Harry Curry: Rats and Mice

by Stuart Littlemore

‘At this rate, anything’s possible. Come on, cup of tea.’

  The forgotten client, Mr Plowman, took hold of Harry’s arm. His chest was puffed out. ‘Mr Curry, can I sue them for wrongful arrest? Get compo?’

  Harry and Surrey looked at the man with distaste. ‘Fuck off, and count yourself lucky,’ said Surrey, not unkindly. Plowman did.

  They left the court through its side door and entered the tea room, where the other lawyers were waiting, but the sergeant retired to the adjoining police station where he probably felt less of an alien. The magistrate joined the lawyers, and the court clerk produced a sponge cake and a huge plate of buttered pikelets his wife had made. He removed the plastic wrap and invited everyone to have some.

  ‘I haven’t had a pikelet since I was twelve,’ Bettens said. ‘My auntie in Tamworth used to make them.’

  Hugo, the Eden solicitor, said, ‘You’re back in the country now. We have cake and pikelets every Monday of the sittings.’

  An older solicitor in a venerable tweed jacket spoke up. ‘And if I may be permitted to point it out, another Bega tradition is that we all kick the tin for our tea. Fifty cents.’ He picked up a large glass jar with a slot cut through the lid. Everyone dropped a coin in, and he put it on top of the battered fridge.

  Another solicitor, whom Harry recalled from a coronial inquest into a Snowy Mountains bushfire in which they had both appeared (although her name escaped him), asked Harry how long the rest of his matters were going to take. She had a guardianship dispute later in the list.

  ‘I think we’d all like to know that,’ said Bettens.

  ‘Well, Dave,’ said Harry, looking at Surrey, ‘what’ve we got left? The runaway Ferrari, the malicious damage, and the coronial wrap-up. Can’t see us finishing everything today. After those two matters we’ve just done, we slow down somewhat.’

  ‘So we’d all be free to go back and earn some money, and come back in the morning?’ the female solicitor asked.

  ‘So far as we’re concerned, yes. But it’s a matter for the court.’

  ‘I’ll be guided by you, Harry,’ said Bettens. ‘Look, you can all go back to your offices. Those of you from outside Bega might want to ring the court at four o’clock, and the locals can come back at ten in the morning.’

  ‘We appreciate that,’ said Hugo. ‘Ms Magistrate Quist has a preference for us showing up before the court rises each day, in person, and then again in the morning.’

  Bettens looked surprised. ‘I can’t see the point in that. Okay with all of you?’

  It was, though tempered by disappointment they’d be unable to justify staying to watch the next instalment of the Harry Curry show.

  The runaway Ferrari case: what Harry was talking about was the matter in which the police had thrown the book (dangerous driving, driving while disqualified, driving under the influence and failing to stop after an accident) at a wealthy Yugoslav property developer whose home was in Kiama. The man came forward and took over the defendant’s chair, dressed in an extremely expensive pearl-grey suit over his lumpy body. White tie over a white shirt. The prosecutor, who found the defendant’s surname impossible to pronounce (having had a couple of tries at it) resorted to calling him ‘Mr Zdenko’, which smacked of over-familiarity and sounded more like ‘Mr Stinko’, and proceeded to outline his case with a flourish, aware that the local newspaper’s court reporter (so by-lined when she was not doing police rounds, covering the Bega Council meetings or writing a column of domestic-goddess advice) was present and taking notes.

  ‘Short facts, your Honour, are that Mr Zdenko had been disqualified from driving by reason of a large number of speeding offences for a period of five years. I can tender the court certificate —’

  Harry half rose. ‘The sergeant needn’t do that. It’s not in issue.’

  ‘Thank you … and on the day particularised in the charge had dinner at the Italian Club in Wollongong and then went with a group of friends to the Impure nightclub in Crown Street.’

  Bettens looked up. ‘What was the name of the nightclub, sergeant?’

  ‘Impure. Don’t ask me why, your Honour. I haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘There’s no dispute about that, either,’ said Harry, without rising from his seat.

  ‘And, in the course of the evening, he met a young woman. The defendant is divorced, your Honour.’

  ‘Just as well,’ said Harry to Surrey in a stage whisper. ‘We wouldn’t want anyone to think the less of him.’

  ‘I prefer it if counsel don’t sledge, Mr Curry,’ the magistrate said. Harry bowed his head. He knew it was important that the new beak should feel he controlled the proceedings — at least for the moment.

  ‘The young lady has refused to cooperate with police and didn’t give a statement, but it appears that the defendant invited her to go for a spin in his Ferrari sports car. This was at about 1 a.m. They took a taxi to his home at Kiama, where the car was garaged, and left there in it shortly after 1.25 a.m. I can tender CCTV footage of the car passing through Kiama, heading south, but the image is not clear enough to identify the driver.’

  Harry rose. ‘We will not dispute any of those allegations, your Honour.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Curry. That should save considerable time. Yes, sergeant?’

  ‘It appears that the defendant drove the Ferrari south on the Princes Highway at high speeds. It was caught by a radar trap in Nowra at 1.45 a.m. — that’s near enough to fifty kilometres in twenty minutes, an average of 150 kilometres per hour —’

  Harry interjected. ‘I don’t see any charge of speeding on this sheet, your Honour.’

  Bettens shook his head. ‘Please continue, sergeant. Perhaps you haven’t encountered Mr Curry before, but I think you’ll get used to it.’

  ‘Thank you, your Honour, but I have. The car was seen by an officer going off shift at the Moruya ambulance station, passing through the town at about 2.45 a.m. — which would be consistent with that same average speed of 150 —’

  Harry looked up. ‘The defence will concede the allegation as to the time the vehicle was seen. No need to bring the ambo up — we’re sure he has better things to do than sit outside the court.’

  ‘Right,’ said the sergeant. ‘Good. Picked up on CCTV again south of Narooma twenty minutes or so later, and then the defendant lost control of the vehicle on the Princes Highway in the rain just south of Cobargo at about 3.50 a.m., leaving the road and crashing through a heavy post-and-rail fence.’

  ‘Just so I can keep up, Mr Curry, is that allegation about the accident conceded?’

  ‘Time and place, yes. No admission as to the identity of the driver.’

  The beak nodded and looked to the other end of the Bar table. ‘I think, sergeant, we’ve narrowed down the fact in issue. Can you prove who was driving?’

  The sergeant looked triumphant. ‘Yes, your Honour, I can. Eyewitness. The householder, who was awakened by the noise of the car crashing through her fence, is here to give evidence. Her name is Karen O’Sullivan.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Senior Constable Karen O’Sullivan of the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency. She arrested the defendant at the scene, and will give evidence that before that happened she watched him emerge from the driver’s side of the car immediately after the crash. She also saw the young woman emerge from the passenger’s seat.’

  ‘And, Mr Curry,’ the magistrate asked, ‘you’re defending this? If you don’t mind my saying so, that doesn’t sound like you — refusing to face the facts.’

  Harry stood and paused. ‘That’s rather dependent upon what the facts prove to be, your Honour.’ He sat again.

  ‘I suppose, sergeant, you’d better call your first witness.’ Bettens opened his lecture pad and spread the pages with the flat of his left hand, then picked up his pen.

  A small, neat woman in plain clothes responded to the prosecutor’s call for Karen O’Sullivan, entering the courtroom on the side occupied by the prosecutor and the uniformed police assis
ting him. She gave her name and rank, and declared herself to be attached to the DEA.

  ‘At Cobargo?’ the magistrate enquired. ‘Undercover, I suppose.’ The witness made no response.

  The sergeant felt the pendulum swinging back in his direction. ‘Will you please tell the court what you observed in the vicinity of your place of residence at about 3.50 a.m. on 15 March this year?’

  ‘Yes, sergeant. I was woken by a loud noise, and my partner said, “There’s a car in the yard.” It was dark, but I got up and looked out the bedroom window, and could see the red tail-lights of a stationary car, facing away from me. There was a broken rail from our fence lying across the roof of the car. Only one of the car’s headlights appeared to be working, and it was lighting up the side of our garage.’

  ‘Did you see anyone driving the car?’

  ‘No, sergeant, it had already come to a halt. But I saw a tall, heavily built man get out of the right-hand side of the car, and a short time later I saw another person who appeared to be a young female climb out of the other front door.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I went out through the laundry, taking my Maglite with me. I turned it on, and approached the male person. I said, “Are you all right?” He said, “Yes, okay. Ask her.” I then spoke to the female, and saw that she was about twenty years old, of slim build with long blonde hair, wearing a miniskirt and high heels. She told me she wasn’t hurt. She was laughing. Both persons appeared to be slightly intoxicated.’

  ‘I object to that, your Honour. It’s irrelevant — there being no stated basis for that opinion — and it’s prejudicial.’

  Bettens made a note. ‘I’ll just note your objection, so you’re protected if there has to be an appeal. I think it’s best if I rule on that later. Maybe the basis will become apparent in due course.’

  ‘Can I just ask my friend,’ said the now confident prosecutor, half turning to Harry, ‘if there’s any dispute about the man in the car being the defendant?’

  ‘He’s still doing it,’ Harry muttered to Surrey. He didn’t get up. ‘Without wishing to be in any way discourteous, sergeant, I’m not your friend. You’re going to need a law degree before we can be friends.’

  The sergeant looked nonplussed.

  ‘Do we have to get into that?’ the magistrate asked. ‘Look, strictly speaking, sergeant, Mr Curry’s right. Normally, those at the Bar table are lawyers, so they’re all deemed to be learned friends. Police prosecutors such as yourself are not lawyers — you’re given leave to appear here, but you’re not members of the profession. I suppose it’s just the consequence of hearing lawyers call each other friends all the time, and doing it yourself, but I’m sorry to say you can’t be Mr Curry’s friend. Not in court anyway.’

  ‘Or anywhere else, thank you very much.’ Resentfully. ‘But can I be told by the eminent barrister whether there’s a dispute about who was driving?’

  Harry stood. ‘The answer to my friend the sergeant’s question is yes.’

  The magistrate gave a little shake of his head and Surrey tapped Harry on the shoulder. ‘I never cease to be impressed by your ability to make enemies, Harry.’

  ‘Constable, do you see the man who was driving the car in court?’

  Harry had not quite resumed his seat, but shot up again. ‘I object. We’re not going to have a line-up with only one person. Your Honour is bound by the Court of Appeal’s ruling in De Cressac’s case — no in-court identifications.’

  ‘Yes, sergeant, Mr Curry’s right. I reject the question. How many heavily built men of Yugoslav appearance are there in the court?’

  ‘In any event,’ Harry went on, ‘the prosecutor misses the point. We don’t say that the defendant wasn’t in the car. We simply say the prosecution can’t prove who was driving it.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Curry wasn’t listening to Senior Constable O’Sullivan’s evidence that she saw him emerge from the driver’s seat.’ The sergeant was starting to get snaky.

  ‘No,’ said Harry, ‘I heard that all right.’

  The sergeant sat down, wiping his hand over the top of his bald head. He looked at the policeman in charge of the matter, and pulled a what-the-hell-is-all-this? face.

  Harry was still on his feet. He got the nod from Bettens and looked at the questions he had planned for his cross-examination.

  ‘Ms O’Sullivan, did you ever examine the car?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What happened to it? Did it remain in your garden that day?’

  ‘No, a tow truck pulled it out while I was having my shower at about six o’clock. I think it went to Sydney for panelbeating.’

  Harry lifted a glossy book he had placed on the Bar table, and started leafing through the pages. ‘What model Ferrari was it, Ms O’Sullivan? Do you know?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’m not a car person.’

  The magistrate was trying to see the cover of Harry’s book. ‘What’s that book, Mr Curry?’

  ‘Sports Cars of the World, your Honour. No bikes, though. Ms O’Sullivan, do you think it was a Daytona?’

  ‘No idea, sorry.’

  ‘A Scaglietti, a Maranello, a Testarossa? Not a Barchetta, surely? That’s my favourite — the 1949 car.’

  ‘I told you, I wouldn’t have a clue.’

  Harry paused and addressed the court. ‘May I ask the prosecutor, through your Honour, whether there is to be any further evidence as to the year or model of the car?’

  The prosecutor rose. ‘No, there isn’t. We served the defendant’s solicitor with all our evidence, and we had no reason to think the registration certificate would be needed.’ Still snaky.

  ‘No Christmas card then, sergeant?’ Harry smiled at him. ‘I’m indebted to the prosecutor.’ He turned back to the witness. ‘So, officer, all we know is that there was a car, said to be a Ferrari — though I’m not sure there’s any evidence of that, but I won’t make it an issue, the marque — but we don’t know any more than that. Not how old it was —’

  ‘It was red.’

  ‘Most of them are, witness. But, most interestingly, the crucial point on which we are all totally ignorant is: was it left-hand drive, or right-hand drive? You can’t say, can you?’

  ‘Well,’ said the displeased witness, appreciating the point for the first time, ‘I can say. I did traffic duty for years, and I know every car registered in New South Wales has to be right-hand drive.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure of that? Are you not aware, Ms O’Sullivan, that you can register a car classified as historic, despite it having the steering wheel on the left, if it’s proved to be thirty years old or more?’

  ‘I believe that’s so.’

  ‘Was this car more than thirty years old?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘And do you know where Ferraris are made?’

  ‘Italy, obviously. Even I know that.’

  ‘Italy, where the cars are all built as left-hand drive?’

  ‘I should imagine.’

  ‘In other words, Senior Constable O’Sullivan of the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency, you can give no evidence to contradict the hypothesis that the driver of the car that crashed through your fence was the young woman, and not my client.’

  A very long silence in the courtroom. The sergeant put his hand across his eyes. The witness stared at him. How could he do this to her?

  Mr Bettens, Local Court Magistrate, on his first day in the job and only halfway through it, adjourned his court for lunch. If you’d asked him, he would have admitted that it had turned into a more exciting day than he’d expected, down in sleepy Bega.

  ‘When do I speak?’ the client asked Surrey (and everyone else in the courtroom).

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Surrey told him. Again, audibly to all.

  The prosecutor surrendered for a third time, immediately after lunch. Harry didn’t seek a costs order. The highway patrol officer in charge of the matter wasn’t entirely unhappy. Discussing the matter in the
coppers’ pub that evening, he told his mates, ‘Well, we fined him anyway, even if we didn’t convict the bastard. He has to pay his lawyers, and that bloody Harry Curry doesn’t come cheap. Five thousand a day, I heard.’

  ‘Didn’t take a day,’ his sergeant said. ‘That was some bloody brief you put together. Hosed out in half an hour, I heard. You should have took a statement from the tart.’

  Harry and Surrey’s next case was the girls from the Australian National University law school, charged with criminal damage to roadside billboards carrying advertisements for children’s underwear. As Surrey had warned Harry over their lunch in Merimbula, the students had prepared an impressive brief — a dissertation, really — covering human rights, free speech and the doctrine of lawful excuse. With the best of intentions, Harry had assured Surrey that he’d be on top of the hundreds of pages of material before the sittings commenced, but what with Arabella’s unexpected visit and the barbecue with the Surrey family, he hadn’t got round to it. Further, he never intended to. The students had arrived in Bega in an old Kombi van early that morning, and had been sitting at the back of the court watching the day’s proceedings unfold. They were enjoying it all, and didn’t mind when Surrey asked them, just before the court resumed sitting at two o’clock, if he could delay their case until the Tuesday morning, because Mr Curry was still working it up. Surrey obtained Bettens’ approval to go ahead with his guilty pleas in several further Legal Aid matters he’d been given to fill the time otherwise unoccupied, none of them of any great moment, and the rest of the court’s day progressed without contribution from Mr Curry of the outer Bar.

  Harry spent the afternoon in the beer garden at the hotel opposite the court, reading through the weighty brief the law students had prepared. He was impressed. Overdone, of course, but some very good ideas. At four o’clock, he went back to the court and had Surrey ring the clients and arrange for them to join their lawyers back in the beer garden for an impromptu symposium. Harry told the girls when they presented themselves that symposium was the mot juste: they knew what it meant, of course? From the Greek? They didn’t.

  ‘A convivial meeting for drinking and intellectual entertainment,’ Harry explained.