Cyanide Games: A Peter Tanner Thriller

by Richard Beasley

  Matheson looked up for a moment, then dropped his head again. ‘No,’ he said, barely audibly. ‘Not everything.’

  Tanner picked up his papers and stood. ‘Then we’re not the only ones who deserve the whole truth,’ he said.

  40

  Just on seven thirty on the first morning of the Matheson trial, Tanner received a phone call from Jane Ross. She told him to go to the online edition of one of the newspapers, and then call her back. He did as he was told.

  ‘Shit,’ he said under his breath when he saw it. He’d expected the story to make the press, but leaving it for the first morning of the trial seemed less than polite.

  ‘Charles says the parents are in a flap,’ Ross said when he called her back. ‘They’re worried about whether Sarah will come to court. They want to talk to you. They’re saying Justin can’t get a fair trial. Pete?’

  ‘I’ll complain to the judge.’

  ‘They want to talk to you.’

  ‘You can handle it.’

  ‘Thanks, but –’

  ‘You can handle it, Jane,’ he said firmly. ‘This was going to come out at some stage. The article is factually accurate. He had an affair. She alleged he pushed her. She sued them, and they paid her money.’

  ‘Yes, but it looks –’

  ‘I know how it looks,’ he said. ‘Tell them I’ll complain to the judge, Jane.’

  ‘Can I tell them anything else?’

  ‘Tell them murder trials aren’t pretty.’

  ‘You’re a great help.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

  • • •

  Just after nine, Tanner’s clerk called to tell him Charles Porter had arrived in a van that would take them to court. Despite that morning’s headlines, Sarah Matheson was with him. Her blonde hair had been parted on one side, and swept back in a bun. Her face was thin, angular, and beautiful. And she looked like she would crack apart at any moment. What he was asking her to do for his client, Tanner thought, was undergo a form of torture.

  ‘You know what to expect when we arrive?’ he said once the van was under way. He was in the seat next to her. A week before, Tanner, Porter and Ross had spent an afternoon with Sarah, taking her through the witnesses, and what was likely to be their evidence.

  She didn’t respond, and he wondered if he’d been heard. ‘Sarah?’

  She was looking out the window, but then turned to face him.

  ‘The press?’

  ‘Look ahead, say nothing. You’ll be right next to me,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Sarah experienced this at the bail hearing,’ Porter said from the front passenger seat.

  ‘This will be worse.’

  ‘Worse than today’s papers?’ Sarah said. She glared at Tanner, but it was her husband that the anger in her voice was directed at. Being the wife of the accused was no easy gig.

  When they arrived at the nearly two hundred year old sandstone court complex in Darlinghurst, a five minute car ride from the CBD, it was surrounded by press. They walked slowly through the throng or reporters and cameras, and ignored all questions.

  Courtroom no. 3 was the largest court, and it was already full to capacity when Tanner and Jane Ross walked in. The bar table was aligned lengthways so that counsel were side-on to the judge’s bench, but facing the jury who would sit in two rows in their box on the right side of the court. Prosecuting counsel were allocated seats closest to the judge, while the defence was closest to the dock where the accused would soon be brought from the cells underneath the courtroom. Behind the dock were rows of seats for the public, which Tanner called the ‘stalls’. On the balcony level above were more rows of seats he called the ‘dress circle’. Behind the bar table was another row of seats like the jury box, which for the Matheson case had been allocated to members of the press.

  Finally, a row of seats had been reserved for those on each side of the contest. On the left of the court, some had been set aside for members of the Matheson family. On the right, nearest the jury box, were the seats reserved for members of the victim’s family. Tanner had been told that Elena’s parents and an elder daughter had flown out for the trial, and almost immediately he sensed their eyes on him.

  As he and Jane Ross took their seats at the bar table, the court door opened again and the prosecution team walked in. Right behind them was the Richter camp. As with any criminal trial, the parties were obliged to get the major objections to evidence out of the way before the jury was empanelled. In the Matheson case, the biggest pre-trial issue was access to the files Sally Cook & Associates held on Nikki Richter. Those files had been produced to the court on subpoena, but Nikki’s estate was claiming privilege. That dispute had to be decided before the trial could begin.

  Joe Murphy QC usually had a seat at the table in most corporate cases where the stakes were high. Three years ago, Murphy had suffered a major heart attack at the Bar Association’s annual dinner with the judiciary. The queue to give him the kiss of life was a short one.

  ‘Peter,’ Murphy said as he reached the bar table. ‘Still going ahead with this nonsense?’

  ‘Defending the accused?’

  ‘By throwing dirt indiscriminately?’

  ‘It’s not indiscriminate, Joe. I’m aiming for your client.’

  ‘My client is the estate of Nikki Richter.’

  ‘Tell her widower to duck.’

  Murphy snorted and took his seat. As he did, Justin Matheson was led into the courtroom and placed in the dock by two sheriffs. He was in a dark suit, white shirt and light blue tie. He’d continued to lose weight, and had dark rings under his eyes. He was still nearly as good looking as his wife.

  Tanner opened a folder of documents. As he did, a woman dressed in black robes approached him from the other side of the bar table – the judge’s associate. She smiled at him.

  ‘Set to go?’

  He smiled back. ‘I have been for months.’

  The courtroom was bubbling with chatter when the court officer knocked on the judge’s door to announce his arrival on the bench. People rose at marginally different times: the lawyers first, the rest of the crowd a moment later. Those in the gallery sat after bowing to the judge, who took his seat as he bowed his head in return. When he lifted it, Tanner saw a noticeably older man than the last time he’d been in Justice Philip Knight’s court. His complexion was pale, almost ghostly, and the neatly trimmed beard the judge favoured for his long face had turned from ash-grey to blinding white.

  Knight had been a senior prosecutor. He favoured neither side. His rulings were unbiased, and invariably correct. Those qualities were negatives for the defence; Tanner preferred judges who favoured the accused. Jurors started with a bias towards conviction, no matter what they told themselves. They knew that criminal defendants were arrested, charged, and brought before a court for a reason.

  When Justice Knight had settled in his seat, the matter of the The Queen versus Justin William Matheson was called. Richard Aitken announced his appearance and that of his junior for the Crown. Tanner announced his appearance with Ms Ross as counsel for the accused. The judge kept his eyes firmly to the back of the courtroom, then raised an eyebrow in the direction of Murphy.

  ‘You’re here for the privilege matter, Mr Murphy?’

  Murphy rose slowly. ‘I appear for the estate of the late Nikki Richter, your Honour, along with my learned junior, Mr Sloan.’

  ‘Very well,’ the judge said. ‘That’s first then, Mr Crown? Before we empanel the jury?’

  Aitken stood and nodded. ‘Mr Murphy will deal with the privilege claim, your Honour.’

  ‘I have an application to make first, your Honour,’ Murphy said, standing once more.

  ‘I have something I want to say before you make that application, Mr Murphy,’ the judge said. He looked at Tanner. ‘You’ve seen the front page of one of the papers this morning, Mr Tanner?’

  Tanner got to his feet. ‘I was going to raise it with you, your Honour.’

  �
��To make an application?’

  Technically, the judge had power to postpone a trial because of adverse media coverage concerning an accused. The judge even had the power to stay a prosecution over it. In reality, it was almost impossible to prove an accused couldn’t get a fair trial because of a TV story or newspaper article. The court’s default position was to accept that jurors would always act in accordance with the oath they had to swear to bring impartiality to their deliberations. The article that morning concerning Deborah Edelman was prejudicial, but it wasn’t going to get Matheson off the hook.

  ‘We’ve debated making an application for a stay for some time this morning, your Honour,’ Tanner said.

  ‘And the result of that debate?’

  ‘The article contains a series of untruths, and is extremely prejudicial to my client. It makes a fair trial very difficult. Mr Matheson, though, wants to get this hearing over with, and to clear his name.’

  The judge looked carefully at Tanner. ‘Very well,’ he said. The judge delivered a cold, textbook rebuke to the assembled media about the care they had to take concerning any coverage of the trial, or concerning the accused or any witness to be called. He finished with a warning about contempt.

  ‘Thank you for that, your Honour,’ Tanner said.

  Knight ignored him. ‘Mr Murphy,’ he said, ‘you have an application?’

  Murphy’s application was for a suppression order of the privilege argument, prohibiting any publication about it in the media, and for it to take place in a closed court.

  ‘The affidavit asserting waiver,’ Murphy told the judge, referring to the information from Amanda Weatherill, ‘contains details of alleged discussions between Miss Weatherill and the late Mrs Richter which might unnecessarily embarrass a witness in these proceedings, Mr John Richter.’

  ‘I’ve read the affidavit,’ the judge said.

  ‘It would be unfair in our submission for these alleged conversations to get out into the public domain. My instructions are that if Mrs Richter said what is alleged, then what she said was false. It won’t be possible, though, to refute those allegations – at least not within the confines of an application to allege that privilege has been waived. Waiver will be the issue, not the truth of the assertions, assuming they were made. The short point is that this application shouldn’t have the result of unfairly embarrassing a witness when that witness can’t properly defend themselves. I have some written submissions on this matter prepared, your Honour. May I hand a copy of –’

  Knight held up a hand to stop him. He looked at Tanner. ‘It seems to me there’s some force in what Mr Murphy is putting, Mr Tanner. If these things were said to Miss Weatherill by Mrs Richter, the truth or otherwise behind them isn’t central to your application. You only need to prove waiver. Do you oppose suppression?’

  One thing no trial lawyer should do is fight desperately to prevent a judge from doing what they want if it costs your client nothing, especially at the start of a trial. Getting rid of the big gallery might even help Amanda Weatherill relax when it came time for her to give evidence. The more negative publicity about John Richter, though, the better for the accused.

  ‘The public have a right to know what’s happening in this case, your Honour,’ Tanner said.

  ‘You’re not acting for the public, though, are you Mr Tanner?’ the judge said.

  ‘I’m sure they’d agree with me, your Honour.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. What’s your view, Mr Crown?’

  ‘Ordinarily we wouldn’t support a suppression order, your Honour,’ Aitken said, ‘but in this case it might well be justified.’

  Justice Knight nodded, and made an order suppressing the evidence of the application that was about to take place, on the basis that it could unfairly embarrass a witness in the proceedings. He also made an order clearing the court of everyone other than the parties. One of the more experienced journalists came forward and asked if the application could be delayed until they could get their counsel there to argue against the order, but the judge refused, telling the journalist he’d be prepared to hear further argument if any counsel representing one of the media companies made an appearance and sought leave.

  Having been filled beyond capacity, the court now emptied but for the main participants. As it did, Tanner took the opportunity to walk over and talk to his client, who sat in the dock like an overgrown schoolboy, waiting glumly to be summoned to the headmaster’s office.

  ‘Feeling lonely?’

  Matheson shrugged, and tried to bring himself to smile. ‘A little.’

  ‘If I was as nervous now as I was before my first trial,’ Tanner said, ‘I’d swap places with you.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Shall we proceed, gentlemen?’ Knight said when the court had been closed.

  Tanner formally asked for Sally Cook’s file to be produced, which she had already sent to the court after being served with a subpoena. The judge looked to his associate, who opened a large orange envelope containing a purple folder of documents. The associate then looked at the judge and nodded.

  ‘Those documents have been produced, Mr Tanner.’

  ‘I seek first access to those documents, your Honour,’ Tanner said.

  The judge nodded. ‘Mr Murphy?’

  ‘The estate claims privilege over all documents in Ms Cook’s files, your Honour.’

  ‘Yes,’ Knight said. ‘And you have a witness, Mr Tanner.’

  ‘I do, your Honour. I thought we’d hear from Mr Aitken first, though.’

  ‘Mr Aitken?’

  ‘Yes. The prosecutor.’

  ‘I know who he is, Mr Tanner.’

  ‘You could be forgiven for not knowing it on this issue, your Honour,’ Tanner said. ‘I thought a prosecutor had a duty to make available evidence relevant to innocence, not just guilt. Mr Aitken doesn’t seem very interested in Ms Cook’s file.’

  ‘I object to that,’ Aitken said. ‘Mr Tanner knows full well that the prosecution has no control over a claim for privilege by an estate. He also knows that we have no idea what’s in the files of Ms Cook.’

  ‘She’s a divorce lawyer,’ Tanner said. ‘Her file isn’t going to contain much about what a wonderful husband Mrs Richter thought she had.’

  ‘Are you finished, Mr Tanner?’ the judge said.

  ‘Just putting my complaint on the record, your Honour.’

  The judge paused for a moment, shook his head, opened up a leather-bound book he kept notes in, and put on his reading glasses. ‘Let’s have the witness, shall we?’ he said.

  41

  Amanda Weatherill looked nervous when she took her oath. When she said ‘I do,’ it came out as a whisper. Tanner covered her family and work history before moving on to her friendship with Nikki Richter.

  ‘You met Nikki Richter in your capacity as a nurse?’

  Amanda nodded, and Tanner could see the easy questions he was feeding her – many of them leading but not objectionable as they were only introductory – were putting her at ease. ‘She was a patient. She broke her ankle badly in a skiing accident.’

  ‘You were her nurse at a hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s how you became friends?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was she married at the time?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. She got engaged a couple of years later.’

  ‘To John Richter, her future husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And through your friendship with Nikki, you came to know him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were a bridesmaid at Nikki’s wedding, I believe?’

  ‘One of many.’

  Tanner smiled. ‘It wasn’t a small affair?’

  ‘No.’

  Now that he had her relaxed, Tanner got straight to the details of the waiver of privilege. He wanted to make the case he needed to, but not give Murphy any more scope to cross-examine than he had to.

  ‘You understand that t
he accused, Mr Matheson, has asked his lawyers to serve a subpoena on a law firm called Sally Cook & Associates?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you familiar with the name of that firm before being asked to be a witness today?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They were Nikki’s lawyers.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘She told me she was seeing a lawyer early last year, and I went there with her once.’

  ‘To the law firm’s office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nikki asked me to go with her. Just for moral support.’

  ‘And did you meet anyone at the law firm?’

  ‘I met Nikki’s lawyer. A lady named Sally Cook.’

  ‘Why was Nikki seeing her?’

  ‘I object,’ Murphy said.

  ‘Why?’ the judge asked.

  ‘It calls for hearsay?’

  ‘But – we – Mrs Richter can’t be here, obviously. So don’t we have an exception to the hearsay rule, with her being unavailable?’

  ‘We don’t know the source of the knowledge behind any answer, your Honour.’

  ‘I was about to get to that,’ Tanner said.

  ‘Continue, Mr Tanner.’

  ‘Perhaps I should point out, your Honour, that the full name of Ms Cook’s firm is Sally Cook & Assocates, Family Lawyers, so that probably rules out Mrs Richter going there because she wanted advice about a hostile takeover of Citadel Resources.’

  ‘Continue, Mr Tanner.’

  ‘Did Nikki tell you why she was seeking advice from Sally Cook?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘I object again, your Honour,’ Murphy said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Again, your Honour, hearsay.’

  ‘Can I remind Mr Murphy of something, your Honour?’ Tanner said.

  ‘If it’s relevant.’

  ‘We’re not in trial.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ the judge said, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘The trial of Justin Matheson, your Honour. It hasn’t started. This application is interlocutory.’

  The judge took off his glasses. ‘Yes, I see,’ he said. ‘And so hearsay is admissible.’