Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  *

  The courtroom door closes behind me as I stride down the khaki carpet towards the police prosecution office in the far corner of the building. I wonder if I’m going to make a mess of this case. Maybe someone older, more experienced, would do a better job.

  The buzzer on the heavy wooden door sounds like a croaking frog.

  A uniformed officer appears and I ask for the police prosecutor.

  The door opens onto a small, well-lit room. Crime in Townsville has grown faster than the courthouse and six desks nudge each other, cluttered with phones, files, exhibits, family photos, police hats and ties. Oblong floor-to-ceiling windows exhibit lush green gardens.

  A hand waves from a desk against the far wall. The prosecutor leans back in his chair, pen dangling from his mouth: ‘Guilty?’

  I shake my head.

  He smiles. ‘Your funeral.’

  ‘Oh no, we’ll win this. No question,’ I put on my poker face. ‘And when we do we’ll seek costs. You should think about dropping the charge.’

  He laughs. ‘Good try.’

  I smile. ‘We’re ready to start. I just need copies of your witnesses’ criminal histories.’

  ‘They’re in here.’ The prosecutor grabs a file from his desk, and we head into court.

  We sit at opposite ends of the bar table, like two teams in a starting line-up. The clerk leaves to fetch the magistrate.

  I lean towards the prosecutor. ‘Criminal histories?’

  He riffles through the file, then glances at the arresting officer. The officer shakes his head, eyes wide and innocent.

  I know that look. I’ve seen it on my clients. He’s hiding something.

  There’s a dropped stitch.

  The magistrate sweeps through the door and our paperwork flutters. He is tall with dark receding hair and flowing black robes that give him a Darth Vaderish appearance. He speaks so fast it’s taken me several weeks to understand him. Like learning a new language.

  ‘Goodmorningarewereadytoproceed? Good.’ He takes a breath. ‘Doesyourclientpleadnotguiltytothechargeofthreaten- ingbehaviour?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour. Mr Kent pleads not guilty to threatening behaviour.’

  ‘MrProsecutor.Yourfirstwitness?’

  I stand. ‘Your Honour, before we start I would like a copy of the witnesses’ criminal histories.’

  The magistrate turns to the prosecutor, eyebrows raised.

  Todd stands and clears his throat.

  ‘Gogetthem,’ says the magistrate. ‘We’llwait.’

  The prosecutor nudges the arresting officer, who frowns and raises his palms. Then he sighs and exits and less than a minute later drops a bundle of white pages in front of the prosecutor, who slides them over to me.

  ‘HowmanywitnessesMrProsecutor?’

  ‘Three, Your Honour.’

  ‘Callyourfirstwitness.’

  ‘Er, well, I was going to do a short opening.’

  ‘Ithinkwecandispensewiththat.’ The magistrate glances at me.

  I nod. No sense in prolonging this.

  ‘I call Mr Ben Smith,’ the prosecutor announces.

  A lean man in his mid-thirties, wearing a neat suit and shiny shoes, strides through the door. He aims for the witness box where, like a pre-programmed robot he picks up the Bible, reads the oath and sits confidently on the cushioned seat, looking to the prosecutor.

  As the prosecutor puts his questions, I consider the criminal histories and how best to work my cross-examination.

  When the prosecutor finishes, I stand. The papers shake in my hand as I put them on the lectern.

  I clear my throat. ‘H-hello, Mr S-S.’

  ‘Mr Smith.’ The witness sneers at me.

  ‘Oh. Th-thanks, Mr Smith. So, er, I see here you work as a f-financial controller in the city?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you v-volunteer with the church?’

  ‘Yes. I am a volunteer mentor with the youth group.’

  My heart thumps as if on a thrill ride. ‘Oh. W-w-would you say you are a-a well-respected member of the community?’

  Smith smiles. ‘Yes. I am a highly respected member of the Townsville community. I volunteer for many organisations including the Save the Little Children fund.’ As the witness details the volunteer positions he holds, the prosecutor glances at me, eyebrows raised, wondering why I haven’t reined in the witness.

  Mr Smith continues. ‘I have a masters in business from university.’

  The magistrate nods and scribbles notes on Smith’s achievements.

  ‘That’s g-good,’ I flutter my papers. ‘W-would you say you are a t-trustworthy man?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I would.’ His smile is condescending.

  ‘An honest man?’

  Mr Smith sits straighter. His eyes narrow. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re a g-good man?’ I hope I’m not taking it too far with this question. No point in over-egging the pudding, as my mentor, Drew, would say.

  ‘Yes.’ Smith wriggles, shoots a glance at the prosecutor.

  ‘And you are …’ I stare him down, letting the pause hang in the air, ‘a child molester.’

  ‘What?’ He leans forward as if hard of hearing, colour draining from his face.

  The prosecutor drops his pen and leans back in his chair.

  I hold up the criminal history, no longer pretending to shake. ‘You are a convicted child molester.’ My voice is strong and confident.

  The magistrate frowns at the witness.

  ‘Er …’ says Mr Smith.

  ‘You spent six months in prison for molesting a little boy.’

  Smith clears his throat.

  I hold the criminal history out to the clerk. He passes it to the witness.

  ‘Have a look at that document. You agree that’s your criminal history?’

  Smith holds the paper between his thumb and forefinger. He shoots me a look of pure hatred.

  ‘You have to answer, Mr Smith,’ says the magistrate.

  ‘Yes.’ His voice comes out as a hiss between clenched teeth.

  ‘That’s your criminal history? You were convicted of molesting a child four years ago?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I tender that document, Your Honour.’

  ‘Exhibit one.’ The magistrate seizes the document from the clerk. He reads it and sighs.

  ‘I put to you that everything you have told the court today has been a lie,’ I say. The witness shakes his head. ‘You are not good or decent. You’re a liar. And my client never threatened you with a knife.’

  Smith looks at the prosecutor in mute appeal. The prosecutor lowers his head. Even if he wanted to, there’s nothing he could do.

  The magistrate excuses the witness. Mr Smith glowers at me as he leaves the courtroom. I resist the urge to wink.

  ‘Well,’ the magistrate breathes. ‘Do you have any more witnesses, Mr Prosecutor?’

  It’s not just a dropped stitch. This case has a hole the size of the Grand Canyon.

  The remaining two witnesses, also ‘well-respected’ members of the community, also have convictions for molesting children. Whatever were they doing together in the park? That is a question that will go unanswered, because as a defence barrister, I only have to muddy the waters enough to show reasonable doubt.

  After I cross-examine these two in a similar way, the magistrate adjourns the hearing for a few minutes.

  I lean over to Charlie. ‘Did you know about those guys?’

  ‘Nah,’ he beams. His eyes dart back and forth. ‘We got ’em, Caffey. You kilt ’em.’

  ‘I think they got themselves. Too many lies.’

  ‘All rise.’ The clerk’s voice echoes through the courtroom as the door opens.

  We stand as the magistrate re-enters th
e courtroom, his robes billowing in the gush of air created by his speed. He drops his notes on the bench and sits.

  ‘InthismatterMrKentischargedwiththreatening …’ At speed his reasoning is difficult to follow. In any case, all we care about are his final words, which come three minutes later: ‘… andsoIfindthedefendantnotguilty.’

  The magistrate takes a breath, lowers his glasses and looks up. ‘Anythingfurther?’

  The prosecutor half stands and looks at me, his expression enquiring.

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  I’ve decided not to seek costs. After all, it’s all public money. It would just mean a transfer from one department to another. Plus, I’m pretty sure we struck it lucky.

  The magistrate rises.

  ‘Court adjourned,’ the clerk calls.

  Charlie shakes my hand. ‘Fanks, Caffey.’

  But he stands where he is, close to my left side. His t-shirt brushes my arm.

  ‘Off you go now, mate,’ says the prosecutor. ‘Or we might find something else to charge you with.’

  Charlie grimaces at the prosecutor; his eyeballs bulge.

  My mouth is dry. ‘C’mon, Charlie. It’s okay. You can go now.’

  He jerks his head. ‘I come and see you later, eh Caffey?’

  ‘Sure, Charlie.’

  He marches out the door. I let out a long breath.

  ‘There he goes, out into the wide blue yonder,’ says the prosecutor. ‘Who knows who he’ll bump into next with his knives?’

  ‘Hey. Blame your witnesses.’ I bundle up my papers. ‘Maybe someone should investigate those guys.’

  He nods. ‘Yeah. I’ll pass it on to CIB. Still, you should watch out for Charlie.’

  But I am already thinking about the rest of my day.

  I should have been thinking about Charlie.

  There’s a queue at the fast food kiosk at three that afternoon. What is it about fried food that causes an empty stomach to rumble? A cup of oil and a potato – thousands of calories, that salty, sugary, greasy feeling after you’ve finished. But it smells so good.

  Only two people ahead in the queue. I could go the salad. Crispy, lettucey goodness. One person to go. Add some seared chicken. A cold water.

  ‘Can I take your order, please?’

  ‘Big burger meal.’ I quickly hand over a ten-dollar note. ‘Diet Coke.’

  Surely there’s some nutrition in there? Bit of protein in the ‘all beef’ patties? And potato is a vegetable, assuming there’s actually potato in the fries.

  The brown paper bag is heavy. I sit at a table and stuff three fries in my mouth.

  ‘G’day, Miss!’ Adam Jackson slides in opposite. ‘Bin playin any Daytona lately?’

  ‘Haven’t had time, mate.’ I grin and grab another couple of fries. ‘Want some?’

  ‘Nah.’ Adam shudders. ‘They’re no good for you, eh Miss. But Tim’ll ’ave some, wontcha, Tim?’

  ‘Oh, yeah!’ Tim nods and beams at the fries as he sits beside Adam. He grabs a fistful.

  ‘You ’member, Tim?’ Adam asks as we watch him stuff fries into his mouth, the boy with slightly dazed eyes whose promising football career was cut short after he hit his head on a goal post.

  ‘He’s a bit slow, eh. But I’m lookin’ out for ’im.’

  ‘That’s nice of you, Adam.’ I wink and pull out my big burger.

  Adam says something else. His words are lost as the creamy mayonnaisey, beefy, tomato saucy goodness travels through my taste buds. My stomach rumbles in appreciation, perhaps only because I haven’t eaten in so long. I stifle a groan, swallow and say, ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you at the games arcade in a while,’ says Adam. ‘You know, you’ve gotta practise if you’re gonna be any good.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. I’ve been practising my law.’

  Adam nods. ‘Well, I guess that’s important, too. Lotsa kids need that. Not me, I ain’t done nuffin. Cops can’t touch me.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ I take another bite. The sensation is not lost with the second mouthful. ‘What about you? Been practising your jokes?’

  He nods. ‘This chick had her twin babies taken into foster care. Baby Amal was taken to Cairns, and Baby Juan was taken to Brisbane. One day, the chick was sent a photo of Juan. She said to her boyfriend, “I wish I had a photo of Amal.” He says, “Bugger that. They’re twins – if you’ve seen Juan, you’ve seen Amal.” ’

  I laugh, and shreds of lettuce catch in my throat. Coughing, I gulp down Diet Coke. ‘That’s good, Adam.’

  Tim nods and smiles. ‘He’s goin’ to the Eddy-borne comedy festival.’

  Adam nudges him. ‘Edingborg,’ he says. ‘It’s in, like, Scotland. Now all I have to do is find someone to watch out for Tim, practise my jokes and learn to speak funny. Like them in Edingborg.’

  ‘Adam, I think you speak funny enough already,’ I tease.

  He grins, lips rosy. ‘That’s good. I’m hopin’ to go soon, cause I think I made some boys round here a bit mad.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He shrugs. ‘I kind of told the cops some stuff. You know. Just joking. But it’ll be right. They’ll get over it.’

  I stuff the empty containers into the brown bag and stand. ‘Well, if you ever need help, come and see me.’

  19

  The next day, in the distance, someone is screaming. Hollow and empty, the sound drifts across the car park of the children’s prison. The Cleveland Youth Detention Centre is an enormous, stark one-storey brick building surrounded by sporting fields and a high razor wire fence.

  As I crunch toward the entrance, the shadow of a sea hawk circles the asphalt, wheeling across the infinite blue sky in search of prey in the brown fields and mudflats nearby. Fumes from the nearby airport combine with a faint salty drift that leaves a bitter aftertaste. I wipe sweat from my face.

  Inside, the screams are louder. A blonde woman behind the counter stares at a computer screen. As I step closer, she looks up and smiles with bright pink lips.

  ‘McLennan, for Malachi Butler and Kevie Zander.’ I hold up my drivers licence.

  She glances at it and smiles. ‘I’m Penny. Follow me.’

  Penny ushers me through the usual security maze, paperwork, property scanners and that weird, air-puffer machine that looks like the teleporter from Star Trek.

  We enter a wide beige and lime-green hallway. Our shoes click on the linoleum, in time with the constant screaming. The high-pitched girlish sound rings through my head.

  ‘What is that?’

  We pass a yellow cleaning sign, the stench of disinfectant.

  ‘Oh that …’ Penny’s eyes flicker down the hall. Instead, she says, ‘This is the music room.’ She opens a door on our left.

  Bright carpets line the floor. Scattered through the large room are guitars and amps, a drum kit. ‘They have a band,’ says Penny. ‘They’re pretty good.’

  ‘I bet they are, with all that gear.’

  The door closes with a shush and we continue down the hall.

  ‘This is the school room,’ she says at the next door.

  The room is lined with desks facing an electronic whiteboard. I glance at my watch. It’s two in the afternoon.

  ‘Where are the kids?’

  ‘School is from nine to noon.’

  ‘Only three hours?’

  Penny shrugs. ‘No point in teaching these kids. They’re past hope.’

  The screaming goes on and on, echoing along the corridors. It’s morphed into desperate high shrieks, ‘Ah ah ah ah ah ah.’ It’s like when you hear a dog barking, over and over, so loud and constant it seems like the voice box must surely rip apart.

  ‘What is that screaming?’

  Penny picks up the pace. ‘Here are some of the bedrooms,’ she s
ays brightly. ‘Pretty comfy. Three meals a day, a warm bed, television, their own rooms. This is more than most kids get.’

  The sun streams through the bars on the window, making a crisscross pattern on the floor.

  ‘They want to extend this facility,’ says Penny. ‘Make room for more beds. Going to cost a hundred million.’

  ‘Wow. Just think of what Family Services could do with a hundred million.’

  Penny turns her round, pink-lipsticked face to me, shoulders squared. I step back.

  ‘You think Family Services could do better than build a hundred-million-dollar prison for kids?’

  Somehow I’ve flicked a switch. Mrs Smiling Tour Guide is gone.

  ‘Well I know they can,’ she says. ‘They could build safe houses for neglected kids. Parenting programs. Counselling for abused kids. Special schools. Shit, even a meal program to feed the poor buggers.’ Her voice is low and bitter, her cheeks flushed. ‘They’d more than halve the bloody crime rate—’

  Penny coughs. The harsh sound harmonises with the distant screams.

  In a small cosy recreation room sits Malachi Butler. His thick overhanging eyebrows shadow deep-set eyes. A television in one corner faces a large blue mat littered with cushions and beanbags. There is a locked cupboard on the opposite wall next to a barred window. Malachi is dressed in sandshoes, shorts, and a t-shirt, taut around his rippling muscles. We’re in low armchairs. I sit up, as straight as I can, notepad on my lap. Malachi leans back comfortably, fingers tapping the side of the chair as his cold eyes watch me narrowly.

  ‘So, Malachi. We want to lodge a bail application to get you out of here.’

  He doesn’t react.

  ‘I know Aunty Arriet and Walter tried to get some information from you. Can you tell me anything more about where you could live?’

  ‘Mum.’ His fingers tap compulsively.

  ‘Okay. We’ll look into that.’ I still need to find out why his mother won’t have him at home. ‘Is there anywhere else you could live?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No uncles, aunts, grandparents, friends?’