by Mel Jacob
P.P.S. Can’t believe Clogs told you I should be on a tighter leash. How much tighter can it get? I’m in jail!
4 January 2014
Beauty,
Thanks for the photos. The kids have grown so much.
Guy here from New York (border security). Was in tight spot (minimum wage) in US and agreed to carry drugs. Listened to conversation with US guy and other experienced border securities.
Inmate: So what route did you take back to Sydney?
American: I flew from Argentina.
Inmate: No one flies straight from Argentina, may as well have had a sign at the airport.
American: Yes, well, I know that now.
Inmate: How much were you carrying?
American: Two grams.
Inmate: That’s nothing—
American. Yes, well, I know that now.
Inmate: And how much did you earn?
American: Five thousand dollars.
Inmate: You were the mule, mate. You were the mule.
American: Hindsight is a very valuable thing.
Most people in here are pretty self-controlled but everyone has their moments. Mine occurred a few days ago. Glen (librarian) was getting under my skin and I lost it and called him a spastic. Don’t think I’ll ever hear the end of it.
Inmate 1: Don’t get on Jacob’s bad side. He went totally postal.
Inmate 2: Really? What happened?
Inmate 1: Went off his nut at Glen and, brace yourself you won’t believe the language that came out of his mouth, couldn’t believe it.
Inmate 2: Whaddid he say?
Inmate 1: Called him a spastic.
Inmate 2: Oh, c’mon, taking things too far.
Inmate 1: Control that potty mouth of yours, Jacobs.
Inmate 2: Language, Jacobs, language. We’ll have to wash your mouth out with soap.
Received v. sad news today. Bella died. Got hit by a car outside Tom’s studio apartment in Bondi. Many inmates more distraught about Bella than finding out about lost appeal, break-up etc. Don’t know why they were so desperate for Bella to go when she was such good support for everyone here.
Love you so much,
Paddy
THIRTY-TWO
‘Mum, you know Dad?’ Lexie asked.
‘Yes, I know Dad.’
It was a sunny day late in autumn. Most of the leaves had fallen from the large magnolia tree next to the deck in our backyard. Lexie and I had just finished painting each other’s toenails, and were sunning ourselves like the cat she still coveted.
‘I can’t remember his face. I close my eyes and try to remember . . . but . . . he’s like that towel,’ Lexie said.
‘What towel?’ I asked, rubbing a late-blooming magnolia leaf between my fingers. The front was waxy green, and the brown back had the texture of velvet.
‘On the pool fence . . . he’s fading.’
Five minutes before, Lexie had been singing her rendition of a pop song, exchanging the word you for poo, and the next she was saying quite possibly the saddest thing I’d ever heard.
Lexie was only six years old and yet she had managed to articulate precisely what I was feeling. When Patrick left, we spoke to him and of him so often, doing our best to include him in our lives. We looked at pictures of him, and I’d blown up a photocopied picture of his head and attached it to an enormous inflatable bat. The kids had talked to it and played with it until, one afternoon, it snagged on something sharp, and deflated.
There were still pictures of Patrick on the walls and bookshelves. We’d tried to listen to the bedtime stories he’d recorded, but he viewed punctuation as being a matter of personal preference, and charged through books without the necessary pauses. After suffering through several of his recordings we gave up.
We spoke to Patrick for approximately five minutes every afternoon, and saw him once a month when we made the pilgrimage to Mannus, but Lexie was right—he was fading.
It was difficult to say when this had started to happen. It was a slow submersion as he disappeared from the minutiae of our lives. When it became difficult for me to recall his scent, and for Lexie, his features. If I had to pinpoint a time, I would say it happened somewhere between when the appeal was heard, Valentine’s Day 2014, and six weeks later, when the judgement was handed down.
So much was riding on the appeal. We had sought advice from a new Senior Counsel, Barnaby, and his junior, Dario. We retained Amar because of his existing knowledge of the case. Barnaby’s estimate was a possible reduction in sentence, between six and eighteen months.
We were fortunate that our business continued to be profitable, thanks to James, and to my nephew Dylan, who had started working for us, and that by appealing we wouldn’t lose our house or be forced to live below the breadline, unlike so many other women I had met in our situation. James offered to loan us some of the money for the appeal, insisting that we only pay him back when we were able.
The appeal was heard at the New South Wales Supreme Court in Sydney. ‘Banco Court,’ said the official at the information desk before I’d even asked a question.
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re here to be admitted to the bar?’
‘No, I’m here for the Jacob appeal.’ I said.
He apologised, and directed James and me up to the thirteenth floor. As I rode the elevator I realised how much my soul was crying out for the eighteen-month reduction. I imagined bundling up the kids in the car and driving straight down to Mannus to bring Paddy home.
Amar was already there, talking to two other men. I recognised one of them, Dario, from his chamber’s website, and assumed the other one was Barnaby, the SC. I bounded over to greet them. The barristers turned in to each other and away from me, like human elevator doors. In a panic, Amar stepped forward to separate me from the men. The barristers were like Old Testament gods, not to be approached directly.
We waited for several hours while another matter was heard. It was different from the local or the District Court. Three judges sat at the front of the room and, despite it being the Supreme Court, some things were more informal, almost as if we were privy to their private discussion.
During our proceedings, Patrick’s good friend Dave arrived and sat down next to me. ‘Sorry. Got a warning about courtroom decorum,’ he said. His long hair and colourful shirt made him an unlikely looking law student.
At one point, an issue arose about the number of firearms related to the charges. Patrick was said to be in possession of two firearms, not one. I sat in the front row of the gallery, waiting for someone from our team to object or clarify the point, and not one of our three lawyers said anything or even seemed to have noticed the mistake.
I’d grown more assertive in the past few years and quietly called out, ‘Amar, Amar.’ At first, he seemed to think it best to ignore me, but then looked around disdainfully before starting to wave his arm, as though he were swatting away a fly.
In the recess, I raised the issue with the team and Dario said, coldly and indifferently, ‘It’s just another detail.’ While it might not have been the very crux of the case, it was not just another detail to us. It was our life, our future. We’d borrowed thousands and thousands of dollars to have the appeal heard in the Supreme Court, we’d sought advice about the best counsel, had meetings and sent and read correspondence, and yet, if I hadn’t followed up on this point, it would not have been rectified. I didn’t know if the legal team weren’t familiar with the fundamental details of the case or if they simply didn’t care.
At the end of the proceedings, the barristers deigned to speak to me again. ‘It went better than I thought it would,’ Barnaby said, his large paunch bursting through his black vest. ‘Be quietly optimistic,’ he advised, ‘but remember that, in there,’ pointing to the courtroom we had exited from, ‘is the realm of disappointment.’
I was aghast. The realm of disappointment? We had made our decision to appeal based on a letter from Barnaby and Dario that had advised us he had
a reasonable expectation of it succeeding. Now, after all the time and energy and cost, he decides to tell me about the realm of fucking disappointment? I was livid, even as I recognised that Barnaby was trying to manage my expectations.
It took me weeks to shake the feeling of unease from the appeal. Then, at 2pm on 23 April 2014, the judgment was handed down. In legal terms, the appeal was a success, as many of the charges were overturned, and the court agreed that the remaining sentences were manifestly excessive and therefore should be reduced. And as I sat in a small room in the Supreme Court filled with hope, I learned that Patrick’s sentence had been reduced, but only by six months. Still, six months is six months. It was only when I realised that there were still nine long months to go that he started to quietly slip away.
Unlike Lexie, I could still remember Patrick’s face. His dark, almost-black hair and eyes, his high cheekbones, his thick lips, and the crescent-shaped scar just above the middle of his eyes. For me, it was his scent that eluded me. Sometimes I thought I caught a whiff of him and then, almost immediately, it was gone.
To my mind, we become not only the stories we tell ourselves but also the stories we tell each other. When Patrick first went away, everything was so painfully hard and out of kilter, but we changed. Our little family of three had adapted and, ever so slowly, his starring role in our lives diminished.
Most of the kids’ stories spilled out spontaneously, rather than in the contrived environment of the recorded phone conversations or the visitation room. Lexie’s stories were now about her new best friends—identical twin boys Tate and Curtis.
‘Tate’s a good friend,’ she said at dinner one night. ‘Today when we were running, he slowed down, so I could beat him.’
‘He does sound like a good friend,’ I agreed. But when she was finally granted permission to tell the two boys about Paddy, she was hurt by their response.
‘I told them, like, the worst thing that has happened in my entire life and they didn’t say anything. And then Tate completely changed the subject.’
Interestingly, the twins’ father had the same reaction when I told him before the kids had their first playdate, though their family did welcome Lexie with open arms.
When the kids did share their stories with Patrick, a gap remained. Patrick had never met Tate and Curtis, and they hadn’t met him. Patrick rarely came up in their regular conversations anymore, and when he did, the kids regarded him with distant awe, the way they might an elderly relative. At dinner or when visiting friends, the kids liked to tell the same stories over and over again, but after that first Christmas apart, none of the stories involved Patrick.
Around that time one story dominated. We were at a dinner party at my friend Pamela’s house when her son Ollie asked why we had decided to send our children to an alternative school. I gave a long, impassioned speech about how it nurtured creativity and imagination, and how, from a very young age, the students come to understand who they are. Then Ollie said, ‘So what sort of person are you, Nick? A leader, an explorer, an artist?’
And Nick replied, ‘Me, I’m a person who cheats at maths.’
The kids told this story many times, and they told it to Patrick on a visit, and he laughed, but it didn’t have the same impact because he wasn’t there.
There was no trace of Paddy left in the bedroom I’d shared with him. After the disappointment of the appeal I made some changes. I painted over the original tangerine walls with fresh white paint, bought a new white bed and side tables, and new linen, and covered the wall behind our bed with grey and white birch tree wallpaper. It was so light and I would stay up late reading. Books had always meant a lot to me but since Patrick had gone, books had meant everything. After I made dinner and bathed and read to the kids, I would hole myself up in my beautiful new bedroom. Immersed in someone else’s story I no longer had to think about the sadness of mine. Like old and new friends, the words amused and delighted, soothed and counselled me. I was alone but not lonely.
I’d become used to being a single parent. I made all the decisions about where I went and what I did without having to consult with anyone. I could stay at dinner parties until I was ready to leave. No one asked me to turn out the light when I stayed up late reading. I ate lighter meals, of soups and salad and sushi, I could wear my threadbare Cottontail undies every day of the week. I could stack as many decorative cushions on the bed as my heart desired. Then, just when things had settled down, and everything seemed calm and smooth and manageable, they changed again.
‘Hey,’ Patrick said, when the American-accented recorded message finished.
‘Hey.’
‘Work release is approved. I’m being transferred to Sydney—Parklea.’ His voice charged with excitement.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
THIRTY-THREE
‘The fences are so high,’ Nick said, crestfallen. We were standing outside Area 4 of Parklea prison in Sydney, holding a large bag of Patrick’s work clothes. It had taken him five days to reach Parklea after setting off from Mannus on the milk run. I’d noticed something different in his voice when he called from Parklea, though he assured me he was fine. ‘No green clothes, please, if you can,’ he’d asked me.
‘Is that the visiting area?’ Lexie asked, pointing to the small, square, covered concrete area in front of the main building.
‘I don’t know, Lex,’ I said.
‘Hope not,’ she said as an extremely tall CO walked out to unlock the gate and escort us inside.
‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ the CO asked Nick, eyeing him with friendly suspicion.
‘I was sick,’ Nick said.
‘Was?’
‘This morning.’
‘What was the matter?’ the CO asked, genuinely interested.
‘Hypochondria,’ Nick said, as though he were stating a proper malady.
‘You’re honest, I’ll give you that,’ the CO said.
I handed the CO the clothes, and we all stood as he painstakingly recorded every item of clothing, including brand, size and colour. From our vantage point in front of the office, I could see into the main quadrangle. It was brick and concrete and had two storeys; similar in design to the public high school I’d attended. I could see men in green, jogging. Not surprisingly, Patrick was not among them. It was strange, though, knowing that he was only metres away, beyond a wall, but we weren’t allowed contact.
In Area 4, Parklea, visits were only held on weekends.
‘Excuse me, but is that the visiting area?’ Nick asked the CO, pointing to the same covered area Lexie had asked about. It contained a sink, a vending machine, and a small waist-height fence that ran around the perimeter of the area, giving it the appearance of an animal pen.
‘Sure is, buddy,’ the CO responded.
‘Excuse me,’ Nick said again. ‘Can I ask you another question?’
‘You can ask.’
Nick took a moment to decipher his response. ‘Will I be able to walk on the grass over there with my dad?’
‘Sorry, mate, that’s not for visits.’
‘Can Dad walk around there other times?’ he asked hopefully.
‘I thought you said one more question . . .’ the CO joked. ‘’Fraid not, it’s out of bounds for everyone.’
‘Even you?’ Nick asked boldly.
The CO smiled. ‘Great kids you’ve got there,’ he said.
‘They have their moments,’ I replied.
‘Can’t be easy, what you’re doing,’ the CO said, as he continued recording the items of clothing.
On the way out of Area 4, I said to the kids, ‘I know it’s not Mannus, but we won’t have to travel, we’ll be able to see him every week.’
‘I s’pose,’ Nick said, unconvinced.
‘I don’t like it either but maybe we can try and think about it from a different perspective. In one of my favourite books, the main character says he could have fun with his special person even in a Turkish prison.’
‘Turkey,’ Nick corrected.
‘I don’t want him to be in a Turkish prison, or any prison. In the book, the man was trying to say to the women he loved that it didn’t matter where they were as long as they were together,’ I said, unlocking the car. I could tell from Nick and Lexie’s expressions that, after traipsing around various prisons, they thought my suggestion was ludicrous.
The following weekend, we joined the long visitor queue outside the fenced perimeter of Area 4. Visits were held in two-hourly blocks at the weekend, from 8.30am to 10.30am or 12.30pm to 2.30pm. We’d booked in for the latter. On the drive over to Parklea, the kids had decidedly changed their tune about the visit. Interestingly, it was not because of my pearls of wisdom or because they wanted to see their father; it was because of the Area 4 vending machine. They’d spent an inordinate amount of time discussing the merits of a Mars Bar versus Cadbury Marvellous Creations.
Visiting a different prison is almost like visiting a new country. Each one has its own rules and procedures. Unlike Mannus, Parklea didn’t allow you to take anything in, except for coins for the vending machine, and once the visit started visitors were not allowed to use the toilet. Phones and prescription medication weren’t allowed on the premises and personal items, like wallets and car keys, were to be placed in lockers on the other side of the fence.
As the line grew longer I noticed we were the only unmarked ones. Everyone else was covered in colourful, cursive, exotic-looking tattoos on their arms, necks and legs. We looked like blank pages.
‘Maybe we should get tattoos,’ I whispered to Lexie.
‘Can we? Can we really?’ she asked, jumping up and down.
‘When you’re eighteen. You can get “Mum” on your neck or the side of your face.’
‘As if,’ Lexie said, rolling her eyes.
The afternoon was long and hot. The line continued to grow, snaking over the internal road that led to the main part of the prison. The kids leaned against me in the heat, until I couldn’t hold their weight any longer.