by Alex Hammond
‘Unfortunately it doesn’t explicitly look like that. If we can knock back the bullying charge, then the rest – the note, the suicide – we could suggest a different explanation for. It doesn’t help that Saxon disposed of his laptop and mobile phone. They had demonstrated Connor’s complicity in the exchange of the violent images that got his mother’s attention in the first place. I’m concerned that Saxon dumped them just after I said that the police might want to examine them.’
Walsh exhaled. ‘I know. It’s not good. I’m barely there, Will. I hardly saw my children grow up. I don’t really influence what goes on in that house. It’s all Sandi and Saxon. If I’d had any idea what was on the things, I would have intervened. For God’s sake, it looks like we’re trying to destroy evidence.’
Will continued past the dark shopfronts and the lamp-lit alleyways. He walked east, uphill towards the Spring Street end of the city.
There was so much reverential fear of the judiciary that it was hard to see judges as anything else – concerned mothers, desperate fathers. Perhaps that’s why Walsh had asked for Will’s help. With a judge for a mother, Will had no trouble seeing past the rituals, all the bowing, wigs, gavels and titles. He knew how to see them as people.
‘Alan, there’s a possibility that I might be able to pull something from the CCTV footage. It’s low resolution, but it does show Connor’s face. He said something to Saxon before he jumped, so I’m bringing in a lip reader. Someone with experience consulting with lawyers. I’ll get them to sign a non-disclosure.’
‘A forensic speech reader? Good thinking. I hope to God Saxon is saying something sensible.’
‘I’ll keep you in the loop. The police are at least double-checking everything before they take any steps. That’s good because it buys us time. But unless I can dig something else up they will, eventually, charge him.’
‘Thank you, Will. Your help means a lot to me, particularly given the other pressures you are under.’
He stopped at a traffic light. A young couple were walking a small dog wearing a knitted vest. Will waited until they’d passed before he spoke again.
‘I hate to mention this, but seeing as we’re on the phone now . . .’
‘The professional conduct hearing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course. That’s only reasonable. I have a professional dinner on the weekend, and Anne Feinson will be there.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I’ll have a word. See where this whole thing is coming from. If I can dissuade her then and there, I will. If it will take a bit more grunt, I’ll let you know and we can decide what to do.’
‘Thanks, Alan. I really appreciate it.’
‘No problem at all. Like for like. That’s the way we get things done.’
Walsh hung up and Will turned up Bourke Street, past an overlit convenience store and towards his apartment.
He felt sick at himself for the back dealing. Even now there was a light-headedness that he couldn’t shake. He hadn’t simply crossed the line; he was deep in unknown and morally dubious territory. What made it worse was that he was beginning to get an insight into the world of moral exemption in which Saxon lived, a world where you disposed of evidence and relied on your parents’ power to protect you.
Walsh had said that he was barely present at his own house, as though this explained his failings with Saxon. But it was more than that. He had no idea of the kind of man his son was becoming. Will had hardly penetrated the peripheries, but he could see that Saxon did not have the doughy personality of an unformed teen, shaped by his peer group and filled with vague, selfish notions of what was right and wrong.
Saxon was a judge’s son, and Will knew too well the acute awareness of the law’s moral code that came with that lineage. It was the stillness of the boy during the police interview that had stayed with him, more so than the violent images or witnessing a sudden death by crushing locomotive. It was as though Saxon were observing all of them with the emotionless objectivity of a scientist. As though he were testing their responses to the stimuli of his own creation.
TWENTY-FIVE
He woke the next morning wrapped in blankets and blinking at the glowing screen of his alarm. Six-thirty a.m. and still no decent sleep.
He dropped into the office first, gathered his files on Nicholas Aaron and then left for the Magistrate’s Court.
Will had never liked the claustrophobic feel of this court, with its low ceilings and narrow corridors. The red granite and off-white walls were intended to conceal the heavy traffic the building saw each day, but instead they gave it a characterless, institutional feel.
The security guard waved Will around the metal detector. He took the lift to the seventh floor where hard plastic seats ran around the edge of the room. An open balcony looked down on to the lower level in an attempt to give height to the confined space. Dozens of people mingled around the chairs – police, lawyers and their clients, concerned families. It felt more like a cattle yard than a court, as tip staff called out the names of cases that were about to be heard, repeating themselves several times over the din.
In the foyer was the full gamut of defence lawyers, from bearded duty solicitors to over-the-top, bull-necked criminal barristers. They mingled with their clients, who either dressed as best they could or pushed the limits of neat dress in hoodies and sneakers. The accused sat on chairs while running through papers, or stood in huddles with anxious family members.
On one crowded bench sat Alida Paraskos in a dark suit with matching pumps. On her lap she balanced a briefcase where she’d placed a stapled printout. She was shaking her head and marking it up with a red pen.
He was tempted to avoid her altogether, stay out of sight until the hearing, rather than deal with her interrogating his motivations again.
Or you could see if she’s been talking to the legal commissioner.
No, that was a bad idea. That might fuel her suspicions. Better to simply play it as normal.
Will walked over. ‘Alida.’
‘Harris.’ She placed the paperwork on the chair behind her and stood up. ‘Things are going to run to plan today, right? No surprises.’
‘Surprises?’
‘You have a reputation.’
‘That was a one-off thing, Alida. I’m actually a very boring lawyer. Today will be as dry as toast. You’ve seen the hand-up brief, we won’t be calling any witnesses.’
Paraskos nodded and returned to her notes.
Will waited and read through Haideh’s updates to the Barnett brief, until a young bench clerk poked his head around the courtroom door.
‘Victoria Police and Aaron,’ he announced.
Paraskos stood while still making notations and lifting up the briefcase. Will followed her into the court.
The seat covers in the public gallery matched the carpet – a demure grey. The floor sloped gently down to a bar table that was made out of the same red wood that lined the magistrate’s bench, prisoner dock and witness stand.
A school group filed into the court with them. They talked until Nicholas Aaron was brought in from the holding cells that layhidden within the building’s walls. He was led into the dock at the back of the court. His suit was simple, his tie at least two decades out of date. They had probably been provided by court services. He scowled as he sat and the bailiff stood over him.
The magistrate entered and the court stood and bowed. He wore a simple black robe over his suit and a pair of square glasses. His retreating hair had been slicked back off his head, revealing the dark spots of years spent under a hot sun.
In the public gallery the school group watched with expressions ranging from listlessness to boredom. The reporters took out pads to make notes. Everyone took their seats except for Paraskos.
‘I understand that the police have a range of charges that they would like to bring against Nicholas Aaron.’
‘That’s right, Your Honour, we do,’ she said. ‘Mr Aaron has been charged wit
h two counts of trafficking a commercial quantity of drugs of dependence under the Drugs, Poisons and Controlled Substances Act, notably 1490 grams of MDMA and 150 grams of methamphetamine. He has also been charged with one count of possession of an unregistered firearm.’
‘And it is my understanding that the defendant intends to plead guilty to these charges.’
Will stood. ‘That is correct, Your Honour.’
‘Your client understands and acknowledges the scope of these charges, that he intentionally trafficked a drug of dependence in a commercial quantity, which is prohibited by law?’
Will nodded. ‘He does, Your Honour.’
‘And that this is considered to be a significant offence under the Sentencing Act, meaning that he is not eligible for a suspended sentence? The outcome today must result in jail time to be served.’
‘Yes, Your Honour. That is understood. We ask for lenience under the circumstances as my client has cooperated with the police in their investigations.’
‘Are you satisfied that this has been the case?’ he asked Paraskos.
She stood. ‘He has cooperated up to a point, Your Honour. But we believe that we factored this into decisions made when charging him. He was not charged with certain other offences.’
Paraskos returned to her seat.
‘I imagine you may wish to respond, Mr Harris.’
‘I do, Your Honour. If my learned colleague intended to charge my client on these other matters, she should have. As she did not, I don’t see how it should have any bearing on the court’s judgement.’
The magistrate tapped on the laptop concealed below his desk. ‘I would have to agree. However, the law does not look kindly on drug traffickers. I still do not see a reason why the court should be lenient.’
Will couldn’t agree more, yet his own professional standards started to build momentum over his dislike for Aaron. He would make this argument as best he could.
‘Respectfully, Your Honour, my client is an owner–operator of his own highly successful DJing business, the proceeds of which he used to obtain a mortgage for his Docklands apartment. He has contributed to Melbourne’s entertainment and live music scene —’
The magistrate raised an eyebrow. ‘Live music?’
‘You’re quite correct – the music scene, Your Honour. This is the first time my client has been charged with any crime and he has pleaded guilty to the offence.’
Paraskos stood.
‘Your Honour, I would like to point out that no substantive information was supplied by the defendant which could be used to further investigate the drug ring for which he worked. It is not even a case of the quality or quantity of information provided, as in Duffy. It is a case of nothing being provided whatsoever.’
The magistrate nodded.
‘From the hand-up brief, I would have to agree. Furthermore, merely pleading guilty is not indicative of remorse or an understanding of the devastation that drugs bring to our community through long-term addiction and escalating violence. Perhaps if your client had spent his time working within the community on a drug education program, rather than lounging around by the beach prior to his arrest . . . However, I take the point that the defendant is a first-time offender with ties to the community and will consider this when sentencing. Does the prosecution have anything further to add?’
‘No, Your Honour.’
‘The defence?’
‘No, Your Honour.’
‘Very well, if the defendant could please stand.’
Aaron slouched forwards and got to his feet, sucking air through his teeth.
‘Nicholas Aaron, this court sentences you to three years’ imprisonment for each count of trafficking a commercial quantity of a drug of dependence, and eight months for the possession of an unregistered firearm. Total effective sentence shall be four years with a non-parole period of twenty-four months.’
As he slammed his gavel, Will snatched up his bag. He didn’t stop to look at Aaron. He left for the exit, moving on with the rest of his life.
TWENTY-SIX
There was a lingering smell of incense in the bar, the spicy sweet aroma of sandalwood and frangipani. Nag champa. The smell of it took Will back to those well-trodden terraces in Carlton, the university share houses where he’d spent so much time as a student. On floor cushions at dinner parties, under sheets with girls with dyed blue hair, in damp winter kitchens heated by a bubbling pot of soup for six people – that smell had been ever present.
It felt like a lifetime ago. The red leather and polished dark wood of Oscura glistened between ferns and Asian screens. Above the curved bar hung expensive glassware, while behind it were vintages and spirits that started at twice the minimum daily wage.
Most of the men and women in the bar wore suits. Lawyers. Some were schmoozing clients, others networking, all of them scanning faces and ranking the results. Will watched the two drinks on the table in front of him. This was the last place he wanted to be.
Yesterday’s hearing was still playing on his mind. As much as he had tried, he couldn’t find the closure he’d been looking for. He kept thinking back to Aaron in the dock, the tattoo of a pin-up girl on his neck poking up from his collar, the vein beneath it pulsing and making it appear as though the girl’s heart were beating.
Will picked his phone up from the table and dialled the number Aaron had given him.
It rang only twice.
‘Hello?’
‘Ramir. It’s Will Harris.’
Ramir Ivanic sighed, his breath causing distortion on the phone. ‘What do you want?’
‘We need to meet somewhere to talk. Somewhere private.’
‘I don’t go behind my family’s back.’
‘You’ll want to with this one. I’m worried about Nick.’
‘Nick’s in jail.’
‘That’s exactly what has me worried.’
Ramir grunted. ‘Okay. I’ll text you somewhere to meet tomorrow.’
‘Good.’
Will hung up and watched the screen for a text. It came through quickly – an address in the city at eleven a.m. tomorrow.
He swallowed a painkiller, following it with an anti-inflammatory for good measure, and considered starting on the drink when Teresa Brennan entered the bar. She surveyed the room, quickly bringing her eyes to rest on him. Her auburn hair was pinned into a French braid, undoubtedly from having been worn under a wig, and in the same spirit her make-up was simple and conservative.
‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, winding through the pack towards him.
Will gritted his teeth and stood up.
She took off her grey pinstripe jacket, hanging it over the back of her chair before placing a small handbag on the marble table between them.
Will offered her his hand, but Brennan kissed him on the cheek, placing one hand against his shoulder as she manoeuvred around the cluttered sitting area. She almost toppled a statue of a Nubian leading a leopard on a leash.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, dropping into the chair and crossing her left leg over her right.
Will slowly lowered himself. ‘No problem. I ordered you a Scotch.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling and raising the glass up from the table. She sniffed at it. ‘Sherry cask?’
‘I believe so.’
‘It’s not an Islay.’
‘No. I’m not sure exactly what, though.’
Brennan picked up the glass of water beside the Scotch and let a few drops hit the liquor. Will did the same.
She held it out to him, the long fingers of her large hands leading up toned arms to defined shoulders. Her black sleeveless blouse was intended to make the most of these attributes.
Will clinked the glass and sipped his whisky.
‘Nice,’ Brennan said. ‘I’m guessing Speyside. How’d you get a table in here? Most of them are usually reserved weeks in advance.’
Will chuckled. ‘I used Miller’s name. Said I was meeting with him and that he told me to grab a spot.�
��
‘Isn’t it nice that they don’t want to risk losing him as a customer?’
‘It’s very noble of them. I can’t imagine how much he spends here a year.’
‘A good earner.’ She took another sip from the glass. ‘Politics. No matter where you are . . .’
‘Thanks for doing this, by the way.’
‘That’s a bit pre-emptive, don’t you think? You haven’t heard what I’ve got yet.’
Will blinked.
‘I’m kidding, Will. It’s my pleasure. I really felt for Eva. What happened to her, just . . . Anyway, your information is correct. The investigation has, for all intents and purposes, been pulled.’
‘Haigh said she’d been asked to direct her focus elsewhere.’
‘They’ve hit a wall. And they’re not likely to find any physical evidence, so it’s down to witnesses. They’ll leave the case open but they won’t canvass. None of this is helpful for Haigh. It’s going to have an impact on her clearance rate.’
‘Why have they shut it down?’
‘That’s the troubling bit. It looks like it’s politically motivated. Superintendent Vincent has always been an operator; he really knows how to play the game. Spends as much time out and about pressing the flesh as he does in the cop shop. It seems that he may be currying favour with the Eldons, putting the brakes on your investigation so that you have additional pressures when defending Miller.’
Vincent. That was a new name in the mix.
‘What else do you know about him?’
‘Vincent? Straitlaced. Catholic. Originally went into the seminary before he lost the calling and became police. Was a police prosecutor for a while. One of the first to get a law degree. And, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, that’s pretty much becoming the norm now.’
‘Actually, I hadn’t.’
‘Ha. Well, I guess it doesn’t raise the same amount of noise for your side as it does for ours. There are concerns that the blue will always stick with the blue. That’s why I’m glad I’m a barrister. Cops will never be given indictable offences to run. Too much at risk.’
She rolled the liquor around the glass and sniffed at it. ‘I’m sorry to say it, but you’re being outgunned.’