The prosecutor shakes his head. ‘With some of these kids, you just never know.’
‘But they’re so young. And Kevie is only nine years younger than me.’
‘Wonder if you’re the youngest barrister to ever do a murder trial.’
I shrug. Tension tightens my stomach at the thought.
He grins. ‘I wouldn’t put any money on you winning.’
‘Yeah, me neither. That’s why I’ve got a senior barrister coming. Hopefully.’ I take a breath. Exhale. ‘The boys are scared, I mean, really scared. Of something more than just the charges or jail. You should have seen Dillon the other day, terrified. Bert doesn’t seem to have a clue about what’s going on. And Kevie’s in shock, just a little kid.’ I glance at the prosecutor: ‘I think they’re innocent … someone has to find the truth.’
‘Who do you think you are – Miss Marple?’
‘Course not.’
He looks around. ‘Who else is there?’
The door creaks open. A large man in a light grey suit walks in.
Finally. It’s George Nurks, the barrister.
I jump up from my chair. ‘Thank goodness. They’re next door. Waiting for you.’
I hustle George through to the small room outside Children’s Court where four boys now sit handcuffed with two police officers on guard.
‘Wait outside,’ George authoritatively tells the police officers. They exit.
I feel a surge of confidence. George Nurks is in charge now. An expert. Everything is going to be okay.
I close the door to the room and lean against it. All eyes are on George. He opens his mouth to speak – and it is then that I realise. My stomach lurches.
A smell I recognise emanates from the barrister’s breath in the close quarters of the room.
From the looks on the boys’ faces, quickly turning from hope to despair, I see that they know, too.
They can also smell the sweet smell. Rum, or maybe bourbon.
As he continues to speak, he wobbles.
George Nurks, our shining hope, is drunk.
6
I freeze, staring at the blank wall. George Nurks, barrister-at-law, is talking. His hands make strange, uncoordinated gestures. He seems to be warming up, his voice getting faster, louder. Oblivious to the fact that his words run into each other.
The four boys slump in their chairs. The boy in the centre, a healthy, broad-shouldered sixteen-year-old, raises his head. Malachi Butler.
His features are slightly off, his looks unusual. He has protruding cheeks and wide, deep-set eyes under thick black eyebrows. It occurs to me he’d make a good baddie in a film.
Malachi’s eyes are cold as he stares through narrowed slits.
A recent memory flashes through my mind. Two weeks ago I was back home bushwalking on Magnetic Island. The path was slick after rain, grey rocks blending with bright green leaves. Sandy gravel crunched beneath my sandshoes.
Ssssss.
I stopped short, limbs quivering. Right knee raised and bent, ready to take the next step.
Within inches of my leg was a long, thin black snake. Its head, facing me, was raised a foot in the air, upper body swaying, alert for danger. It’s cold, emotionless eyes riveted on mine.
Frozen, I faced down the snake, heart thumping. Each moment expecting to feel the sharp pain of its fangs boring into my leg. Then, its head dropped entirely – and with great force it rose several feet in the air, standing almost on its tail till it suddenly flung itself at a nearby bush, twining into the leaves until, with one last rustle, it was gone.
As Malachi Butler’s eyes bore into mine, I recognise that snake-eye look and feel the same thrill of fear. I keep still and hold his gaze. Then he shakes his head, his curls jostle against each other and the impression vanishes. Now there’s only a vulnerable sixteen-year-old boy.
Yet as I look away he stands and lunges at me from the other side of the cramped room, bumping against George Nurks, who staggers back against the wall.
Malachi grabs my arm, his eyes meet mine. ‘We never done it, Miss. You have ta do somethin’,’ he says. ‘We’re innocent.’
‘I’ll try.’ Heart thumping, I force myself to return his gaze, to remember he’s only a kid, despite the chill that’s brought goosebumps to my arms and legs.
He tightens his grip on my upper arm and shakes it slightly. ‘We weren’t even there that night. We jus’ stole ’is car. We found it by the street the next day. But we never did nuffin to that guy. We never even saw ’im. Get us outta here. I’m not goin’ to jail for this.’
Against the opposite wall, eighteen-year-old Albert Pierce bursts into noisy tears. His head sinks into his hands. Beside him, little Kevie’s body is slack, eyes wide, mouth open – clearly he’s still in shock. Dillon makes a calming gesture to Bert, patting the air with his hand. Neither Malachi nor Kevie register any emotion as Albert’s entire body shudders. From his hands, clasped to his face, clear fluid drips.
‘Isn’t that right, Bert? That guy did it, not us,’ says Malachi.
Albert’s head inclines forward slightly, as if in agreement. But his face remains in his hands and his back heaves with sobs.
It must take a lot of hate to beat a man to death. All I see are four frightened kids. I can’t imagine they’d have it in them.
Against the other wall, George’s shoulder slides a few inches, and his foot moves clumsily out to stop himself from falling. ‘No puckin furries. I’ll get youse off. I’m the besht there is.’
Bloody hell, I think. We’re in trouble.
Malachi finally lets go of my arm and turns toward George, chest rising, desperation on his face.
There is a knock at the door. The handle turns and thrusts into my back. I lean hard against it and the door closes. Someone starts rapping on the other side.
I need time to think.
No one ever taught me how to deal with situations like this in law school. I know what to do if somebody wants to sue after finding a snail inside an opaque bottle of ginger beer. I’m totally onto that one. But drunken barristers?
The rapping continues.
Think, think.
I hold the door handle. It turns slightly. I squeeze and grasp as hard as I can.
George Nurks sways toward me.
He’s more knowledgeable than me.
He’s supposed to be really clever.
He’s also drunk.
My mouth is dry. Thoughts race through my head. Can I sack him? How do I sack him?
The door handle moves in my hand with a sudden, forceful twist and the door is shoved open, banging into my back, causing me to skip a step forward.
The police officer glares through the gap at George. ‘The magistrate wants you. Now. He’s going to deal with the kids in here, and the adults, Dillon and Bert, in Court One. Why didn’t anyone tell me they were going to be mentioned separately?’
I didn’t know. How would I know? Panic rises and I take a deep breath.
A look of terror crosses Dillon’s face.
I force myself to calm and meet his eyes and he seems to settle.
‘We’re ready.’ George brushes past me. ‘We’re going to adjourn this matter for a couple of weeks to assess our position.’ His voice is confident. Drunk or not, he sounds like he knows what he’s doing.
As we head toward the kids’ courtroom, Aunty Arriet follows behind, bearing the scent of perfume and a faint aroma of sweat. Her afro has a perfect, round symmetry.
‘Where are their parents?’ I whisper in her ear.
‘Tanya Butler is over there—’ Malachi’s enormous mother is immediately behind us, struggling to make her way through the doorway into court.
‘And? What about Kevie’s parents?’ Kevie, only thirteen, charged with murder.
Aunty Arriet clears her throat. ‘
He move over from Palm Island a few year ago. He livin’ with his grandmother, ole Mrs Zander. She in the Watch House. She bin charged wif attempted murder.’
‘What? Is it a related charge? Are you telling me his grandmother was involved in the murder?’
Aunty Arriet shrugs. ‘I dunno. But I think you about to find out.’
A crush of officials spills into the kids courtroom. Wiggle-room only, it’s like the dance floor at The Bank nightclub. At the crown end, a police prosecutor sits. A detective in a cheap dark suit stands against the far wall. In the middle of the bar table are two Family Services officers. The fair-haired detective, Dinlevy, enters and eyes George Nurks warily, then nods at me sitting at the far end of the bar table with Aunty Arriet and the two boys. Behind Malachi and Kevie, two police officers stand guard. Next to them sits Tanya Butler, crying into a wet tissue.
The door behind the magistrate’s bench opens a crack, then shuts. Then opens wide with a flourish.
‘All stand.’
Little Kevie remains seated, staring into space.
As soon as the magistrate is seated, we sit amongst the rustle of papers, groaning of chairs and the soft sniffles of Mrs Butler.
‘Alright, let’s not muck about, gentlemen,’ says the magistrate. ‘What do you want done with this case?’
‘Remand. Two weeks,’ says George, his voice breathless and fast. But the words are clear and distinct. I glance at him with a tiny trickle of relief.
‘Right. That’s …’
‘The fourteenth, Your Honour,’ says the prosecutor.
‘Okay. I’ll adjourn this matter for two weeks. The defendants will be remanded in custody.’ The magistrate’s eyes swivel towards the boys and Mrs Butler. ‘Do you know what that means? The boys will be held at the Cleveland Youth Detention Centre, out by the airport.’
Tanya nods wetly, wiping her eyes with a tissue. Malachi scowls at her.
The magistrate looks with pity at Tanya. Then glances at George and the prosecutor. ‘Is that all, gentlemen?’
They nod.
‘The magistrate is waiting for you in Court One to deal with the older boys.’
The court clerk tortures us again with an ‘All rise.’ We struggle to our feet in the crowded court and the magistrate exits as quickly as he arrived.
The two older boys, Dillon and Albert, are led through to Court One in handcuffs. Their case is adjourned to the same day.
Outside, the sun shines, warm after the hours in air-conditioning. Tropical flowers, red, white and yellow, bloom against the courthouse. Birds sing above the hum of the city.
‘Hey, stranger.’
Michael’s steps fall in with mine.
‘Hey. Any big scoops today?’ I ask.
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘How was your day?’
‘Not boring.’
He laughs. I drop my files, embrace him and grip on tight. I can feel Michael’s heartbeat. The warmth of his arms.
‘Caffey!’ Aunty Arriet calls from the distance. ‘You needed back at the office.’
Wallace Greengrass, chief executive officer of the Aboriginal and Islander Legal Service, waits behind his desk. Heavy gold chains glint through black chest hair in the gap of an open-necked, short-sleeve shirt. He smiles, teeth white against midnight skin.
‘How is everything?’ he asks. ‘Handling the job okay?’
‘Well, today the police charged four boys with the cemetery murder. One is only thirteen.’
‘Keep me posted, won’t you?’ He taps his finger on the desk and clears his throat. ‘Got a bit of bad news for you, actually. I got a call from the cops earlier. They want to charge you.’
‘Charge me?’ My hand flies to my heart. ‘With what?’
‘Obscene language.’
My breath catches. They must be serious if they rang Wally. I could lose my career if I get charged. All those years of study.
‘Mate, you’re doing okay. Don’t worry about it.’
Easy for him to say. ‘It’s bloody unfair.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he sighs.
Shadows lengthen as I halve the pile of paperwork on my desk. The overhead fluorescent bulb casts a harsh, bright light that shines out my office door to the empty desks in the secretarial area. Shouts ring out from the park opposite the office. Two weeks ago an Aboriginal man was murdered in that park. Stabbed by his de facto with a rusty fishing knife.
The thought makes me shiver and I stand to turn on every light.
Bang. The wall shudders. I freeze.
The front door rattles. Someone is trying to get in. My blood pumps, breath coming faster.
Bang. I step backwards, towards the corner of my room.
‘Cathy! Cathy! You in there?’
Michael. The knot of tension releases.
Relieved, I walk quickly to reception. Michael stands outside, rattling the handle of the locked glass front doors.
‘Michael!’
He smiles. ‘Don’t you ever answer your mobile?’
‘It’s still off. From court today.’
‘Dinner.’ He holds up a plastic bag containing a stack of foil boxes.
As I open the doors, the smell of fresh Mexican food explodes into reception.
My heart beats fast, and not just from the fright. I hug Michael before he’s taken another step. Bags and all.
We clear a corner of my desk and pull up a couple of chairs to eat. Michael has fajitas. He calls them ‘fageetas’, his usual joke. My beef taquitos with salsa, rice and salad would taste even better with sangria, but I stick to water.
‘I had a big story today,’ says Michael. ‘Electoral fraud. I interviewed the mayor, got a few quotes, went back to the newsroom and spent all afternoon writing it. Then the phone rang and the mayor’s media rep told me the entire conversation was off the record.’
‘Bummer. What are you going to do now?’ I crunch my taquito, mouth-watering with the delicious tastes of corn, ground beef and salsa.
‘Keep my eyes open for the next big scoop.’ He sighs. ‘If there is one. But at least I have one consolation.’
‘What’s that?’
He bends over the food and kisses my cheek.
‘What was that for?’ I smile.
Without speaking he leans forward again and we kiss. Gently, slowly.
‘Just because.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anyway. I’ll be doing the court reporting tomorrow. Might see you there.’
‘Guess so.’ I reach out and touch his shoulder. ‘Thanks for dinner.’
‘Yeah, well. Just think of me as your own personal hunter and gatherer.’
I laugh.
As I watch Michael walk through the front doors, it occurs to me that I haven’t stopped smiling since he arrived.
7
The next morning, I wake before the sun. I roll over and close my eyes, but my mind buzzes and sleep is gone. I pull on shorts and running shoes and head out for the paper.
It’s still dark when I return. I boil up a cup of tea and sit in bed, reading the front page of the Townsville Bulletin.
BOY 13, CHARGED WITH MURDER
Four appear in court over killing
Four youths appeared in Townsville Magistrates Court charged with the murder of Peter Lewis of Kirwan, on or about September 28.
A spokesman for the Attorney-General said the youngest person to ever have been convicted of murder in Queensland was a 14-year-old boy about 30 years ago.
He was given a life sentence.
Lewis’s body was found at a makeshift camp near the airport early on Thursday morning after a person reported the incident to the Townsville Police Station.
Officers believe Lewis was bashed repeatedly with a lump of concrete.
Two of the boys were also char
ged with the unlawful use of Lewis’s red Ford sedan …
The four accused of murder are expected to make a bail application to the Supreme Court early next week.
Folding the paper, I lie back and stare at the ceiling, digesting the news.
Police are still saying he was bashed to death with a lump of concrete. But Dillon made those admissions saying the deceased was kicked to death near the cemetery.
Thoughts spur me into action. I jump to my feet and dress.
I have to do something more.
Soon after, I enter the eerie gloom of the Townsville Cemetery. On the horizon, a faint pink glow appears over Rowes Bay. A frangipani tree casts its gentle, sweet scent. Bright, flowery bushes emerge from the darkness as shafts of golden-red light stream across the ocean. Shadows of grey headstones fall in long bars.
I probably won’t stumble across something that will blow the police case apart. But – and this is why I’m here – it is not impossible.
Immediately beside the cemetery is the Happy Valley camp. Across the road are the forbidding fences of the Cleveland Youth Detention Centre. Perhaps that’s why people camp here, to be near their children.
Following the path, I pass the graves of old diggers who died for Australia during the world wars. Fading plastic flowers sit in stone urns. There are graves for early settlers, babies dead in infancy and here and there an epitaph as profound as it is simple: Mum.
I hold up photos of the crime scene, where Lewis was beaten to death. The background in the pictures is flat, save for one leafless old gum tree, its branches gnarled and arthritic.
Further down the path, I see the tree. Deeper into the cemetery, towards Happy Valley, the old gum overhangs patches of long, weedy grass. Stones are smashed and broken, with bright slashes of colour in meaningless symbols. Tied to the tree, blue-and-white police tape flutters in the breeze. Broken beer stubbies, coated in black fingerprint powder, litter the ground. Bones, hopefully chicken bones, lie with a condom wrapper, cigarette butts, a rusty car muffler, a heap of old grey blankets, ashy evidence of a fire, and a tropical shirt printed with lorikeets and stained brown.
As I’m taking my own photos of the scene, there is a grunt somewhere to my left. A human grunt.
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