2
Palm Island is weathering a storm. A relentless downpour beats the flowers to withered fragments and the streets are pasted with leaves. Small rivers run down the roads, carrying with them a torrent of rubbish. Newborn ponds rise up everywhere, empty cans and plastic bottles bob up and down on them like boats.
I’m huddled under a narrow bus-stop style shelter directly opposite the small, brick courthouse. It is moist and warm. Palm trees moan in the wind, heavy waves crash against rocks. The rain pounds and I can barely hear my client speak. We sit on the bench together, a notepad rests on my knees as drops of rain trail down the back of my neck.
A decade has passed and I’m back on Palm Island. This is my second day as a barrister for the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Legal Service. My stomach churns with nerves, but I want to be here more than anywhere else in the world.
I can do this, I tell myself.
Leaning forward, I struggle to hear Billy Sweetmug tell me why he punched his girlfriend so hard her tooth went through her left cheek. She had eleven stitches. The photograph shows her dull eyes staring at the camera. The scar forms a small, pink blob on her dark skin.
Billy is my fourth client of the day. One by one they dribble through this small alcove as Roslyn, the Aboriginal field officer, my assistant for the day, picks them up from around the Island in a battered white Land Cruiser.
I tilt my head closer as Billy speaks. At twenty-one he is a year younger than me. He looks older. His teeth are brown, discoloured. Already, deep lines are etched into the contours of his face. He has three children.
‘Tell me what happened, Billy?’ I ask, pencil poised.
‘I was drunk, eh Miss?’
‘And what happened?’
‘I hit her, eh Miss?’
‘But why?’ I glance at the police report.
He stares at me for a time, as if unable to decipher my question.
‘I was drunk, eh,’ he says, as if this answer should be obvious.
Nearby, the Land Cruiser squelches to a halt. The door opens and two dark forms run in through the rain. They squeeze onto the end of my bench. The driver’s side window cracks open and Roslyn shouts something about a stabbing. She roars off in a spray of mud.
My soggy companions and I gaze blankly at each other. My chest is tight and I struggle to breathe. Stabbing?
I’ve heard all the stories: Palm Island is the most violent place on earth outside a war zone. It’s been in the Guinness Book of World Records. Every now and then, the paper runs an article about the high rates of imprisonment, alcoholism, child abuse, suicide. And murder. Lots of murder stories.
Has there been a stabbing today? I’m the only lawyer on the Island. I have to find out.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I whisper to my clients as I step inside the courtroom.
Rain drums on the tin roof and there is a faint scent of mould. Mosquitoes buzz under rows of grey seats. Hanging on the back wall, behind the magistrate’s dais, is a coat of arms, emblazoned with indecipherable Latin.
‘Hello, anyone here?’ I call.
Light emanates from an open doorway at the far end of the room. I cross the grimy yellow carpet and stumble on the magistrate, sweaty in his dark suit and official robes. He is cocooned in a tiny, humid room reading a paperback thriller with a bloodied silver knife on the cover. He jumps in his seat, startled, as I knock at the open door.
‘Excuse me … I’m looking for the police prosecutor?’
He points me in the right direction, smooths his ruffled robes, and resumes reading.
Another doorway leads down a beige linoleum corridor. A moment later, I emerge into the well-lit police station. Cell doors with chipped lime-green paint show hints of grey steel beneath. At the far end an open door catches the sea breeze and palm-tree rustle. Three police officers in crisp blue uniforms lean on the enquiries bench, talking and laughing. As I enter, they stop and stare. They look wary, then sceptical, then amused. At twenty-two I have the round, cheerful face of a sixteen-year-old.
‘Um, Roslyn said something about a stabbing …?’
The sergeant speaks. ‘It’s attempted murder at this stage. The victim is being flown to hospital. We’ll probably upgrade the charge to murder, depending on what happens.’
My stomach tightens. I pray the victim will be alright, although I’m not sure if I do this for the sake of the offender, the victim or myself.
‘What happened?’
‘Stabbed his cousin in the neck with a broken bottle. Nicked him in the jugular. They were both pissed drunk.’ The sergeant shakes his head wearily. ‘A couple of detectives from CID are coming over to take statements from witnesses.’
I step back. I’ve been a barrister for two days. I can’t defend a murder charge. What if I make a mistake and he spends the rest of his life in prison?
The police look at me closely. I square my shoulders and show what I hope is a poker face. My mind races, trying to remember all I know about defending attempted murder. I was associate to a Supreme Court judge last year, so I know what happens in the higher courts. But what do you do when it’s in the Magistrates Court? I can’t even remember whether I can apply for bail here.
‘Can I see the QP9?’ I ask. This is the summary of facts the police will read out in court. Hopefully, it will give me a clue. I’ve brought with me Carter’s Criminal Law, the bible for criminal lawyers in Queensland. In a quiet moment I’ll check it.
‘It’s being typed up.’ The sergeant indicates a constable hunched in front of a keyboard.
‘My client?’
‘That’s him in there.’
He points to a cell. I walk over. A lone Aboriginal man lies on the floor, the pink of his feet contrasting with the dark skin of his legs. He snores heavily, the sickly sweet smell of alcohol-induced vomit issuing from his clothes. How am I going to get instructions from my first attempted-murder client?
Then I glimpse, in the second cell, a tiny girl curled up on the bench. Large brown eyes stare at me. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her legs, greasy black ringlets frame her face. She looks like she belongs in kindergarten. Surely she can’t be more than five or six?
I turn to the police in horror. The sergeant hastens to explain.
‘Listen, she’s a problem round here. She’s a compulsive thief. We’re waiting for her mother and Family Services. If we let her go now, she’ll be back at it before you can say boo to a goose. The community has had enough. They want her off the Island.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Eleven years old? Eleven?’ I repeat. It’s a struggle to resume a poker face. ‘And you’ve got her locked up in this cell? Alone?’
I glance at the child, cowering in the far corner of the cell. Through clenched teeth I say, ‘You need to let her out this minute. She can wait with me until her mother comes.’
The sergeant hesitates. We lock eyes. Moments pass. He is the first to break the stare.
‘You’ll have to take responsibility for her. If she offends before she goes through court, you’re responsible.’
‘I’m responsible,’ I repeat, not without misgivings. ‘Now let her out, please.’
He inserts the large metal key in the door and it opens with a loud clang. Inside the cell I crouch down beside the little girl.
‘Hi. I’m Cathy.’
She looks at me with a sulky set to her mouth.
‘I’m your lawyer and I’m going to help you.’
She continues to stare at me.
‘Would you like to come with me?’
Earlier this morning, on my way to the courthouse, I’d passed a few very young Aboriginal children playing in the square. They’d laughed and waved, beautiful, their large reflective eyes trusting. Now as I look at this tiny girl, only a few years older, I see no spark. Her eyes are dul
l, without hope.
‘Will you stay with me until your mum comes? I’ll look after you.’
She nods bleakly. I take her hand in mine. It’s small and dry and scaly. Her nose runs and her skin is as lifeless as her eyes.
Leading her out of the cell, I turn to the officers: ‘Will you keep me updated on the attempted murder? I’d like to see the QP9 when it’s ready.’
‘Will do.’
The little girl’s hand rests limply in mine as we walk down the corridor.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Olivia.’
‘That’s a lovely name,’ I tell her. Her head hangs down. I search for something else to say, to put her at ease. ‘You know, you’ve got very pretty curls.’
‘Fanks.’ She looks up at me and smiles.
All of a sudden, it’s as if the sun has come out.
My throat constricts.
3
Olivia stands patiently beside me as I review my files in the empty courtroom and flip through Carter’s Criminal Law. My heart races. I have twenty-three clients today.
If I make a mistake, some of them will go to jail.
When Olivia and I step outside, the rain is a fine misty spray. A small crowd of people gather in the alcove. Roslyn stands among them, her arms crooked on slim hips, long red fingernails tapping impatiently.
‘Where you bin?’ she asks, husky smoker’s voice ripe with accusation.
I am not sure what to say. Where does she think I’ve been? ‘Just checking on that murder case.’
‘We got clients waiting ’ere.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll do Billy Sweetmug first, then any order you suggest.’
We look around. Billy has gone.
‘Shit,’ says Roslyn.
‘Where’s he gone?’ I ask. ‘He has to go to court or he’ll be arrested for failing to appear!’
Roslyn glares at me. ‘I’ll get ’im. He probably gorn to the pub.’ Roslyn heads towards the Land Cruiser and turns. At the top of her voice she yells at me: ‘Stop stuffing about!’
She clunks the vehicle in gear and it bunny-hops off in a spray of mud and water.
Ten pairs of dark eyes stare at me. Humiliated, I try to smile, but my lips stick to my teeth.
One of the Aboriginal elders comes over and she reassuringly pats me on the arm. Then an older man smiles at me, the gaps in his teeth prominent. His nose is like a prize-winning root vegetable. He kindly tells me I’m ‘doin’ good.’
Olivia sits on the far corner of the wooden bench, drawing with a legal pad and pencil and munching on my lunch as I speak to each defendant. Albie stole a car because ‘I needed to get to the other side of the Island, eh Miss. The fish over there was really bitin’.’ Gladys punched the girl in the next street because ‘I was drinkin’ and I ’eard she wants Will and ’e’s me boyfriend, eh.’ And Gordon can’t remember why he punched a hole in the wall of the pub, except maybe that it was pension day and he’d been ‘drinkin’ goon, eh.’ A fifteen-year-old boy stole petrol. He faces me blankly, the brain damage from sniffing evident in his vacant stare. Another boy was joyriding in a stolen car because ‘I was bored, eh Miss.’ The last defendant wants to plead not guilty because ‘I never done nuffin, eh.’
Finally, my little shadow Olivia and I walk into the courtroom to face the magistrate and police prosecutor. With shaking hands and a beating heart I do nine pleas of guilty and get a trial date. Not too bad. No major stuff-ups. Yet.
We are about to finish when the courtroom door crashes open and Billy Sweetmug enters with a swagger and the overpowering smell of alcohol.
‘I’m fucken ready to do me case,’ he announces in a loud voice.
I hesitate, not sure what to do.
‘I gotta get backta the fucken pub.’ Billy approaches and stands close behind me.
Sober, Billy was shy, but amiable. Drunk, his personality has flipped like Jekyll and Hyde.
‘Any objections to a two-week adjournment of this case, Mr Prosecutor?’ suggests the magistrate.
The prosecutor shakes his head.
‘Good. Case adjourned.’ The magistrate looks at me. ‘Ms McLennan, make sure your client is sober next time, or he’ll be locked up. Court adjourned.’
The magistrate stands, his black robes swish. ‘Let my clerk know when you’re ready to proceed with the rest of your cases, Ms McLennan.’
My head pounds as Olivia and I leave the courtroom. She is docile and quiet. Outside, Roslyn stands alone, arms crossed. A gentle drip, drip sound comes from the green leaves of the trees. My shirt sticks uncomfortably against my back in the humid air.
‘You’re a very good girl,’ I tell Olivia. In response I get another of her lovely smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Even as she turns away, her mouth sags.
Olivia looks across the dirt road and shrinks behind me as a dishevelled woman lurches toward us. Her shirt is stained yellow and brown, her hair matted and untidy. She glares through puffy eyes.
‘Ol-livia, come ’ome wif me,’ she slurs. Her breath is sickly sweet with moselle and rotting teeth.
‘That’s Olivia’s mum, Wendy,’ Roslyn says. For the first time today, she scowls at someone other than me. Roslyn takes a deep breath and bites her lip uneasily. I hold tightly to Olivia’s scaly little hand. She grips back.
A case officer from Family Services briskly approaches behind Wendy. A small, harried woman with untidy wispy fair hair, wearing a cheap cotton dress and sandals. She holds up a clipboard and ticks a box. Then she turns to me. ‘I’ll wait in the courtroom for Olivia’s case to be heard.’
I nod and sit on the damp seat outside court. Olivia sits beside me as her mother sways unsteadily on her feet nearby. Olivia answers my questions in a quiet voice. All the time, her eyes are on me, her hand tightly clasps mine.
Soon after, in court, Olivia sits beside me at the bar table. I remove my hand and a look of despair flashes across her face. As the magistrate reads the charges I glance down to see her small fingers clutching a corner of my jacket. Olivia pleads guilty to several counts of entering houses and stealing. I submit that a reprimand is appropriate. The Family Services officer pledges the support of the government for Olivia. Steps will be taken. Programs devised. The reprimand is officially noted on Olivia’s juvenile record.
Now it is time for Olivia to go home.
My role as her lawyer is over. I am not sure Olivia understands. Her tiny hand slides back into mine.
Her mother, Wendy, follows us from the courtroom and walks straight into the doorframe. ‘Faark!’ she yells, staggers several steps sideways and rubs her shoulder. She marches up to Olivia and grabs her arm. ‘C’mon. Letsh go. I’m shick of this shit.’
‘Wait!’ I turn to Roslyn. She looks at me and shakes her head, lips compressed tight.
‘I don’t want to go wif you. I wanna stay wif her,’ Olivia screams, turning to me, wide brown eyes full of tears.
I take a deep breath. ‘We can’t let her go like this. What else can we do?’
Roslyn shakes her head again. ‘Ain’t nothin’ we can do. Wendy ain’t got much family on the Island, and she ain’t much liked, so there’s no aunty-mother who’ll take Olivia and look after her.’
The Family Services officer turns to me and pats my arm. ‘We’re working with Olivia and her mother,’ she says in a confident, reassuring manner.
‘What have you got planned?’
‘We’re working on it,’ she smiles.
‘You come wif me now,’ Olivia’s mum snarls. Even in her fury, her voice is still slurred. She tightens her grasp and pulls Olivia forcefully, wrenching her stick-like arm. She half drags the tiny girl away. Olivia’s eyes stay locked on mine all the way down the street.
‘Hopefully, you’ll come up with something quick,’ I say to the Family Services officer. There is no respo
nse. Turning, I find an empty space where she was. Across the road, she loads her bag into the boot of a waiting vehicle.
I glance at Roslyn.
‘What’d ya expect? Her office is in Townsville. She only come ’ere for court.’
The police prosecutor approaches. ‘Stanley died of his stab wounds,’ he announces. ‘They’re going to charge your client with murder. CID are doing the paperwork now.’
‘Is he still sleeping it off?’
‘No. Woke up twenty minutes ago, howling to get out.’
‘Okay. I’ll come in and have a look at the QP9. What’s your position regarding bail?’
He looks at me strangely. ‘You know you can’t get bail in the Magistrates Court for murder?’
‘Hmm.’ I’m not sure whether to trust him.
In the cells, the client begs to be let out. ‘You get me bail? Please, Miss. Please, eh.’ He slurs his words but generally makes sense. He’s able to give his address.
Back in court, as they bring the client through, I page through Carter’s, but there’s no time; the magistrate is coming. The thing is, if this court can’t grant bail on murder charges, everyone here will think I’m a complete idiot if I apply. But on the other hand, I really will be a complete idiot if I don’t apply for bail because I’m afraid of what people will think of me.
Within moments the magistrate enters the court and we rise. I apply for bail. The prosecutor sniggers. The magistrate rolls his eyes. I do a long, slow blink as heat burns my cheeks. But, there’s one person in the courtroom who thinks I’ve done well.
‘You be in court for me next time, eh?’ my client asks as he’s led away in handcuffs.
‘I’ll try, Mr Woolie.’ Although I’m not sure this is a good idea, given my new reputation as a complete idiot.
I exit the court in the late afternoon. The heavy clouds have lightened. The air is fresh. I take a deep breath and savour the warm salty air, fragrant with the perfume of frangipani.
‘You done good today, kiddo.’ Roslyn bangs my back with her hand in a friendly gesture that knocks me a few paces forward.
Roslyn leads me to a crowded beach where children’s laughter drifts in the breeze. My white skin stands out, yet I’m jostled by the cheerful group as one of their own. Several adults from court today call out friendly greetings.
Saltwater Page 2