I was worried about Alby hearing our conversation, but he was oblivious.
I explained in 50 words how the legal system works, that Dave has been charged, was subject to a committal proceeding, and would probably be sent to trial before a jury. ‘That’s how the system works. You have to trust it.’
‘It doesn’t sound like the system works at all. This is torture for me and Melissa’s father. It would be more appropriate for some island justice, fast and final, none of this committal and trial business.’
I knew nothing about island justice and wondered what it would involve. Robby’s anger vanished as fast as it had erupted.
‘What do I do now?’ He slouched. ‘This is the second time that man has tried to break me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard? The way people talk here?’
‘No,’ I lied. Alby had covered the page in wild scrawls. I made a note to buy some crayons and pencils for other children.
‘It happened in the late-eighties. I was teaching with Dave at the high school. We were mates, did lots together, helping each other with lesson plans, hanging out, that sort of thing.
‘I knew that education is the key to better outcomes for health, employment and offending. Oh, this was long before all the Closing the Gap rhetoric. But I was mocked by my people for my own education.
‘Yu proper kole man, they told me, accusing me of being like the white man. Nothing has changed. Look how many Europeans are in jobs in the Torres Strait – teachers, nurses, doctors, managers, even bar staff, checkout operators and au pairs – all because our people won’t work or get an education. Islanders are often criticised by their families when they start studying, for behaving like Europeans. Or if they are studying and encounter an obstacle, like needing money or failing an assignment, they often give up. When I was studying, I saw white people living hand to mouth and working two or three jobs to keep studying. That’s what happens. Then when Islanders become educated they often find it unbearable to work here because of discrimination and jealousy from their own people. They are ostracised for being educated, being different. Have you heard about the crabs-in-the-bucket syndrome?’
‘Yes, I have.’
He told me about how, as young teachers, Robby and Dave decided to do something to encourage Islanders to study. The two friends, and some other white public servants, established the Torres Strait Education and Employment Committee, TSEEC. The aims of the organisation were to source funds to provide tuition to Islander students, both primary and secondary, and to provide academic and emotional support to students who attended mainland secondary or tertiary institutions.
Alby was onto his second page, using the pen in a slow and exact manner now.
‘Did it work?’
‘Very well. Look at Noah Jabiri, the head of the Department of Housing. He was the first Islander from here to do an MBA following an arts degree. He worked down south for five years to get experience, which was a condition of the grant, then he returned and became a manager. Magdalene Kerwin studied nursing and is now the director of nursing. They are just two examples. Thanks to the work of TSEEC, those positions are now filled by our own people.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was 27 and naïve. In the fifth year of TSEEC’s operations, I was voted treasurer. I was the “token black guy” on the committee.’ He gave an ironic smile.
Robby trusted his all-white fellow committee and did not have the business nous to know money was disappearing.
‘After three years of TSEEC operating, money was pouring in following the graduation of our first seven uni students, not to mention the improvement in TE scores of high school-kids gaining their senior certificates. Similar organisations were set up in Aboriginal communities, modelled on our success.
‘Then the organisation was subject to a spot audit by the tax office and 9,000 dollars in cash cheques couldn’t be accounted for, cash cheques with my signature on them. The cheques required two signatures from the committee members but the bank cashed these without a second signature. Of course the cheque vouchers had vanished because someone made them vanish. I was charged with fraud.’
‘Did you have a lawyer?’
‘Yes, but each month it was a different visiting lawyer, and I had to go over the same story each time, protesting my innocence. One of the lawyers came from Western Australia and kept saying he wasn’t familiar with Queensland law.’
‘What did the lawyers say?’
‘The last one said there was cogent evidence against me and if I pushed on to trial, I could end up in prison. He said a plea of guilty, even at that late stage, would be viewed favourably and I’d end up on probation or, at worst, a suspended sentence. All I heard was that the matter would be finalised.’
‘Couldn’t you have talked to another lawyer?’
‘What was the point? They didn’t believe me. The last lawyer told me that it was the word of the other committee members against mine and if they lied convincingly, I was done. I could tell he didn’t believe me.’ He sighed. ‘All I wanted was for it to end. So much for education! Where I had believed I was equal to those white people, I wasn’t. The system, the racism, was much bigger than me and I couldn’t fight it.’
Robby pleaded guilty and was sentenced to six months’ jail. He appealed and was released after six weeks because the sentence was manifestly excessive.
‘Those guys did the dirty on me. It really turned me against the white public servants here, the people who make decisions for Islanders, without their best interests at heart. Those men stole from that organisation and I was blamed.’
He vowed never to get caught out again. Had he kept records of cheque vouchers, he would have been able to argue a case of corruption against him and the organisation.
‘I’ve kept every letter, receipt and document I’ve received since then, filed so I can locate it easily. I watch my back and trust no-one.’ Robby turned to Alby. ‘What have you got there, little bala?’
‘That’s Mummy in the water.’
‘What are those things?’
‘The cuts on Mummy’s face.’
‘How do you know about that?’
‘You said.’ Alby gazed at his father.
Robby turned to me. He slapped the desk. ‘Look what that man has done to me. A second time. He can try and hurt me, but not my son. I’ve got to go. Thank you for your time.’ He chose some of Alby’s drawings, dated them and folded them up. He ruffled his son’s hair. ‘Want to get some dinner from the Railway?’
‘Then can I have an ice-cream?’
‘If you eat your vegetables.’
‘Can I have a double one, like you?’
‘If you share it with me.’
Alby was thinking about the offer as Robby took his hand.
I watched them walk out and hoped Alby would forget about the details he shouldn’t, but was bound to, hear.
I headed home to find Jonah had dumped a box of green twigs by the door, which I guessed were cuttings for the garden.
‘You’re just in time,’ said Jonah. ‘I am about to pan fry these tuna steaks I caught this afternoon.’
‘Tuna? This afternoon? What do you mean?’
‘Well, I got home at four, figured you’d be busy, so I took the dogs for a quick run on Goods Island and threw a line in when I saw tuna boiling near the wreck. Phoebe and the dogs love tuna.’
‘What’s with the box by the door?’
‘I made heaps of pesto from the basil in the garden. It freezes really well. Taste this.’ He ran his finger inside the food processer and held it to my mouth.
It was divine, though I felt the first sting of resentment that work was keeping me away from Jonah. We curled up on the couch and ate in front of the TV. Jonah wanted to watch a food program about French cuisine.
I cuddled up to Jonah, not interested in the show. Whatever the guy was cooking, it had a hell of a lot of butter and cream. Then he made something I’d never seen before. He poured steaming milk onto dark chocolate to make hot chocolate. If I had to make hot chocolate, I’d use Milo and hot milk or whack a carton of Breaka in the microwave. Jonah insisted on making it and dug out some Lindt from the back of the fridge.
‘Matha nice,’ said Jonah. ‘Which way?’
I didn’t want to hurt his feelings and tell him the French way of making hot chocolate tasted like Milo and warm Breaka. Fortunately, Mum called just as I was about to mumble a response. She was coming Monday week to stay for a month.
‘I’m seeing someone, Mum.’
‘Good. I thought you’d be working all the time. What’s his name?’
‘Jonah. He was born just before you left, I think. He’s into food like you.’
‘Don’t know any Jonahs. I just hope you learn something about fine food. I can’t wait to meet him.’
Chapter 32
I hadn’t even made it to my office on Monday when Jenny rushed up to me.
‘Shay’s in bed. I’ve just been with her. You’ve got to come.’
‘Another sick day?’
‘You’ll see.’
I followed her, amazed by her now shapely figure. She had taken to wearing police-issue skirts, joking she had a waist for the first time since she was twelve. We reached the single officers’ accommodation, a lowset dwelling of three rooms with ensuites, share kitchen and lounge, where Shay and Salome lived. Piles of plates and dishes were at all angles on the sink. Washing covered the laundry floor and the heavy, muffled whir of a dryer reached a crescendo and faded as we walked through the hot, moist exhaust. Jenny stopped at the last door and knocked.
‘Go away,’ a voice said, cracking.
‘You won’t believe this,’ whispered Jenny and she turned the knob.
Thick drapes darkened the room. After my eyes adjusted, I made out a figure under the covers. The plastic blonde of Shay’s hair shone in the light from the corridor.
‘I told you to leave me alone.’
‘Sweetheart, I am going to help you.’ Jenny sat on the edge of the bed. Against the wall was an assortment of fluffy toys: teddy bears, a bird, a donkey. ‘Thea’s here. Show her what he did.’ It was moments before Shay turned her head and presented a puffed eye. ‘And your arms.’ In the dull light, deep purple welts marred the pale flesh of her upper arms.
I wasn’t game to open my mouth. I didn’t need to be told. Isaac had exploded, perhaps when Shay questioned him about another infidelity. Or Isaac falsely assumed she was cheating on him because she had a conversation with another man.
‘We’re gonna help you,’ I said.
‘I wanna go home. I hate this island. I hate it.’ She curled up. ‘I just want to go home.’
Jenny placed her hand on Shay’s back. ‘Thea will help with the transfer, but you have to tell us what happened.’
Sure enough, it was the latter scenario. Shay and Isaac had been at the Railway last night celebrating the footy win. Shay had gone to the bar to buy drinks for herself and Isaac; he was already bombs. She was waiting to be served next to one of the male teachers from the high school. They started chatting. Isaac marched over and told her it was time to go. She followed him, not wanting to make him angry. He dragged her across to the beach and laid into her in the darkness.
‘How many times has he done this to you?’ asked Jenny.
‘Only a few.’
‘Like the time you told us you had drunk too much after you found out he cheated on you?’
‘I bet everyone is talking about me. I hate this island. And I hate the fucking men. All they do is drink and beat up their women. Arseholes.’
‘Sweetie, that’s what alcohol does to men everywhere,’ said Jenny. ‘And it’s not okay.’
‘I just want to go home, to the Sunnie Coast.’
‘You need to charge him with assault, Shay,’ I said. ‘The only way for men to understand they can’t do this to women is if the women stand up to them. That means charging him.’
‘No, I just want to leave.’
‘I could organise a compassionate transfer,’ I said.
‘And pressing charges will help,’ said Jenny.
‘Whatever.’
In the end, Jenny took photos of her injuries, Shay signed a complaint alleging Isaac assaulted her, and went to arrange her transfer to the Sunshine Coast.
‘Men don’t have to beat up on their women to be arseholes,’ said Jenny, tossing Shay’s signed statement onto my desk.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Are you saying Fred?’
‘Fred wouldn’t lay a hand on me or cheat. But he’s a bastard. He wants me to buy all the material for his father’s tombstone unveiling. We’re talking bolts and bolts of material. I told him to get a second job.’ She got to the door and turned. ‘And now he thinks I am too skinny. Can you believe that? But you know, I’m the fool because I keep hoping he’ll change. Really, I should just tell him to move out.’ She went to leave and turned back again. ‘You’re lucky to have Jonah.’
Jenny phoned Isaac at work and asked him to come down to the station, which he did. He made full admissions and refused to call the legal service. Isaac knew the legal deal since he had a healthy criminal history of alcohol-fuelled violence against men and women. I attended to the paperwork for Shay’s urgent transfer and sent out an email to staff. Salome booked her flight. Shay would leave tomorrow morning.
By then it was 11am and I went to make a coffee. Some officers were huddled in the kitchen.
‘Poor Rita,’ said Lency.
‘I been warning her ’bout the fucker for years,’ said Salome.
‘What a bastard,’ said Jenny.
This could mean only one thing: sorry business.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Noah Jabiri has taken up with Edie Jensen,’ said Lency. ‘He’s the head of housing. Married with four teenage kids.’
‘Self-appointed big shot, know-it-all,’ said Jenny.
I remembered the name. Jabiri. Noah Jabiri. Robby mentioned him. He was one of the first Islanders to study through the TSEEC tuition program.
‘There was a rumour he was having an affair with Edie Jensen, a young Islander girl who came up to work for Queensland Health.’ Jack shook his head. ‘Em nathakind gathawara, yu sabe? She was sleeping around with married men.’
Gathawara must have meant ‘slut’. So Edie Jensen the gathawara ended up nabbing Noah Jabiri and he moved into her Queensland Health-provided unit, abandoning his wife, Rita, and their children.
‘He reckons Edie’s family maydh him to be unfaithful,’ said Lency. ‘So he had to cheat on his wife.’
‘In white culture, it’s called a male mid-life crisis,’ I said. ‘The men usually say things like, “Well, the sex isn’t hot like it used to be” or “My wife is always doing things with the kids, she doesn’t think about me.” Using maydh to justify cheating is quite clever, don’t you think?’
‘The first bloke I went out with, boy from Yam Island, he tried that one on me,’ said Salome. ‘Said his family been maydh him to boom that barmaid from the Railway, to get him away from me. Reckon I’m too bossy.’
‘What did you do?’ I asked.
‘I maydh him with this one.’ She held up a fist. ‘Then I told him to piss off. Met one of Bertie the builder’s boys after that.’
‘And another one,’ said Lency. ‘And another one.’
We all laughed except Jack. ‘Noah’s situation, it’s not proper maydh,’ he said. ‘It’s selfish.’
‘Jack, I thought you were a big believer of maydh,’ I said. ‘Remember Tonny Gava? You said he maydh his beautiful girlfriend.’
‘Yes, but sometimes p
eople claim to have been maydh when they haven’t and are making excuses. Other times maydh is true, like Tonny. Noah’s just making excuses.’
‘Rita will be okay,’ said Lency. ‘She was fed up with him anyway.’
Blaming sorcery was obviously part of the furniture. I had to accept that. But I didn’t have to believe it myself. I made my coffee and settled at my desk. Soon after a short, stocky woman marched in to my office. Lency was behind her, pleading with her to wait in the foyer. My attention shifted to the man behind Lency. He wore a bright floral-print long-sleeved shirt and held an old-fashioned bowler hat with feathers arranged in an intricate pattern on the leather band.
‘Lala, you need to wait outside,’ said Lency, her eyes darting between me and the woman.
Then I recognised the beady black eyes. It was Dave’s wife, Leilani. Lala must’ve been a nickname. ‘Thanks, Lency, I’ll handle it.’
‘I’ve come from Cairns for my mother’s funeral,’ said Leilani. ‘My husband is upset he couldn’t come. Thanks to you.’
‘Please leave.’ Dizziness hit me like I’d stood up too fast, only I was still sitting. ‘It’s not appropriate that we communicate directly. If you have something to say, say it to your husband’s lawyer.’
‘You’ve made a big mistake, sister.’
‘Please leave now.’
The man was relaxed, looking around the room like he was planning ways to rearrange the furniture. He put the hat down on my desk.
‘Dave might be in trouble at school, but he’s not a killer. You should be very careful,’ said Leilani.
I wanted to call out for Jack but I couldn’t think clearly. ‘Leave now before I interpret your words as a threat and have you charged.’
‘The real killer is still out there. You don’t understand.’
I stood still, feeling faint. ‘I appreciate your loyalty to your husband but this matter is out of my hands.’
Leilani reached across the desk and grabbed my right arm, her nails digging into my flesh. I fought a free-falling sensation.
My Island Homicide Page 21