Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  ‘Aunty Arriet. What are you doing?’ I bend under the desk. She’s facing me on all fours, back-end poking out the other side.

  Arriet grunts, moans. ‘Think I’m stuck. Give me a push!’

  I hurry around the other side, take her arm and help her out.

  ‘There!’ She places the muesli bar triumphantly on my desk. ‘Don’t say I never do nothin’ for ya.’

  ‘Aunty Arriet, you’re a champion! But next time let me do the crawling under the desk?’

  ‘Good place for a lawyer.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Forgot I was gettin’ old.’

  ‘Not old, Aunty A, just, well …’

  ‘What?’ she narrows her eyes.

  ‘Wiser.’ I grin. ‘C’mon. We better get our skates on if we’re gonna get to kids court.’

  The hallway outside Children’s Court is packed with people standing about like cows in a slaughter yard, white and black together. Big eyes dart back and forth, watching for every movement. Tense, ready to startle. Waiting for something frightening to happen.

  As usual, Aunty Arriet gathers all the children with parents in one waiting room, and the children without parents in another. Only one parent is here today.

  The kids sit quietly, waiting. The usual crowd. Aunty Arriet hands me a sheaf of yellow A4 pages with her notes and copies of bench charge sheets.

  As I make a move to head into the room, she puts a hand on my arm. ‘That’s Solomon Butler, Malachi’s brother in there. With his mum, Tanya.’ She purses her lips, a line appearing on her forehead. ‘He a bad boy, that one.’

  ‘Why? What did he do?’

  She shakes her head gravely.

  ‘Bloody hell, as long as Tanya’s not involved,’ I say, running my hand through my hair. ‘This is getting so complicated. Those boys are never going to get bail on that murder charge.’

  ‘Caffey,’ she says in a low voice, warning me.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Just … read the QP9 before you go in. It’s bad.’

  Arriet has been in the legal service for a long time, and I’ve never seen her rattled.

  After reading the QP9, I go for a drink of water. My mouth is dry, my head hurts. This is my job, I tell myself. It’s my duty to the client to do the best I can, no matter how sick their crime makes me feel.

  Back at the entrance to the witness room, Arriet comes to stand beside me. Tanya sits crushed into a cheap, steel-framed chair in her bright muu-muu. Once again she dabs her eyes with a wet, balled-up tissue. Beside her, Solomon Butler slouches in his chair, scowl on his fifteen-year-old face. His forehead is low and overhanging like his older brother, Malachi’s, the sixteen-year-old boy currently charged with the cemetery murder.

  Tanya’s children have such hopeful Bible names. Malachi, Solomon and Jonah.

  She looks up and gives me a sweet smile through her tears.

  When I sit next to Tanya she takes my hand and presses it, looks at me through wet eyes. There’s desperation in her expression.

  ‘Thank you, Cathy. Thank you so much for helping Solomon.’

  ‘It’s my job, Tanya. And I’ll do my best.’ But she needs some serious help. Tanya’s husband, the white father of the three boys, is in jail. His name is whispered by the field officers in connection with ‘unspeakable’ domestic violence.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Cathy. I didn’t know what else to do.’ Tanya’s eyes stream. Her chin wobbles and clear fluid runs from her nose as she brings up the well-used tissue.

  There is a snarl from Solomon. He jumps to his feet and paces the room, full of suppressed energy. He scowls at his mother, his top lip curled, eyes burning rage.

  Tanya looks up at Solomon. ‘Sol, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, love.’

  His face creases into a frown. He comes to stand within one foot of her and leans in, right up to her face. His lips purse as he hisses, slowly and clearly: ‘Stupid. Fat. Fucking. Ugly. Bitch.’

  Tanya cringes and screams as if each word were a punch.

  She sobs. ‘I’m sorry, Sol. I’m so sorry.’ Her hand, still grasping mine, is shaking.

  He backs up and narrows his eyes as though she’s nothing but a dog turd he’s stepped in on the street.

  Slowly I stand and step between Solomon and his mother, my clipboard to my breast. He’s taller than me by at least a foot. Some of his rage fades, he manages to compose himself. But deep in his eyes, that fire still burns.

  ‘Why don’t we talk in the next room?’ My voice sounds calm. ‘That might be best in this situation.’

  His fists are still clenching and unclenching.

  ‘C’mon, I don’t have all day,’ I say. ‘You first.’

  He turns. At the door, I smile at Tanya, sitting straight-backed in her chair.

  She manages a slight lessening of her frown and dabs her eyes.

  I dearly want to encourage her, tell her she’s doing the right thing. But I can’t. That would be unethical.

  Because I’m counsel for the defence. And Tanya is the victim of Solomon’s crime.

  According to the QP9, two days ago Tanya woke up feeling sick. Just a cold, or flu. Somehow, she dragged herself out of bed, dressed, cooked breakfast for her boys, took Jonah to school, and attended court with Solomon for another offence. Then a meeting at Jonah’s school. Coming home, she made dinner. Her head was burning, her nose stuffed up, her body aching and tired. She went to lie down.

  The boys sat to eat in front of the television.

  ‘Sol, love,’ Tanya called from her bedroom. ‘When you’re finished dinner, could you wash the dishes, please?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sol?’

  ‘I’m not eating this shit.’

  There was a crash. Something shattered. Tanya sat up.

  ‘Sol?’

  Crash. Another plate hit the wall.

  ‘Sol. Stop it!’

  ‘Fuck you, you fucking cunt.’

  Jonah laughed. Her little one. Her eight-year-old. Tanya clasped her hands over her ears and sank down.

  Then came the sound of splintering furniture. Cheap things mostly, except for her grandmother’s side table. And her mother’s mirror. Solomon slammed a lamp into it. Tanya staggered to the door and peered out, just in time to see Jonah retreat to his room.

  Crash, the television slammed into her door. Tanya managed to get it shut, and cowered in her room as the sounds continued for over half an hour. Periodically, she heard abuse, swearing.

  ‘Mother-fucker.’ Smash.

  After it was all over, and Solomon had disappeared, it wasn’t the fright or the broken possessions or ripped-up photos that upset Tanya the most.

  It was the faeces, smeared all over the inside of her house.

  ‘Did you do it?’ I ask, as soon as Solomon, Arriet and I are alone.

  He shrugs. ‘Yeah.’

  I don’t sense any remorse, or sorrow for what he’s done.

  ‘Did you help her clean it up?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Nup.’

  I imagine Tanya on her hands and knees, a scrubbing bucket and brush – and my face scrunches with disgust.

  ‘Come with me,’ I tell Sol. He digs his hands into his pockets and rounds his back like an American beat boy, but he follows. I take four steps and stand at the doorway to the next witness room, where we put the kids without accompanying parents.

  ‘Hi, guys,’ I say, then lean over and whisper to Solomon. ‘Take a good look.’

  He grins at the boys.

  ‘Come on.’ In the next empty alcove I sit down, motioning to Solomon to sit. Arriet observes from the doorway.

  ‘What did you see about those boys in that room that’s different from you? Hey!’

  He shrugs. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Not one of them ha
s a parent here.’

  He glowers at a distant spot on the wall, sitting hunched up, his arms tightly crossed over his chest.

  ‘Anything could happen to those kids here, you know. They could go to jail. Be taken to Brisbane. Put in a mental home.’

  He shrugs again. It sets my teeth.

  ‘You have a mother who loves you. Every week she comes and cries over you.’

  He abruptly changes posture, stiffly like a broken robot. Jerking his head to the side, bringing up an ankle to rest on his knee, slapping his arms on his thighs.

  ‘Every week she comes here and begs the magistrate to give you another chance and what do you do? Break all her special things. Shit on her floor!’

  His head is bowed. He lets out a deep breath.

  ‘Look at me!’

  He looks up. His eyes are veiled. ‘She’s never done nothin’ for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our dad, he used to bash us. And it’s her fault.’

  I sigh. ‘Well, he’s in jail now. And your mum has a right to be safe, too.’

  ‘It’s her fault. She’s a fat bitch.’

  Arriet and I step away. There’s an acrid taste in my mouth. ‘Oh, my God, Arriet. Is his brother Malachi as bad as this?’

  ‘Worse.’ Arriet’s eyes are sad as they flick to the room where Tanya sits. ‘But she tryin’ so hard to protect Jonah from going the same way.’

  Finally, I fully understand why she can’t have Malachi in the house.

  Outside court, a Family Services officer rushes past us, in her cotton blouse and ballet flats, arms loaded with files. I take hold of her elbow.

  She turns suddenly. ‘I’ve got to get into court.’

  ‘I know. I just need a minute. Solomon Butler. Any chance of organising some family counselling?’

  She glares at me. ‘You know, we have literally hundreds of at-risk children in this area. Why do you always think your kids should take priority?’

  ‘Because they need help.’

  ‘Don’t you think your guy is a little past help?’

  Solomon’s eyes – they had a spark of emotion in them, some life.

  ‘No! How do I organise some counselling for the family?’

  She shrugs, and surely I’m going to clout the next person who shrugs. I narrow my eyes, stand there, and she sighs.

  ‘You’ll have to get the magistrate to make an order. A condition of probation. Then we’ll have to comply. It’s the only way. We just haven’t got the funds at the moment.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I breathe, letting her go.

  In court, the prosecutor reads out the facts. I’m glad it’s him and not me. But I have to listen, make sure he’s reading out the correct facts and not embellishing.

  Then I lean forward: ‘Your Honour. Solomon has had a difficult childhood. His father subjected him to violent physical abuse from a young age. He also had to watch his mother get beaten. This has left psychological scars on him.’ Tanya weeps uncontrollably. ‘He is still young, aged fifteen, and although his mother, as an act of desperation, has brought him here today, he still has her support. I would suggest that a penalty of probation, with the additional condition of family counselling, is appropriate in all the circumstances.’

  ‘Humph.’ The magistrate shrugs and turns to the Family Services officer, raising his eyebrows with enquiry.

  She looks down at her paper. ‘At present there is a shortage of funding, so the reality is that unless Your Honour orders counselling as part of a probation order, there is nothing we can offer this family by way of support.’

  ‘Decision made.’ The magistrate nods. ‘Please stand up, Mr Butler.’

  Solomon stands.

  ‘Mr Butler. I am shocked and disgusted at your behaviour towards your mother. I understand you have had a difficult childhood, but you are coming to an end of your excuses. There comes a time when you need to accept responsibility for your actions. Do we understand each other?’

  Solomon glances at me.

  I lean over and whisper: ‘He means, you’re going to jail if you keep doing bad stuff!’

  ‘Do we understand each other?’ the magistrate repeats.

  ‘Yes.’ Solomon nods uncertainly.

  ‘Then I sentence you to twelve-months probation with a special condition of family counselling. Court adjourned.’

  After the magistrate leaves, Solomon is the first one out. He moves so fast, he’s a whirl of blue jeans.

  As the door closes, I turn to Tanya and smile. ‘You did the right thing.’

  Tanya presses my hand. ‘Thank you, Cathy. I did it for my little one, my Jonah. He’s still got a chance. I want ’im to know they can’t do this to me.’ She brightens, a small smile appears.

  But I’m uncomfortable with her thanks. We haven’t really managed to accomplish anything for her today. She heads for the door. ‘I’ll bring Jonah next time. Maybe you can talk to him?’

  And I will try. I’ll talk to him every week until I’m out of words. And Tanya will continue to thank me over the years. To beg me for help with her youngest son. But nothing I say or do will ever help little Jonah.

  Because he idolises his brothers. And because no family counselling or any other early intervention ever materialises, he will follow in their footsteps.

  All the way to prison.

  22

  Jasmine smiles at me in the office corridor the next day.

  ‘Heard the news?’ she asks in her strong South African accent.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Emma’s left. Gone back to Cairns.’

  ‘Oh. Wow. That was sudden. She’s only been here a few weeks.’

  ‘She wasn’t happy,’ says Jasmine. ‘A bit much for her, I think.’

  ‘Oh, dear. So it’s only you, me and Bruce left.’

  Jasmine and I frown.

  ‘She was supposed to do Duty Court today,’ I say. ‘Who’s doing it now?’

  Jasmine raises her eyebrows.

  ‘Oh, no.’ I groan. ‘No. I’ve got a ton of paperwork.’

  ‘Don’t look at me.’ She smiles as she heads down the hallway. ‘I’ve got two trials and a committal.’

  *

  Joice, our receptionist, hurries into my office and jerks her head back out the hallway. Satisfied, she closes the door with a sharp snap and whisks round to face me.

  ‘Charlie’s out front,’ she hisses. ‘Bruce said you’d see him.’

  ‘Oh, crap!’

  With an apologetic shrug, she opens the door and backs out, leaving it ajar. Her footsteps thud on the carpet as she scurries away from reception, deep into the heart of the office.

  A tremor goes through me. I stare at nothing, trying to think. Maybe I’ll just see him in reception. It’s an open place, crammed with people.

  Dropping the files on my desk, I reach for the door – it crashes open, narrowly missing my hand. Small flutters of cream paint drift to the floor. Charlie’s hulking figure fills the frame. Abruptly, he lurches forward, seeming to explode into the room. His eyes dart about, the floor, the wall, the chairs. Then he focuses on me, pressed back against my desk, and his yellow eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets.

  I clear my throat. ‘Hi, Charlie. I thought we’d be more comfortable in—’

  ‘Caffey,’ he whispers hoarsely, stepping forward and leaning over me. His mouth emits a rush of foul, beery breath. ‘I need you to help me. You’re the only one that can help.’

  He reaches back and slams the door shut.

  My heart pumps, my stomach is knotted with fear as he raises his right fist, crumpled white paper visible between his knuckles. He punches the top of the desk. All the time his eyes are glowing. I curse the stupid configuration of this tiny office. Again, Charlie stands between me and the only exit.

  My hands shake, clam
my. What can I do?

  The door opens a crack. ‘Cathy, are you alright?’ Jasmine’s voice. Her fingers curl around the door.

  With the suddenness of a viper strike, Charlie punches the door. There is a scream from Jasmine. As the door bangs, one, long, bright pink fingernail drops to the floor. With a click, Charlie pushes the button in the middle of the door knob. Locked.

  I scurry behind my desk.

  He takes two large paces towards me.

  ‘Caffey, help me!’ Charlie shouts. He pulls a huge, serrated fishing knife from his pocket, stained red on the blade, and waves it over the desk.

  A sudden strange calm descends on me. Everything is in high definition, the colours brighter, sounds more distinct. It feels like the time I was hiking at night and fell down a cliff, and hung suspended over the sea. Every atom of my being is focused on survival.

  ‘Caffey!’ Charlie raises the serrated fishing knife high in the air, then turns and repeatedly punches the flimsy wall. ‘Caffey!’

  ‘Charlie!’ I say in my mother’s best school-teacher voice as I sit behind my desk and slide over a pen and notepad. ‘Stop that at once.’

  He stills.

  ‘Put that knife down right this minute and sit down!’

  I steeple my fingers, as if this were an ordinary consultation. ‘I mean it, Charlie. Sit down. Now. Let me help you.’

  There are footsteps outside in the hall. Someone rattles the knob. Then come several bangs on the door.

  Charlie cocks his head slightly, the hand holding the knife clenches, knuckles pale.

  My heart thunders.

  Charlie hesitates, turns his gaze to mine, and I hold still, waiting.

  Finally, he sinks into the visitors chair, knife clutched in his hand.

  ‘That’s better.’ I shift in my seat. ‘Now, Charlie. How can I help?’

  ‘Here, Caffey—’ he opens his fist and pushes the crumpled paper towards me. ‘You gotta help me. They wanna put me in jail.’

  The wild, yellow eyes fill with tears. His face becomes slack and vulnerable and I feel a stab of pity as I glance at the door.

  I pick up the paper, which is a bench charge sheet. ‘Oh, dear, Charlie,’ I say as I read the charges.

  There is banging at the door.