When faced with a potential or actual public relations disaster, the subject has a range of options. The most effective is often also the most destructive; it is called the napalm approach.

The strategy involves creating the maximum number of diversions and revealing them at the highest possible volume, in the shortest possible time.

The strategy is simple: you just set everything alight that shows the remotest possibility of burning in the hope that something catches fire.

The current drama surrounding Deputy President Jacob Zuma, mining executive Brett Kebble, National Directorate of Public Prosecutions boss Bulelani Ngcuka and Justice Minister Penuell Maduna, is an excellent example of this process at work.

The intention of the napalm approach is to create so much noise that it is impossible to hear the truth, even when it is itself told at high volume.

The power of the strategy and its effectiveness derives from the fact that it is so hard to combat.

This is because the act of combating the noise just adds to the volume and therefore the confusion. You cannot put out a fire by adding more fuel.

It works so well because it uses the media's seeming inability to resist a good yarn against itself, precipitating a gradually increasing sense of crisis.

However, there are risks. Every intervention just raises the stakes, so that if it fails, the price to pay will inevitably be just that little bit higher afterwards.

For example, those who have made allegations that Ngcuka is a spy may or may not be telling the truth, and they may or may not have hard evidence.

But it is hard to believe that they have endeared themselves to the political powers that be by making the claim when they did, even if they are proved right.

Through all the ambient noise, there is a single note that should not be lost: what is at stake is the integrity of the judicial system and ability of government to enforce the law.

As Maduna points out, it is amazing that the allegations of everything from racism to dereliction of duty should arise just before cases are heard involving precisely the people who are making the allegations.

The current crisis began when Ngcuka was presented with a horribly tough case, almost the toughest imaginable: allegations of corruption at the highest levels of government.

He was armed with a set of documentary evidence, a through investigation and some tough prosecutors.

The effectiveness of the investigation he undertook is ironically demonstrated by the vociferousness of the response.

Faced with such a strong case, Ngcuka's enemies decided to "go loud". But no crisis can be precipitated without, to a certain extent at least, having some form of fuel with which to begin the fire.

In Ngcuka's case, much of the "fire starter" intended to initiate the blaze was simply fiction, invented anonymously. The form it took was so basic and so obvious, that the protagonists themselves must have been surprised by how effectively it worked.

In August, an anonymous email, which contained a set of allegations so scandalous that most editors dared not print them, was sent to various newspapers.

But it did not stop some publications printing a watereddown version, making vague references to the allegations and highlighting the "drama" and the "crisis" in which Ngcuka had become embroiled.

The next attack came in the form of newspaper articles that alleged Ngcuka was a spy.

The proponents of this story may or may not be right, but even if they are, those making the allegations, principally former African National Congress operatives Mo Shaik and Mac Maharaj, will have to explain why it is necessary to make the allegation now, just as lawyers start presenting the cases in court.

The third blow is perhaps the most effective. In his effort to keep the press "on side", Ngcuka held an off-the-record briefing for black editors after the anonymous e-mail was sent out.

Why he confined this briefing to editors of a single racial group is one of the unanswered questions of this sorry affair.

Whatever the case, the editors were barely out of the room before the telephone lines started buzzing, and knives were sharpened in preparation for their placement deep in Ngcuka's back.

Little of that briefing remained secret for long, after one newspaper after another printed extracts, culminating in a full minute, which was published in City Press.

The accuracy of this minute is now the subject of dispute, particularly since it was apparently written by people implacably opposed to various of the Scorpions' investigations.

Was Ngcuka wise to have given the briefing? Many politicians give briefings, including the president himself, and journalists generally respect the injunction since not doing so will result in not being invited next time.

But, in Ngcuka's case they are clearly betting he won't be around much longer anyway.

With acknowledgements to Tim Cohen and the Business Day.