by Mark Dryden
"Nobody will represent her."
A tight smile. "I will."
"You don’t have to do that. You did the hearing pro bono and you certainly won’t get paid for the appeal. You’ve done enough - more than enough - for Mrs Muldoon. She can’t expect any more."
"I know. But I’m not happy with the beak’s decision. I know it sounds crazy, but I really think the dog is innocent and I don’t like losing, even dog-bite cases."
Until now, he’d seemed like a mild-mannered tax lawyer. But his hard tone and clenched jaw suggested a spark of life, though he could have found a worthier cause. Her eyes widened. "Oh God, she’s driven you mad, hasn’t she? It's all my fault."
He half-smiled. "No, I’m still perfectly sane."
"Well, don’t go overboard. It’s only a dog-bite case. As far as miscarriages of justice are concerned, it rates pretty low. You don’t have to act like Clarence Darrow."
"Maybe. But I’ve got no choice. I took the case, and now I’ve got to finish it."
Robyn shrugged. "Up to you. But thank you for taking the brief."
He leaned forward and nervously wrung his hands, as if about to say something important. Christ. Was he going to ask her out to dinner? Claim his reward for taking the Muldoon brief?
He was very sweet. No doubt about that. But even if she wasn't seeing Brian, she wouldn't have looked at him twice. No pizzazz. Before he could say anything embarrassing, she spat out: "Well, thank you very much. Thanks a lot. I owe you one. I really do. We’ll have coffee some time."
She spun around and scuttled from his room, ignoring the bleating of her conscience.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
After the Markham trial, Robyn’s career surged ahead. Solicitors she'd never met before started instructing her to appear for armed robbers, serial rapists and drug traffickers in the Supreme Court. Indeed, to staunch the flow of briefs, she jacked up her fees. But that had little impact because solicitors seemed to expect - indeed, almost demanded - that she charge a huge amount because they found that reassuring. So, for the first time in her career, she got choosey about which solicitors she would work with. Indeed, it gave her profound satisfaction to dump several of the more incompetent non-payers who'd wasted her time for so long.
She even got a call from Gary Frost SC, the Senior Public Defender in NSW, who asked her to be his junior in a High Court appeal. Robyn felt a shot of adrenalin. The High Court. She’d have walked to Canberra and appeared for nothing if asked.
Her relationship with Brian also went from strength to strength. His attitude wasn’t perfect. Sometimes, he made arrogant or insensitive comments, glanced at other women or smirked so hard she wanted to slap him. But he was obviously trying to improve his behaviour and she was confident she could consolidate those gains.
She spent a few nights at his apartment. But he preferred sleeping at her place and they soon settled into a routine where he slept there every second or third night.
One weekend, he drove her up to the Hunter Valley to stay in an elegant guesthouse and visit wineries. The next he took her to his hobby farm and introduced her to the cattle in the main paddock.
The only wrinkle in the smooth surface of her new and improved life appeared about four weeks after the trial, when she got a telephone call from Detective Inspector Holloway, from the Homicide Squad.
When her receptionist announced he was on the line, she wondered what the hell he wanted. Was he about to charge Grimble with murder? Did he want to thank Robyn for her efforts? If so, he’d taken his time. Still, she would be gracious.
After they exchanged hellos, she said: "So, what can I do for you?"
"I thought you’d like an update on our investigation into the murder of Alice Markham."
"Yes, of course. How’s it going?"
"Well, after the trial, we zeroed in on Hugh Grimble."
So she was right: the cops were about to charge Grimble with murder. "That’s good."
"Yes. In fact, we’ve just finished that part of our investigation."
"Already?"
"Yes. It didn’t take long to establish he’s innocent."
Christ. Did the detective say ‘innocent’? Impossible. The bowtie-wearing artsy-fartsy bastard was guilty as hell. She wondered why she ever through this cop had a brain. He was obviously another shining illustration of the legendary incompetence of the NSW Police Service. He should be playing the triangle in the police band. "You’re kidding? He’s not innocent."
"Yes, he is, completely innocent," the detective said smugly.
"He can’t be - he just can’t."
"I’m afraid he is."
Robyn struggled to decipher, personalise and then digest this new information, with little success. "How do you know that? Why are you so sure?"
"Because, for a start, we’ve compared his hair with hairs found on Alice Markham’s clothes. No match."
"Big deal. That isn’t conclusive. There are plenty of reasons why his hair mightn’t be there. Or maybe you missed it."
"True. But other evidence proves he’s innocent."
"Like what?"
"The clincher is the security film."
"What security film?"
"The security film we obtained from the casino. Grimble claims he went to the casino that night. So we asked the casino for its security film and, thankfully, they still had it."
"So what?"
"The film shows he arrived at the casino just after 7pm and didn’t leave until nearly midnight."
Shit. "You sure? Maybe he snuck out long enough to murder Alice?"
"Nope. He was never off camera long enough to do that."
"You sure?"
"Yep. So he’s definitely not the murderer."
She still couldn't get both arms around this news. "My God, I’m stunned."
"I bet you are," the policeman said wryly, enjoying the chance to contradict a smarty-pants barrister.
"But what about the argument between Alice and Grimble on the Friday afternoon?"
"So what? People argue all the time. It was just a co-incidence, nothing more."
"So you’re not going to charge him with murder?"
"Of course not, though the Fraud Squad will probably charge him with stealing royalties. He’ll be ruined anyway."
"Then why’d he agree to give Rex a false alibi and then recant in the witness box?"
"Probably wanted to cover up his fraud, and the best way to do that was make sure Rex went to prison for a very long time. Indeed, if that happened, he could have kept stealing his money."
Rex Markham told Grimble, a few months before the murder, that he wanted an accountant to audit the royalties Grimble was collecting. So the detective’s theory was convincing. "Mmm, I think you’re right."
"So congratulations," the detective said acidly.
"For what?"
"It looks like you got a murderer off the hook. Now he’s free as a bird."
"That’s not true. You can’t prove Rex killed anyone."
"I’ve got no other suspects."
"Maybe. But what about his second alibi: that he was with Danielle?"
"It was obviously just another concoction."
The detective’s annoyance made Robyn uncomfortable. ‘Yeah, well, thanks for giving me this news."
"My pleasure," the detective said sardonically.
Robyn hung up and was forced to concede it now looked quite possible that Rex Markham did, in fact, murder his wife and, through her efforts, he'd escaped just punishment. Well, if he did, it wasn’t her fault. She did nothing dishonest. The system failed.
Indeed, in a rather perverse way, the detective’s revelation enhanced her triumph. Anyone could get an innocent client acquitted; it took real skill to get a guilty one off. True, non-lawyers wouldn’t see it quite like that, but they didn't understand the game.
Of course, it was also possible that Rex was innocent and a third party killed Alice. Before the trial, Robyn had suspected both the pseudonymous Richard Olsen and Tim
Nolan. Maybe one of them was the killer, or someone she hadn’t even considered.
Anyway, it wasn't her job to look for an answer. She’d leave that to the police. But she was dying to tell Brian what the detective had said. She caught a lift down to his floor and strolled past the vacant reception desk to his room.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Brian wasn’t in his room. But his suit jacket hung over the back of his chair, suggesting he hadn’t wandered far. She’d wait a few minutes.
She perched on the corner of his desk, next to a lever-arch folder containing a brief. The cover-sheet on the folder identified the matter as "R v Stavros". How odd. Brian often mentioned his cases, but not that one.
Further down the cover-sheet was the standard formula:
"You are briefed to appear at the trial of this matter, for the accused, with Patricia Lenehan as your junior counsel".
A jolt of anxiety. Patricia Lenehan. A few weeks before the trial, Robyn saw Patricia leave Brian’s room after a "conference". Brian said Patricia was prosecuting one of his clients and they were plea bargaining. He certainly didn’t mention she was also acting as his junior in a case.
Why not? Why did Brian try to put some distance between himself and Patricia? The answer was obvious: he was shagging her.
Robyn now realized what was unusual about Patricia’s appearance when she left Brian’s room: she wasn’t carrying anything. If they were really discussing a plea deal, she’d have at least had a pen and paper, if not her whole brief.
Of course, after Brian started seeing Robyn, he might have stopped bonking Patricia. Robyn felt a surge of optimism, which evaporated fast. A chronic skirt-chaser like Brian would hate to give up such a lovely arrangement. No way. In her heart, she knew he was cheating. Fucking bastard. Turd.
She wanted to dump the arsehole straight away, but couldn't without solid proof. Certainly, if she confronted the bastard and accused him of cheating, he’d brush her accusation aside and make her look paranoid and disloyal.
She needed smoking-gun evidence.
She surveyed his room and spied his computer. Brian had probably exchanged e-mails with Patricia, which might contain incriminating material.
Accessing his computer was bad. Definitely. But so was cheating, and she just had to confirm that he was.
She shut the door and rushed over to his computer, which was already on. Hands shaking, she looked through his e-mail in-box and saw that Patricia had sent several e-mails during the last week. She opened the most recent one. In it, Patricia asked when Brian wanted to have another conference in the Stavros matter.
Brian replied that he’d see her at 6pm on Thursday.
The exchange looked quite innocuous until Robyn read the final sentence of his reply, which said: "P.S. Don’t wear any panties."
Fucker. Fucking bastard. She’d trusted him and he’d treated her like dirt. The rotten turd had promised to stop womanising, but didn't. The grub would pay for this, in spades.
He obviously wanted to meet Patricia Lenehan at 6pm tomorrow because, by that hour, most barristers would have gone home and they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Well, she would turn up and cause a massive disturbance.
Fearing he might return at any moment, she dashed out to the lifts and rode up to Fisher Chambers feeling hurt, humiliated and, most of all, angry - fucking angry. The bastard. She’d always thought she was incapable of murder. No longer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The next morning, Robyn woke alone and immediately saw an image of Brian on the back of her eyelids. Bastard. Her blood pressure spiked. She tried to calm down. But her anger kept returning. What a prick.
She considered dumping him straight away. But then she’d have to reveal that she looked through his e-mails. No, she had to catch the bastard in flagrante. But how?
Her feverish mind quickly engineered a plan - a fiendishly clever one - which required getting to work early. She glanced at her watch. Six-thirty. Still plenty of time to put it into effect. She jumped out of bed.
An hour later, she strolled into the building that housed both of their chambers, got out of the lift on his floor, which was deserted, and strolled over to his secretary’s cubicle. In the bottom drawer of the secretary’s desk, she found a large bunch of keys. She used each key on Brian’s door until she found the right one, which she slipped into her pocket, before returning the rest of the bunch to the drawer.
She headed for the lift, feeling a lot better.
That afternoon, Brian phoned and asked if she wanted to spend the night at his place. She coughed and said in a husky voice that she couldn’t because she had a cold. "But don’t worry Darling, I’ll be fine in a few days."
"OK. And just remember, I miss you."
"I miss you too."
"Lots of love."
"Yes, lots of love."
She hung up and, after stifling an urge to vomit, put a hand in her pocket and fingered the key.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Robyn’s performance during the Markham trial changed Brian’s attitude from infatuation to rapture and awe. He didn’t usually praise his juniors, especially in public. But he was so besotted he couldn’t help himself.
Of course, he soon worried he’d diverted too much glory away from himself. But, to his relief, numerous colleagues congratulated him on winning the case. They obviously thought that, because he was in charge, he was the architect - if not the immediate cause - of victory. Indeed, he soon started to believe that himself. After all, he had the foresight to choose Robyn as his junior, conveniently forgetting his main motive for doing that was lust. He’d been thinking for a while about entering federal politics on the conservative side and performing on a larger stage. Maybe the celebrity he’d gained from this case was the springboard he needed.
Then, to his great joy, Robyn’s attitude to him thawed and she climbed into his bed. He’d never chased a woman so long and hard. Yet finally he claimed his quarry.
In all of his previous relationships he was emotionally complacent, even comatose. But, with Robyn, he tried hard to please, even pretending, against the grain, to be humble and sensitive. They obviously had a golden future together as one of the Bar’s power couples.
The only fly in the ointment was his panel of girlfriends. In a display of tremendous discipline and decency, he dumped every one of them except Patricia Lenehan. Further, even when he bonked Patricia, his weak and malnourished conscience suffered a pang of guilt. However, he told himself that he wasn’t really cheating on Robyn because he and Patricia didn't have a strong emotional bond. He didn’t take her out to dinner or give her flowers. In fact, she made it very clear she’d never leave her husband. Shagging her was just like meeting an old friend for coffee.
However, despite that, he knew their affair must stop. That was partly because he knew, deep down, that it was time to grow up and partly because he feared getting caught. Robyn had said that, if he cheated, she wouldn’t give him a second chance, and he believed her. The stakes were too high.
So when Patricia stepped into his room, on Thursday evening, for one of their regular "conferences", he considered telling her straight away that their affair was over. However, he already had an erection and didn't want to miss out on one last bonk. Better to tell her afterwards, if he had the courage.
They usually started their "conferences" by actually discussing the case at hand. That brief period of sexual abstinence usually created a wonderful erotic charge. Indeed, after talking about R v Stavros for ten minutes, he was desperate for a shag.
Finally, he frowned and said they’d talked enough about the case.
She grinned and stood up. "OK then, I’d better be going."
He felt a touch of concern. Surely she was joking. But what if she wasn’t? "No, don’t go. Stay and have a beer."
She shrugged. "OK."
He opened the small fridge behind his desk, pulled out a couple of cans and passed one to Patricia. He stood close to her and inha
led her musky perfume. She didn’t seem to mind.
Should he make a move right now, or be a gentleman and let her taste the beer first?
"So, how’s Fred," he said, referring to her husband.
They often talked about Fred, even though Patricia was cheating on him. She enjoyed unloading her frustrations.
She sighed. "Oh, he’s very nice, but so, so boring. Sometimes, during dinner, I almost fall face-first onto my plate. And in bed? Jesus, if everyone was like him, our species would disappear." She stepped closer. "You know, I followed your instructions."
"What instructions?"
"No panties."
He touched her hip. No elastic. "Good girl."
They put down their beers and locked lips, her tongue probing for his tonsils. Eventually, Brian stepped back and unbuckled his belt. Patricia started unbuttoning her blouse.
He thought of Robyn and felt a stab of guilt. He shouldn’t be doing this: she meant a lot to him. His erection subsided. Shit, how annoying. Unnerved, he heard someone - obviously himself - say: "You know, I shouldn’t be doing this."
Patricia looked puzzled. "Why not?"
"Because, umm, I’ve started seeing someone, seriously."
"Really? Who?"
"Robyn Parker - a barrister."
"Robyn? I've met her." Patricia frowned. "How long have you been seeing her?"
"Oh, about a month."
"Really? Why didn’t you tell me?"
"It didn’t seem important."
Patricia shrugged. "Well, don’t worry. You’re not really cheating on her. I mean, we haven’t made a commitment or anything. This is just sex."
Patricia was right. She was just an old friend whom he sometimes bonked. In his heart, he was still faithful.
Anyway, he couldn’t refuse Patricia now: her blouse was almost off. They’d look stupid putting their clothes back on. Afterwards, he’d terminate their affair. This would be a goodbye fuck, full of exquisite pathos.
He smiled. "You know, you’ve got a point."