‘Your Honour, I mention the matter of Olivia Lily Farrell.’ The barrister stands tall.
This courtroom is at least four times the size of the Magistrates Court. Here, the judge sits on a dais. The bar table is shiny and long, the prosecutor, also in black robes, is at the other end to our right. There is even room for an audience, if one were allowed in the Children’s Court of Queensland.
Behind us, Olivia sits with her mother in front of the long wooden dock. The small child is hunched over, like a defeated old woman, head bowed, eyes occasionally darting up through her overhanging fringe. I smile in reassurance, catching her eye. She looks away, her eyes blank, the spark gone.
The judge speaks to the prosecutor: ‘Are you ready to proceed?’
The prosecutor nods, so low it’s almost a bow. ‘I am, Your Honour.’
The case proceeds quickly, similar to matters in the Magistrates Court. Olivia enters a plea of guilty, the prosecutor outlines the facts in the numerous stealing charges, and our defence counsel asks for leniency. But I can’t concentrate, Olivia’s little body remains hopeless, slumped.
She is sentenced to twelve months probation on all charges.
Wendy leads her daughter from the courtroom, holding her arm. Olivia follows, docile, head bowed, curls hiding her face.
‘Olivia!’ I gather my papers quickly and follow them out.
Wendy stops. Olivia stands beside her, unmoving, head still bowed.
I bend down. ‘Olivia, come and see me if you need anything, won’t you?’
She doesn’t look up. Her mother takes an arm again and leads Olivia to the door.
And as I watch them shuffle away, I remember the comment in the newspaper by a victim’s grandson, who described her as a ‘little germ’. The coordinating magistrate yelled at her, then resigned. Members of State Parliament from both sides, talking about why eleven-year-old Olivia is not ‘always in custody’. And I wonder what would they think if they knew what really happened here? What has the justice system done? Forced her back to Palm Island, to be raped and abused. One broken little spirit equals sixty dollars, stolen from grandma’s wallet.
35
The air is cool in the maximum security legal conference room. The adult prison is reduced to echoes, the dull, metallic clang of distant doors opening and closing. And the smell. That sickening odour that epitomises the true nature of a prison. Sweat, antiseptic, fear, and fings.
Albert Pierce comes in first. He sits opposite and smiles broadly. ‘Hi, Miss. How’s it hangin’?’
‘Oh, yeah, it’s hangin’, it’s hangin’,’ I tell him.
He breaks into girlish giggles.
‘How’s it hangin’ with you?’ I ask.
He bends over, doubled up at the silly, lewd joke.
I sigh. ‘Did you see the prison psychiatrist?’
He nods. ‘Yeah. She’s real nice. She gonna send you a letter.’
‘What did she say?’
Albert frowns in confusion.
‘Did she say whether she’s going to find you competent to stand trial?’
He smiles. ‘Copeytant. Yup. She said I’m copeytant. Good, hey?’
No. But I nod. ‘Bert, when you were at the police station, I asked you about a murder. You remember? You were charged with murder?’
He nods. ‘I seen murders before, on telly. Shoot ’em up. Pow, pow.’
‘This is the one at the cemetery, near Happy Valley. Remember? When you were with Dillon and Kevie and Malachi?’
‘You mean when that man was gettin’ bashed up? But Malachi didn’t ’ave no gun.’
Time stops.
I clear my throat. ‘Bert, I don’t – you know you don’t need a gun to murder someone?’
‘Nah, Miss.’ He shakes his head. ‘On telly they always ’ave a gun.’
‘I see. Can you tell me any more about that night the man got bashed?’
He frowns and rocks back and forth in his chair.
‘Please, Bert. It’s important.’
Silence. I wait, head down. The table shakes with his movement. Clang, a distant door slams.
At last, Bert speaks, rocking faster and faster. ‘Malachi was kickin’ the guy, eh. Real hard. He was gettin’ hurt, that guy. I wanted him to stop. I was thinkin’ in my head …’ Bert hits the side of his head with the flat of his hand. ‘I was thinkin’, stop, stop. But ’e never stopped. Then Malachi was yellin’, “C’mon, c’mon, you kick ’im too or I’m goin’ ta bash ya.” He would’ve too, Malachi, he’s mean, eh. So I kicked the man, so did Dillon. I didn’t wanna, I jus’ din wanna get bashed, eh. Malachi, he wild.’
‘But why didn’t Malachi just take the man’s car?’ I ask. ‘Why did he bash him?’
Bert shrugs. ‘Malachi, he just mean sometimes, eh.’
I bow my head, trying to digest all this.
‘Eh Miss,’ Bert says, in a startled tone. ‘That guy. He ain’t dead?’
I sigh. ‘Yes, Bert. I’m afraid he is.’
He looks around the room, eyes widening. ‘Miss, you gotta help me.’
I shake my head. ‘I can’t, Bert. I don’t think I can be your lawyer anymore. I have a conflict. Malachi, well, he’s told me something different. But don’t worry, I will find you someone else. Another lawyer. A good one, I promise.’
‘Another lawyer? Not you, eh Miss?’
‘Not me, Bert. You won’t see me again. But I will find you someone else.’
He stares at me, open-mouthed. Comprehension dawns slowly and his eyes darken as despair seeps in. My heart twists savagely and I want to tell him it will all be alright but I can’t because it won’t, and I’m not going to lie to him.
He stands suddenly. His plastic chair slams to the ground. As it bounces on the hard floor, I tense, not sure what he’ll do next – yell, grab or punch.
He heaves a resigned sigh. ‘Okay, Miss,’ he says as if he’s been through this before, as if he’s been left, abandoned, disappointed many times, and this is one thing he understands more clearly than all else.
Bert bangs on the door and waits, inert, his body sagging against the wall.
After Albert is gone, I pick up the chair and pace the room, three steps up and back, glancing out the open door. An alarm sounds, a loud, low buzzer. A door clicks. Footsteps echo, gentle regular taps from soft shoes. Louder steps from heavy boots. The door widens. Dillon steps inside and stands there, framed by the huge, blue-clad body of the correctional officer.
‘You can’t help us, Miss,’ says Dillon. ‘No one can help us.’
The door clangs. There is a metallic scrape as a key is turned.
‘Let’s take it one step at a time, Dillon,’ I say in a calm voice. ‘Sit down, c’mon, and talk to me, mate.’
His eyes meet mine for a moment, he sighs and walks around the table.
I straighten my notebook and raise my pen. Empty blue lines run across the page. ‘Why did you tell the police that Malachi kicked the man to death?’
He looks up at me, confusion in his eyes. He twists his fingers.
‘Why did you tell the police that?’
His mouth forms words, but they don’t come out.
‘You have no need to be afraid of Malachi. He can’t get you here. He’s at the children’s prison.’
He swallows heavily. ‘Not forever, eh Miss.’
‘Is that why you’ve been telling me you don’t know what happened? Because Malachi has threatened to hurt you if you tell the truth?’
He glances at the door. Pools of moisture appear in the corners of his eyes.
‘Dillon. I need you to say what happened that night. And I have to be honest with you, it might not help. At the moment, it looks like you’ll be convicted of murder anyway. And I’ll probably have to find you a new lawyer.’
‘He died.’ Dillon starts
jerking his head back and forth. ‘But Malachi didn’t do nothin’, eh Miss. I was confused. They got me all confused.’
‘Dillon? You’re looking at a lifetime in jail. So is little Kevie, so is Bert. Malachi can’t hurt you in here, not right now. So if you have anything to say about what happened, now is the time.’
Dillon breathes heavily. ‘Malachi, ’e my cousin, eh Miss.’
I lean forward over the table until our eyes meet, and say quietly, ‘A man is dead, Dillon. A man you knew. The first time we met, you said you felt sorry for him. Are you, really?’
I wait, resisting the urge to tap the end of my pencil on the page. Dillon’s face is working. It feels as though we are at the centre of the earth, and all around us, the world turns.
Dillon raises his head to look at me. Tears fall fast on his face. As he begins to speak, to tell me the story, I can see it, I can feel every moment of it.
The red Ford Fairmont crunches over rough ground in Happy Valley toward the cemetery. In the driver’s seat, the old, white drunk takes another swig on his beer.
Grey dust billows in their wake. There is a loud crack as something breaks.
‘Holy shit.’ Kevie laughs. ‘You just knocked over a gravestone.’
‘Bullshit!’ The man rubs his eyes and grins. He downs the rest of the can as he brings the car to a halt.
The headlights shine on several dark shapes huddled amongst the stones. Red eyes glint. Blankets lie in a pile beside an empty flagon. Broken glass. Green weeds struggling in the dry dirt. A ghostly gum, luminous grey, towers overhead, like a huge skeleton reaching its bony fingers. One man coughs and raises his fist in an angry gesture.
The white man hawks up a gollie and spits it out the window near the dark campers, then glances at Malachi in the passanger seat. Dillon watches as Malachi turns to the man, a grin frozen on his face. His eyes are cold and hard, empty somehow. They narrow and take on a malevolent gleam. The white man jolts back, as if zapped by electricity.
‘Shit man, you one scary kid.’ The white man upends the can of beer into his mouth.
‘Eh, ’ow much you think ’e’s got?’ Malachi stares at him as he talks to the boys.
They all watch.
‘That guy probably want to feel you up, Kevie.’ Malachi laughs.
‘What! Nah, nah way,’ says Kevie.
‘I rolled a guy for his car once,’ says Malachi.
‘Bullshit,’ says Dillon, laughing with Kevie and Bert.
Malachi raises his fist and in a sudden movement leans back between the seats. ‘Shut up or I’ll fucken kill you.’ His voice is cold, hard. ‘The lot of you.’
The white man laughs, loud and rasping, then he blinks and looks around, as if wondering where the sound came from. He takes another swig and burps.
‘Sssssuppers,’ he slurs unintelligibly and leans back heavily in the driver’s seat.
In the rear vision mirror Dillon sees him close his eyes. His head falls to one side, mouth open.
Malachi turns to the boys in the back, grim smile on his face.
Dillon’s eyes flick from Malachi to the man in the mirror.
Malachi puts his face right up to the man’s. ‘Boo!’ he says.
The man lifts his forearm, puts his palm in Malachi’s face and tries to push him away. ‘Gerroff,’ the white man mumbles. But Malachi pushes into him. Leans right into his space.
‘What you doin’, Malachi?’ Bert asks.
‘Just a joke,’ says Malachi. Dillon and the boys laugh.
The man turns the handle. The door opens and the man falls out of the car. His shoulder hits the ground first, then the right side of his face. He lies there, face planted in the dirt, legs in the car.
Dillon laughs. The other boys lean forward for a look and they laugh, too.
Malachi gets out of the car and walks across the beaming headlights, to the man who writhes in the dust and tries to stand. Malachi pulls on the man’s arm, yanks it above his head. Drags him to the front of the car, where the two figures are illuminated.
Dillon and the boys watch from the back seat of the car, breath held.
‘Lemme lone, shleep,’ the man slurs. He rolls onto his side in the dust, hands pillowed under his head as though he is in bed.
Malachi brings back his leg and kicks him in the side. The man groans.
‘Furkin sholes.’ The white man opens his eyes and squints at the headlights.
Malachi leans down. The man tries to push him away.
Malachi kicks him again, once, twice. The kicks come faster and faster. He reaches down and punches the man in a flurry, then kicks again.
‘Get out ’ere,’ Malachi screams at the other boys. ‘C’mon, we’re goin’ to roll this prick. Steal ’is car.’
Dillon cowers with the others in the back seat.
‘Get out ’ere or I’ll bash youse too. Gutless pricks.’ Malachi’s voice is frenzied.
Bert gets out of the car and slowly walks through the headlights to Malachi. Kevie follows. As Malachi continues to yell, Dillon gets out, too.
The man groans as Malachi walks around him.
‘C’mon, Bert!’ he yells, and Bert moves in and kicks.
Malachi turns to Dillon, and Dillon, shaking, moves forward to kick the man. Malachi narrows his eyes at Kevie, but Kevie cowers just beyond the orb of light.
The man tries to rise, to crawl away, and Malachi kicks him in the stomach.
The man squirms in the dust.
Thud! Malachi’s boot hits his side.
Dillon watches, dry-mouthed in terror.
‘Stop!’ someone yells, nearby. A kid’s voice.
The man raises himself with one hand and crawls. In the dim greyness, Dillon sees Malachi’s boot, moments before it slams into the side of the man’s head. A black line of blood disfigures the white face. The man gags.
Malachi stamps on the man’s hand. The man screams in pain and rolls.
Dillon is frozen, eyes on the man on the ground. ‘It’s not happening,’ he keeps repeating, over and over in his head.
The man groans, curls in on himself like a dead spider. Malachi kicks his back and side. Then the man goes floppy; all Dillon can hear is the dull thud of Malachi’s boot on the man’s flesh. Dillon leans over and throws up on his own shoes.
Panting, Malachi stops. ‘Fucker, ’e be alright.’
Dillon gags again.
‘Wuss.’ Malachi wipes spittle from the side of his own mouth. ‘C’mon. Help me drag ’im under the tree. He’ll be out to it for a while and we’ll get ’is car.’
Bert moves in to take one of the man’s legs. Malachi takes the other. They pull him down a path to the blackness under a tree.
Dillon and Kevie follow, keeping at a distance. Kevie’s hand slides into Dillon’s. It is clammy and wet and trembling. Dillon gives a squeeze.
Malachi and Bert drop the man’s legs. Leaves swish in the gentle breeze above. The man groans. He is breathing with a strange snorting sound that makes Dillon feel better, because he knows the man is alive.
The boys turn and race for the car. Dillon dives into the back seat, smiling with relief that it is over. Malachi hops into the driver’s seat, revs the engine.
As they leave, the headlights wash through the shadow under the tree. The man is still.
36
Malachi sits on a beige plastic chair in the rec room at the Cleveland Youth Detention Centre. His hands wipe his eyes, his shoulders shake.
‘I can’t be your lawyer anymore, Malachi. You need someone just for you. So if you tell them the other boys did it—’ I shift in my chair. ‘So, when you tell your new lawyer that Dillon and Bert did the murder, they can fight your case for you. But that won’t be me. Okay?’
‘I didn’t do it, Miss,’ he sobs. ‘I swear. You have to help me.’
&
nbsp; I sit back in my seat, arms crossed, my knees about a metre from his.
‘Please, Miss. You have to get me off.’
He wipes his eyes and peeks up at me, assessing the effect.
I don’t move.
‘Miss?’ He lifts his head.
Unsuprisingly, despite all the sobs, his cold empty eyes are dry.
‘I’m innocent. They’re makin’ it all up, Miss.’ He cocks his head slowly to the side.
Dillon’s tears were real. These ones? Crocodile tears from a boy who is nothing but a crocodile inside.
‘Don’t mess with me, Malachi,’ I say, slowly uncrossing my arms and sitting forward.
His eyes narrow.
‘You did it. You murdered that poor, drunken loser. You know it and I know it. But I’m your lawyer and my job is to defend you. If you want to plead not guilty, then fine. I’ll find you a new lawyer, a good lawyer who’ll run your case and run it hard. That’s our job. To defend. That’s the way the system works.’ I lower my voice. ‘But don’t lie to me and put on a show like I’m some sort of idiot.’
He shrugs. ‘So what if I did it? So what.’
‘So what! I’ll tell you so what. You bashed a man’s brains in, for nothing. For no reason at all other than boredom or pique.’
It’s a calm and calculated rage that makes me use the word pique to make him feel small because I know it’s a word he won’t understand.
‘So?’ He shrugs again, and for the first time I see something in his detached expression. Some flash of humanity, or shame, or maybe just interest in what I’m saying.
‘So! So those three boys, your cousins, will end up in prison for the rest of their lives because of what you did. If you keep saying you’re innocent, you’ll drag the rest of them down with you. You’ll all have to run a trial. Together. And you could all be found guilty. It’s called a cutthroat defence.’ I exhale. ‘But I’ll find you a lawyer. You’ll have your day in court.’
He leans forward, shaking his head. Rubs his chin, deep in thought.
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