Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  She nods and smiles. ‘Oh, yes, we do have a Detective Dingdong here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, do you know who it might be?’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘I guess it’d be Dinlevy. He’s here. I’ll take you.’

  I follow her up two flights of stairs. She points to a line of plastic chairs in the hall. ‘Wait there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  But I can’t sit. I’m too nervous. I don’t want to make a mess of this. So I pace. The policewoman moves away. Through an open door a man in a light suit sits at one desk among many. A fair-haired man stands beside him; both have their backs to me.

  ‘Okay, so I’ll type up those statements this afternoon,’ says the seated man. ‘I’ve made a copy of the Dillon Butler interview and the photos have gone in. I think we’re ready to go. We’re just waitin’ for this chick from Aboriginal Legal Aid.’

  ‘Yeah. Look, I’m not seriously worried about the forensics,’ says the fair-headed man. ‘I thought we’d find something in the search, but we’ve got a pretty bloody good case without it.’

  ‘I know, mate. I thought we’d find something, too. But we know it’s gotta be those kids. We caught ’em in the friggin car. Who else could it be?’

  The fair detective nods thoughtfully. ‘Want to have another look at the scene?’

  ‘Nah. Scenes of Crime officers would’ve picked up any evidence we missed, mate.’

  I tap on the door. The detectives turn slowly. Both are fit and tanned. The seated detective has dark hair and looks to be in his forties. The other is tall and thirtyish.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Cathy McLennan. For the Aboriginal Legal Service.’

  They exchange a look, and grin.

  ‘Bit young, aren’t ya?’ says the fair detective. I recognise his voice from the phone call earlier. So this is Dinlevy.

  I shrug. ‘I’m still wet behind the ears.’ Literally.

  As we go to the interview room the other detective says, ‘We’ve picked up the two younger ones. Didja hear? One of them is thirteen. The youngest ever charged with murder in Queensland. Maybe even in Australia.’ He nods, his eyes alight.

  ‘You know, I think you’re getting just a little too much pleasure out of this,’ I say.

  He shrugs.

  ‘I’ll show you pleasure.’ Dinlevy has caught up and holds out a photo. ‘See what they did to him? See! Bashed his head in with a lump of concrete.’

  He holds up the picture of the dead white man. Blank eyes, half open in a bloody face. A line of dark bruises runs down the left cheek. There is a small v-shaped scar above his right eye.

  We’re heading down another hallway to a line of doors. Behind a glass panel in the second door, a young, broad-shouldered black man in a singlet sits at a table. He looks up sharply as we enter.

  ‘This is Albert Pierce,’ says Dinlevy. ‘You’ve got five minutes.’ He closes the door.

  I take a seat opposite Albert. Outside there are voices. Then a flash of blue as the policewoman walks past the interview room.

  ‘Hi, Albert, I’m Cathy. The police want to interview you. Do you want to answer any questions?’

  Albert looks at me, his wide black eyes confused. Then he grins, the silly grin of a very young child. ‘You pretty, Miss.’

  ‘Thanks. I think it’s best if you don’t answer any police questions.’

  He nods happily. ‘Okay.’

  I study him. I don’t know if he’s a bit loopy or having a joke at my expense. I can only push on. ‘So, how about we just tell the police you don’t want to answer any questions at the moment?’

  He grins. ‘My cousin-sister has pretty hair, like yours.’

  ‘That’s good. Now, you’ll probably be remanded in custody. That means you’ll be in jail for a while. But we’ll apply for bail.’

  He shakes his head violently. ‘No no no no no. I’m going home.’

  ‘Albert. You know they want you on a murder? Don’t you?’

  His eyes widen. ‘Murder? But I never done anyfink.’

  The door opens. The detectives enter, each carrying a folder.

  ‘He doesn’t want to answer any questions.’ I stand.

  The older man shrugs. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Yup. Never done nuffin.’ Albert looks to me for approval.

  I give him a half smile. It’s not quite what I said, but it’ll do.

  ‘You mean, he doesn’t want to answer any more questions,’ says Dinlevy.

  ‘What?’

  They grin. ‘Look, we’re going to charge him. He’ll be in the lock-up for court this morning.’

  Dinlevy still holds the picture of the dead man.

  I turn away and speak quietly to the detectives, my back to Albert. ‘Someone killed that man, but how do you know it was these kids? I think Albert has some sort of brain damage. He acts like a child and doesn’t seem to have a clue what’s going on. And what about there being no forensics? What about nothing being found during the search?’

  The older cop scoffs. ‘You heard that, didja? Mate, that was just talk. Just dotting our i’s and crossing our t’s. That’s all. These guys did it, believe you me.’

  ‘What motive could they have?’ I say. ‘There is none.’

  *

  Two hours later, the sky above the Watch House is pure, cloudless blue. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck.

  I push the red call button. Please, let me in.

  ‘McLennan for the Aboriginal Legal Service.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  The intercom ticks.

  I’m tempted to leave. But all four boys are locked up in there, charged with murder. One is only thirteen.

  I press the button again. No answer.

  I sigh and untie my hair, still damp from my early bathe. It falls in a heavy, knotted mass down my back. It’s hopelessly tangled, so I twist it into a bun.

  A couple of private solicitors approach. Mike D’Wawe pushes the buzzer.

  There is an immediate click and a voice over the intercom. ‘Who are you here to see?’

  Both solicitors name a person.

  I call over their shoulder: ‘McLennan. For the Aboriginal Legal Service.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sanders, Mr D’Wawe, come in.’

  I grab my files and race after them.

  ‘Not you, McLennan. We’re not ready for you yet.’

  Time passes. I count the seconds on my watch, chest tight. Court is about to commence. There are so many clients to see.

  Finally, at nine-thirty, the door clicks open.

  Through the barred gates, three powder-blue police officers lean on the counter. Monitors above them show the spot where I’ve been standing outside.

  ‘Who do you want to see?’ asks the boss, Sergeant Wilson.

  ‘Aboriginal Legal Service.’ I shift my files in my arms.

  He shrugs. ‘They’ve gone upstairs to court.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Fuck! Oh, fuck.’ I groan.

  ‘What did you say!’

  ‘She said “fuck”,’ says another officer.

  ‘I can have you charged for that,’ says Wilson. ‘Insulting police. Obscene language.’

  Fear shoots through me. That would end my career.

  ‘Just let me see my clients,’ I say.

  ‘You’re too late.’

  Upstairs in the courthouse, my name echoes through the building as I burst in the doors, hair askew, one shoe coming off.

  Michael lounges at the court reporters’ desk in Duty Court, pad out, pen ready. He mouths, ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Are you ready to proceed with your cases, Ms McLennan?’ asks the magistrate.

  ‘Not yet. Sorry, Your Ho
nour.’

  ‘Well, hurry up then.’ He gives an exasperated grunt.

  I find Arriet in another waiting room beside an enormous woman in a flowery nylon muu-muu. Her immense shoulders heave. Wailing echoes through the court. ‘… my boooyyyy!’

  I hesitate. ‘Aunty Arriet, have you seen the defendants for Duty Court today? The magistrate’s waiting.’

  ‘Caffey,’ Arriet hisses, ‘this is Tanya Butler. Her boy is Malachi Butler, ’e sixteen and ’e charged with murder. And her nephew is Dillon Butler, ya know, ’e’s seventeen, ’e’s also charged with murder.’

  I stand uncomfortably by as Tanya continues to wail. What can I say? It’s going to be okay? That would be a lie. They’re in deep shit.

  ‘Don’t worry, Tanya.’ Arriet pats her shoulder. Somehow the human contact helps, and Tanya gulps in her sobs.

  Tanya reaches for my hand, her teary eyes beseeching.

  ‘You will look after my boy, won’t you?’

  My breath catches. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Last week they were playing tag at my place. All four them boys, laughin’ and gigglin’.’ She increases the pressure on my hand and her face crumples, but her eyes remain fixed on mine, begging for help as much as if she were down on her knees. ‘They only kids, Caffey. Just kids.’

  My ears buzz and it’s strangely cold. I nod and she releases my hand and slumps in her chair. The tears come faster than she can wipe them. I gesture to Aunty Arriet. The chair creaks as she lifts her large frame and follows me into the hallway.

  ‘I can’t do this case.’

  She shakes her head. ‘You gotta do it.’

  ‘I can’t do it. I haven’t got enough experience. I’ll stuff it up.’

  ‘You have to.’

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  Her brow furrows. ‘What we gonna do?’

  Then I have an idea. I know what I’ll do.

  ‘I’ll brief a more experienced, senior criminal lawyer!’ I tell Arriet. ‘A private barrister. They’ll know what to do.’

  ‘’ow you gonna pay for that?’

  ‘Well, I guess Legal Aid will cover it. Or something.’

  Aunty Arriet nods doubtfully. ‘Or something …’

  I pull out my mobile and make a few calls. Five minutes later a well-known criminal barrister agrees to come down and take over the case.

  Easey peasey, I congratulate myself. It’s like a huge steel band has lifted from my chest.

  The four boys are all locked up, waiting for the court to mention their case. When the barrister comes, he’ll know what to do with the thirteen-year-old. And Dillon, who at seventeen is an adult in the eyes of the law. He’s too young to drink, bet, vote or drive on an open licence – but he’s old enough for adult prison. And Albert, the oldest at eighteen, Albert with the guileless expression of a very young child.

  The barrister will call the field officer when he wants to see the boys. I don’t need to worry about them.

  I breathe freely as I look down at my foot-high stack of files.

  Only I’m too green to realise, nothing is ever that easy.

  Arriet ushers me to another waiting room, full of anxious faces. We take instructions and head into Duty Court and the waiting magistrate.

  Between clients I turn to Arriet: ‘Did the barrister call you yet, about coming to see the four kids charged with murder?’

  She shakes her head and re-checks her mobile. ‘Stop worrying. He’ll call.’

  Afterwards we head towards the heavy glass door marked ‘Children’s Court’ in imposing black letters, and enter a small anteroom with cream walls. Wooden doors are ahead and to the left of us.

  The door to our left opens a crack. Two pairs of brown eyes stare out. The door opens wider. A policeman sits in a small, sterile, windowless room, opposite a young, dark boy. The boy’s eyes are wide and staring. He looks at me, but his face is blank, his pupils fixed. I once saw someone emerge from a car crash with eyes like those.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I ask.

  ‘Kevie Zander,’ says the policeman.

  Oh, no. I put my hand to my mouth. Kevie is my thirteen-year-old murder client. He doesn’t move. ‘Has he been sitting here? In this tiny room? Without his mother. All this time? Why didn’t someone tell me? He’s not due for court yet.’

  The policeman looks concerned. ‘Sorry. They just told me to bring him up and wait for court.’

  ‘He should be downstairs.’ I take a deep breath to stop myself from shouting. ‘There’s a barrister coming to see him. Well, he was meant to call us, but maybe he’s gone straight down to the cells. The barrister is probably down there now!’

  ‘Okay. Well, I’ll take him back downstairs. Sorry. Come on, Kevie. We’ll get you a drink of water.’

  The policeman grabs a pair of large steel handcuffs from his belt. They open with a snap.

  My stomach rolls over. Kevie looks so little and vulnerable. ‘Oh, no. Please. Don’t cuff him. Are the cuffs really necessary?’

  ‘My boss said I have to. There’s no direct route to the cells from here. I’ve got to take him through the public gallery.’

  ‘Look at him,’ I say, sadness rising up within me. ‘I think he’s in shock or something. Please.’

  The policeman looks at Kevie’s blank face for a moment. He shakes his head slightly, then puts the cuffs away. He takes Kevie’s skinny upper arm gently. Kevie rises mechanically, his eyes still not registering.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to the policeman.

  I crouch down to eye level with Kevie. ‘We’re going to look after you. A very clever barrister is coming to do your case. He’ll come and see you soon.’

  Arriet and I leave the courtroom and head down to the cells. But the barrister hasn’t arrived. Back upstairs, the hallway is empty. I glance at my watch; it’s after two. The barrister should be here. I nervously twist a lock of hair around my index finger and walk up and down peering into the witness rooms. Only Tanya Butler, mother of sixteen-year-old Malachi, sits silent and desperate in a chair. Hands folded in her lap, her bright flowery muu-muu like a tent.

  ‘Have you seen a man in a dark suit?’

  ‘That the barrister?’ Tanya’s face opens in alarm.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s okay. I’m sure everything is fine. Don’t worry.’

  My back teeth grind as I pull out my mobile phone and dial the barrister’s number.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Carney? It’s Cathy McLennan.’

  ‘Ye— oh shit. I completely forgot. Got caught up in another matter in the Supreme Court.’

  I take a breath, reflexively hold it, then slowly let it out. ‘Well, what time do you think you can be here?’

  ‘Sorry. No. Can’t make it. I’ve got to get back to the Supreme Court.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  There’s a pause. I’m waiting for him to suggest something. I hear paper shuffling at the other end and I just know he’s working on the other case right now.

  ‘Only,’ I say, ‘w-we’ve been expecting you. The kids have been waiting all day. They’re locked up, you see. In the cells.’

  ‘You’re probably best to get someone else. Sorry, I just can’t do it. Shit has hit the fan here … Look, I’ll do a ring round and send someone to you. There’s a very experienced barrister visiting from Brisbane, George Nurks. He might be available. I think his matter collapsed today and he’s twiddling his thumbs until his plane goes this afternoon. I’ll get him to come down, okay?’

  ‘Okay then. I’ll be here. Waiting.’

  I can’t just sit around, though. I’ve got to do something.

  In the now empty Children’s Court I read the police summary of the murder case against the kids, swinging back on two legs of my chair.

  ‘Holy crap!’ My chair lands with a thump. ‘I knew they were innoc
ent!’

  Beside me at the bar table, the prosecutor scribbles notes on his files.

  ‘This just doesn’t add up.’ I shuffle the papers, looking back and forth at the documents.

  ‘Alright, I give. What doesn’t add up?’ The prosecutor lifts his pen.

  ‘These murder allegations. Listen to this. “Yesterday morning police discovered the body of Mr Peter Lewis, at Happy Valley, near the cemetery. The victim is believed to have been bashed repeatedly with a lump of concrete.”’

  ‘Yeah? So?’

  ‘Yesterday, after I told the police that Dillon Butler did not want to be interviewed, they interviewed him anyway, and he said – hang on, here it is – “Dillon Butler told officers that the deceased was kicked to death.” Hear that? Dillon says the victim was kicked to death.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, the victim wasn’t kicked to death. The police say he was bashed to death with a lump of concrete. Don’t you see what that means? If Dillon got the cause of death wrong, it could be a false confession. The boys might be innocent.’

  The prosecutor nods, slowly.

  ‘You should see these kids, Gav. There’s one with a screw loose, bit of brain damage I think, maybe he’s a paint sniffer; one is a sobbing mess; one is thirteen; and I haven’t met the fourth one, Malachi. He’s only just turned sixteen.’

  ‘Just cause they’re kids, doesn’t mean they’re innocent.’

  ‘Just cause the police charged them, doesn’t make them guilty,’ I say. ‘There’s a lot of holes in their case, too many things that don’t make sense. I mean, what are they all doing in the cemetery in the first place?’

  ‘The cemetery is next to Happy Valley, where the drunks and itinerants go.’

  ‘Exactly!’ I lean forward. ‘There were other people around who could have done it.’

  The prosecutor twirls his pen. ‘Not my problem. I prosecute, I don’t detect.’

  ‘But hear me out. It says there was an independent witness, some older guy. Now why didn’t he do anything? Why didn’t he call the police, or try to stop it?’

  ‘All sorts of reasons.’ He shrugs.

  ‘And what’s their motive for killing him? The guy had given them the beer. He was giving them lifts in his car. There was no reason to kill him.’