‘So Michael, you were telling me there’s some big political storm brewing in Canberra?’
‘I was reading about it over the wires.’ His face is animated. ‘There’s the possibility of a Double Dissolution.’
‘Wow.’
‘They’ll probably sort it out. But it’s how they sort it that’s fascinating. The machinations behind the scenes.’
‘You’d love to be in that, wouldn’t you?’
‘Sure. I’d love to tell the stories. Imagine being involved in another Watergate.’
‘You don’t really think we have any politicians as corrupt as Nixon?’
Michael’s face widens in a grin. ‘I hope so.’ He pauses. ‘Actually, Cathy. I had something to tell you. Some news.’
‘Yeah?’
He shakes his head. ‘Well, it’s not settled yet.’
A prickle of unease runs up my spine. There’s something in his tone. I don’t want to hear this. Not yet. ‘Tell me later.’
‘But—’
I clasp his hand tighter. ‘Let’s enjoy the day.’
The unease settles, but I know I’m going to have to face this eventually.
As the waves splash the boards under my feet, I am reminded of the day I caught a golden trevally with an old hand reel. A rush of adrenaline surged through my veins with the first, massive tug on the line. As the fish neared the surface, its golden body flashed in the sunlight. I braced my feet against the splintered jetty, the men and boys around me buzzed with excitement. Several reached for my reel, shouting instructions, but I held fast.
The fish circled, zigzagging desperately in the water, trying to shake off the hook that tethered him to me. But the line held and I pulled him in.
I smile now and take a deep breath of warm, salty air. As I do, my taut muscles ease. Something about Magnetic always relaxes me. Maybe it’s because, wherever I go, it will always be home.
On Monday, my boss, Wally Greengrass, stands at the front door of the Legal Service office. The top buttons of his tailored blue shirt are open. A tie hangs over his collar.
‘Got you some help.’ He smiles and holds the door open. ‘Don’t say I never do anything for you.’
‘Help? For me?’
‘Three new lawyers have arrived. Bruce, Jasmine and Emma. They’re waiting in Bruce’s office. The room at the end.’
‘Thanks, Wally.’
‘Bruce’s from an Aboriginal Legal Service down south. Emma is from Cairns.’
‘Fantastic!’
I head along the cramped, shabby hallway to the end office. The door is wide open. Two young, slim, attractive women stand on the near side of the desk, opposite a man so wide and round he seems to fill the room. A thin film of sweat glistens on his upper lip and his eyes are tiny in a face complemented by multiple cheeks and chins.
He must have had to turn sideways to get through the small door frame.
Three pairs of eyes turn towards me.
‘Hi. I’m Cathy.’ I smile.
The new lawyers exchange a glance.
‘Welcome,’ the enormous man says. ‘I’m Bruce Graeme, principal solicitor. And this is Emma Findlay and Jasmine Aslett.’
I shake their hands, murmuring, ‘Nice to meet you.’
Emma is dark-haired and pale with a thin face and tight expression.
Jasmine is tiny. Her head reaches my shoulder, even though she wears the highest heels I have ever seen. Her lipstick is bright pink. She has long dark hair and almond-shaped eyes suggestive of Indian or Sri-Lankan heritage.
‘Nice to meet you.’ Her accent is clipped and fast. She smiles.
‘I love your accent,’ I say. ‘Is that …?’
‘Sth efriken,’ she says. South African.
‘Now. What have we got on today?’ says Bruce.
‘Well—’ I start to answer.
‘Wait.’ Bruce holds up one finger.
The chair groans as he sits. He slides a large, black book I recognise as the court diary across the desk and opens it at the grubby bookmark.
He runs his short, sausage-like finger down the page. ‘Duty Court and two trials. I guess you’ve prepared the matters today. Why don’t you do court while we catch up to speed here?’
I swallow. ‘I read the files on the weekend. But—’
‘Great,’ says Bruce. ‘Don’t worry, we’re here to take up the slack. For the first week, we’ll ease into it. Watch and wait.’
He winks and points towards the door.
‘One more thing, Bruce,’ I say. ‘We have a murder case involving four boys. It’s complicated. One boy seems brain damaged and I think he’s made a false confession. Another may have an alibi. The bail affidavits are proving difficult. We can’t find anyone for the boys to live with. Could you take a look?’
‘One step at a time,’ says Bruce.
I glance at my watch. Twenty past eight.
‘Well, I’d better rush.’ I back out the door. ‘Nice to meet you. I’ll see you later.’
Joice waves as I stagger through reception with files up to my chin.
At lunchtime, I order a salad sandwich on wholemeal at the café across the street. It’s been a great morning. The Watch House let me in straight away and I had plenty of time to see my clients.
Back at the office, Roslyn perches on a desk in admin, reapplying red lipstick before a compact mirror. Arriet is at the filing cabinet, two secretaries at their desks nearby.
I place a file beside Roslyn.
‘Nah, nah,’ she says. ‘I only just got back. I ain’t goin’ out again before I ’ave a sit down and a cuppa tea. No way.’
‘Sure. No rush. I just need you to get a signed statement from Mrs Zander about where she was on the evening of Wednesday twenty-eighth September and the morning of Thursday twenty-ninth September and more particularly where was Kevie? If Kevie was home, can you find out whether anyone else can verify it?’
‘Yeah.’ Roslyn snaps the compact shut and replaces the lid on her lipstick. ‘But I don’t think you’ll need it.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Cause I’m bettin’ them police gonna catch the real killer soon. P’raps when he kills again.’
‘Well, we can always live in hope.’ I smile.
Roslyn laughs. ‘With my luck, it’ll prob’ly be me who goes down.’
‘Like Caffey said,’ Arriet calls. ‘We can always live in hope!’
‘Eh you!’ Roslyn throws an eraser at Arriet. It lodges in Arriet’s afro, and they laugh.
Soon after, Aunty Arriet dumps a bundle of files on the desk. My coffee sloshes with the vibration. Small brown drops gather into a puddle.
‘Did you get the information for the bail affidavits?’ I ask.
She waves her hand vaguely towards the files on my desk. ‘We tried.’
A file note is secured to the front of each file with a paperclip. The topmost note reads:
RE: MALACHI BUTLER
DATE: 27 NOVEMBER
BY: HARRIET HULTHEN
Malachi Butler is 16 years old. Born 14 June.
He went to Townsville High School. He was expelled in Grade 8.
He normally lives with his mother, Tanya Butler.
Tanya has a restraining order against him.
Malachi Butler can read and write a little.
The other three file notes are just as sparse.
I stare at Aunty Arriet in surprise.
‘This isn’t enough. The judge will need persuading to give these kids bail. I gave you a list of things to ask. We still need to find somewhere suitable for the kids to live; plus we want sporting or other achievements, referees …’
‘I know.’ Aunty Arriet frowns. ‘But there’s nothing else to say.’
‘There must be something. These are four
innocent boys, stuck in jail.’
Aunty Arriet shakes her head. Her movement slow but firm. ‘Kevie ain’t bin to school since ’e was ten. Malachi expelled from high school, and the others ain’t bin in years. And they all bin in trouble before, ’cept Kevie.’
‘Well, what about accommodation?’ I say. ‘Could you find anyone who can take them in?’
‘Nah. Old Mrs Zander still charged with attempted murder, so little Kevie can’t live wif ’er. He got no one else.’ Her chair creaks. ‘Malachi’s mum can’t have Malachi livin’ at home.’
I lean forward. ‘But why can’t she have him?’
Arriet shakes her head. ‘She got a restraining order.’
‘What! Why?’
Arriet shrugs.
Flipping through the files, I see that Malachi, at sixteen, already has a long list of offences. Mostly minor stuff, petty theft, unlawful use of motor vehicles. In the last year or so a few entries for violent offences have begun to creep in. But I’m still not sure I understand why Malachi can’t live with Tanya. She is his mother after all. There has to be more to it. Kevie has no criminal history. Albert Pierce has a couple of minor offences. Dillon has a previous conviction for drunk and disorderly.
I rub my eyes and groan. ‘Leave it with me.’ I close the files and stack them in a pile like a miniature Mt Vesuvius.
‘I tried real hard for them boys,’ says Arriet.
‘I know, Arriet. We’ll keep trying.’
Aunty Arriet coughs. A heavy, racking sound from deep in her chest. ‘Do you need anything else?’ She pulls out a tissue and blows her nose.
Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. Her usually rosy cheeks are dry and rough.
‘You’re sick, Aunty Arriet. You should go home.’
She coughs again. ‘Too much to do.’
Not long after she leaves, the phone rings.
‘Cathy McLennan.’
‘It’s Paul Quane. I understand you’re preparing the bail application for the kids charged with murder. Bruce has asked me to help out.’
Paul is a local barrister. A short, mustached man with glasses and a perpetually serious expression.
‘Great,’ I say. ‘I am having—’
‘You need to do three things,’ he says. ‘First, get affidavits from the people who’ll care for the children. Make sure you emphasise they are stable, upstanding people who will be able to keep the kids out of trouble.’
‘Okay. But—’
‘Second. You need to draft affidavits from the children. Fluff them out with all the usual positive things, school awards, sports, that sort of thing.’
‘We can’t find—’
‘Third. And most important. You need to submit an application to Legal Aid to fund the bail applications. I’ll take it from there. Okay?’
‘I’ve tried,’ I say. ‘But the problem is—’
‘Just do it.’
There is a click in my ear.
Roslyn leans against the doorframe of my office. ‘You gonna luv me. I got Kevie an alibi.’
‘What?’ I gasp and jump up.
‘Yep. He can’t ’ave done that murder. ’e was home that night, an’ now we can prove it.’
‘Tell me everything.’
Roslyn waltzes in. ‘Old Mrs Zander say they were home that night and the other neighbour kept screamin’ and yellin’ for them kids to turn the music down so ’e could ’ear ’is fav’rite show on telly.’
‘The other neighbour? But I thought she said the one she tried to murder was the alibi?’
‘Nah. She ballsed it up. Silly ole goat. It’s not the attempted murder one, it’s the neighbour from the other side.’
‘And the other neighbour confirmed it?’ My breath is held.
‘Yup. He remember seein’ Kevie on that Wednesd’y night an’ he signed a statement ’bout it.’ She brandishes it.
‘What does the statement say?’ My blood pulses.
‘He say he were tryin’ to watch his favourite sitcom, an’ he can’t hear cause them kids makin’ too much noise with their stereo. So ’e yell at ’em to keep it down. And ’e remembers, Kevie come out and call ’im a fag.’
‘And was it definitely that Wednesday night?’
‘Yup.’ Roslyn grins. ‘’e says that’s when his show comes on. Eight-thirty, Wednesd’y night.’
‘And he’s sure? Is he positive he saw Kevie on the night of the murder?’
‘Course ’e is. He signed a statement to prove it.’
‘I knew it!’ I grin as Roslyn hands it to me.
Roslyn shrugs. ‘Yeah, well, you tell Wally, that bastard gotta give me a pay rise, eh. Anyway, I’m off to court.’ Her footsteps pad down the hallway.
18
Emma, one of the new lawyers, runs through the courthouse, sweating. She arrived at work this morning the epitome of a dark-suited lawyer. Now, an hour later, the tail of her shirt hangs untucked, her stockings have ladders and a clump of dark hair stands up from her forehead.
‘Walter, I need those instructions. Get me those instructions,’ she shrieks from across the wide hallway, then dives into a crowd of waiting clients.
Walter, her field officer for the day, shoots me a wry grin. He leans against the wall and yawns, showing even, white teeth. Walter is up and working by three a.m. in his other job as a racehorse trainer. I know from experience that by mid-morning it can be hard to keep him going.
I head over and lean against the wall beside him. ‘What do you think of the new lawyer?’
‘She’s a bitch,’ he says, as she dashes across the corridor.
I nod slowly. ‘But she’s trying hard.’
‘She’s a try-hard alright.’
‘Bet you said that about me when I first came.’
Walter laughs. ‘Still do.’
‘Gee thanks, Walt.’
‘Nah, just joking. You turning out alright.’
‘Thanks. I think. She’ll probably turn out okay, too.’ I draw a breath and glance from Emma to Walter. ‘We-ell …?’
‘Yeah.’ Walter sighs. ‘Better get back to work.’
As I thrust open the heavy glass door to Court Two, Walter pushes off the wall and strolls toward the nearest client, pulling his pen from his top pocket.
Inside the courtroom, schizophrenic Charlie Kent paces the aisle. The tight set of his shoulders and the raw energy of his walk remind me again of a caged tiger. But there are no bars in this room. As the door bangs, he whips round to face me. He lopes forward and stands close. Too close. I press my files to my chest, but they are slim protection. He smells strange, tart and sweet, with a faint chemical underlay.
He steps closer. His face inches from mine.
‘Hi, Charlie!’ My smile sticks to my lips. I edge past him and head to the bar table. ‘Have you thought about pleading guilty?’
He’s right behind me, eyes busy, muscles tensed. ‘Nah. No way. You can get me off, eh?’
I shake my head and sigh. Charlie is charged with going armed in public. A local businessman saw him urinating in the park. The businessman says he told Charlie to stop and Charlie pulled out a knife and waved it at him, threatening to kill him. Charlie says it’s not true. He says he never had a knife, he never saw the man.
Two other businessmen, who also happened to be walking through the same park, have given statements saying they saw Charlie waving the knife.
The witnesses described Charlie to police, and he was picked up the next day. He didn’t have a knife when he was arrested, but that was over twenty-four hours later.
‘Charlie. You understand that if you plead not guilty and you’re found guilty by the magistrate at trial, you’ll get a higher penalty?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘Did you have a knife?’
‘Not guilty.’
&nb
sp; ‘Did you threaten the man?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘If you’re not guilty, then why do these men say you did it? Why are they lying?’
He shrugs.
I sit at the bar table and flick through the police brief. I doubt there’s anything I’ve missed. I read the witness statements yesterday, pink highlighter in hand, looking for holes in their stories. Cross-examining witnesses is like pulling holes in knitting. A jumper could appear perfect, but one tiny hole, one missed stitch could unravel everything. Pull on it, and the case falls apart.
Try as I might, I just can’t see any holes to pick at. The witnesses are three well-respected men, apparently unconnected. They’re all employed and were all sober when Charlie allegedly came marching along with his knife.
In the quest for the lost stitch, I’ve asked the prosecutor for the criminal histories of the witnesses. Hopefully one of them has a dishonesty conviction. But it’s a long shot.
I’m going to lose today.
This is a waste of my time. There’s so much else to do. I’ve got to visit the boys in the children’s prison and work on their murder case.
There’s hot breath on my neck. I stiffen. How long has he been this close?
‘Charlie, step back.’ I pick up the file and swivel around in my chair.
He stares at me.
‘Now look, you’ve got to think about pleading guilty. I could probably get the prosecutor to agree to probation.’
‘Not guilty.’
I sigh. ‘Charlie?’
He shakes his head.
A Legal Aid lawyer I know has a pet answer to the million-dollar question, ‘How can you defend someone you know is guilty?’ He says: ‘The fun of it.’
But how can we ever know for sure that someone is guilty if they tell us they’re not? After all, defence lawyers generally weren’t at the scene of the crime. All we can really know is that there is a lot of evidence against our clients, like in Charlie’s case.
‘Alright, Charlie. Take a seat and I’ll tell the prosecutor we’re ready to proceed.’
‘You can help me, Caffey. You’re my friend.’ Charlie smiles and places his hand on my shoulder. I can tell it’s meant to be friendly, affectionate. But it takes a moment to control the tremble that starts deep in my arms and legs, the dryness of my mouth from the moment he touches me. There’s something about his eyes, those wild, yellow eyes.
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