the great cricket feud between Proteas batsman Daryll Cullinan and Aussie spinner Shane Warne? The legspin maestro mockingly referred to Cullinan as his "bunny" because he always got him out. Roux seems to have the same affection for former investigating officer Hilton Botha, whom he eviscerated during Oscar's bail application. The advocate could barely contain his excitement every time he mentioned Botha's name, salivating at the prospect of having another go at the bumbling cop.

Warrant officer 'Black book' Van Rensburg: He has been caught smiling and even laughing during recesses, but when court is in session, Black Book takes his job very seriously. The court orderly is the man who tells the peanut gallery to sit down and keep quiet ahead of the entrance of Judge Thokozile Masipa and her assessors. He also keeps a beady eye on journalists during sessions, making a note in his little black notebook whenever an errant journalist's laptop or cellphone goes off in the courtroom.

The door, the actual, from-the-crime-scene toilet door: Not since the cenotaph in the Voortrekker Monument has an object created as much excitement in Pretoria as the door from Pistorius's bathroom through which he fired the fatal shots. Like apemen examining the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey, journalists peered at it from every angle, craning their necks to see its bullet holes and cricket bat cracks. Turns out, to paraphrase Robert Frost, there are some things that do not love a door. So far, they include cricket bats, bullets, Oscar Pistorius's prosthetic foot and policemen whose preservation of what has been called "the most important piece of evidence in the case" was constantly questioned by Roux this week. - Werner Swart