My parents aren’t exactly movers and shakers, but they are good Baptists. They know people, who know people. Well, more accurately, they know a person who knows a person.
Within minutes, there’s a buzz on my phone.
‘Mum, that was quick!’
‘The Superintendent of Police wants to see you right now. Up at the police station.’
13
Superintendent Butterworth is a tall, white-haired man with penetrating blue eyes. He stands as I enter his office and holds out his hand. It is warm and soft. He shakes firmly, then gestures to a seat across the desk.
I breathe out slowly. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
‘You can thank Kay and David,’ he says. ‘They’re good friends of mine. They speak highly of you and your family.’
‘Thank you.’ My nerves drift away, but there’s still a strong sense of misgiving. Clearing my throat, I begin.
‘Well, it’s like this. I am having difficulty getting into the Watch House to see my clients.’ As I talk, I feel icky, like a schoolgirl dobbing on a bunch of bullies, something I never did. But this is not about me. It is about every vulnerable black person behind those bars. The clients deserve better. I want a level playing field.
Superintendent Butterworth looks at me steadily as I explain the issues I’ve been having. His hands are steepled and he does not interrupt.
As I finish, a wave of relief floods through me. He has listened to every word.
There is a silence. His gaze continues. His eyes are narrow.
‘These are very serious allegations,’ he says.
I nod.
‘Senior Sergeant Wilson wants you charged with obscene language. The way they tell it, your behaviour down there has been deplorable. Abusive and belligerent. Swearing at staff.’
My breath catches as I stare at him. My head spins, like I’m falling from a great height.
‘I mean, you sit there and you present a very nice front. You are polite and well spoken. But perhaps, underneath, you are not the person you appear to be.’
I need some air.
Perhaps he’s right. I did say ‘fuck’. I said it quietly in a moment of extreme frustration. But I did say it and I’m not sorry and if he asks me flat out, I’m not going to lie.
‘Kay and David Wynne have known me since I was six years old,’ I say. ‘We live in a small community. I went to school with their daughter. They know me. They know everything about me. Ask them.’
Superintendent Butterworth stands and courteously leads the way to the door.
‘Thank you for your time,’ I say.
Out in the street, clutching my files, I hasten toward court, feeling queasy at the nastiness of it all. The Watch House police shut me out and now they’re trying to take my career away. What do they think I’ll do? Lie down without a fight? Bullshit.
As I walk, faces loom up, startlingly vivid, and then are gone. City workers rush and disappear into buildings. A man sells coffee from a corner booth. A cat streaks across the footpath into the park.
The traffic noise fades as I reach the corner of the block and stop. Above is the Townsville and District Courthouse, epicentre of pain and misery in the community. Two unassuming grey, stone buildings, connected by open walkways; on the right the Magistrates Court, and to my left the District and Supreme courts. The sun shines directly on large rectangular windows and they flash like diamonds.
I have paused here many times before. Doors open and close equally for dark-suited lawyers and for defendants in a variety of clothing, from ill-fitting suits to stubbies and thongs.
I set off down the side alley leading to the Watch House.
A feeling of intense calm runs through me. A fatalistic feeling.
If I’m charged with obscene language and disbarred, I’ll be away from this. Perhaps they’ll be doing me a favour. I could go to the United Kingdom. My friend Billie-Jean is there. We could see the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace, walk through the countryside. Maybe even travel through Europe together. I could go to Greece and write books about the meaning of life, sipping ouzo as the sun sets over an impossibly blue sea.
I’ll always know I tried my best here.
I lean over and press the buzzer to the Watch House. They won’t let me in. Or they’ll march right out and arrest me. Either way, I’ll be free.
My heart swells with excitement.
With a click, the Watch House door opens.
Senior Sergeant Wilson comes out.
‘Good morning, Cathy,’ he says, holding open the door. ‘We have your clients ready and the interview room is free. Who would you like to see first?’
I’ve won.
The cells in the Watch House are cold. A large black man sits on the steel stool on the other side of the perspex. His hands are cuffed in his lap. He bares his teeth and leans in: ‘Get me outta here!’
His eyes are bright yellow and bulging, zigzagged with red lines, constantly flickering back and forth. I nod and make a note. ‘I’ll try, Charlie, but …’
He stands abruptly. Bangs on the door. Exits with the restrained lope of a tiger.
I take instructions from the rest of my clients, enjoying the relative comfort of time and space in the Watch House, although the poetry etched on the perspex hasn’t improved since I was last here. ‘Cops’ still ‘sux’ and now apparently ‘Sargnt taks it up the ase.’ O-kay.
Upstairs in the crowded holding cells outside court, I crouch on the floor near the small opening and try to talk to Charlie again. He glares at me.
Footsteps click on the linoleum floor. Aunty Arriet towers above me, mobile in one hand, clipboard in the other.
‘What you done now, Charlie Kent?’ Arriet demands of this wild client as she leans toward the cell.
He continues to glare at me with his strange eyes.
Arriet scoffs. ‘You on them psychofrenic pills, Charlie Kent. You know you can’t drink on them things. An’ leave them knives at ’ome next time.’
She turns to me and shakes her head. ‘That stuff make him crazy.’
‘Did you get on to the rehab?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ she sighs.
‘And?’
‘Yeah, they’ll take him. Again.’
I stand slowly. My legs creak and I can’t feel my left foot.
I gaze at my clients. ‘Okay, so I’m going into court now. I’ll call the cases in the order I saw you. Anyone got any questions, or anything else they want to tell me before we go in?’
‘Just get me out of ’ere, eh,’ says Charlie.
‘All rise.’
As one, we stand.
‘This honourable court is now adjourned.’
With a slight bow, the magistrate leaves the courtroom.
Somehow or other, Charlie Kent got bail. He’s sitting beside me at the bar table in Court One, waiting to sign his bail papers, still glaring at me with his strange eyes. Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried so hard for him, but … it’s my job.
‘I think he’s taken a shine to you.’ Aunty Arriet laughs as we leave the courtroom.
I’m not risking a backward glance.
‘You gonna see him again,’ says Arriet. ‘Crazy Charlie, ’e always comin’ back.’
*
Matthew Spence, new principal solicitor, leans against my desk that afternoon, green eyes twinkling. ‘Bit crazy round here, isn’t it?’
‘That’s one way to describe it.’
There’s a knock on my door. The receptionist pokes her head in. ‘Just wondering if I can get you anything?’ She bats her eyelashes at Matthew.
‘No thanks, Joice.’ He smiles, deep dimples.
As she shuts the door, he swivels back to me. ‘The board meeting was last night. One bloke was yelling at me about how his wife had to wait over an hour to
see a lawyer last week.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘I told them that we would see them quicker if we had more lawyers – it didn’t go down well.’
I chuckle. After a moment, Matthew joins in.
‘I know, it’s ridiculous. And I asked where all the money goes. Did you know, they allocate hundreds of thousands to this service? We don’t even make a fraction of that. Where’s the rest going?’
Joice brings in a message from Dinlevy, the detective in charge of the murder case against the four boys.
‘Finally!’
‘Persistence pays.’ Matthew grins as he leaves.
The files have been at the centre of my desk, in the hope that the field officers will be able to find the boys a bail address. And I’m hoping that the police have been out to the cemetery to see the homeless guy with the block of concrete. I literally drop everything and call Dinlevy.
‘Ahh, Ms McLennan.’ His voice is gleeful.
‘Detective Ding-er-levy. Yes? What did you find?’
‘Sweet F-A, that’s what we found.’
Impotent anger rises in my chest, but I’m not even sure who I’m angry at.
The detective is talking. ‘The police found nothing out there. No homeless guy, no block of blood-stained concrete. Next time you want to investigate crime, try sitting at home with a Conan-Doyle.’
Moments after the call, Aunty Arriet pops her head in the doorway. She frowns.
I lift my head from my hands. ‘Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.’
‘There was no guy there,’ she says. ‘Walter and I searched for a block of concrete yesterday, but we couldn’t find it.’
I shake my head. ‘There has to be something.’
Aunty Arriet enters, places her hand on my shoulder. ‘They probably done it,’ she says, her voice matter-of-fact, as if she is discussing the weather.
Soon after, a call comes from Family Services. Police are going to arrest someone at the park across the road. I head over.
A group of about eight Aboriginals lie on the grass in the dappled sunlight of a grove of trees, drinking. Crickets chirp loudly. The smell of urine hangs in the air. A police officer stands with a Family Services officer, distinctive in her neat cotton blouse and skirt. She smiles as I join them.
They’re talking to a plump Aboriginal woman who is unsteady on her feet and smells strongly of methylated spirits. She smiles, showing broken front teeth.
There is a gurgling sound at my feet. I look down at a naked baby, about six months old, lying on its tummy in the dirt. Shards of broken glass glint in the grey earth.
The others are still talking.
The baby squirms in the dust, legs kicking, babbling happily. It reaches out an arm and fat little fingers close around a sliver of green glass, two inches wide, tapering to a sharp point. I stand on one foot then the other, uneasily.
The baby brings the glass closer to its mouth. Its fat hand is clenched tight. The point nears a pink, moist tongue. Closer. Closer.
I pick the baby up. Dried mucus cakes her upper lip. A green bubble of snot forms in her nose. I gently remove the glass from her fist. Blood oozes from a small cut on her palm.
The woman with the broken teeth looks blearily at me, a disinterested glance. The others continue their conversation.
I dab at the spot of blood with a clean tissue from my bag.
The police officer clears his throat. ‘We’ve gotta go.’
I wrap my arms firmly around the baby. I aim a direct gaze first at the police officer, then at Family Services, my lips pressed tightly together.
‘We have to do something about this baby.’
They look away.
The police officer shuffles uncomfortably.
‘We are not leaving this baby here.’
‘You can’t take her,’ says the Family Services officer.
‘She’s playing with broken glass.’
She shrugs. ‘There are no foster families. Our policy is Aboriginal babies go to culturally appropriate homes. But there aren’t enough at present.’
I glance at the little face, now contentedly sucking my white linen shirt into a soggy green mess. Then I look down at the glass in the dirt. At the drunk people under the tree.
‘If we start putting black babies in white homes we’ll be accused of creating another stolen generation,’ she continues.
I clench my teeth and hold the baby closer.
‘What would you do with her, anyway?’ the Family Services officer says. ‘Stick her in a backpack and take her to court every day?’
I shrug. ‘There’s got to be something we can do.’
‘If you take her, you’ll be kidnapping,’ she snaps.
The police officer’s eyes dart uncomfortably around the park, anywhere but at me.
I take a step closer to him, holding up the baby’s cut palm. ‘We. Can’t. Leave. Her. Here.’
He takes a deep breath and says in a thick voice. ‘This is crap. I know that. I’ve got kids. Little ones. Three and five.’ He shakes his head and closes his eyes.
A lump forms in my throat. I can’t speak. Can’t swallow. The sadness is overwhelming.
A warm wetness runs down my side. I look down. Baby pee.
The Family Services officer sighs irritably. ‘When I get back to the office, I’ll try to work something out. Obviously. For now, give her back to Shirley.’
She raises her voice, as though speaking to a recalcitrant toddler: ‘Shirley, you take her home soon?’
Shirley faces the vacant space immediately to my left and nods slowly, her eyes unfocused.
I glance at the police officer. The powerlessness is oppressive. His brow is furrowed, his hands clasping and unclasping. Then he clears his throat. ‘Give her back.’
My mind races through the choices. I can’t think of one. So I hand that baby back, and walk away.
14
A few days later, Michael grabs my arm and pulls me into an empty witness room. His kiss is soft and loving.
I pull back and smile into his clear blue eyes. ‘Someone will see us.’
He takes my hand. ‘Let’s go to lunch after court.’
‘I’ve got to go to prison.’
He lowers his voice. ‘Take a file, baked in a cake. They’ll never suspect your cunning escape plan.’
I laugh and squeeze his hand. ‘It’s already packed. But seriously, I’m a bit nervous, I’ve never been to prison before.’
‘Just don’t pick up any soap!’ he whispers.
I laugh as I head into the foyer to round up the clients. Arriet nudges me as we enter court. ‘What you bin up to, eh?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh, yeah? That’s what they all say.’
Our last client of the day is Patricia, who got drunk and stabbed her sister on Palm Island. She’s charged with attempted murder. Her face is bleary and her hair in clumps. She wears a yellow t-shirt with a drawing of a rock on it and the words, Rock on. There are brown stains under her fingernails and patches of dried brown stuff on her legs. Her breath is sickly sweet, the fumes of last night’s alcohol.
Arriet makes some calls and we get Patricia bailed to the rehabilitation centre.
Seated at the back of the courtroom is a black man in his mid to late forties. ‘Is that who I think it is?’ someone whispers. Kelvin Condren is famous. He spent six years in prison for murder. Illiterate and confused, he’d confessed to the killing of his girlfriend. A murder that he couldn’t possibly have committed; he’d been in the police Watch House at the time. An innocent man.
I’ve got to keep fighting for the four boys. No matter what.
At the Townsville Correctional Centre, faint shouts echo from the dusty sports field in the distance. A dozen stick figures run to and fro. Thunk, the ball is booted. More
tiny figures at the opposite end run and gather, jostling as they gaze up at the sky, heads tilted back. Traditions of Australian Rules football run strong, it seems, even in prison. The group shuffles sideways. A small figure behind them nears, moving fast. As the figure reaches the back of the group it rises into the air, ascending as if on wings. Then the arms reaching toward the sky suddenly clasp together. ‘Up there Cazaly!’ ‘It’s a mark!’ The sound of cheering drifts across on the breeze.
Hot wind whips my hair. On either side, dust whirls from large squares of well-manicured brown grass. I am sheltered from the burning sun by a tin roof, spanning the length of the walkway that runs through a central quadrangle. Alone, I concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other, constantly glancing behind me.
Maybe a guard would accompany me to maximum security if I went back and begged? Only fifty metres behind me the grey administration building squats just within double razor wire fences. Guard towers dot the perimeter.
Up ahead, a three-storey cement building looms. Steel bars grid the windows, heavy doors mark the entrance. Maximum security. My throat tightens as three figures emerge from the gloom, onto the walkway. They’re late twenties, tattooed white men in regulation brown tracksuits and they stare with cold eyes as they walk steadily towards me.
My pace slows and I clutch the screamer handed out at administration. It’s in my right hand, the only protection I have: a small, oblong black box, about the size and shape of a walkie-talkie. It’s designed to let out a shrill, continuous screaming noise once the pin is pulled. Not quite a grenade, but hopefully just as effective.
The men are twenty metres from me. Their arms heavily muscled. My hand itches to close the open top of my dark suit where there’s a small V-shaped gap at the neckline. They continue to approach, and there’s no guard in sight. Five metres.
I gulp.
At two metres away, they stop, line the centre of the path. Their eyes range over me.
I put on a smile and nod hello, as nonchalant as I can possibly pretend to be while I grasp the screamer, secretly feeling for the release key.
‘Nice day, isn’t it?’ I say.
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