‘We went metric in the seventies, Dave.’
‘Yes, but the drug trade didn’t. They still sell by the ounce. Twenty-eight grams, but no one calls it that.’
‘But why the alacrity? Why the immediate trial, jumping the queue?’
‘Because the fingerprint expert’s about to die. Lung cancer. And the seven outer bags have been lost, so they can’t re-submit them to another expert. He has to testify, or there’s no case.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Why would he care? Doesn’t he want to spend his time with his family?’ Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘This bloke, the police are his family. And the Hillsong Church. He had a son who died of a heroin overdose, and he’s apparently said that if it’s the last thing he does, he wants to send another dealer to jail.’
‘I gather it may well be the last thing he does.’
‘So it seems. You’ll like this part: I’m responsible for the loss of the exhibits.’
‘Fair dinkum? How’d you achieve that?’
‘Well, the family refused to believe that young Craig could be involved with drugs. Impossible. He’s a devout churchgoer and a good son. Studying engineering at uni. So the fingerprints must be a mistake. They instructed me to get the opinion of an independent expert, and I did, at substantial expense.’
‘Any help?’
‘Not really, but I won’t be disclosing that to the Crown. My expert had the plastic bags couriered to him for testing, no drugs in them of course, and when he finished and couriered them back to the wallopers, they couldn’t be found. The cop shop’s been completely turned over, three times. Not a sausage to be found.’
‘They’ll turn up, surely?’
‘I think not. The courier returned them to Hornsby police station, and got the desk sergeant’s signature for the parcel, I’m pleased to say, but they were never entered into the exhibits ledger. Missing in action. Apparently because they arrived just as the shift was changing, both shifts thought the other would look after it.’
‘And if the parcel were to turn up now, even perfectly intact, they won’t be able to use it for a fresh examination, since the chain of possession has been broken? Is that the thinking?’
‘Precisely. And hence the dying man has to climb out of his bed of pain and testify that he matched up young Craig’s dabs with the prints on seven of the outer bags, albeit only a single finger or thumb smear here or there. They don’t allege his prints are on any of the individual deals.’
‘You’re on a winner there, Dave. Can’t lose.’
‘So you say. Look, I’ll give it to Bella, of course, but you’ve got to do the defence strategy. Seeing you’re so confident.’
‘If you want. I take it you haven’t submitted a no-bill application?’
‘We’re not all Harry Currys, mate. I can’t see this unbeatable defence of yours. Not the foggiest idea what you’re getting at. But what about the birth? There’ll be hell to pay if an extraordinary trial, expedited because of this dying expert, gets aborted because our Bella goes into labour in the middle of cross-examination.’
Harry took ten dollars out of his wallet and put it under his cup and saucer. They stood and made for the door. ‘She’s seen her doctor this afternoon, and I’ll be briefed on the baby’s ETA tonight, although at last report they were perfectly sure it’s not coming until early March. I won’t leave you in the lurch, anyway. If she has to pull out, I’ll do it.’
They stood on the footpath beside the LandCruiser.
‘Well, thanks for that. And the tea. The prosecution papers’ll go up to Bella’s chambers in the morning. When can you have a look at them?’
‘Just scan the police statements that cover them locating the relevant bags, and the expert’s report, and email them to me. If I need more than that, I’ll let you know.’
‘When are you back in the smoke?’
‘When Maya and Bella have signed the heads of agreement.’
‘The heads of agreement in the matter of Harry-Curry-and-where-his-life-goes-from-here?’
‘Correct.’
Harry shook Surrey’s hand and walked around the car to open his door. ‘Give my love to Nancy and the girls,’ he said, and paused before getting in. ‘You know, Surrey, a less ethical solicitor than yourself would have manipulated a delay in proceedings, if he knew about the dying expert. Contrived some bullshit adjournment at the last minute. Rationalised it as his duty to the client.’
‘Let the poor man die, and the prosecution with him?’
‘Indeed.’
Surrey winced. ‘Don’t imagine I didn’t think of it.’
‘No, you didn’t, Dave. Not you.’ And Harry drove off trailing black diesel fumes. Surrey watched him out of sight.
Arabella was nothing if not her mother’s daughter. Their ‘talk’ — actually a string of full and frank conversations, looks, and unilateral declarations of independence — may not have resulted in the publication of a communiqué in mutually agreed terms, but at least it left them in no doubt as to each party’s expectations. Maya expected a conventional resolution of all matters as yet unresolved, preferably by means of an imminent marriage, relocation to a terrace house in Paddington (‘They look so nice, Pooh, with flowering frangipani trees in front, or bougainvillea’), selection of a suitable ayah, and — look how she was giving ground here — Arabella’s eventual return to practice at the Bar when the child was at school. Arabella’s thoughts on marriage were more equivocal and unresolved, she held fast to the Elizabeth Bay and Burragate choices, and agreed to a nanny (‘Ayahs aren’t easy to find in Sydney’) — but not to remaining at home supervising the care of her baby. She expected to be back in chambers a month after the birth.
Early morning at Burragate, the bellbirds chiming all around the house, and the guinea fowl, released from their coop and strutting around in the unmown grass like so many fat old women, dressed for church in their black dresses with white spots. Harry had just levered the lid off a five-litre can of paint and was looking for something to stir it with when the phone rang. He kicked off his dirty Blundstones and hurried into the kitchen to answer it.
‘You can come back now, darling.’
‘What’s that mean, Bella? All is forgiven, even impregnation?’
‘Forgiven is too strong a word, but we’re talked out, and my mother’s on a plane tomorrow.’
‘Where to?’
‘Home. London.’
‘So much for any claim that she was coming out for the birth. God, you two! More fighting?’
‘Whatever gave you that idea? Her mission was to impose her conventional values on the relationship, and to settle my future. She’s satisfied that she’s done all she can in that regard. Her work here is completed, and now she’s got Daddy to take in hand. It seems he’s been drinking whisky with his friends, and laughing excessively. Watching cricket from Sri Lanka on television. She can’t have that. Beer and skittles, she calls it.’ Arabella mimicked her mother’s accent on the ‘beer and skittles’ bit.
Harry pulled a chair out from the table and sat. ‘I was just about to start painting the verandah. Am I supposed to hurtle back up there before she takes off?’
‘Maya wouldn’t like to hear of you doing manual work. “Get a man,” she always says.’
‘I am a man.’
‘And I can corroborate that. However, it would be appreciated if you were to say goodbye face to face. I don’t know what you said to her at the Art Gallery, but she’s decided she’s fond of you. It doesn’t amount to approval just yet, but that may come in the fullness of time.’
‘You, on the other hand?’
‘Impossible!’ Again, in her mother’s accent. ‘I can see her arriving at Heathrow: “George, your daughter is impossible!”’
‘George?’
‘Daddy. Gurjit’s the same as George. She uses the English name when he’s to blame.’
‘Okay, I’ll put the lid back on the paint and get on the road. W
ill we go out to dinner?’
‘If she’s finished making her list of things to send me from London by then.’
‘Tea, do you mean? Underwear from Marks and Sparks?’
‘For the baby. I told her Petit Bateau and Bonpoint.’
‘Whatever that is. Listen, I think I’ll see if there’s a seat on the plane at lunchtime. I’m getting a bit sick of the drive.’
‘Even better.’
‘But, you remember we were supposed to take her up to meet my father. No chance of her staying a couple more days?’
‘Unlikely. I asked her about that, Harry, and she told me it wouldn’t be appropriate — not without Daddy.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Well, you know Maya. She’s shy.’
Harry laughed.
At the airport, outside her departure gate, Maya stood on her toes to kiss Harry goodbye, but farewelled Arabella with a long-suffering sigh and a promise to return with her husband as soon as they could after the baby arrived. ‘When his professional duties permit,’ she added. ‘You understand.’
In the car back towards Elizabeth Bay (Harry had been forced to drive it up to town as the Merimbula plane was booked out), Arabella explained to him that her father viewed his role in a less grandiose light than did Maya, who depicted her husband as a one-man Mayo Clinic: he self-deprecatingly dismissed his skill as prescribing the same broad-spectrum antibiotic for everyone in Highgate and referring the more difficult patients to his friends from medical school who’d chosen to specialise. ‘But he’s a wonderful doctor,’ she said. ‘He’s funny, and clever, and kind. He’s just tired. Maya won’t let him stop — says she doesn’t want him under her feet all day, making the house look untidy.’
‘Could he afford to retire?’
‘Oh, certainly. Daddy bought loads of houses in Islington before it was gentrified. He’s a substantial landlord, and his plan has always been eventually to sell them off. He wants to travel, and he wants to come out here.’
‘Just tell him I’ve got a member’s ticket at the Cricket Ground.’
They stopped at the traffic lights next to the Bat & Ball Hotel. Arabella looked at a handwritten sign propped on the footpath outside. ‘That’s funny, Harry. Why would they have lingerie nights at a pub?’
Harry grinned. ‘Were you thinking they sell lacy things to the lady drinkers?’
‘It seems incongruous. It’s a pretty tough-looking place.’
The lights changed and Harry drove off. ‘They have tarts who strip down to their bras and pants and serve the drinks.’
‘It’s good that you’re so knowledgeable,’ she said, laughing.
They drove on in contented silence until Arabella asked Harry to drop her at chambers.
‘It’s six o’clock,’ he said. ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
‘It’s this fingerprint case of David’s. If you wait for me, I’ll go up and get the brief, and we can do a bit on it at home.’
‘If we must.’
‘Time’s getting on for that one, Harry. Here,’ Arabella said, pulling a brochure out of her bag, ‘you can take a look at the Law Society’s CPD program. You do pursue continuing professional development, don’t you, Mr Curry? It’s a statutory obligation.’
‘It’s also an honour system.’ He took the brochure and put it on the dashboard as he turned into Phillip Street. ‘Perhaps I’m not as honourable as I should be.’
It was fifteen minutes before Arabella returned to the double-parked car, carrying the brief in DPP v Nguyen. More than one judge had glared at Harry as he drove up from the Supreme Court’s parking level and was forced to detour around the LandCruiser.
‘Sorry,’ she grunted as she climbed back up into the elevated seat. ‘God, negotiating this vehicle is going to bring the infant on three months early. You’ll have to get a more accessible car.’
‘What took you so long?’
‘Checked my emails and had to return two calls. I’m starting to have to tell solicitors I won’t be available for a couple of months.’
‘Just the blind ones, surely? It’s pretty obvious.’
‘There’s been a bit of a rush of new work from firms that haven’t briefed me before. I’ve even got a tax case in the Federal Court.’
‘Good God. Tax. You’d better talk to Wallace about that. If he’s compos mentis at the time.’
Harry put the car in gear and did a three-point turn. Arabella asked if he’d found anything interesting in the CPD booklet.
‘Certainly did. I probably won’t do the title justice, but I think it’s called “How to handle intense emotional situations and clients — communicating effectively with stressed clients, lawyers and others”.’
She picked up the document and turned the pages. ‘Word perfect. Great powers of recall. Of course, your particular interest would be intense emotional situations with stressed District Court judges.’
‘There was another one that struck me in there — something about human gametes. Whatever they are.’
Arabella found the page. ‘“Property rights over human gametes — is a new property paradigm emerging for the human body?”’
‘Emerging from the human body, I’d venture to suggest,’ Harry scoffed.
The following day they spent together in Arabella’s chambers, working on the Nguyen trial. The floor was empty except for them. January in Phillip Street. ‘Must be hard to move at Palm Beach,’ Harry observed, ‘the air’ll be thick with sibilant references to solicitors.’
He dictated five pages of tactical notes to Arabella, adamant that there was no case for her client to answer. ‘What do a couple of fingerprints prove?’ he said. ‘That your bloke touched some plastic bags — no more than that. The prints aren’t on the drugs, they’re on the bags. There’s no law against touching plastic bags. This couldn’t be easier — you’ll have no problem pulling this thing up at the close of the Crown case. Get the judge to take it away from the jury.’
He found an old precedent in the law reports, where a man who had been convicted of theft from a parked car on the sole basis of his fingerprint being found on its bonnet had the conviction set aside and an acquittal entered by the Court of Criminal Appeal. ‘That’s the analogue,’ he said.
Arabella hadn’t seen it at first, but a couple of hours batting the facts back and forth committed her to the same bare-bones view of the misconceived prosecution. She had been won over to Harry’s opinion that the DPP officer who had found the bill — that is, approved the indictment going to trial — had to be incompetent.
‘But, still, if the judge gets it wrong, and it goes to the jury?’
‘If this thing gets to the twelve good men and true, they’ll convict in ten minutes.’
‘Really?’
‘Your client’s Asian. End of story. They’re all guilty of drugs — everyone knows that. The unfair challenge for the Asian drug accused is to prove himself innocent beyond reasonable doubt. My pupil master told me that a thousand years ago, and he was spot on.’
‘I’m Asian.’
‘Not in Australia, you’re not. We think Asian means South-East Asian. Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Sri Lankans — they’re not Asian. They play cricket. Anyway, you’re English.’
‘And it’s twelve good persons and true, Harry. I’m told women are even allowed on juries in New South Wales.’
On the last Friday in February, the specially expedited trial of Craig Nguyen on a charge of supplying an indictable quantity of methylamphetamine was listed to commence the following Monday morning at the Downing Centre before Acting Judge Magee and a jury. Arabella’s clerk came in with the listing details, and Arabella immediately telephoned Harry at Burragate.
‘Judge Magee, Harry. I’ve never had him — what’s he like?’
‘A disaster for you.’
‘Oh, no! Really and truly?’
‘Really and very truly. Ex-solicitor of no great distinction, ran a big right-wing Labor firm, made himself very r
ich on the backs of injured workers, big donor at election time, and in due season prevailed upon his friends in the party to give him a seat on the bench as his pre-retirement indulgence. Before he was appointed to the District Court, he’d never even seen a criminal trial, never instructed counsel in one. Didn’t stop him being an unmitigated bastard on sentence. He did his five or so years as Judge Tough-on-Crime, which made the government happy, he retired to his fibro cottage in Bellevue Hill or Killara, and now they’ve brought him back to fill a gap. He’s an acting judge for a year, and then he’ll retreat back into obscurity, deservedly. You notice they never bring back the human beings as acting judges — just the cruel bastards.’
‘But you said a disaster for me. For my client, do you mean?’
‘Certainly do. For both of you, in fact. He wouldn’t have a clue about your no case submission. Straight through to the keeper. He’s a jurisprudence-free zone, blissfully unaware of the law of evidence. He just won’t get it.’
‘In other words, what you’re saying is that he won’t throw the case out — he’ll leave it to the jury, and they’ll convict because Craig’s Vietnamese?’
‘Yep. Of Vietnamese appearance. And then he’s off to jail for at least ten years. What’s the weight of the drugs in the bags you touched?’
‘An indictable quantity. Just under a kilo.’
‘Right. That’s all but four times the commercial quantity, so you’re right at the top of the range. Maybe more than ten years. Maximum sentence for that’s imprisonment for twenty years. He’ll slot you for as close to that as he thinks he can get away with, will Acting Judge Magee.’
‘I prefer it when you refer to my bloke touching the bags and my bloke being slotted, rather than me, if it’s all the same to you, Harry.’
‘You’re going to have to dot every i and cross every t if you want to set your appeal up, Bella. Play this badly, and you won’t have an appeal.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘It means the last thing you do is put him in the box.’
Harry Curry: Rats and Mice Page 25