I tuck the files tighter under my arm and clasp the screamer so hard it launches out of my sweaty hand. It hits the spotless pavement with a crunch at their feet. A shard of hard, black plastic cracks off the back and slithers further along the ground. I brace for the blast of sound, but the box remains silent. The small, silver key is intact at the top. As the screamer quietly comes to rest, another cracked piece of black plastic appears and one after another the batteries emerge, gathering speed as they roll down the gentle slope of the walkway.
I jerk my head back to the men, eyes wide. Thump, thump, thump goes my heart.
Grins form on the prisoners’ pasty faces.
‘Miss! Miss! Eh, Miss!’
I look around. The large, oblong quadrangle is otherwise deserted.
‘Miss! Eh! Up ’ere.’
Several black faces jostle at a second-floor window. Smiles gleam down at me. Clients I dimly recognise from the previous couple of weeks.
‘Hey! Hello, Miss.’
They seem overjoyed to see me. Not as glad as I am to see them. A happy, friendly group, elbowing each other for space behind the bars. I don’t know why they’re so pleased. I couldn’t keep them out of jail.
‘Hi!’ I smile and wave.
The three tattooed men look up, and then back at me. One man moves closer. I flinch and step back. He bends down and gathers the bits of screamer, reaching forward to place broken black pieces into my cupped hands.
The tension dissipates as I see the crinkles in the corners of his blue eyes, the openness of expression.
‘Where are you headed?’ he asks.
‘Maximum security.’
‘Right there.’ He points to the building they came from. ‘You better look after yourself, love. We’re nothin’ but scum in here.’ His voice resonates with hurt.
Heat rises in my cheeks as they turn and walk past on thonged feet.
The tall heavy doors of maximum security open on to a small cage leading to a large, irregularly shaped room surrounded with bars. Several metal gates lead deeper into the bowels of the building.
‘Cathy McLennan, lawyer, to see Dillon Butler.’
From his glass box, the guard looks me up and down, eyes narrowed. I move from foot to foot in the cage.
He nods. I hear a buzz, hesitate, then push on the barred gate.
Too late. The door has re-locked.
The guard sighs and rolls his eyes. There is another buzz and I push immediately.
The door bangs behind me and I’m in. I square my shoulders. The first thing to notice is a strange odour, a sharp, sickening smell. There is a squeak to my left and I jump. A prisoner stands in the corner regarding me, mop in hand, unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. His face is expressionless. Then he takes a step forward, his shoes squeak on the floor.
He points at a beige plastic chair. The guard picks up the phone. Hopefully, he’s calling for Dillon.
I sit, files tucked on my lap. To my right are two windowed doors leading into small, square rooms. I crane my head and see a table and two chairs in each. The painted walls are coated with graffiti.
Faint noises come from the floor above. Despite the heat outside, it is cool. The guard on the phone is heavily built, with small eyes poked into his flesh and a grey-flecked moustache that went out of fashion in the eighties.
I’ve been to prisons before – empty display prisons, like Alcatraz and Boggo Road. They look much the same as this one. Grey concrete walls, metal bars. Heavy doors. Hard, grey floors. Locks and small confined spaces.
But this one has actual prisoners, living here, violent and insane and sexually deviant men locked in with fraudsters and thieves and young men who have done foolish things. A wave of horror hits me and I have to stop myself from banging on the guard’s glass box and begging to be let out.
It’s the smell. Nothing prepared me for the smell of a real prison. Of disinfectant and urine and sweat and dirt and faeces and sperm and terror. Terror has a smell. It’s the adrenaline that kicks in to your body when fear sets in and the body pumps out that sharp, sickening smell. I’ve felt it before; I’ve smelt it before. But never in such quantities. And now the smell makes me afraid, and long to be out in the clear air. Because the smell gives me a sense of the terror a prisoner feels when they’re locked in here for the first time.
The sickly sweet disinfectant acts as a thin, inadequate barrier. It does not protect the prisoner from the smell beneath, the terror of those before him. And as I sit and listen to the dim shouts from the cells above, I suspect that the bars and guards here act in much the same way. A thin, inadequate shield, unable to protect the prisoner from the terror beneath.
15
Loud chatter rings down the hallway. Three cheerful young black faces with big grins and shining white teeth press up to a barred prison door.
‘Miss, eh, Miss!’ They rest their mop handles against the walls and pink palms rise in a wave.
‘Hey, Miss, what you in the Big House for?’
‘Oh, you know, I’m doin’ time.’
They laugh and I recognise more of my clients.
‘See Sam ’ere, eh Miss. He gettin’ fat!’ one says.
Sam blushes, his head tilts shyly. As the others nudge him in the ribs, it’s clear they’ve all gained weight.
Heavy footsteps beat steadily down the corridor.
‘What are you three doing?’ a harsh voice calls.
Down the hallway comes the guard, gripping the shoulder of a small young man in prison browns, head hanging down, feet shuffling in a pair of cheap, blue thongs. It’s Dillon Butler. I’d recognise those corkscrew curls anywhere.
The three young men grab their buckets and mops. ‘We just finished, boss.’
The guard produces a large key from the jingling set on his belt. The interior gate opens with a loud, metallic click.
Tugging on Dillon’s arm, the guard propels him through the gate and into an interview room.
‘Thanks,’ I say as the guard leaves us, locking the door behind.
The room is claustrophobic. We sit in two chairs squashed against the wall on opposite sides of a small table. Dillon’s head is still hanging down. I place my pad of paper on the table, pen poised over it.
‘Hi, Dillon. Remember me – Cathy?’
No answer.
‘Mate, I’m going to try to get you out on bail.’ I lower my pen. ‘We need to work out where you can stay. But you might not get bail. You’re charged with murder.’
Dillon mutters something under his breath. I lean forward. He shakes all over like a little boy who needs his mother, and I quell the impulse to reach out and pat his shoulder.
‘What did you say, Dillon?’
‘I’m so fr… r …igh …’
He’s mumbling.
‘What is it, Dillon?’
His hands are twisting and pulling and turning. He raises his head. Forehead wrinkled, eyes wild – ‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I told them bully boys what they wanted. Why don’t they let me go?’
With shuddering breaths he jumps up from his seat, paces the tiny room. Two steps up, two steps back.
‘I don’t know why they got me in here. I need to get out!’ he pleads.
‘Okay,’ I say in a calm voice. ‘Let’s take it one step at a time. The police did an interview with you. What did you say?’
His mouth forms words, but they don’t come out.
I sigh. ‘Well, let’s work out your bail first. Do you have somewhere to live?’
He swallows heavily. ‘With my aunty.’
‘What’s her address?’
As I note down the address, Dillon sits and runs a hand in front of his eyes. He looks tired, pale and thinner already.
‘And you’ll agree to reporting conditions?’
‘
Yep. But I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.’
Pools of moisture appear in the corners of his eyes.
‘Okay. Do you remember when we were in the Watch House not long ago? Just before you were charged. Remember? You were upset and I talked to the police and said that you didn’t want to answer any questions and I was your lawyer. What happened then?’
Dillon shakes his head. ‘Them bully boys came in and tole me I had to say things. I was all confused what they wanted me to say.’
A false confession? Echoes of innocent Kelvin Condren fill my mind.
‘What did you tell the police?’
‘They said the man died!’ Dillon jerks his head back and forth wildly. ‘But I didn’t do nothin’, eh Miss. I don’t know why I’m in ’ere.’
‘Did you tell them the man was kicked to death?’
‘Yes, no. I don’t know. How do I know? I was jus’ tellin’ them what they wanned to hear. I thought they’d let me go.’
‘Dillon, the police say that they caught you and the other boys in the man’s car the day after he died.’
‘I never killed ’im. I never hurt ’im. I was jus’ in the stolen car, eh Miss.’
Dillon’s whole body quivers. His eyes dart around. ‘I’m scared, Miss, eh.’
‘Of what, Dillon? Or who?’
Dillon breathes heavily. ‘Miss. You gotta get me out. Please.’
‘I’ll try my best.’
‘Please.’ He covers his face with his palms, his fingernails gouge into his forehead. ‘They done fings to me in ’ere.’
‘Things? What’ve they done to you?’
Dillon takes a breath, drops his hands, leans forward and stares into my eyes. ‘Fings,’ he says meaningfully. He reaches across the table to take my hand, squeezes it and bursts into tears. ‘But don’t t-tell anyone.’
My chest tightens.
Fings. Oh, Dillon. Too young to vote. Old enough for adult prison.
I run my fingers through my hair, biting my lip hard.
Glancing down at the name and address Dillon has given me of his aunty, I remember: it’s Malachi’s mother’s place. Tanya Butler.
It’s unlikely a judge would give the boys bail to live together. It would seem like a recipe for disaster. But in any case, Arriet says Tanya can’t have Malachi live with her.
I wonder why.
*
After Dillon is taken away, the guard brings Albert Pierce. He enters the room, grinning. His eyes light up when he sees me, bright and round like a child.
‘Hi, Bert.’
‘Hi, Miss. Thanks for comin’ ta see me.’
He bounces over to the chair and sits down.
‘What have you been up to, Bert? You doing okay?’
He nods, his tongue sticking slightly out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I made a drawing yesterday. It’s in my room. When you gonna get me outta here?’
‘I’m trying, Bert. Where do you think you could live?’
He shakes his head and his forehead wrinkles. ‘Malachi mum? Aunty Tanya?’
‘Are you four boys all related?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, Miss.’ He grins. ‘We all cousins, eh.’
I take a breath. ‘I’m just not sure I can get you all bail to go there. Any other ideas?’
He shrugs. ‘I used to live with my uncle on Palm Island.’
‘I’ll check it out. What’s their name?’
‘Pierce. Over the far end!’
Oh. It sounds like the place Roslyn and I visited. With the rock-throwing man.
‘Do you know anything about this murder?’ I ask, looking carefully at him.
His face scrunches, a child’s gesture of thinking hard. Then his eyes widen and he grins. ‘Do you mean like on the telly? I seen plenty murders on the telly. Pow, pow. Guys, get shot. I seen a gun once, you know. A real gun.’
‘Okay. But do you know anything about this murder?’
He shakes his head, confused.
I stand. He looks up at me. ‘Miss.’
‘Yes, Bert?’
‘Please. Please. Get me outta here.’
Outside in the prison car park, I switch on my phone and dial.
‘Newsroom,’ Michael answers.
Suddenly, it’s easier to breathe.
‘Hi, Micky Mad Dog. It’s me.’
‘Hello, Sugar Plum.’
I smile. But I have to ask. ‘Michael …? If you thought someone was being raped in prison, what would you do?’
‘What do you mean? Oops, watch out for Big Bubba – that kind of thing?’ says Michael, a laugh in his voice.
There’s a lump in my throat the size of Mount Everest. Somehow, I manage to force out the words. ‘But what if it was really happening?’
Silence. ‘Cathy. Darling.’ His voice is low. ‘I’m sure it really happens. I mean, you put a bunch of men together, criminals, and lock them away for years on end. Bad stuff is going to happen.’
The phone bumps against my ear. My hands are shaking.
The phone beeps, call-waiting. ‘I’ve gotta go,’ I tell him.
‘Keep your chin up. I love you, you know.’
I pick up the other call. ‘Cathy speaking?’
‘Cathy, it’s Wally Greengrass. Come and see me when you get back to the office. I’ve got bad news, I’m afraid.’
*
Wally sits at his desk. Sweat shines on his upper lip. He nods and waves me to a chair opposite. He wears a tailored blue shirt; the gold chains nestling amongst his black chest hair wink a greeting.
He leans back and crosses his arms. The chair squeaks. His face is solemn, lips set. ‘Matthew’s gone.’
Matthew? Our new principal solicitor?
‘The girls will be disappointed.’ I try to make a joke, then rub my neck anxiously. ‘So, it’s just me then? The only lawyer?’
He shrugs apologetically. ‘You’ll get plenty of help from our support staff.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m hoping to have another lawyer within the week.’
‘Great.’
‘You okay?’
‘No.’ I laugh. So much is happening at once it seems melodramatic. What’s going to happen next? ‘But I guess I’ll have to be okay.’
On the way back to my office I grab a glass of water in the kitchen.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Doris, the senior office administrator, advances through the door of the staffroom, face red, lips pursed.
The water from the tap is warm and tinny, but I’m so thirsty I glug it down in one gulp.
I hold up the empty glass at Doris, then reach over to the tap for another.
‘We’ve got ten people who’ve been waiting all afternoon in reception to see you. They need help and you’re back here, stuffing about.’ Her hair is all over the place, her fingers twitch anxiously.
‘I’m going to my office right now. You can bring the first person through.’
‘You go and get them yourself,’ she splutters in my face. ‘You show some respect.’
Her face is so flushed she looks like she’s about to have a stroke. We’re too busy for this, but I stop: ‘It’s going to be okay, Doris. With Matthew gone, I mean. We’ll all pitch in until we get another lawyer. We’ll cope – you’ll see.’
‘We bloody well better. Them prisons out there are full of us Murris.’
In the waiting room, a large, yellow-eyed man lurches towards me. Charlie Kent. The schizophrenic I represented a while ago in court.
‘Hey, I was first,’ a voice calls. Charlie turns and raises his fist, and the complainer sinks rapidly back to her seat.
Charlie follows me down the hall to my small office and sits opposite the desk. I leave the door open.
When I buzz through for his file there is no answer, so I get it myself. Th
e secretarial pool is empty. Above the half-dozen desks the clock says it’s after four. Quickly I find the file.
Again I leave my office door open. Charlie rises and shuts it.
Charlie talks, his words loud and erratic. I have difficulty understanding him. He stares at me with his weird, scary eyes as I make notes on his file and spend ten minutes trying to get him to leave.
‘Charlie,’ I say for the fourth time. ‘You need to go down to the Aboriginal mental health centre. You know where it is.’
‘Nah. You treat me.’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I’m not here to treat you. You need to see a psychiatrist.’
He sits immobile, strange wide eyes fixed on me.
‘We need a doctor’s report for court,’ I say. ‘It might keep you out of prison.’ I guess he’ll probably need the report sooner or later.
‘Okay.’ He finally stands and walks backwards, staring at me until he’s out the door.
That evening, when the reception is finally empty of clients, I jump in the car and drive home to shower and change. Half an hour later, in a black evening dress, I enter the North Queensland Club for the annual Barristers’ Dinner. A gentlemen’s club, filled with dark furniture, pictures of English hunting scenes and large snooker tables with overhanging lights illuminating the green baize. I am greeted by a hum of conversation and the duelling aromas of aftershave and roast meat. It’s a big night for me.
Across the room I glimpse some District Court judges, both local and visiting. Several groups of black tuxedos hover near the bar. Two women in their mid-forties stand amongst them.
I scan for a friendly face. Then, so as not to look obvious, I step up to the bar.
‘What would you like?’ The bartender wears a red vest and slicked-back hair.
‘White wine, please.’
Behind him, as he pours, shifting groups are reflected in the mirror. Well, I can’t stand at the bar alone all night. Can I?
The wine is set before me. I take a sip.
Once more to the fray, dear friends. Bloody hell, I can’t stand here quoting Shakespeare to myself.
I approach the nearest huddle of barristers and saunter all the way around, looking for an opening. They’re packed tight. One of the men sneezes, leans down to pull out his hanky and a tiny gap opens. The heat rises to my cheeks as I stop and hover. The man with the hanky speaks in an animated tone. From behind him, I can’t hear. But when everyone nods, I nod too.
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