Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  It feels like forever until the door clicks.

  Outside, I pull out my phone and call white Legal Aid. As far as I know, he hasn’t threatened anyone from there yet, so they won’t have a conflict in representing him.

  The solicitor groans. ‘I’ll be right down.’

  *

  ‘Did you hear the news about Charlie, our prison masterchef?’ Eugene from white Legal Aid asks over drinks at The Exchange Hotel some months later.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He got two years jail. Prosecutor called it a deliberate, pre-meditated attack.’

  I nod slowly. ‘Do you think he might finally get some help?’

  ‘Nah.’ He smiles. ‘They’ll probably just make him head gardener – in charge of axes.’

  INMATE DOES MORE TIME FOR ATTACKING OFFICER

  A Townsville Correctional Centre inmate who held a knife to the throat of a prison officer, threatened to kill him and kicked him in the genitals with steel-capped boots, was yesterday jailed for two years.

  Crown Prosecutor Chris Parker told the Townsville District Court that the attack by Charlie Kent, the jail’s then head cook, 27, on the officer was ‘premeditated, vicious and deliberate’ …

  30

  Finally, it’s here. The committal brief containing the evidence against the four boys charged with the cemetery murder. It lies on my desk one Monday afternoon, a thick ream of paper tied in pink ribbon, like a huge, white present.

  Now we’ll find out what we’re up against.

  ‘It arrived this mornin’, while you were in court.’ Arriet looks at me, then back at the brief. ‘C’mon. You gotta open it some time.’

  The ribbon is double-knotted, tightly laced. I pull at it, using the nib of a pen to prise it loose. If the autopsy report confirms the victim was killed with a concrete block, then Dillon’s admissions are wrong and we’ve definitely got something to go on.

  ‘Them cops must’ve bin busy,’ Arriet remarks, as I ease a loop free.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look how thick it is.’ She nods at the brief. ‘Must be a lot of evidence in there. That thing gotta weigh a couple o’ kilos at least.’

  ‘Lucky they don’t convict by the kilogram.’ I smile. ‘How do you find the accused? Too heavy.’

  The ribbon flops across the desk, leaving a pink trail.

  For a moment, my hands hover over the pages, then I dive in. Straight to the pathologist’s statement.

  Arriet sits and watches as I read.

  I used to be a Supreme Court judge’s associate. I’ve seen many pathologist reports before. I always wonder why the pathologist needs to put in so many unnecessary details about a body in an autopsy report, as if it is a mechanical object, rather than a real person who has been loved and lost. I can understand them including details such as ‘abrasions to head and chest consistent with blunt force trauma’ or ‘bruising consistent with markings on boot belonging to Defendant 1’. But details such as ‘penis unremarkable’ seem cruel and redundant. If it’s not remarkable, why mention it? It seems such a sad epitaph. ‘Mr Smith. Penis unremarkable.’

  I hand her the report and flip through the statements. There are witnesses who say they were there. They saw what happened. My nerves tingle, my muscles contract with tension as I page through the material.

  After a while, Arriet puts the report down. ‘I’m not goin’ to say I told you so, Caffey.’

  A heaviness descends upon us, as if the air has been weighted with cement. ‘The autopsy found that the victim was kicked to death. There wasn’t any trace of concrete dust in his head or on his skin.’

  Arriet shakes her head. ‘The p’lice must have made a mistake about that concrete block.’

  ‘Which means that Dillon was right when he told the police that the man was kicked to death.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Caffey, I know you believed in them kids.’

  ‘Well, I saw George Nurks at the pub and he intimated something like this.’ I tap my pen and shake my head. ‘It’s not looking good, Arriet. From what I can see, there’s some pretty compelling evidence that the four boys were present when the victim was kicked to death.’

  ‘It don’t mean all of ’em did it,’ says Arriet. ‘The little ones might still be innocent.’

  ‘What makes you so think so?’

  ‘Yeah, well. I jus’ keep thinkin’. That Malachi. He crazy.’

  Malachi Butler glares at Arriet and me with wide, cold eyes shadowed by his thick, black eyebrows.

  We are in the small cosy recreation room at the Cleveland Youth Detention Centre, with the television and the beige and blue mat. Arriet and I sit in low armchairs. Malachi Butler is on a beanbag in front of us.

  ‘Malachi, we have the police statements in the murder case.’ I shake my head. ‘I’ve got to tell you, mate, it’s not looking good. They’ve got a pretty strong case. Their doctor says the man was definitely kicked to death.’

  He continues to stare at us without any flicker of emotion. There is something uncomfortable, malevolent, about the atmosphere.

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Malachi? There’s a lot of evidence against you boys. They’ve found bruises on the chest of the deceased that match your boot print. They say you must have stamped on him at one stage.’

  ‘I didn’t do anyfink. I didn’t touch that guy. I never murdered anyone.’ He breathes heavily, his solid chest ballooning in and out.

  My heart pumps, but I control my breathing. My hand, holding the pen, is steady.

  ‘Did the police take your boots? Were you wearing a size twelve boot that night?’

  He shakes his head slowly, deliberately. Still, his eyes don’t move. Then he jumps out of the beanbag, his young body like a spring, and grabs my arm. His eyes meet mine. ‘We didn’t do it, Miss. You have to do somethin’. We’re innocent.’

  I nod slowly, with a feeling of deja vu. Goosebumps rise up my arms. But he’s not going to hurt me. I’m his only lifeline. Cut me, and he’s adrift on a vast ocean. ‘We need to get your statement about what happened.’

  Malachi tightens his grip and shakes my upper arm. ‘There was a dude. That night, in the cemetery. A big dude. He did it. He punched that dead guy. Stomped on him. Kicked him, over and over and over. We was scared. There was blood everywhere, eh Miss. Coming from that guy’s ears. We never did nuffin, we was just scared.’ His teeth are clenched, his face close. He pulls back and starts miming a violent, frenzied kicking action.

  ‘Malachi,’ I say softly. ‘There were witnesses. A couple of other kids say they were there and saw you do it and the other boys were there. The evidence is pretty strong.’

  His head jerks up. He strides away, lifts a plastic chair and slams it to the floor. Then he crumples. Falls back on the beanbag in a heap, clasps his arms around his knees and rocks, back and forth, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

  ‘Them witnesses are lyin’. They lyin’. I swear, Miss. I’m s-sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean to lie to you. I-I w-was jus’ scared, eh Miss. But I didn’t do it. I-I swear it.’

  He is shaking, the sobs loud and choking. Arriet pushes a box of tissues toward him. He doesn’t look up, his face still hidden between his clasped legs in an upright, foetal position.

  ‘Well, what happened, Malachi? We need to get a statement.’

  ‘Okay, okay, Miss. I’ll tell ya. It was them big boys who did it.’

  ‘Who? Which big boys?’

  ‘You know them boys,’ he says. ‘Bert Pierce an’ Dillon Butler. They scare me, eh Miss.’

  George Nurks’s words ricochet through my head. Cutthroat defence. Everybody loses. Everybody goes to jail.

  ‘But the witnesses say they saw you do it.’

  He shakes his head, sobs racking his body. ‘They scared, Miss. Of Dillon and Bert. Jus’ like me. They say anyfink. But Dillon and Bert, they bad, eh. Ple
ase, d-don’ let me go to jail for the rest of my life for somefing I never done.’

  There is a lump in my throat. I swallow. ‘They’re your cousins, Malachi. Your own blood. If you’re lying, they could go to jail for the rest of their lives for something you did.’

  He nods, takes a tissue from the box and wipes his face, which is burrowed down. His shoulders still shudder, but the sobs appear to be abating.

  He whispers something. I lean closer. ‘What did you say, Malachi?’

  ‘Help me.’

  Arriet and I glance at each other. Her face reflects my feelings, solemn, worried.

  I push a buzzer by the door and we wait in silence for the correctional guards to bring Kevie. Moments later, there is a squeak of sandshoes on the linoleum outside. A faint whimper.

  I stand and take a step. Kevie appears at the doorway. Behind him a tall correctional officer firmly presses his hand on Kevie’s back.

  They are framed in the doorway for a moment, shafts of light from behind. Then Kevie stumbles forward.

  The door clangs shut.

  Kevie freezes, staring at Malachi with wide, terrified eyes.

  Slowly, like a snake becoming aware of his prey, Malachi uncurls and turns narrowed eyes towards Kevie, boring into him.

  ‘Why don’t you come over here, Kevie?’ I rasp, the tension in the room constricting my throat.

  He shakes his head and backs up against the wall. ‘We never did nuffin,’ he says. ‘Malachi never did nuffin.’

  I turn to Arriet. ‘Let’s ask if they can take Malachi back to his room.’

  Arriet stands and presses the buzzer. We wait.

  Kevie’s eyes flick from me to Malachi and back.

  ‘Come a bit closer,’ I say to Kevie.

  Malachi makes a sound, deep in his throat. It’s like a growl. Kevie obediently takes a few steps forward.

  As Kevie comes closer, Arriet gasps.

  There is a large dark bruise spreading across the left side of Kevie’s face. The eye is starting to swell and close. His hands are clasped, his little body quivers in fear. He constantly glances from me to Malachi to the door.

  In Malachi, every muscle is tensed. His cold, blank eyes stare at Kevie.

  Malachi is putting on a show, but what is real? Is he trying to look bold and angry and scary, to hide the terror beneath? Or were the tears real?

  The door clicks open. Malachi is led away. As the door shuts, the tension pops like a helium balloon. Arriet and I take a deep breath.

  ‘Kevie, we just want to ask you about what happened that night,’ I say.

  ‘I want to see my nanna. Where is she?’

  ‘Kevie, you know they won’t let her in here. She’s still facing charges of attempted murder. We need you to tell us what happened that night?’

  ‘We never done nuffin. Malachi never done nuffin.’

  ‘Can you tell us what happened?’

  ‘Yes.’ But he shakes his head and shuffles backward towards the door.

  ‘Talk to me, Kevie,’ I say. ‘Let me help you.’

  He bangs on the door. It’s opened almost immediately by the same man as before. He takes Kevie’s hand. The door closes behind them.

  ‘Caffey,’ Arriet whispers. ‘What you gonna do?’

  31

  When I see the headline of the Townsville Bulletin, I hope that justice, like vengeance, is a dish best served cold.

  FAMILY FLEES AFTER FIRE-BOMB TRAGEDY

  The article says that Joanne and Trevor Jackson have fled from Townsville with the remainder of their little family. Joanne’s children have not slept since the murder. They sit awake through the night, watching the window. Waiting for the terror. Police are still appealing for ‘witnesses’ to come forward.

  Daku Glen has not yet been charged. By the time he is, justice will be frozen stiff. Hopefully, soon there’ll be an inquest, and the family will have some relief.

  The story has been relegated to a small corner of page five. I wonder how long it will take before the story is forgotten. Our collective memory of Samuel John Andrew Jackson, slowly vanishing until there’s nothing left – like an iceberg, melting in the sea.

  A familiar pair of large, brown eyes peek at me through the bars of a Watch House cell on Monday morning. Olivia Farrell’s hair is in dirty ringlets, she wears a soiled denim dress and a teardrop of green snot hangs from her nose. She is so small and thin I’m sure she could slide right out between the bars.

  As soon as she sees me, Olivia’s face lights up in a wide smile. ‘Caffey,’ she says softly, lovingly. ‘I knew you come for me.’

  It’s cold in here. There is a musty odour of locked doors and stale air and the faint, sharp reek of vomit. Eyes watch us from the darkness beyond Olivia’s cell. Someone shouts, a wordless howl that echoes through this steel and concrete cavern.

  ‘Livi, I wish you wouldn’t keep getting into trouble. I’d really love to come and see you in school one day. I can just imagine you sitting up straight, doing your work. I bet you’d be really clever.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’ go ta school.’

  Two Family Services officers sit on plastic chairs facing the cell. I turn to them and they nod. One wears an embroidered white blouse, her hair in a tight brown bun at the nape of her neck. The other has long, frizzy, blonde hair, held back from her forehead with an elastic band.

  I bend to Olivia’s level, my hands on the bars. ‘Olivia. You have to start listening to me and stop stealing. I mean it. You’re going to end up in the detention centre again and there’s no way I’ll be able to get you out.’

  Her eyes are fixed on me, large and shining.

  My fingers curl around the bars, knuckles white. ‘Olivia. This is your life. You have to take responsibility for the things you do. You have to start making good choices. Think about what you want in life. Do you want to end up in jail? If so, keep stealing and it’ll happen. What if one day you sneak into someone’s house and they decide to bash you up? Or worse?’

  Now it’s Olivia who gives a slight shrug – of course she knows exactly what worse is. She’s been through it all, on Palm Island, bashed and raped and used as a sex toy in the dark of night for beer and marijuana.

  ‘Yes, Caffey,’ she says obediently in that small, croaky voice. She coughs heavily from deep in her one working lung.

  I sigh. ‘I’m going to try to get you bail. You have a whole bunch of stealing charges, all set to happen in court on different days. The court and the prosecution will need time to sort out their paperwork. So I’ll have to ask for an adjournment to get them all heard together.’

  Olivia grins. There is no fear in her eyes, just an unshakeable belief in me.

  We crowd into the Children’s Court and the prosecutor, Family Services and I complete our submissions on bail. Not surprisingly, the prosecutor opposes my bail application. We wait for the ruling in silence as the magistrate’s pen makes scratching noises on his file.

  ‘Miss Farrell, stand up.’ The magistrate drops his pen with a small, muted thud and laces his fingers together, pressing both index fingers against his lips as he stares her down.

  Olivia glances at me and I nod, indicating she should rise. She slowly gets to her feet, standing as close to me as possible.

  ‘Ms McLennan has made a bail application on your behalf,’ the magistrate says. ‘She submits that I cannot remand you in prison as there are no adequate facilities to detain a girl your age here in Townsville. I tend to agree with that.’

  Catching my glance, Olivia grins.

  The magistrate looks over his glasses at her. ‘So I intend to send you home.’

  Making a note on the file, I begin to gather my papers.

  Then the broadside comes.

  ‘I am going to send you home to Palm Island.’

  Someone gasps.
/>   I jerk my head up and stare at the magistrate. He meets my eyes steadily.

  ‘What? What!’ Wendy Farrell says.

  The police officer leans over to say something to the prosecutor.

  The Family Services officers speak to Wendy in low, urgent voices. She lets out a deep sob. With a gentle touch, Olivia’s small, dark, scaly hand rests on my arm.

  ‘Quiet!’ The magistrate raps his gavel. ‘I order that Miss Farrell be released on bail immediately on condition that she resides on Palm Island. Sergeant, will you undertake to ensure there is transport for her to Palm Island? Perhaps the police can work with Family Services and get her over this afternoon?’

  The prosecutor glances at Family Services and then nods, slowly.

  ‘Your Honour,’ I say quickly. ‘Olivia was abused on Palm Island. She’s been removed from there. And her mother, Wendy Farrell, was stabbed. The knife broke off in her ribs. The man who did it resides on Palm.’

  The magistrate leans forward and directs his remarks to Olivia’s mother. ‘If she does not go back to Palm Island, I will remand her in custody. That’s all.’

  He grabs his papers and walks quickly out the door.

  The moment he is gone, the standing courtroom is silent.

  Fear and confusion seep into Olivia’s expression. ‘Caffey?’

  I take a breath to say something reassuring. Nothing truthful comes to mind.

  Olivia’s face crumples. She lets go of my arm and takes a step back, chest heaving. Then her face goes blank. It’s as if shades have gone up in her eyes.

  One of the Family Services officers pats Wendy on the shoulder. The officer with the tight brown bun comes over to me.

  ‘He can’t do this. Can he?’

  My teeth bite into my lower lip. ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘She’s not going to be sent back to Palm without her mother?’

  ‘Surely Wendy will go?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. There’s been too much trauma.’

  The prosecutor puts a mobile phone back on the desk and turns to Family Services. ‘There’s a plane to Palm Island at five. If you have someone available to travel with her, you should be able to get her on it.’