Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  A fire crackles. As I get closer to the centre of the crowd I see a large turtle being cooked in its shell. The turtle is upside-down on the fire, the shell acting as a natural cooking pot.

  ‘Catching turtles is part of our long-time culture,’ says Roslyn.

  A traditional spear stands upright in the sand near the fire. Two lean young men, wearing only shorts, each stand on one leg nearby. The proud hunters. I recognise one from court.

  ‘Turtles are protected,’ says Roslyn. ‘But we Murris are special. We the only people allowed to catch ’em. Like we did in Dreamtime.’

  Several kids within earshot look up. She leans over and ruffles the hair of the closest, a boy of about five in bright blue boardshorts. Another boy reaches over and pinches her bottom. The boy and his friends run away, squealing with delight.

  Roslyn shakes her fist in playful protest. ‘Oi, you mob, I’ll get youse!’

  She turns to me and rolls her eyes. We laugh and watch the bustle around the fire.

  Later, on the way back to Townsville, I look out the window of the small plane and watch the setting sun blaze in a volcano of colour. As it vanishes, long fingers of light reach out in a kaleidoscope of pinks, oranges, yellows and reds. Behind me sits the magistrate, behind him the police prosecutor. Right at the back, a young police constable sits with Mr Woolie. He stares wistfully down at the saltwater, his hands and feet shackled.

  4

  Outside the huge metal door of the Townsville Watch House the next day, I press the red call button to gain entry. A low, mechanical buzz echoes. I grip a large stack of files and wait, in the alleyway behind the Magistrates Court, jiggling like an Olympic marathon runner on the start line.

  Voices hum. There are muted shouts and a clang of metal.

  I press the call button again. A file slaps to the ground. Papers spill out and I pick them up.

  Anxious butterflies fill my stomach. I have to do Duty Court and Children’s Court today, dozens of people are waiting for me. I press the button again. Any minute now the police officer inside will press the release to open the door.

  Nothing.

  I wave at the CCTV camera and press again.

  Finally, I sit on the dusty kerb, hot in the morning sun.

  Fifteen minutes later the Watch House officer, Sergeant Wilson, lets me in.

  ‘I’d like to see my clients, please,’ I say.

  He shakes his head. ‘We’ve already taken them upstairs to the holding cells.’

  Frustration crushes my chest. ‘They should be here.’

  A gentle sobbing echoes from deep within the bowels of the Watch House, through the concrete and steel. The police share a glance.

  ‘Who’s that? Is that one of my clients?’

  Keys jingle. ‘I’ll get him,’ says Sergeant Wilson at last.

  The interview room is divided by a bench and a perspex wall, heavily scratched with graffiti. Jack luvs cock and Cops sux. Okay. Good to know.

  A lean, attractive Aboriginal boy is led to the chair on the other side. His head hangs down, thick, black, corkscrew curls shield his eyes. His shoulders heave with sobs.

  I glance at my notes. Earlier, I spoke to the police prosecutor upstairs and made summaries from all bench charge sheets and QP9s relating to Aboriginal persons in custody.

  ‘Dillon Butler?’

  He nods.

  ‘You’re charged with unlawful use of a motor vehicle,’ I tell him. I flip over to his criminal history. Nothing much there. Drunk and disorderly, that’s all. I glance at his date of birth. He’s only seventeen.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll get you out this morning. No worries.’

  He leans in toward me, long dark lashes heavy with tears.

  ‘They … they want me on a murder,’ he whispers through the perspex holes. His voice breaks.

  I flip over the page. ‘Nothing about a murder here. Have they charged you yet?’

  ‘No. But they say they goin’ to, eh Miss.’

  I glance at my watch. The minutes are creeping by.

  ‘We’ll wait and see. I’ll get instructions for bail and get you out of here. In the meantime, they’ll probably want to interview you. Do you want to talk to the police about the murder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, don’t. If they try to ask you any questions, anything at all other than if you want lunch and stuff like that, you say you don’t want to answer any questions and you want your lawyer. Me. Got that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I take instructions for bail.

  ‘So who do you live with, Dillon?’

  He shakes his head and mumbles. ‘Auntie-Mother. Or Uncle Stan.’

  His voice is so low I have to ask him to speak up, and the questioning takes a while.

  He seems calmer now, although traces of tears still line his cheeks as I replace the cap on my pen.

  ‘Eh, Miss.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m really sorry for ’im, but I never touched ’im. I swear. I never touched that guy, eh Miss.’

  ‘Okay. See you upstairs.’

  The policeman takes his upper arm and leads Dillon over to the large holding cell. As the gate shuts with a clang behind him, Dillon looks to where a young white boy huddles in the corner of the cell, head between his knees, his small frame shuddering. Dillon walks over to the boy, places a hand on his shoulder and pats, once, twice.

  The boy turns and glares at him. ‘Piss off.’

  Dillon shrugs and moves away. But the boy’s shoulders stop heaving. His tense body softens and it is clear he has gained comfort from Dillon’s small kindness.

  I gather up my papers and hurry out the door.

  Sergeant Wilson is gone. Behind the long security desk are two uniformed police I don’t recognise.

  ‘Is Dillon Butler going to be questioned?’ I ask.

  One of the officers shrugs. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Well, if anyone comes and tries to talk to Dillon, you tell them that he doesn’t want to answer any questions. Right? He doesn’t want to give a record of interview. If anyone wants to talk to him, you tell them he has a lawyer now and his instructions are that all questions are to go through me. Got it?’

  They nod as I repeat myself.

  I should have taken time to note down their names. Their serial numbers. But I’m young, freshly admitted. What I do is glance at my watch.

  As they buzz open the door, I break into an uneven trot, files jouncing in my arms, bound for Duty Court and Children’s Court. I’m supposed to be in two courtrooms at once. I am late for both of them.

  Leaving the Watch House, I jog around the outside of the courthouse and up the external stairs to the foyer. Inside, the loudspeaker hums my name through the crowded waiting area outside Duty Court.

  ‘Caffey!’

  A plump Aboriginal woman waves a handful of yellow papers at me. Aunty Arriet Hulthen is the field officer today. She sits calm and serene in a small plastic chair. The deep melody of her voice adds to the hum of activity in the air. A large afro frames her sweet, round face.

  ‘C’mon you fellas.’ Aunty Arriet stands and motions to the half-dozen dark-skinned people waiting quietly around her. ‘We ready to start now.’

  As one, they move towards Duty Court.

  I follow them in – and see Dillon.

  He stands in the dock behind the bar table. They must have brought him up through the central stairs from the Watch House. He glances my way with frightened eyes, face drawn. Just outside the dock, the Watch House officer’s eyes are downcast.

  A police prosecutor stands at the bar table in an immaculately pressed blue uniform. Paperwork is spread out in methodical piles before him. A smattering of casually dressed people sit in the three rows of grey seats at the back of the court.
r />   ‘In conclusion,’ says the prosecutor, ‘I ask that Dillon Butler be remanded in custody. Thank you, Your Honour.’

  I rush to the other end of the bar table. Courtroom etiquette means I am supposed to sit when the prosecutor stands, but I don’t. I’m fired up. I can’t believe they started this case before I arrived.

  ‘I appear for Mr Butler, Your Honour,’ I announce as the prosecutor sits. ‘We seek remand, two weeks from today would be suitable. And bail.’

  The elderly magistrate shuffles his papers.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for you, Ms McLennan.’

  ‘I apologise, Your Honour,’ I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. ‘Now, as to bail. The charge against Mr Butler is not serious. We can provide a bail address. He is very young and has limited criminal history.’

  The prosecutor stands. ‘We object to bail.’

  The magistrate shakes his head, sadly. ‘Ms McLennan, the prosecution objects to your application for bail.’

  ‘Your Honour, it’s a minor charge.’ My voice is firm. I remember studying this at university and the knowledge gives me confidence. ‘Even if found guilty, Mr Butler will most likely only be fined.’

  ‘That’s true.’ The magistrate frowns. ‘Mr Prosecutor, what do you say?’

  ‘There is another serious charge under investigation. Murder.’

  ‘Which is irrelevant to the current question of bail!’ I say. Neither of us sits now. ‘If Mr Butler is charged with any future offences, then Your Honour can revisit the question of bail. In the meantime, bail should clearly be granted.’

  We look to the magistrate. He sits motionless, his face furrowed.

  ‘It is a minor offence,’ the magistrate eventually says. ‘And as no other charges have been laid, I’ll adjourn this case for two weeks and grant bail on his own undertaking. Next case.’

  The Watch House officer leads the boy from the courtroom. Dillon smiles at me before disappearing through a side door that leads to the cells.

  *

  Afterwards, I duck down to the Watch House to double-check they’ve released him. I stand outside and buzz. As the sun bakes the back of my head I press the button every thirty seconds. Finally, after fifteen excruciating minutes, I’m let in.

  I scan the cells for Dillon. There’s no sign of him amongst the blank, set faces of the men standing behind the iron bars.

  They could be holding him out the back. I turn to the officer leaning against the desk, idly sipping a cup of coffee.

  ‘Where’s Dillon Butler?’

  He clicks his lips. ‘Having lunch maybe?’

  ‘Has he been released?’

  ‘Not sure. Have to check the paperwork.’

  ‘You need to release him soon. He’s on bail.’

  He shrugs.

  ‘He doesn’t want to do an interview about the murder,’ I remind him. ‘If they want to question him, I’ll be in court.’

  Upstairs, Aunty Arriet grabs me and leads me to a small waiting room. ‘In ’ere are the boys waitin’ for kids court.’

  Six bright-eyed, dark-skinned children sit chattering.

  ‘What are they charged with?’

  ‘The usual: stealing choccie bars, ridin’ stolen cars, not wearin’ bike helmets.’

  ‘Not wearing a bicycle helmet! You go to court for that?’

  ‘You do if you’re black.’ Arriet sighs.

  ‘Hi!’ I say to them. ‘I’m your lawyer.’

  All eyes turn to me.

  ‘Eh, hubba hubba.’

  They giggle. One boy nudges the next boy with his elbow. Soon, they’re all nudging each other until one falls off his chair. He stands, head hung low; a dark red flush emerges on his cheeks.

  ‘Where are their parents?’ I ask Arriet. I can’t imagine my parents not being at court if I were charged with an offence.

  ‘They ain’t comin’.’ She claps her hands together, her face stern. ‘Right, you lot. Who’s first for court?’

  The boys are quiet, respectful as I confirm their instructions and take them, one by one, into the small Children’s Court, which is about a third of the size of a regular courtroom.

  Two of the boys are reprimanded, which means they get a talking-to from the magistrate, three get community service and the last a bond. Afterwards, they walk away together, laughing and talking.

  I bolt back down to the police Watch House. Dillon Butler must have been released by now – but still, I better check.

  I stand outside the Watch House and buzz three times.

  There’s a vibrating mechanical sound. Slowly, the huge metal roller door to the far side of the Watch House opens. A reinforced prison van drives out the door. The windows are obscured by strong mesh. I catch a glimpse of dark corkscrew curls and pleading eyes. It’s just a flash, gone so fast I don’t know if I imagined it.

  I buzz again, leaving my thumb on the red button for five seconds.

  ‘What?’

  I lean forward to the intercom.

  ‘I’m Dillon Butler’s lawyer. Has he been released yet?’

  ‘Butler. Released?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s been remanded.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Murder. He’s on his way to prison right now.’

  Oh, God. I’ve missed him.

  The office is quiet except for the tap, tap, tap of computers and the distant hum of traffic. My desk is piled with paperwork. The phone rings.

  ‘Hello?’

  I smile at the sound of the voice. ‘Michael.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  I take a deep, relaxed breath.

  ‘So?’ he asks.

  ‘So …?’

  ‘Dinner. Remember?’

  ‘Oops. Sorry.’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Okay.’ There is a pause. ‘Well … tomorrow?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  I hold the phone for a moment after Michael has hung up. I see his sparkling blue eyes, sandy hair and wide smile. We met almost a year ago while I was a judge’s associate and he was a court reporter for the Townsville Bulletin. For weeks my heart tilted as we glanced at each other across the courtroom. When he finally asked me out, I was in the middle of exams and another month went by before our first date. We ate on the terrace of the Magnetic Island International Resort, moon shimmering over the surface of the pool.

  Heavy footsteps sound down the hallway. Aunty Arriet enters, her whole body wobbling. Her afro seemingly immoveable.

  ‘Police say they out huntin’ for a boy. They gonna charge ’im wif murder—’ she fights for breath. ‘Caffey. He only thirteen!’

  Vandaha Dragovic, Legal Service principal solicitor, taps on my door. She’s in her mid-twenties, tall and broad with high Slavic cheekbones. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘The police are looking for a thirteen-year-old boy for murder,’ I say. ‘Maybe you should handle this?’

  Vandaha shakes her head. ‘I’m in Ingham the next couple of days for Duty Court and a rape committal.’

  I stare at her.

  Vandaha smiles. ‘Don’t worry, you can manage. Besides, there’s no one else.’

  The office employs plenty of indigenous administrative staff – but only two lawyers for our thousands of clients. And with my limited experience, I come cheap.

  ‘I’ll see you Thursday,’ she says, adjusting the handbag on her shoulder and heavy stack of files in her arms. ‘Don’t stay too late.’

  Aunty Arriet draws in a sharp breath as the door closes behind Vandaha. ‘What we gonna do, Caffey?’

  ‘Our best. Our very best.’

  5

  My feet pound a steady beat on the boardwalk as the early morning sun creeps red and purple over the sea. The breeze cools the back of my neck. I run t
o the end of The Strand, circle the rock pool and head back. Waves drift up and down the sand, palm trees whisper and rustle. An Aboriginal man lies at the side of the path, empty port flagon by his hand.

  I sprint the last two hundred metres, then pant down to the shoreline and strip down to swimmers, dropping shoes, clothes and phone on the coarse yellow sand. The water looks cool and blue. Under the sea it’s silent, the sounds of the world above vanish. Saltwater caresses my skin, washes away the sweat, the tension. I want to stay under forever but my lungs are bursting. I float to the surface and finally make for shore.

  My phone rings on the beach, shrill, insistent.

  I splash through the shallows.

  ‘Hello?’ Water drips down the phone. ‘Cathy McLennan.’

  ‘Yeah, this is the Townsville CID. We’ve got a client of yours down here. Young boy. We’re about to interview him for murder.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Wait for me. What’s your name?’

  ‘Detective Dingdong.’

  ‘What?’ I shake water from my ear.

  Dial tone. Too late. He hung up.

  I wipe the phone, pull on T-shirt and shorts, then bolt up to my apartment on the esplanade. A shower and a handful of dry muesli later, I pull wet hair back with a clip. From the balcony I glance at Magnetic Island, where my family still live, and further over the ocean, Palm Island.

  As the front door slams a few minutes later, I realise I’ve locked my apartment keys inside.

  Moments later, I’m downstairs hailing a cab.

  The Townsville cop shop. Plain beige linoleum, plastic chairs bolted to the floor, posters of domestic violence victims. A female police officer sits at the reception desk.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m here to see a detective from CID. He’s interviewing one of my clients.’

  ‘His name?’

  Holding my fingers in front of my mouth, I cough: ‘Detective Dingdong.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Look, I might have heard wrong. The name I got was Dingdong?’