by Derek Hansen
‘Only Gabi.’
‘I don’t know whether to give you a medal or damn you as a fool,’ said Neil. ‘That’s unnatural. Worse, it’s un-Australian.’
‘Stop it there, Neil,’ said Milos sharply. ‘I don’t believe in sex without love, and I don’t believe in love without trust and respect. This is nothing to be ashamed of and not something to be treated lightly. It is a question of values, no?’
‘I agree. We should all have values,’ said Lucio. ‘For me, I don’t believe in sex without passion. Fortunately, when a beautiful woman offers me sex I can’t help but feel very passionate.’
Even Milos had to laugh.
‘So,’ said Ramon, judging it was time to move on, ‘where are you taking us today, Neil? Back to the red soil plains? Back to your childhood, perhaps?’
‘Where am I taking you?’
‘Yes.’
Neil looked steadily at the blind man.
‘I’m taking you back a few years in time to a place you should’ve gone long ago.’
‘Really? And where would that be?’
‘To gaol, Ramon. To gaol.’
‘Guilty.’
Grant Sinclair had not taken his barrister seriously when he’d warned him to prepare himself for an ‘unfavourable’ verdict because he didn’t expect one. The word hit him with the force of a bullet. Guilty? He was stunned by the jury’s stupidity. For Christ’s sake, couldn’t they see he was innocent? He was not guilty! Definitely not guilty! Why hadn’t the morons listened to him? Nobody in their right mind could take his ex-wife seriously. She was nothing, a nobody, a liar. She didn’t matter! He wanted to scream his protestations to every corner of the court, correct the jury and alert the judge to the miscarriage of justice, but his breath seemed to jam up in his throat so no words could pass. His brain wouldn’t hold still, wouldn’t lock onto a single thought long enough for it to be grasped and considered, wouldn’t stop spinning, wouldn’t halt in its dizzying ride from outrage to blind panic. What would happen? This didn’t happen to people like him. It couldn’t be happening. What would happen to him? All the stories he’d heard of beatings, gang rapes, suicides and deaths in custody roadblocked in his brain, piled up on top of each other, forming walls, insurmountable walls, from which there was no escape.
The judge addressed the court but Grant’s whirling brain struggled to grasp what he was saying. The words formed into recognisable phrases but their meaning — their significance and relevance — eluded him. Surely the judge was talking about someone else. How could he be talking about him?
‘Given the seriousness of the offence … bearing in mind the history of violence … the likelihood of a custodial sentence … no continuation of bail …’
When the judge stood and left the court Grant wanted to race after him and make him understand the horrendous mistake that had occurred. The jury had got it wrong! They were morons. Anyone could see they’d got it wrong! He felt a tugging at his sleeve and spun around, wide-eyed, to confront his barrister.
‘You’ve got to do something!’ he gasped. ‘They’ve got it wrong!’
‘Grant, listen to me,’ said the barrister. ‘Listen to me. The judge has asked for reports and adjourned for six weeks while he determines the sentence.’
‘Sentence? I haven’t done anything wrong. Get me out of here!’
‘I’d like to, Grant, but I can’t. The judge has denied a continuation of bail.’
‘What?’ Denied bail? Grant remembered hearing the words but hadn’t connected them with himself. ‘For Christ’s sake, do something! Appeal, do whatever you have to.’
‘We can appeal to the Supreme Court for bail and we can appeal the verdict.’
‘Then do it, do it now.’
‘I think we should talk about this.’
‘Talk about it? What’s to talk about? Just bloody do it!’
‘We’ll talk when we have a little more time. We’ll be in touch in a day or two.’
‘A day or two! Bullshit! Get me out of here now!’
‘I’m sorry, Grant, but right now there’s nothing we can do.’
Grant watched disbelievingly as his barrister turned his back on him and walked away. He wanted to grab the inept bastard and force him to earn the exorbitant fees he’d paid him, but instead became suddenly aware of an issue of far greater immediacy. There were two officers waiting for him.
‘Hands.’
It was an order. Grant was not accustomed to taking orders. He watched numbly, incredulously, as they took his hands and handcuffed them, and walked him on legs shocked into compliance down the stairs to the cells below the courthouse.
‘Remove your belt and shoelaces.’
‘Why?’
‘In case you decide to hurt yourself.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake! I shouldn’t be here.’
‘But you are.’ The older of the officers moved so that he stood squarely in front of Grant, invading his space. It was an act of intimidation that under normal circumstances would have been met with a solid right hand. ‘Look, son, I don’t think you really want to cause trouble. That’s the one thing you don’t want to do. You with me? Just do as you’re told, when you’re told, and keep your nose clean. Understand?’
‘I can’t believe this is happening.’ Grant undid his belt.
‘That’s the idea,’ said the officer. ‘Now, are you on any medication?’
‘No.’
‘Have you taken any drugs recently, either legal or illegal?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have any pills, tablets, powders, medication of any kind about your person?’
‘No. Can I ask a question, please?’
‘Make it quick.’
‘What’s going to happen to me?’
‘An escort will be along shortly to take you to the remand centre.’
‘But I shouldn’t be here. It’s a mistake!’
‘Sure it is.’
The cell door clanged shut and one of the officers turned the key that took away his freedom. They were treating him like he was a piece of shit. Grant slumped down on the edge of the bunk, trying to comprehend what had happened. He had meetings to attend, a restaurant reservation for dinner, people to call. He had plans, had commercials to shoot, had a whole life happening on the other side of the bars. Why was that so hard for people to understand? People like him didn’t belong in gaol. He wanted out. Now! He’d stood before he realised there was nowhere he could go and no one to listen to his pleas or even give a damn. He grabbed hold of the bars of the cell, felt their coldness, their thickness, their strength and their purpose. The cold steel registered on him more than words ever could and cut through the whirring disorder of his mind. Had the bars been electrified they could not have shocked him more.
He sat back down on the bunk and tried to take stock. Apprehension vied with outrage. Of course he’d appeal. Demand bail, demand the verdict be overturned, quashed or whatever. He was not guilty. Cell doors clanged as prisoners came and went; someone was shouting, someone wept. Toilets flushed. There was a smell of vomit, urine, faeces and body odour. Through all the noise and the assault on his senses, words Grant had never expected to hear came back to him: seriousness of the offence, history of violence, custodial sentence, remand centre. What was a remand centre? What was it like? He sat on the edge of the bunk for over two hours, trying to rein in his fears and curb his anger in preparation for whatever happened next. But his composure slipped the moment his cell door opened and his escort came to take him away.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he demanded.
‘Remand centre. Long Bay.’
Long Bay. Whatever vestiges of hope and courage remained vanished instantly. Long Bay. That was where they sent murderers, bank robbers, thugs and drug dealers. It was home to hardened criminals and the most violent offenders in the state. Why the hell were they sending him there? When would someone wake up to what was happening? When would someone realise he was just the victim of a terrible mistake?
>
They put him in the back of a van which was little more than a canvas-covered steel cage on wheels. He’d seen them around but had never dreamed he’d ever ride in one. Bench seats ran along both sides and he sat as close as he could to the back door where there was a small window in the canvas. The inside of the van didn’t smell much better than the cell he’d just left, but at least he was the only passenger. He took some consolation from that.
To his surprise, the van headed north instead of south. Maybe the guards had been wrongly informed. Maybe he wasn’t going to Long Bay after all. When the van began crossing the harbour bridge he breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t know where they were taking him but he knew it had to be better than Long Bay. Surely anything would be better than Long Bay. The van continued north across the Spit Bridge and turned right towards Manly. Grant searched his memories but couldn’t recall anything even remotely like a prison in Manly. The van turned into a courtyard alongside Manly Court and stopped. Grant waited for someone to come and let him out. Maybe he was going to be held in a cell beneath the courts. Maybe his barrister had got on the ball with a bail application. Yes! Hope surged. At last people had come to their senses. When he heard the bolt on the door being pulled back he began to rise to his feet.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ The officer pointed towards the far end of the cage. ‘Make room. Get right in back.’
Crushed and confused, Grant did as he was told but not before he’d caught a glimpse of two surly handcuffed prisoners. Suddenly the inside of the cage shrank. He took a fleeting glance at the prisoners as they were loaded into the wagon and the fear he’d felt back in the cells returned in force. He’d always fancied that he could handle himself, but knew instantly he was way out of his league. These guys were hard. They could swat him like a fly and think nothing of it. He stared straight ahead, avoided all eye contact and tried his best not to show his fear.
As the van lurched away Grant suddenly became aware of the suspect springs and worn shock absorbers, now apparent under the extra load. The two prisoners sat across from each other, not directly opposite, but giving each other and him space. They didn’t seem any happier to be where they were than he was. The one closest to him sat with his head in his hands, muttering and swearing to himself. The one by the door stared out through the barred window. Grant’s back was beginning to ache from the jolting and from having to continually brace himself against the top-heavy swaying of the van.
It took a while for him to realise the direction they now travelled. West, it was heading west. Why west? Why not south? He didn’t want to go to Long Bay but he didn’t want to spend too much time locked up in the van with the two criminals.
‘Ah, fuck you!’
Grant spun around, automatically raising his arms in self-defence. The prisoner by the door had lifted his feet up onto the bench opposite.
‘Ya filthy pig!’
Grant was suddenly aware of a sound, an all-too-familiar sound, but couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Incredibly, the other prisoner had pulled out his penis and was pissing onto the floor of the van. Instinctively he lifted his feet up as the unmistakeable steamy smell filled the van.
‘Ya stinkin’ pig!’ The prisoner by the door lashed out with his boot and caught the other prisoner on the thigh. It didn’t stop him pissing. The noise of it drummed on the metal floor.
Grant tried to shut out the sound of his unwanted companions as they continually niggled at each other. He expected their niggles to blossom into a full-blown fight at any second, in which it would be impossible for him not to get caught up. It was almost a relief to arrive at the Parramatta Courts. The van took on two more prisoners, jamming them up on the benches so he had no option but to put his feet back down on the wet floor. Fortunately most of the urine had run off but the stench remained. Grant tried to ignore the man pressed up alongside him but couldn’t. The newcomer was shivering constantly with his arms crossed in front of his chest, groaning and swaying every time the van hit a bump or went over a speed hump. Without warning the man vomited. Grant shrank further back into his corner amid a torrent of abuse. Boots lashed out at the culprit. There was no escaping the stench, no escaping the horror, no escaping the brutal reality of his situation. What kind of men were these? He had absolutely nothing in common with them. They were like some kind of troglodyte suborder, a species closer to animals than humans. Where did they live? What did they do? Why were they allowed? It suddenly dawned on him that he’d probably end up sharing a cell with one of them or with someone just like them. The prospect liquefied his bowels.
Cramps took hold of his belly and he couldn’t help doubling over. What if he fouled himself? What would they do to him? He glanced at his watch, tilted it until enough light came in through the barred window for him to read it. Five-thirty. When had he left the cell? Three-thirty. Two hours, he’d been in the van for two hours and they were still nowhere near Long Bay, crawling along roads jammed with peak-hour traffic. He needed a toilet urgently, needed to ease the pressure and pain in his bowels, winced each time the van’s shot suspension bottomed out on a bump. The prisoner alongside vomited again and kept retching even though his stomach had emptied. The curses and abuse only subsided as they drew close to Long Bay.
Grant’s fears heightened the moment the van passed through the main gates yet he was comforted by the knowledge that he was close to a toilet. It was dark inside the van and not much brighter outside, except when they passed directly beneath a light. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t make out anything through the tiny barred windows.
‘Everyone out!’
Grant filed out of the van behind the other prisoners into a floodlit area. Armed guards stood by in case anyone got it into their head to resist. Armed guards, for Christ’s sake, with semi-automatics! He glanced up to get some idea of the building he was being taken into and looked straight into the barrel of a rifle held by a guard up on the parapet. Not even the hours in the van had prepared him for this. It couldn’t be happening to him, but it was happening to him. It was happening to him! He followed the other prisoners into the prison reception and was about to be locked in a holding cage to await processing when he pleaded his desperate need for a toilet.
‘Come with me,’ said the custodial officer. He guided Grant to a cubicle along the wall of the reception room. A filthy toilet was jammed into the narrow space.
‘Is this it?’ asked Grant incredulously.
‘Get on with it!’
‘There’s no door,’ said Grant.
‘Just do what you have to do and be quick about it.’
Grant’s dignity dissolved in a noisy eruption of diarrhoea. The CO watching him screwed up his face in disgust. The smell was overwhelming but there was nothing Grant could do about it. Prisoners yelled abuse at him as he was led back to the holding cage thoroughly humiliated and defeated.
He could find no comfort anywhere, nobody he could relate to, nothing to ease his sense of alienation or shame. Prisoners were being interviewed one at a time at a long counter and then moved on for further processing. Grant waited and watched, not knowing how to feel when eventually his turn came.
‘Name?’ The officer hardly bothered to look at him. He wrote with his pen jammed between his second and third finger so that his hand bunched up like a claw. Grant had always been dismissive of people who held pens that way, considering them uneducated and ignorant. He was used to people like that deferring to him.
‘Look, there’s been a mistake. I shouldn’t be here. Is there someone I can see?’
The officer looked up from the pad he was writing on and gave Grant a long, hard, contemptuous stare.
‘Name?’ he repeated.
‘Sinclair. Grant Sinclair.’
‘Right. Did you give your name, address, date of birth and next of kin to an officer at court?’
‘Yes, but —’
‘Are you on any medication?’
‘I’ve already told people tha
t.’
‘Now tell me, smart-arse.’
‘No, I’m not on any medication.’
‘So you’ve got no pills on you or tablets, stuff like that?’
‘No.’ Grant found it hard to hide his impatience.
‘Right. Now I’d like you to hand over all your money and valuables.’
‘Look, can I see your superior?’
‘Money and valuables.’
‘What about my watch?’
‘Let’s see it.’
‘It’s a Rolex.’
‘Hey, Ryan, bloke here’s got a Rolex. Wants to know if he can keep it.’
Grant was aware of other officers laughing but what struck him most was the way the other prisoners waiting to be processed and those helping out in reception all turned as one to look at him, all with the same sudden interest.
‘You can keep a watch if it’s worth less than fifty bucks, which yours clearly isn’t. And if I were you, sunshine, I wouldn’t let on that you owned a Rolex, or had ever owned one, or even considered owning one. I wouldn’t let on that I even knew what a Rolex was. Understand?’
Grant handed over his watch, his gold chain from around his neck, the silver-and-turquoise ring he’d bought on location in Arizona, the keys to his Porsche, his apartment and office keys, his wallet and the coins in his pocket. The officer gave him a typed sheet with carbon copies to sign listing the items and amount of money.
‘The money will go into your account and you can use it for buy-ups,’ said the officer. ‘The rest will be handed back to you on release, or you can give permission for a visitor to collect it, which is what we recommend. Okay? Now I’m going to give you a list of questions and you just have to tick yes or no. Don’t spend all day doing it.’
Grant took the eight-page tick-and-flick and scanned through the questions. Had he taken any illegal substances in the previous forty-eight hours? Was he coming down? Was he suicidal? Did he need to see a doctor? No, no, no, no, no!
‘Now, is there any reason you should ask for protection?’
‘Protection?’ A ray of hope flickered.
‘The Department of Corrective Services is responsible under legislation for the care of people placed in our custody. Is there any reason why you should think that your life or welfare is threatened?’