Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  My heart leaps in my chest.

  Ready to flee, I turn towards the sound.

  The old grey blankets I had dismissed roll over. I edge backwards as the pile shakes and rises, the layers gradually falling away until the dirty, angry face of a white man appears. He looks haggard and worn, very thin, his eyes yellow and road-mapped. I take another backward step, still facing him as he struggles to sit up.

  ‘Got a fag?’ He hacks up a wad of phlegm and spits.

  My stomach rolls.

  ‘Um … I think so.’ I fumble in my shoulder-bag. His beady black eyes narrow as my wallet emerges and I realise – too late – it should have stayed hidden.

  Hands shaking, I open it and find my emergency cigarette.

  ‘Err, here.’ I edge forward and place the cigarette on the closest gravestone, then retreat. Pretending interest in the tree behind me I monitor him from the corner of my eye.

  He picks up the cigarette.

  ‘Got a light?’

  ‘Oh!’ Once again I rummage. At the very bottom of the bag, my hand closes on an old lighter.

  I look at him, unwilling to close the distance between us.

  Near the pile of blankets, there’s a stack of neatly cut wood, firewood. An old transistor radio perches on a gravestone next to a toothbrush and bucket of water. This man is clearly living here, and has been for some time. Perhaps even before the murder.

  I edge forwards, ignoring the thrill of fear up and down my spine, the panicked beating of my heart.

  He’s eyeing my approach with what I now see is an amused half grin. I offer the lighter at arm’s length.

  He rolls his eyes and snatches it. ‘I’m not goin’ to bite ya.’ He lights the cigarette and takes a deep pull, blowing out blue-grey smoke rings.

  ‘Oh, no, I didn’t think you were.’

  He sucks heavily on the cigarette, shakes his head and turns away, holding the blankets around his shoulders even though the morning is warm. I can’t guess his age. This man has mottled skin and a stoop that makes him look older than my grandfather. But his hair is thick and dark brown.

  He coughs again and sits heavily on the gravestone, carefully extinguishing the half-smoked cigarette and placing it into a pocket of his shirt, beneath the dirty blanket.

  ‘You a sticky beak? You like horror stories? Here to poke your nose into the murder?’ His voice takes on a sing-song quality.

  ‘Something like that,’ I say. ‘Did you see it? Did you see what happened?’

  He reaches behind the gravestone to his left – stretches, grunts, and his hand emerges with a dirty glass flagon sloshing with red liquid. A garish yellow label says McWilliams Port. He licks his lips as he unscrews the cap. With both hands grasping the bottle, he upends it into his mouth.

  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. The level in the bottle lowers steadily. Finally, he gasps for air. A red line trickles down both sides of his mouth, giving him a ghoulish appearance. He replaces the bottle carefully behind the gravestone, turns back and frowns.

  ‘What you still doin’ here? Cocktail hour’s over.’

  ‘I just wanted to know what you saw the night of the murder?’

  He narrows his eyes. ‘Who said I saw anything?’

  ‘Look. Please. I’m just trying to find out what really happened.’

  Suddenly, he swipes at me, baring rotten, stained teeth. I jump backwards, heart pounding, smothering the squeal in my throat.

  He makes stabbing motions towards me with his index finger. ‘Don’t you read the papers? It was them four boys who done it. Beat that poor loser to death with a block of concrete.’

  ‘But why? What happened to make them do it?’

  ‘Nothing. One minute they get here, start drinkin’ beer. Happy as Larry. Next minute, one of ’em jumps outta the car, picks up the concrete and pounds on him. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘So one person killed him with concrete?’

  ‘All of them did it.’

  ‘But just now you said one of them.’

  ‘You’re twistin’ my words. Fark.’ Spittle flies from his mouth. He takes a breath, eyes wild. ‘He was gettin’ bashed.’

  ‘What about you? Why didn’t you do anything to stop it?’

  He stares at me. A cold hard look.

  ‘Why do ya think? They would have bashed me, too.’ He pulls out the half-smoked cigarette, one end charred, the other wet, and lights it.

  He takes a long drag and blows it out with his words. ‘Those boys are evil, what they did – they should be locked up.’

  I cross my arms. ‘And where were you during this alleged bashing?’

  He gestures with his head. ‘Here. This is my spot.’

  He stands suddenly, revealing a tall, almost skeletal body. The smell of urine is strong.

  ‘Who the hell are ya? Why don’t ya fark off?’

  He takes a step forward, teeth bared, blankets falling around him.

  I turn to run, but at that moment there is a loud thud on the ground and I swing back to see a large lump of broken concrete has fallen at the man’s feet. He must have been holding it beneath the blankets this whole time. The chunk is speckled with brown stains along one edge. It looks like blood.

  Horrified, I gaze at him.

  His eyes dart from the concrete to me.

  I back off fast.

  ‘It’s just for protection,’ he calls. ‘I need protection at night. The people that come ’ere …’

  I sprint down the path to my car.

  ‘Listen,’ I say into my office phone for the third time, ‘you need to investigate. This man had a block of blood-stained cement. It could be the murder weapon.’

  ‘We have the culprits. They are your clients,’ says the detective.

  ‘But a killer could still be out there. Surely you need to be certain?’

  ‘We have the killers,’ says the detective again. ‘We’re sure.’

  ‘All I’m asking is that you follow it up. After all, four kids’ lives are at stake.’

  He grunts. ‘I’ll send someone.’

  ‘When?’ I ask.

  There is silence at the other end of the phone.

  ‘When do you think they’ll be on the scene?’ I ask.

  Click. The dial tone buzzes in my ear. Sighing, I replace the receiver.

  ‘Eh. What you up to, girl?’ Roslyn Bligh, Aboriginal field officer, her bright red lipstick matching her stilettos, strolls into my office carrying two mugs of tea. She places one before me. Small brown bits float to the surface.

  ‘I’ve been talking to a brick wall,’ I say. Roslyn looks puzzled so I add, ‘The cops.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Roslyn says in her deep, raspy smoker’s voice. ‘If them blue boys knew how to do their job properly, there’d be no need for us.’

  I laugh and sip my tea. ‘Never thought of it like that before. They’re the reason we have jobs.’

  She grins and perches on the edge of the desk, hands wrapped around a steaming mug, long red fingernails lightly tapping the sides. ‘I’m goin’ to Palm this weekend. Gonna see my sister baby girl. She so sweet. ’ere, you look.’ She pulls out a couple of pictures of a cute baby with chocolate-drop eyes.

  ‘She’s gorgeous, Ros,’ I say. ‘She must get her looks from the other side of the family.’

  Roslyn whacks me on the head.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘That baby get ’er looks from me. Her dad, ’e so fat, ’e don’t need no car, ’e jus’ roll round them hills.’

  There is a tap at the open door. Our principal solicitor, Vandaha Dragovic, looks pale and haggard. She seems to have gained several kilos in the short time I’ve known her.

  ‘Hey, Vandaha!’ I smile.

  Roslyn jumps off the desk. ‘Gotta make some calls.’

&nb
sp; After she leaves, Vandaha sags against the door frame.

  ‘Vandaha? What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m leaving. I’ve given notice this morning.’

  Suddenly, the huge stack of files for court this morning crashes from my desk to the floor, papers spilling out everywhere. We gaze at them.

  ‘But we’re the only two lawyers here. With you gone, there’s just …’

  She puts up her hand. ‘I’ll be here until the end of the week. After that, you’re on your own.’

  The breath catches in my throat. The Aboriginal Legal Service covers a huge area. We do hundreds of cases a week.

  ‘Are they going to find another lawyer?’

  ‘Yep, well …’ Vandaha hesitates. ‘They’re going to look.’ She turns to leave.

  ‘Er. We’ve got to do these Supreme Court bail applications for the boys’ murder cases.’

  ‘You can draft them up,’ Vandaha says. ‘There’s a stack of old ones in the filing cabinet. Just use them as a pro-forma. You’ll be right.’

  ‘Okay. But wait, Kevie’s grandmother, old Mrs Zander, has been charged with attempted murder. Do you know what that’s about?’

  ‘I appeared for her yesterday.’ Vandaha rubs her temples. ‘Her bail application was adjourned to this morning. It’s on your list. There isn’t much substance to the attempted murder. It’s almost as if they stuck her with it to make sure Kevie doesn’t get bail.’

  ‘Really? You think it’s bodgie? Well, I’m not surprised. There’s something not right about that murder case. At the scene this morning there was some guy with a broken slab of concrete, like what they say the murder weapon was. I asked the police to investigate, but they haven’t got back to me.’

  ‘You went to the scene?’ Vandaha looks surprised. ‘Bit beyond the call of duty, isn’t it? We’ve got so much on here.’

  I shake my head. ‘Vandaha, I think those boys are innocent. Dillon’s admissions are all wrong. He says the victim was kicked to death, but police say he was bashed with a lump of concrete.’

  ‘Okay, I get it. Just be careful.’ She checks her watch. ‘You’re due in court soon. It’s a big day – at least a dozen clients waiting for you in the Watch House.’

  Vandaha reaches the hall, then stops: ‘By the way, what’s this I hear about the police wanting to charge you with obscene language?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen with that. I’m hoping it’ll all just go away.’

  ‘It won’t, you know. You’d better sort it out. If you get convicted, you’ll lose your job. You could even be disbarred.’

  8

  My finger goes white with pressure on the Watch House intercom. There is no answer, but distant laughter. I stand in the alleyway, hands on hips. Overhead, clouds hang grey and heavy.

  Mr D’Wawe steps past me and presses the button. Gives his name. The entry clicks open immediately. He pushes the heavy metal door and steps over my files into the cool, dimness inside. The door clangs shut.

  I walk up to the intercom again and buzz: ‘I thought you said there were no spare interview rooms?’

  No answer. Just a gentle tick in the heat. A fly drones in my face.

  ‘I need to see my clients.’

  Tick, tick.

  ‘I’ll talk to them in their cells!’ I say loudly.

  ‘Don’t you raise your voice. I told you to wait.’ Sergeant Wilson’s voice. The Watch House head honcho. I should have known.

  Intense frustration fills me. I take a breath and blink away the warm prickles in my eyes.

  ‘I … have … been … waiting. Half an hour. And you keep letting other lawyers in.’

  ‘That’s because they’re private lawyers with only one or two clients, McLennan. You have nine. You’ll take hours, the other lawyers wouldn’t get in until after court starts.’

  I pause. What he says makes sense. It fills me with despair, because it sounds so reasonable, which means he’s going to dig in. For the rest of my career I’ll be out here, or crouched on the cold cement floor upstairs, barely able to hear my instructions. Unless I do something.

  Either that or I’ll be forced to resign.

  ‘But why should my clients miss out on a proper interview?’ I say loudly. ‘I was here first. You let the Duty Lawyer in, and he’s got more clients. And the private lawyers have seen their clients before today, but I haven’t even met any of mine. You’ve got two interview rooms in there.’

  I stand back, looking directly at the CCTV cameras.

  Nothing.

  ‘It’s my clients that suffer. The black people you’ve got locked up inside.’

  No sound, just the tick, tick over the wires.

  ‘Are you there?’

  A different voice comes over the intercom. ‘They’ve gone up- stairs. You can see them in the holding cells outside Court One.’

  *

  Upstairs, I crouch on the shiny grey linoleum floor and consult with Mrs Zander – a frail, white-haired old lady and alleged attempted murderer – through tiny holes in the plexiglass of her cell door.

  She speaks in a soft voice. ‘And then …’

  It’s impossible to hear through the holes. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  Roslyn, assisting me today, leans against the wall, arms folded across her canary yellow blouse, legs in tight knickerbockers. ‘Ah gawd, Caffey. You deaf. She say she want bail, eh.’ Her raspy voice is magnified in the confined space.

  She turns to the client. ‘Where you gonna live, eh?’

  Actually, I was going to ask that. Our client opens her mouth.

  Roslyn answers the question. ‘She wanna live back ’ome.’

  The client smiles and nods.

  ‘Can ya report ta the cop shop?’ Roslyn asks the client. Immediately Roslyn turns to me. ‘Yep, she’ll report to them cops every Tuesdee.’

  A police officer inserts his key and opens the door with a click and a clang. I stand and stretch. Old Mrs Zander emerges from the cell and places her hand on top of mine. She leans heavily against me, her warm, soft dark skin folding over my arm.

  Mrs Zander is the grandmother and carer of Kevie Zander, the thirteen-year-old boy charged with murder. I’ve got to get her bail, otherwise Kevie has no chance of getting out until his murder case is heard, possibly two years from now.

  Slowly, we make our way from the cells to the prisoners’ dock. The magistrate, prosecutor and court clerk patiently watch our progress. I shoot a grin at Michael, sitting at the press desk near the bar table, pencil poised over his notepad. He winks. He always seems to be reporting on my cases. The Watch House constable holds open the gate of the dock as the lady makes a dignified entrance, head held high.

  ‘Your Honour, Mrs Zander is charged with one count of attempted murder,’ the prosecutor says as I step up to the bar table. ‘We allege she tried to kill her neighbour.’

  Behind me there’s a bang as the main door to the courtroom slams.

  ‘We seek bail, Your Honour.’ I glance over my shoulder.

  The fair-haired Detective Dinlevy takes a seat beside the prosecutor at the bar table. It’s odd, this case should have nothing to do with him.

  I continue: ‘W-we would agree to reporting and residence conditions, but in my submission any special conditions are unnecessary. Mrs Zander has an otherwise spotless record. She is very frail and clearly not a flight risk.’

  ‘We object, Your Honour.’ The prosecutor stands. ‘Mrs Zander is charged with attempted murder. Her grandson, thirteen-year-old Kevin, is currently charged with a shocking murder out at the graveyard. We contend that she is at risk of re-offending.’

  I sigh. ‘Your Honour. Kevie’s case has nothing to do with his grandmother’s – except that it would seem this charge has been totally blown out of proportion to stop Kevie getting bail.�
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  ‘I object. That’s outrageous.’ The police prosecutor stands and sinks to his seat in one fluid movement. I shoot a look at Dinlevy before I go on.

  ‘Your Honour, the bottom line is that the circumstances of this charge are not serious enough to warrant remand. Mrs Zander is alleged to have threatened her neighbour with a knife in the neighbour’s front yard. They’ve had an ongoing dispute about some minor noise issues. There is no allegation she caused any injury, just threats. It is shocking that the police have charged her with such a serious offence, when a common assault or threatening behaviour charge would be more appropriate given the allegations.’

  The old lady sits upright in the dock, hands demurely folded in her lap. Rheumy eyes flicker anxiously from me to the prosecutor and back.

  ‘Does she have anywhere else to live, Ms McLennan?’ asks the magistrate. ‘I’m really not sure it’s a good idea to bail her out to reside next to the alleged victim.’

  I glance back at Mrs Zander. She’s already told me she doesn’t have anywhere else to go, but I’m hoping something else might have occurred to her. She shakes her head.

  ‘No, Your Honour.’ I close my eyes for a moment. ‘But I would also ask you to take into account her age, her frailty. Given the circumstances, in my submission, bail is appropriate. Mrs Zander is prepared to agree to have no contact with the neighbour.’

  ‘That might be easier said than done, Ms McLennan, given they live next door to each other.’ The magistrate taps his pen and looks ponderously at my client.

  There is a pause. All I can hear is Michael’s pencil scribbling on his notepad.

  ‘I’m prepared to grant bail on her own undertaking. But you understand, Mrs Zander, the police and the court would consider it very serious if you harass this neighbour in any way?’

  ‘Eh?’ Mrs Zander blinks and tilts her head, pointing her left ear at the magistrate.

  ‘Your lawyer will explain it to you later,’ he shouts. ‘Next case, Ms McLennan?’

  I glance down at my pile of papers. ‘Your Honour, there are six more in custody I need to see, and eleven clients waiting outside.’

  ‘You mean you haven’t seen them yet? Ms McLennan, you’ve got to get more organised. Get here earlier.’