The parliamentarian began with a tone that sounded almost sympathetic.

He carefully listed Sarah Jane Trent’s academic achievements—her certificate in marketing management, her Bachelor of Laws degree, her admission as an attorney of the High Court, and her later qualification as a certified fraud examiner.

By any measure, he said, she had worked hard to build an impressive professional profile.

But then came the turn.

In his view, the problems in her career appeared to begin when she crossed paths with a controversial figure in South African investigative circles: Paul O’Sullivan.

The question that followed was blunt.

Was she proud of having worked with him?

For a moment, Trent seemed unsure how to answer.

“It’s a difficult question,” she admitted.

She explained that she had learned a great deal during her time working with O’Sullivan and had gained valuable experience.

But she also acknowledged that some of those experiences had been traumatic.

The member pressed further.

He told her that the committee had heard extensive complaints about O’Sullivan.

According to testimony already presented, many people claimed their careers had been destroyed by him.

Some alleged he had intimidated witnesses and even threatened members of Parliament.

The implication was clear: if those allegations were true, anyone associated with him might also face serious questions.

So the member repeated the question.

Was she proud of having worked with such a man?

Trent hesitated again.

Eventually, she gave a revealing answer.

She said she no longer told people that she had worked with O’Sullivan.

The response seemed to confirm what the member suspected—that the association had become a burden.

But the questioning did not stop there.

The parliamentarian asked whether she associated herself with any of the alleged wrongdoing attributed to O’Sullivan.

Her answer this time was simple.

“No.”

Yet when the member pressed again—asking whether she was proud after everything that had been said about him—her tone shifted.

“I’m sad,” she said.

That brief sentence seemed to capture the complicated position she found herself in: defending her own conduct while distancing herself from a figure at the center of controversy.

But the interrogation was only beginning.

The member then framed his next line of questioning as an opportunity.

If Trent wanted to restore her reputation, he said, the best way to do it was simple: tell the truth.

Other witnesses had done so before the committee, he claimed, and had even received standing ovations for their honesty.

Would she take the same opportunity?

Trent said she would.

But the very next question would test that promise in an unexpected way.

The member revealed that the committee had received WhatsApp messages and other evidence suggesting she had a romantic relationship with Robert McBride, the former head of the Independent Police Investigative Directorate.

The allegation carried serious implications.

At the time, Trent had been communicating with IPID investigators and providing assistance in matters connected to their work.

If she had been romantically involved with the head of the agency, critics might argue that the relationship represented a conflict of interest.

Trent immediately drew a distinction.

“It wasn’t a romantic relationship,” she said.

Instead, she described it as a social relationship.

The member asked what that meant.

She explained that they had shared meals together and that there had been an attraction between them.

The parliamentarian paused.

“So there was an attraction?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

The room grew quieter as the exchange continued.

Had they ever been alone together in a private room?

“Yes,” she admitted.

The member thanked her for being honest.

But he quickly moved to the next point: during the same period, she had been assisting IPID in its work.

So on one side, she had a personal relationship with the agency’s director.

On the other, she was interacting with investigators connected to that same institution.

Did she see the potential conflict?

Trent pushed back slightly.

She insisted that her role in assisting IPID had been minimal and largely limited to tasks like desktop research or sharing information when requested.

But the parliamentarian maintained control of the exchange.

“I am the driver of this conversation,” he reminded her at one point, insisting she answer his questions directly.

The interrogation then shifted again—this time back to Paul O’Sullivan.

Had she conducted any serious background checks before joining his organization?

Her answer was surprisingly simple.

No.

She had Googled him, seen stories about his investigations, and then sent him her CV.

That was the extent of it.

The member then raised another question about O’Sullivan’s origins.

Did she know where he was born and why he came to South Africa?

She said she believed he had come from Ireland and had moved to the country because of property interests.

But the member interrupted with a different version.

According to testimony O’Sullivan himself had given the committee, he had come to South Africa because he loved the weather.

Whether it was sunshine or rain, the member joked, he had fallen in love with the climate.

The remark drew a moment of lightness in an otherwise tense exchange.

But the questioning soon turned serious again.

The member asked about Forensics for Justice, the organization where Trent had served as a director.

Who funded it?

Was it supported by foreign donors?

Trent said she believed the organization was funded primarily by O’Sullivan himself.

She was not aware of any foreign funding, although she admitted she could not rule out the possibility of donations.

The discussion then moved to another controversial episode.

Trent had previously acknowledged that she filed a criminal complaint against former President Jacob Zuma while working with the organization.

Where had she filed the complaint?

At the National Prosecuting Authority, she said.

The member appeared puzzled.

Why go directly to prosecutors instead of reporting the matter to the police?

Trent struggled to recall the exact reasoning and admitted she would need to verify the details.

But the member’s broader point was clear.

Much of her work seemed to involve private individuals identifying targets, conducting investigations, and initiating complaints against powerful political figures.

To critics, that process raised questions about accountability.

Who decided which cases to pursue?

Were these investigations driven by whistleblowers—or by the investigators themselves?

Trent said that sometimes cases began with tips from the public, but other times O’Sullivan might identify something suspicious and decide to pursue it.

That answer seemed to reinforce the committee’s concern that private actors might be initiating investigations into public officials without formal authority.

The final portion of the exchange moved into even more technical territory.

The member asked Trent to explain her claim that her fraud-examiner qualifications allowed her access to various investigative tools.

She explained that these tools involved databases and service providers—systems that could retrieve information such as property records from the deeds office or vehicle registration details.

But another phrase in her affidavit caught the committee’s attention.

She had written that her work included “compiling criminal dockets.”

The member immediately challenged that wording.

Criminal dockets, he pointed out, are opened by police officers—not private investigators.

Trent responded that she had not meant official police dockets.

What she meant, she said, was the preparation of investigative files containing evidence and statements that could later be submitted to authorities.

The committee member appeared unconvinced.

To him, the wording suggested that she had been giving herself powers she did not legally possess.

As the clock ticked toward the end of his speaking time, the questioning veered briefly into an almost surreal detail.

One complaint in the evidence bundle described a police officer driving Trent while eating popcorn behind the wheel.

The member asked her about it.

She confirmed that popcorn had indeed been sitting between the seats and that the officer had been eating while driving, at one point making her fear they might crash.

It was a strange, almost cinematic moment in a hearing filled with far heavier issues.

But the member had one final question before his time expired.

Earlier in the inquiry, a confidential memorandum prepared by prosecutors had allegedly been leaked.

Parts of that document appeared in Trent’s own written statement.

So how had she obtained it?

Had someone inside the National Prosecuting Authority given it to her?

Had a journalist shared it?

Was it linked to organizations like AfriForum, which O’Sullivan had acknowledged working with?

Trent said she did not believe the document had been leaked to her and denied working with journalists or AfriForum.

But the question lingered as the chair finally ended the exchange.

Because by the time the interrogation concluded, the hearing had exposed a web of connections between private investigators, law enforcement officials, political figures, and activists—a web that the committee was still trying to untangle.

And for Sarah Jane Trent, the hardest questions might still lie ahead.