Then, in a low voice, he says: ‘I fucken did it. I fucken bashed that guy, like you said. I kicked that guy and punched ’im and crunched his nose and smashed his head with my boot. Again and again. And you know what? It felt good.’ He drops his head, sadly. ‘I am a fucken psycho.’
I rub my forehead. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I mean, I don’t know.’
‘I hit ’im and hit ’im. Then I shouted to them other boys to hit ’im too. They wouldn’. Then I said I’d come and I’d fucken kill ’em if they didn’t come and join in. I fucken meant it too.’
Malachi’s eyes are animated. ‘I was fucken bored and a bit pissed and I wanted to see what it felt like. To kill someone.’
‘And how does it feel?’ I ask, tiredly.
He says nothing, sits back.
After a while he shakes his head again. ‘But I’m not pleadin’ guilty. Someone else gonna havta save them boys—’
I exhale.
‘Why can’t you do my case?’ His brow is furrowed.
‘Like I said, I have a conflict. It’s a legal thing. You’ve all said you’re going to plead not guilty, so all four of you are going to need your own lawyers.’
‘Me dad’s out at the Big House,’ he says.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Dunno.’ He shrugs. ‘When I was a kid. He used to bash me.’
I sigh.
‘He used to punch me an’ kick me and call me bad names, lots of names. Swear names. But you know what the worst one was?’ He pauses and looks at the floor.
After a moment he looks up. ‘Loser,’ he whispers. His eyes finally show emotion. Huge, dark pools of sorrow.
‘I guess I am a loser,’ he says, looking at me enquiringly.
I never expected to feel such a rush of compassion for this complete psychopath in front of me.
‘You are what you think you are, mate,’ I say.
Roslyn, Arriet, Jasmine and I rock back on our chairs in the staffroom at the Legal Service office.
‘So how are you doing without Michael?’ Jasmine asks.
I shrug.
‘Who needs men. We can do without ’em, I reckon,’ says Arriet.
Roslyn rolls her eyes. ‘Anyone want a cuppa tea?’
‘I’ll do it.’ I stand quickly and move to the sink.
Roslyn narrows her eyes.
‘What? I’m just trying to help.’
‘Did you find new lawyers for all the boys?’ Jasmine asks.
‘Yes. All the files went out this morning.’ I fill the jug.
‘So, they’re definitely all going to trial?’ Jasmine asks, her jewellery jangling as she leans over the table.
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘These kids, their whole lives, no one ever really cared about them. I guess this is the result.’
Arriet sighs. ‘Them poor boys.’
*
Several weeks later, there is pre-trial argument in the Supreme Court for the boys’ case. Dillon’s barrister fights to exclude the evidence of his ‘confession’, which was made after I told Watch House police that he did not want to answer any questions. I am subpoenaed to sit in the witness box and give evidence of what occurred at the Watch House, but as I made no note of which police I spoke to, I can’t give specifics. It seems the officer’s shift changed soon after I spoke to them. The judge finds that perhaps they forgot to pass on the message but in all other respects the confession is valid.
I ask the barrister how the case is going.
He shakes his head gravely. ‘It doesn’t look good.’
37
On the morning of the trial, Court One of the Townsville Supreme Court is hushed. Olive-green carpet lines the floor, dark panelling on the walls. Light spills in through heavy glass doors. Five men in long dark robes sit beside solicitors in suits and glasses at the bar table, which is littered with paperwork and legal tomes. Behind, a row of small, dark heads is barely visible in the dock.
Twelve ordinary men and women sit in the jury box. All heads turn to the bench, to the judge in red robes. He hands a sheet of paper to a dark-robed person in front. The judge’s associate will read the charges. It’s a formality really, the jury is empanelled for the trial, and as far as I am aware the boys are all going to plead not guilty to murder.
The judge nods at the dark head at the far end of the dock. He stands.
‘Dillon John Butler. You stand charged that on the twenty-eighth day of September you murdered one Peter Lewis. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’
Dillon speaks, ‘Not guilty.’ He sits.
The judge motions to the next dark head. Albert stands. ‘Not guilty.’ He sits.
Malachi stands.
‘Malachi Butler. You stand charged that on the twenty-eighth day of September you murdered one Peter Evan Lewis. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’
Malachi’s head hangs low. He stares at the carpet.
The courtroom is silent. Not a cough or rustle can be heard.
The judge clears his throat: ‘Read the charges again.’
‘How do you plead to the charge of murder? Guilty or not guilty?’
Slowly, Malachi straightens. Like a balloon filling with air, his head rises until he stands tall.
‘Guilty.’
Pandemonium breaks out in the courtroom. Barristers talk animatedly with solicitors, jurors mutter, people in the gallery murmur. Even Brian, the old bailiff, looks up from his crossword. In the centre of the storm, Malachi is still.
Malachi’s barrister swivels on his chair to talk to him. Malachi shakes his head vehemently. The barrister nods.
‘Silence,’ orders the judge. ‘As this defendant is only sixteen, I will have my associate read the charge again.’
‘Malachi Butler. You stand charged that on the twenty-eighth day of September you murdered one Peter Lewis. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’
‘Guilty.’
‘Sit down, Mr Butler,’ says the judge. ‘Ms Associate, record the plea.’
The judge turns to Malachi’s barrister, who stands and straightens his robes. ‘Your Honour, Mr Butler is adamant that he wishes to enter a plea of guilty to the murder. Given the preponderance of evidence against him, it is not altogether unwise.’
The judge nods. ‘Mr Prosecutor? Do you require an adjournment to consider your position in relation to the other boys?’
The prosecutor stands. ‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘I will adjourn this case for one week and order a pre-sentence report for Mr Butler.’
There is a flurry of black robes.
*
One week later, the court reconvenes.
‘Mr Prosecutor,’ says the judge. ‘What is the Crown position in relation to Dillon Butler, Albert Pierce and Kevin Zander?’
‘The Crown will no longer proceed on the murder charges against those three boys. I seek a return of the indictment.’
There are gasps from the assembly at the back of the courtroom. Malachi Butler’s mother, Tanya, sits beside me in another brightly patterned muu-muu, tears once again streaming down her face.
I pat her arm. ‘It’s going to be okay now, Tanya.’
She shakes her head. ‘I know, Caffey. But my boy, my Malachi.’
‘Tanya. Malachi stood up for his cousins. He saved them from a murder charge. It’s something.’
She cries and nods. ‘I know.’
We sit and listen as Malachi admits to his crimes. Justice Cullinane sentences Malachi to ten years imprisonment.
The other boys are sentenced for their lesser role in the offences, including stealing the car and manslaughter; Dillon and Albert are sentenced to four years, and will be released on parole within one year. Kevie is thought to be the youngest child in Queensland to be found guilty of manslaughter. He is sentenced to
two and a half years detention. He will be released within six months.
As the boys are led away, there is a tap on my shoulder. It is the fair-haired detective, Dinlevy, who originally arrested Bert.
‘See, I told you they were guilty,’ he says.
‘Yeah, well. What are you going to do with Kevie’s grandmother and her attempted murder charges?’
He shrugs. ‘That’s up to the prosecutor.’
‘But?’
‘But, okay, it was decided to drop the attempted murder and substitute a charge of common assault.’
Malachi holds his head high as he is led out, wrists in handcuffs. He swivels his eyes towards his mother in the last moment before he steps out the door. The semblance of a smile appears on his face. Then he is gone.
But the smile lingers.
I saw Malachi as the worst of the worst. The true incarnation of evil. He knew no limits, no mercy. But in the end he fell on his sword to save his friends.
Perhaps, if there’s a pathway to redemption, he’s on it.
And for the first time in months, I feel hope.
A note from the author
Some time ago, a picture of Olivia, now a grown woman, appeared on the front page of a newspaper. Head in hands, she was being consoled by an elder under the headline: HELP US. She’d broken down while trying to tell her horrific story of childhood sexual abuse and was unable to find the words.
Darling Olivia, this book is for you, and the thousands of girls like you – who may never have the opportunity to tell their own stories. And for Sam, Adam and many other children. Events like these are still happening – there are children, right now, suffering and offending, still with no real help, no solutions.
Since I left the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Corporation for the Legal Aid Service, my legal career has continued on an upward trajectory. During a Masters of Law at the University of Queensland, one of the subjects I chose was Indigenous Law. I was excited about the class, imagining that together we lawyers could come up with real solutions. I remember that feeling of hope as I walked in the doors of the lecture hall, only to find the place was deserted, just like that long-ago classroom on Palm Island. No one else had signed up, no one else was interested.
I have since wanted to find a way to make people really think about some of the issues brought up in this book – to give a better understanding of the problems so real solutions can be found. The statistics are shocking: high rates of imprisonment, reduced life expectancy, STD’s in very young children, prevalent domestic violence – but it’s hard to empathise with statistics.
What if I wrote a book about real people? If I just wrote what I’ve seen and experienced so that people could see through my eyes what it’s like? If we have an improved understanding of the issues then perhaps politicians and community members can take steps to help reduce crime, which will ultimately safeguard victims as well as perpetrators.
The problems in writing a book of this nature were vast. I am a lawyer – in order to tell this story I had to be careful to protect legal professional privilege, while still giving a clear picture of events in cases such as these. In the writing of Saltwater, I referred to my personal diary, myriad newspaper articles (some of which have been reprinted) and judicial sentencing remarks. I spoke to many people who kindly read the manuscript, such as the judge who sentenced the four boys (thanks, Judge) and Harriet Hulthen who gave a cultural assessment (thanks, Aunty Arriet). Other than that, the book is largely based on my best recollections. This is not a journalistic account, but a memoir based on the facts as I understood them at the time.
How could I forget that heat, that rain, and all those beautiful cloudless days? But memory, as all lawyers know, can be fallible. Two persons present at the same crime can give divergent accounts. This is what real life is like as a lawyer – we run cases using the best of our knowledge at the time; sometimes we never find out the whole truth. Or we learn of pertinent facts after a case is closed.
Unsurprisingly, many of the names in this book have been changed, as well as some minor identifying details. In order to maintain legal professional privilege and to respect confidences gained in my role as lawyer, some details, particularly of privileged communications between lawyer and client, have been altered. The Townsville and Districts Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders Corporation for Legal Aid Services, my employer at the time, has since gone into liquidation and has been deregistered.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my mum, Jennifer Rosalie McLennan, and my dad, Kevin Frank McLennan – two wonderful people who brought me up to care for those around me. To love reading and books. Thanks, Mum, for all those years you encouraged me, read endless drafts and listened on the phone. You’re brilliant. So are you, sister, Deb McLennan Rule, who tells it like it is. And Justice K.A. Cullinane AM (retired) – your wisdom inspires me every day.
It takes a village to raise a book. My village was constructed by the Queensland Writers Centre, without whom this story would remain untold. They provided helpful mentoring programs, including the Year of the Edit with Kim Wilkins, the QWC/Allen & Unwin retreat and the QWC/Hachette retreat. Your programs not only gave me technical knowledge, but also some great friendships with fellow participants. Thank you Kate Eltham, Aimée Lindoff, Sophie Everett and Meg Vann. As well as Erica Wagner and Vanessa Radnidge. I was inspired by Stephen King and his book On Writing, which got me started, and also Seven Seasons in Aurukun by Paula Shaw.
Thank you to my wonderful friends and fellow villagers who supported and encouraged me all the way: Felicity Carter, Kathryn Gossow, Joyce Finn and Bren Macdibble, all deservedly top of the list; to Florence Bridger and Sarah P. Salmon; and my fellow Writers & Critters, Lenore Skomal, Toni Cauble, Joan Lambert Bailey, Hilary Cooper, Marianne Saddington, Lori Ono, Metteline Myhre, Arwen Kuttner, Nancy Julien Kopp, Greta Igl, Maureen ‘Mo’ Rogers, Rhoda Twombly, Jane Banning, Jennie Helderman, Miho Kinnas, Shannon Shelton Miller, Amy Paturel Bieber, Holly Helscher, Heather Gale, Kristine Hansen, Carla Damron and Fi Benson.
Thanks also to: Sheridan Goodwin, your advice was invaluable (thanks for staying up all night with an early draft!); Anthony Mellick for your brilliant contract negotiations and friendship; Mr Tom Hardy (thanks for the school trip); Michael Madigan, Harriet Hulthen and Joice Reuben (thanks for reading the manuscript and your support and advice); Mrs Mary Allen, who taught me to argue; Michael Drew, my mentor, without whom I would not have a career; Danielle Betteridge; and Magistrate Jacqueline Payne. Thanks also to Dave, Blake and Riley – thank you for giving me time to finish this story. Thanks to the Queensland Literary Awards, the State Library of Queensland and the Townsville Bulletin.
And of course thank you to publisher Madonna Duffy, editor Judith Lukin-Amundsen, Jacqueline Blanchard and the superb crew at University of Queensland Press – you have been beyond wonderful – I am grateful for everything, and in particular your tact, enthusiasm and skill.
First published 2016 by University of Queensland Press
PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia
www.uqp.com.au
[email protected]
© Cathy McLennan 2016
This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Cover design by Josh Durham (Design By Committee)
Typeset in 12/17 pt Bembo Std by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group, Melbourne
Extracts from the Townsville Bulletin have been reproduced in an abridged format and reprinted with permission of Newscorp.
Cataloguing-in-publication data is available at http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 0 7022 5383 6 (pbk)
ISBN 978 0 7022 5708 7 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7022 5709 4 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7022 5710 0 (Kindle)
University of Queensland Press uses papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests.
The logging and manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
Saltwater Page 24