Jim watched them drive away and quickly got into his own ute.
16
The next morning on the tram I stand swaying in the doorway, swamped by the commuter crush of close bodies. After a precious few days going free-range, the indignity of it gets to me. Outside, the sun has a weak, boxed-in look, as if it doesn’t like skyscrapers any more than I do. I take a detour for a much-needed double espresso to help me face the day.
My mind keeps circling between Grace and my father, the bones and my case as I flick through a series of messages from my assistant asking me to call her. It all sounds urgent, but work is always urgent. There’s a meeting on my calendar that I don’t remember organising. The managing partner wants to discuss the Colcart matter as soon as possible. I re-read Melanie’s messages and they do seem panicked, as though something has gone pear-shaped. I slump in my chair and think about ordering another coffee but instead grab my handbag and get moving.
The lift glides upwards. It is early enough that I’m the only occupant, surrounded on all sides by my reflection, wearing a fitted grey dress and matching jacket. The clothes are the modern equivalent of armour. The old lurking feelings of being an imposter reappear, that I don’t really belong here and that whatever disaster awaits will expose the giant mistake of promoting me to partner. I try to brush them away, squaring my shoulders, and by the time the lift opens to the hard-edged designer furniture at reception, I’m ready for battle.
The receptionist hasn’t arrived yet but Melanie is already here, at least half an hour early. Catching sight of me, she drops her phone and gives me a guilty look. I get a muted ‘hello’ accompanied by a rabbit-in-the-spotlight stare as I head towards my office, keen to work out what’s gone wrong.
‘Has the Eslake report arrived yet?’ I ask.
Her face crumbles. ‘I was just printing it out, but Fran accidentally picked it up and gave it to Bryan.’
Fran is Bryan’s PA. Nothing Fran does is by accident.
‘Anything else?
The look on Melanie’s face makes it clear that there is. ‘He wants to see you straight away.’ She blinks. ‘In the boardroom.’
‘Of course.’ I autotune my smile to unconcerned. It’s an expression that’s on high rotation in this environment.
Fran is positioned in front of the boardroom, ostensibly doing filing, the office equivalent of knitting at the guillotine.
‘Good morning, Fran.’
‘He said to go straight in.’ She’s smooth, a veteran of this kind of situation.
Bryan is standing at the far end of the table. ‘There you are,’ he says, barely looking in my direction. ‘Take a seat. We’re waiting for one more.’
He marches out the door and has a low muttered conversation with Fran.
I sit at the boardroom table as instructed, choosing my favourite side so I can look out the window. If I had to leave the firm, this vista is the thing I would miss most. The table is so highly polished it gleams like a mirror, reflecting the sky outside. The best time of day is at sunset when it can feel as if rosy clouds are floating in the room. From the right angle and reflection, the table becomes an infinity pool of blue and I have to run my hand along its cold hardness to remember that it’s wood.
There are two folders sitting on the table, the fatter one open as if Bryan has just been turning the pages. It’s the Colcart documents, with Rob’s report sitting on top. I skim through it quickly. It’s clear that the poorly maintained transformer caused the fire. This is the sort of advice that means you should settle the case as quickly and discreetly as possible.
The door opens and Andrew strides in.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
He makes a noncommittal noise as he sits down across from me, unbuttoning his suit jacket and flicking out the bottom so he doesn’t sit on it. His face, as polished as the table, gives nothing away. Bryan comes in carrying a laptop under one arm, taking the chair next to Andrew, opposite me, like it’s two against one.
‘I wanted to discuss this with you yesterday but I understand you were away on personal leave and uncontactable,’ Bryan says. ‘Is there anything you’d like to tell us?’
This is Bryan’s version of ‘natural justice’, making sure the accused has an opportunity to put forward their point of view so he can then ignore it completely.
‘I’m not exactly clear what this meeting is about, Bryan,’ I say, as coldly as possible, my insides churning.
‘Yesterday a colleague from another firm sent Andrew a video,’ he says. ‘Uncertain as to how he should handle it, he brought it to me. It’s a video of you behaving erratically. Is there anything you wish to say now?’
This completely baffles me until my mind flashes to being in the car with Donal. The hot prickle of humiliation crawls up my spine.
‘Andrew, can you do the honours?’ Bryan asks, passing the laptop to Andrew, who opens it up, types in a password and then swivels the screen around to face me. The three of us are going to sit here watching a video of me having sex.
There’s an amateur kind of roller-coaster quality to the video that makes it feel more dramatic, but then, the subject matter is sensational enough. It’s only a couple of minutes long and when it finishes, I click on it again and watch it a second time.
A woman with dishevelled hair has a considerable amount of blood soaked into her top. Her eyes are wide-eyed bulges and she seems a breath away from being hysterical. A burly policeman has his arms around her in restraint and is bundling her into the back of his car. It looks like footage of a drug addict being arrested after she’s been in a fight.
But this is wrong because the footage is of me.
Bryan’s mouth is partially open with the tip of his tongue visible between his teeth. It’s his signature look, usually seen when enormous amounts of money are being billed, an important judgement is being handed down or, it turns out, when he wants to sack someone.
‘Do you have anything to say for yourself?’ It’s phrased as a question but he’s not expecting a response. It’s a fatal error. Never ask a witness a question you don’t know the answer to.
I mention Paul Keenan’s name repeatedly and both Bryan and Andrew recognise it from the front pages of every paper in the country. I explain that the police kept my involvement confidential and asked me to do the same, that I gave the first aid which saved his life in the short term, was at the hospital when he died and have just returned from his memorial after providing emotional support to his grieving family, though I know that’s not quite how Tess would describe it.
Bryan sits there thinking. He has almost no top lip but a big fat rubbery lower one that sticks out when he grimaces. He doesn’t quite know what to do.
‘My sincere condolences,’ says Andrew. ‘I knew there must be a sensible explanation.’
This is Andrew’s version of going out on a limb, sitting on the sidelines for the match and then, just as the final whistle is about to be blown, running onto the field to join the winning side.
Bryan stands up, hands stuck in his trouser pockets, pursing his mouth like he’s assessing the damage.
‘That isn’t all I wanted to discuss,’ he says. ‘This arrived in the post yesterday.’
He pulls out the second folder, thin and new, and pushes it across the table to me. There is only one page inside. The message on it is crude and to the point.
Another death threat, this one in even more vicious terms.
I stare at it, aware of Bryan and Andrew watching me. It was easy to dismiss the other ones, pretending they didn’t happen, but I’m already under attack here and this is the final straw. A single solitary tear wells up. I try to suck it back in, to will it to disappear, but it rolls down my cheek and falls onto the paper.
‘Have you received any of these before?’ Bryan asks.
Clearing my throat before speaking, I explain that this is the fourth one. Perhaps I should mention that Rob Eslake got one as well but I decide not to complicate the si
tuation.
‘You never told me,’ says Andrew. ‘Eliza, this is really serious.’
‘It will just be a crank.’
‘Most unfortunate,’ Bryan says. ‘We will be thoroughly investigating it. As your wellbeing is our highest priority the firm thinks that you should take some leave.’
Always beware senior partners offering sympathy and time off. No good ever comes of it.
‘That’s obviously what this person wants. There’s considerable work to be done for Colcart and I intend to do it.’
‘Ah, yes, Colcart,’ Bryan says. ‘I happened to see the Eslake report. Quite a tactical error to get that in writing.’
‘You personally endorsed my decision to retain him.’
‘You misunderstood,’ says Bryan. ‘We needed to take Eslake out of the game. If we have him, no-one else can. His opinion will allow us to frame the questions for our new expert more carefully, an expert more aligned to our client’s needs. Any ideas, Andrew, as to a suitable candidate?’
There’s a pause as Andrew looks surprised, seemingly taken aback at the direction this conversation has taken. I wait for him to back me up, to tell Bryan that all of this is wrong.
‘Wally Boothby could be suitable,’ he says, after some thought. ‘Sound man, client-focused.’
Which means that for the right price he’ll say anything you want. A lot like Andrew.
‘I was doing some reading in this area last night,’ says Bryan. ‘Do you know over half the bushfires in Australia are deliberately lit?’
‘This one wasn’t,’ I say.
‘The police thought otherwise,’ Bryan answers.
‘That investigation went nowhere.’
‘Still, inferences can be made,’ he smiles. ‘Particularly if the suspect is the son of the lead plaintiff.’
‘Where there’s smoke,’ suggests Andrew with a small smile, as if he really shouldn’t but he just can’t help himself.
‘Anyway,’ says Bryan, ‘take the time off.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘I’m directing you to. It’s for your own good. I’ll get security to investigate these upsetting threats. Andrew can take over the file in your absence, get it back on track. I understand there’s been some ridiculous talk of settling. This is a client with deep pockets. They, and we, can afford to take a more bullish approach.’
He gives the sort of smile that tells me that even though he lost the opening skirmish, he’s going to win something more substantial. I’m losing the legal equivalent of musical chairs. If Colcart is taken away, my practice could take years to recover. Years this firm will not give me.
Andrew leans back in his seat as if he is merely a bystander to this grubby episode.
‘Have you already spoken with the client?’ I ask.
Bryan holds up a hand to stop me. ‘They have been made aware of the video footage and were concerned about your health. We will ensure they’re apprised of the context. Now, I’ll leave it to both of you to organise the handover.’
I stand up and go to the window because I can’t look at Bryan. Dispirited waves dart across the bay, like yapping dogs on a lead, and I feel a real pang for the wildness of the ocean, a yearning to stand again on the beach with Donal.
The door closes behind him, making a rustle across the carpet like the sound of hundred-dollar bills rubbing together. Andrew sits and watches me.
‘You bastard,’ I say.
He shrugs like I’m being irrational. ‘You weren’t here, Eliza. I got Melanie to try and make contact with you. That footage has done the rounds. Bryan was all for kicking you out by registered mail, effective immediately. I was the one who said we needed to give you a chance, to hear what you had to say.’
There’s a curl of his mouth at this. Whatever he said to Bryan yesterday had one eye to their not being sued by me. Procedural fairness, natural justice – concepts that lawyers argue must apply to everyone else but are inclined to forget themselves.
‘Thanks,’ I say with so much sarcasm it would make a teenage girl wince.
He acts like he’s been stung.
‘I’m not the enemy here,’ he says. ‘I tried to buy you some time and give you a chance to be heard. It could have been a lot worse.’
I slump back into my chair, trying to work out how damaging this will be. I imagine my peers watching the video, their emotions running from dismay to glee.
‘Why didn’t you tell the firm about the threats earlier?’ asks Andrew.
‘I tried to forget about them. They come with the territory of having a high-profile case, right?’
Andrew looks sceptical. ‘I’ve never had any.’
‘You don’t think they’re real?’
He shrugs, like how would he know. ‘For one moment, I thought you were going to take a swing at Bryan.’
‘I might still take a swing at you.’
He laughs. ‘Always liked that about you, Eliza. A sense of humour and a devastating left hook.’ He stands up and walks around the table to sit next to me.
‘You’ve been through hell. Any one of those things alone is enough to rock a person. Take the time off and I’ll talk to the Media Unit, see if they can get the word out there, get you nominated for a community hero award, so there’s some understanding around the video. I’ll babysit Colcart until you get back.’
‘Really?’
‘Scout’s honour,’ he says, holding up three fingers. His other hand reaches out and squeezes mine.
‘That would be good,’ I say, a little wobbly.
Fran is sitting serenely outside the room. She gives me a warm smile as I walk past.
17
I head straight to the women’s toilets and lock myself in the furthest cubicle. Head in my hands, I sit there shell-shocked, overwhelmed by what has just happened. There is no-one more critical than a lawyer taking over someone else’s case. It’s the perfect escape clause. Any mistakes are easily blamed on the person who handled the case earlier. The list is endless: should have amended the pleading, applied for a strike out, done more extensive discovery, kept costs down, put more resources in. It is the perfect opportunity to undermine someone in order to cement your own position. If anything goes badly wrong in the next couple of weeks, not only will I never see this case again but I’ll probably never get another one at this firm.
I’ve spent the last ten years negotiating the treacherous route from articled clerk to solicitor to senior associate to partner like it was one of those TV game shows with oversized obstacle courses. I pursued it with zealous single-mindedness – everything else came second. Relationships fell by the wayside (‘you’re married to your work’), weekends were workdays in casual clothes and friends became acquaintances. I would occasionally run into them crossing the road as I dashed to court or back again and I’d be introduced to spouses or see a new baby in a stroller and we’d hastily make plans that never got kept. There would be time for that later, I told myself, when I had made it over the finish line. Then I would be partner and the world would see, my family especially, that I was a success. But upon being made partner the mists suddenly lifted only to show yet another pinnacle to climb in the distance.
None of that matters now, because my world has tilted, the ladder has ended up in a snake’s mouth, and I’m holding on by my fingertips. This has the potential to wreck my career permanently, and if that disappears then I don’t really know who I am. I sit there until self-preservation kicks in, then I wipe my eyes, fix my make-up and go back to my goldfish-bowl office like perky Junior Partner Barbie, but my heart isn’t in it.
I stare at my computer, trying to look busy for anyone walking past. Perhaps I should never have taken this case. Was I arrogant to think I could try to find a solution that was fair when the adversarial system only has winners and losers?
Alan Sharp told me the fire was toxic. If he was right about that, could he be right about my father’s accident? Did he seriously believe Dad drove into the tree deliberately?
I click open files on my computer until I find the one I’m looking for. It’s the most recent police interview with Tony Bayless about the fire. He’s explaining the ‘loud twang and then a buzz’ he heard beforehand, the sound of a powerline breaking. What is special about this interview is not the evidence gained or the admissions made, but the person conducting it. This is the last footage I have of my father before the accident.
Dad was never one for conversation, Alan was right about that, but he’s a clever interviewer. Quiet people often are. He treats Tony with courtesy, listens carefully to his answers, but subtle traps are being laid. There is precision in his timing as he gently probes inconsistencies. Dad was a master of this game. Nothing ever blindsided him. I click on it again and again and watch him closely. He looks tired but there isn’t anything to suggest that something is seriously wrong with him.
Melanie sticks her head around the door. I pause the video.
‘Thought you might like a coffee,’ she says.
‘Thanks.’ She takes my response as an invitation to come into my office.
‘I’m so sorry about those awful threats.’
‘Did you open the letter?’
‘It didn’t have your name on the envelope, only the firm’s, so it was opened at reception.’
A smart move, designed to create maximum fuss. If it had just come to Melanie I’m fairly sure she’d have contacted me first and it could have been discreetly added to the pile.
‘So you’re taking some time off,’ Melanie says. I guess the support staff gossip network has been in overdrive all morning.
‘Maybe a week,’ I say. ‘Not too much more.’
‘Everyone’s really sorry about what happened, you know, with that Irish guy. I can’t believe you were there,’ she says in a rush. ‘The girls and I decided we should put some money towards a donation for him. HR is going to send out an email.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘He had a young son, so I’m sure they’d be grateful.’
She tears up at this and I know she’s thinking of her own kids.
‘Do you want me to send all the Colcart folders around to Andrew’s office?’
Second Sight Page 14