YOUNG THIEVES PREY ON ELDERLY
Elderly people are living in fear in pensioner flats in Garbutt where they are robbed regularly by local youngsters, the grandson of one victim said yesterday.
‘They’re prisoners in their own homes as these little germs prey on them when they feel like it,’ [the man] said.
In the latest incident yesterday [the man] said he visited his grandmother for half an hour from 9am. ‘As soon as I arrived home about 9.50 Grandma rang to tell me she had been robbed,’ he said. ‘She had been standing at the front door having a cup of coffee and chatting with her friends when a kid walked through the unlocked back door and stole her purse.’
In court, Olivia sits next to me at the bar table. We are flanked by the fillyfollyfoo of Family Services officers, and the prosecutor at the other end. Wendy squeezes soberly in behind us. ‘You sure she gone be alright, Caffey?’ she asks, with her hand on my shoulder.
I nod. ‘Absolutely.’
I check my watch. A quick bail application and we’ll be out of here in twenty minutes.
‘All rise!’
The magistrate enters the courtroom with rapid steps and tosses a file on the bench. I’m pleased to see it’s Mr Lilley, the local coordinating magistrate. With his sixties comb-over and ready smile, he’s sensible, clever, good-natured, and usually gives the most reasonable sentences. Olivia has scored a break.
Mr Lilley looks at Olivia and as he recognises her his face pales. It’s odd, but barely registers.
I open my file and scan the notes. ‘Olivia Farrell, Your Honour.’
‘I know who it is,’ he says in a strained, low voice. ‘And I cannot deal with this case.’
I look up sharply. ‘But … we just want bail, Your Honour.’
He looks down at the papers on the bench, head bowed.
‘Your Honour,’ I continue. ‘Olivia should be granted bail. My application is supported by Family Services.’
Mr Lilley stares at Olivia with narrowed eyes, his face red.
‘You – are – a – bad – child!’ With each word, he stabs his finger accusingly at Olivia.
My mouth drops open in shock.
‘You traumatised my wife! Do you know that?’ he says. ‘You snuck into our home the other day and gave her the fright of her life! My wife is too scared to sleep! Terrified to leave the house! Too scared even to leave her room. She keeps the doors locked all the time now. All the time!’
He shouts, beads of sweat glisten on his bright red face. Olivia shrinks back in her seat, looking at me, eyes wide with fright. Her thumb is in her mouth and she sucks hard. I grab her other hand.
‘Stop!’ I rise to my feet.
‘The doctor had to prescribe my wife tranquillisers! It’s the only way she can get through the day without sobbing.’
‘That’s enough. Please, Mr Lilley,’ I say. ‘There is a system.’
The magistrate glares at Olivia, who huddles at my side. His eyes flick to me, standing, shielding Olivia, and a tired expression passes over his face.
‘The system …’ his shoulders sag like an old man, ‘doesn’t work.’
He stands and shuffles out of the courtroom, back bent.
Olivia walks out of the courthouse with her mother and the Family Services officers, free on bail.
Some days later, a memo is circulated by the Magistrates Court. A white piece of paper in an ordinary envelope. Mr Lilley has retired from the Bench. He is moving away. Family reasons.
An acting coordinating magistrate will replace him until someone else is appointed.
There is no leaving party, no farewell speech.
‘Did ya see this!’ Roslyn marches in a few days later, Townsville Bulletin held high.
‘Oh, no, not again,’ I mutter. ‘No more tea and papers. I can’t take it.’
‘See this!’ She throws the paper on my desk. ‘What do you make of that? Huh?’
I shake it open. Roslyn paces across the room, three steps forward, three steps back. It’s distracting, it almost makes me want to ask her for a cup of tea, just to get her out of the room. Almost. On the front page, a headline:
JUVENILE LAW NEEDS CLARIFYING
[Labor] Member for Thuringowa Ken McElligot has asked State Government to make clear its legal position relating to the 11-year-old girl allegedly responsible for a one-person crime wave in the Upper Ross.
His questions followed media reports of a juvenile crime wave in Townsville and Thuringowa, and in particular, allegations by an Upper Ross woman that the girl had been responsible for more than 100 thefts in the past two months.
In contrast, spokesman for [Liberal Attorney-General] Mr Beanland was quoted as saying that police had the power to ‘put criminals away if they had enough evidence’ and ‘if the girl was breaking in with such frequency, she would almost always be in custody.’
Mr McElligot went on to ask what changes to legislation Mr Beanland was contemplating and when they were likely to occur.
And if on the other hand police do have the power to ‘put criminals away’, was Mr Beanland aware of any reason why the 11-year-old is not always in custody?
Always in custody?
‘Bastards!’ Roslyn slams her fist down on my desk, but the blow is cushioned by stacks of manila files.
‘This must be a misprint,’ I say. ‘Surely it’s meant to read “any reason why the 11-year-old is not already in custody”. Not always in custody.’
Roslyn shakes her head, face red, eyes glittering with rage. ‘Nah. Wally checked. They said “always in custody”. I wonder how they’d feel if Olivia was related to them? But I s’pose they unlikely to be related to an abused, neglected, Abo kid with one lung and foetal alky syndrome, whose father’s in the slammer for stabbin’ ’er muvver.’
She takes a long, shuddering breath. ‘This is our gov’ment. They make the laws. They speaks for the people. S’posed to protect the kids and all they want is to put ’em in jail. Why don’t they do something to help her?’
I nod slowly, heartsick.
Why don’t they do something to help all of them? All the abused, neglected kids. They know who they are. They’re the kids who don’t have enough to eat, who don’t go to school, who have nowhere safe to sleep. Whose older siblings are ‘in the system’. They’re the forgotten kids. The ones who grow into monsters.
Surely there’s something we can do for Olivia.
28
Stockland shopping centre is shiny and bright. Canned pop music plays and huge red signs read ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’.
I’m walking from the supermarket when I see him. Daku Glen. Arsonist. Murderer.
The police have launched an appeal for witnesses to the Jackson fire. They want information on the ‘person’ or ‘persons unknown’ who started the fire.
Here he is. ‘Person.’ Daku Glen. Walking free.
What must Joanne Jackson be feeling, knowing he’s still out here?
Daku Glen strolls through the centre with two friends, smiling and laughing. He wears boardshorts with a rip in the hem, an old grey t-shirt and dirty scuffed trainers with no socks. He is skinny, legs like twigs, and dirty as if he hasn’t bathed in a week.
The boys nudge each other as they pass a store, and I wonder if they are planning a theft. But it’s only a bakery, where they sniff the air, redolent with fresh baking. Daku’s mouth is wide open, he’s almost drooling as he stares at the hot pies and sausage rolls in the warmer. Then he abruptly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and slouches away. The other two follow.
A pretty girl walks past them, skinny with blonde hair and tight jeans. Daku does a full circle, smirk on his face and as he turns my rage wells so deep that I believe I could explode.
The fury I feel is hot and fierce and aimed directly at him. But there is also hidden shame, and anger at myself,
which has been simmering under the surface. Every single day, I remember what I said to Joanne – ‘They are only boys …’
Bang! Bang! Bang! I bolt upright in bed the next morning, heart banging inside my chest.
Someone is pounding on the door. I squint at the digital clock. Six a.m.
I pad softly to the spyhole. A bright blue eye peers back.
Michael is on the threshold holding a bouquet of red roses and a small box with curling silver ribbon. He grins at me wearing my shortie nightie, yawning and rubbing tousled hair, and kisses me.
‘Good morning!’ He bounces into the room and places the flowers on the kitchen table beside a stack of paperwork.
‘Thanks. What’s the occasion?’
He laughs. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day!’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ I smile. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day.’
Michael runs his hand around my waist and gives me the small, silver-ribboned box. Taking a seat at the far side of the table, he crosses his legs and watches me closely.
‘Open it.’
I slide off the ribbon; it collapses with a bounce on the green carpet. The paper is thick, silver and comes off with a satisfying rrrrriiiiiipppppp.
The box is felted black. And now that the paper is off, I see it is very small. Too small really. Only big enough for one thing.
My mouth goes dry; my heart thuds. I glance up at Michael. He nods. ‘Open it,’ he says again, leaning forward and watching with interest.
I raise my eyebrows, grit my teeth, and slowly open the box.
Inside, encased in soft black felt, is a ring. A gold ring with five small, sparkling diamonds.
‘I’m moving to Brisbane. I want you to come with me,’ he says.
All the breath leaves my body. I close my eyes.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling, but there’s a hollow place in my stomach.
Aunty Arriet, Joice, Roslyn and Jasmine crowd into my office.
‘Wow. Real diamonds!’ Joice admires my new ring on her finger. The gold glows against her smooth, dark skin.
‘Yeah.’ I smile. ‘And a dozen red roses.’
‘They’re quite small diamonds,’ says Jasmine, back from holiday, examining the ring. ‘Tiny, really.’
‘You lucky girl,’ says Aunty Arriet. ‘You know what my ’usband gave me this mornin’ for Valentine’s Day?’
‘What did your husband give you?’ Jasmine strokes her long, dark hair, gold bracelets clink on her wrist.
‘A vacuum cleaner,’ says Aunty Arriet. There is a moment of silence, then we burst into laughter.
‘I’m serious.’ Arriet grins. ‘Said to ’im, thanks a lot, more work for me!’
‘I’m surprised he give you anything.’ Roslyn perches on the edge of my desk, coffee cup in hand. ‘If my ’usband ever remembered Valentine’s Day, it’d be cause he fell over it in the street.’
We laugh. Joice turns my ring to catch the light just as Wally Greengrass pops his head in the door. ‘What’s going on in here? Sounds like a load of cackling witches.’
‘Cathy got engaged,’ says Joice, holding up her finger to show off my ring.
‘No, I didn’t,’ I say quickly.
‘Oh. Wow.’ Wally comes in and looks at the ring. ‘Congratulations.’
‘No, no, no.’ I take a breath. ‘I didn’t get engaged. It’s just a friendship ring.’
‘Hmm.’ Roslyn narrows her eyes in disbelief.
‘I’m serious. It’s a friendship ring.’
‘Maybe it’s a promise ring,’ says Jasmine, scrutinising it with an experienced eye.
‘It’s because he’s leaving,’ I say in a soft voice. Barely more than a mumble.
‘Whoa.’ Wally holds up his hands and backs out the door. ‘This isn’t my area.’
Roslyn jumps off the table. ‘I know! I bet he’s put a message in the paper today with all the Valentine’s Day notices. “I love you, Cathy. I promise to—’’’
‘—fart in your bed every morning,’ laughs Joice.
‘No! He wouldn’t,’ I protest, but Roslyn is gone.
Moments later, there are hurried steps, a crinkling of paper, and Roslyn enters with the Townsville Bulletin.
She’s about to page through it, but stops at the front. Roslyn’s face changes as she reads. Then, she looks up, glancing first at Aunty Arriet, then at me, a sick look on her face. ‘Bastards,’ she says in a low voice.
‘What is it, Roslyn?’ Arriet asks.
STATE LEAVES FAMILY TO POST BOY’S ASHES
Townsville mother Joanne Jackson, whose son Samuel died from an alleged fire bombing on her Kirwan home, had to have his ashes mailed back from Brisbane in an Australia Post pack because she could not get any government compensation to fly the body home.
Mrs Jackson and her husband were faced with a $500 airfare for their son’s body after he died three weeks ago from horrific burns in the Royal Brisbane Hospital.
‘We ended up getting a bargain funeral and it was really degrading,’ she said.
The family were … unable even to afford to fly down their four other children for the funeral.
*
Magnetic Island. My solace and refuge. Five miles on the ferry with my mobile off, and Townsville recedes into the distance. Mum’s roast dinner, an afternoon on the couch with a dog-eared Jane Austen. The cool, salty breeze. Swimming in the ocean and coffee with friends.
By Sunday afternoon, I’m feeling good. With my portable music player, crammed with favourite songs, I head into the bush.
The Nelly Bay to Arcadia Bay track is my favourite bushwalk. Winding over the hills, it takes in spectacular views of the national park, of deserted beaches and across the ocean to distant islands in the Palm group. The air is sweet with wattle.
The Blues Brothers are playing ‘Sweet Home Chicago’. I’m pumping along and thinking of nothing but the music and the view as I make my way over the ridge – when all at once I have a brain explosion.
Out of nowhere, a well of intense rage fills my head, my brain becomes a cauldron of swirling, boiling anger, frustration and sadness. I stop short and grip my head in my hands.
Why don’t people do something? Why do they just want to lock these kids up?
Perhaps they don’t know about the abuse and neglect suffered by children here? Perhaps they don’t want to know? And maybe they’re right. After all, maybe I don’t want to understand the suffering and neglect that led thirteen-year-old Daku Glen to burn Sam Jackson to death in his bed. Perhaps I want to think of Daku as an evil bastard who deserves to suffer and die. Perhaps I want to light a match and hold it to his skin, burning him slowly, bit by bit, until eighty-five per cent of his body has third-degree burns and he howls in agony, and he knows he’s going to die and that’s the worst pain of all.
And suddenly, I realise – it’s not true.
Dying, to a child like Daku, could be a blessed relief. No more suffering. No more abuse. No more stealing for food, sleeping in the dirt, getting kicked about.
No more hopelessness.
And I know, with a burning need in my heart, that I’d give anything to go back in time, before the fire, before I told Joanne Jackson ‘they’re just boys’, back to when Daku was born. I would make sure he was safe and cared for and taught right from wrong – and I’m certain, that if I could only do that, Sam Jackson would be alive.
And Adam would not be crippled for life, enduring countless painful operations, with scar tissue covering fifty per cent of his body.
Because then – growing up in a loving, stable environment, Daku would have been a boy. Nothing else – ‘just a boy’. Instead, he’s a monster.
But what the hell do I know? I’m just the lawyer.
So … I’ll fight, and keep fighting.
29
Sergeant Wilson stands behind
the Watch House desk. He points to a man inside the cell.
Charlie Kent. Last seen holding a knife in my face. His expression lights up. ‘Caffey!’
I back away, glad of the thick bars between us. ‘What do you want, Charlie?’
‘You be my lawyer, eh Caffey?’
I shake my head, stunned.
‘Please, Caffey.’ His eyes now have only a faded yellowish tinge.
Sergeant Wilson clears his throat and leans forward. ‘Just so you know, if his case isn’t heard in the next half-hour, he’ll miss the prison van and he’ll have to spend the weekend in here. Far less comfortable than the prison and, well, we don’t want him. Security risk.’
I turn to Sergeant Wilson. ‘What’s he here for?’
‘Knife offences.’
‘No. There must be some mistake. All his charges were dealt with in the District Court. He received a three-year sentence.’
‘There’s no mistake.’ Wilson walks into a back room and closes the door.
‘What are you in for, Charlie?’
He says nothing. Just looks at me.
‘What are you in for?’
‘Knives,’ he whispers. ‘They say I attacked a prison guard wif a knife. But I was off me head.’
‘How’d you get a knife, Charlie?’
‘They made me head cook out at the jail.’
My notepad drops. ‘What? Head cook? Did you see a psychiatrist? Get some new medication?’
He shakes his head. ‘Please, Caffey, I bin waitin’ for you all day.’
I stand back, biting my knuckles in disbelief. Is this a joke? Can’t be.
‘Charlie, I know you have a disease. I understand, I do know. And I’m sorry for you. But I can’t do your case. You need another lawyer.’
‘You gotta help me, Caffey.’
I shake my head. ‘Charlie, I think you’d be far better off with a lawyer you haven’t tried to kill.’
I walk to the large, barred gate at the entrance, calling for Sergeant Wilson to press the buzzer and let me out. Charlie keeps asking me to come back but I don’t turn around.
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