by Russell Judd
The next day we sit down around the smoko table. It’s a Friday and the court list for today is filled with a couple of familiar names. Harley will be back. Hopefully a night in custody has done him some good. “You know the forensic nurse thinks that his behaviour is induced psychosis from all the legal highs he has been smoking?” I say to Terry.
Terry doesn’t appear to be listening, while he’s reading out the court list for the day.
The next name causes me some apprehension, Stabby is appearing.
“Fuck what is that piece of shit going up on?” I ask Terry. I thought he was not appearing for at least another month or two.
“He’s up on your charges today, looks like it is just another list hearing” Terry replies.
I quickly log onto the police intelligence database, look him up and read his through his charges. “It ain’t the first time that he has been charged with burglary” I say to Tony, but he doesn’t seem too interested as he is in the middle of making a fresh cup of miso soup. Shit, the last burglary was pretty much identical to the incident that took place when we caught him. The charge was later withdrawn due to lack of evidence. As I scroll further down it shows that the officer in charge of that file is Dave Beaumont. I might just give him a call to find out how that transpired.
I pick up the phone and determinedly punch in his extension. The dull ring fills my ear as I wait for the phone to be answered.
“Hello, Detective Dave Beaumont speaking” the voice answers.
“Hey, Dave, its Nate here, how’s it today?” I reply
I can sense the awkwardness in his voice as he hesitatingly replies “ah, I’m good Nate. What can I do ya for?”
“I’m over at Court and Stabby is appearing today, I’ve just been looking through his other charges and I see that some previous burglaries he was charged with were withdrawn due to lack of evidence, what the hell is that about? That better not be happening again” I demand, starting to feel hot under the collar.
Dave pauses, I can tell that he’s not sure what to say, as this pause seems rather unnatural.
“Ah, it’s nothing major really Nate” he finally comes up with.
“Come on Dave, stop bull shitting and tell me”
I can hear the reluctance in his voice. “Look, I can’t really discuss the older cases, but he’s saying that he was on the property to offer his services as an arborist. When he’s approached the front door he’s heard an unusual sound from the rear of the property. When he has gone to investigate he has come across a burglar decamping from the scene and at that point he’s run”
“What a load of shit” I scoff at Dave, “Don’t we have two witnesses corroborating each other?”
“The informant and victim both gave pretty generic descriptions and no forensic evidence has been found that adds weight to the charge” Dave sheepishly answers.
Trying not to sound as if I’m telling him how to suck eggs but I ask “Well has a photo montage been done, have you checked out his cover story and was anything taken from her house?”
The slow exhale from the other end of the telephone tells me that this question has already been asked. “I’ve spoken to his boss and the story checks out. I’ve got a signed statement from his employer confirming that he works for Argyle Arborists, the witness and victim were unable to positively identify him and we never recovered any of her stolen property” he answers.
By now my frustration is becoming apparent. “Fuck, it all sounds a bit fucken rich to me, so what happens to the wounding with intent charge, are they going to argue that the arrest was unlawful?”
I can tell he doesn’t want to answer me but he replies. “It’s likely but we will definitely fight that!”
Dave continues. “Look Nate, I need to speak with prosecutions as we are more than likely going to withdraw the burglary charge because we don’t have enough to proceed. I’d imagine that if they argue that the arrest was unlawful and you weren’t justified in using any force he was defending himself, the charge will probably get lowered for a guilty plea”
My silence confirms to Dave that I’m obviously not happy with this.
“Nate, I’m doing you a favour and keeping you in the loop, you heard it from me first” he goes on to say.
I let my anger get the better of me. “You’re keeping me in the loop? When I had to ring you, Shit”, and with that I slam the phone down.
What really gets me is that arseholes like Stabby, have no idea the effect they have on people’s lives. The pain just doesn’t stop for them, it continues forever. At least I can take some solace in the fact that the low life is still in custody. I think I’ll do my best to avoid Stabby as I don’t know if I’m going be able to control myself.
“Terry” I yell across the room “you better look after Stabby, I’ll take care of shit boy”.
The day slowly progresses on. Harley is pacing back and forth in his cell and Stabby is being a needy child. He’s an unfortunate bi-product of our shitty society. These people have been conditioned to believe that they are deserving of everything, but that it also has to be served on a silver fucking platter. They have a distinct sense of entitlement that has in no way been earned. What we need is a world war three or a plague to really show people that hardship is not going without wifi or an Iphone.
This is all reinforced by the outcry from New Zealanders living in Australia who went chasing the greener grass. They get over there, get themselves into financial trouble and then go crying to the Australian government expecting them to come to their rescue. When they get told hard luck they whinge and moan. What confirms that this is a problem, is that our whole country jumps up and down demanding that something needs to be done to help these poor people. Fuck them, they should have done a bit more research before taking the plunge. My blood begins to boil as I am interrupted by the court service bell which consists of a loud thunderous kick to a cell door. Then like finger nails on a chalk board I hear “Hey boss!”
I walk out into the corridor to see some eyes staring at me through the window like some primitive creature.
“When am I going up, it’s boring in here, tell them to hurry up, can I have my lunch?”
This barrage of demands is answered with a simple turn of my back and the slamming of the office door.
Not long after, one of the registrars voice comes piercing over the intercom. “Stabby to court room 4, Stabby to court room 4”
I can hear the seats begin to shuffle down in the office where corrections staff sloth around as they begin to prepare themselves to move Stabby. Some dull steps are followed by the fumbling of the keys into a cell door, then the unmistakable clunk of the lock snapping free rings through the corridor. I stand in the door way and Stabby eyeballs me as he walks out. As he walks past he mouths something which I can only assume is muted filth. Instantly rage begins to fill my body. My mind races with ways that I could bludgeon his Neanderthal looking skull. A quick scan around shows that the closest, heaviest blunt object within reach is a toaster. The thought lingers for a moment until I realise it would probably cause more damage to my hand than his face. I could just strangle him with the power cord of the toaster. He smirks at me, knowing perfectly well I won’t do anything and with that he disappears out of view. I can hear every one of that fat fucks footsteps as he walks up the stairs, and with every step I’m filled with the determination to cause him harm.
I am again interrupted by the shrill voice of the court registrar. This time she’s asking for Harley to be brought up to court room 3. I look at Terry and I can see he is thinking the same thing as I am. “I hope he’s constipated” I say to Terry with a laugh. As we walk into the corridor we both breathe a sigh of relief as there is there is an absence of Harley’s bowel movement in the air. We open the door to his cell and we are confronted by his calm and somewhat sober personality. “Sorry about yesterday” he says with a look of remorse on his face, “I just really want some help”. “No worries mate, that’s what we are hop
ing we can get you today” I respond, trying to invoke as much empathy as I possibly can.
“I really want it, no one seems to want to help me”, Harley replies.
“That’s usually what happens when you spread your own shit on your stomach, it kind of sends an antisocial message to them” I remark. Instantly I bite my tongue realising that comment could send him into a shit smearing tantrum. There’s a pause of silence, Terry and I look at each other as we wait for his reaction, but he just sits there, his head bowed as he stares down at the floor. Finally the silence is broken by a softly spoken apology from Harley. “Right well it’s time to head up to the court room Harley” I reply.
Waiting outside the cell is the court forensic nurse. “Hello there Harley”, his rough Scottish accent gently greets Harley. “How are you feeling this morning?” He asks.
“I’m fine Neil. You know I really want to go to ward 27. I’m going to stay there this time as I need the medication”, Harley answers his voice filled with determination.
“Well, we’ll see how we go up in Court” Neil says. The duty solicitor reluctantly steps into the cell and informs Harley that they are wanting him to go voluntarily to ward 27. My ears prick up at this. How can they want him to go voluntarily, hasn’t he proved enough that he’s mentally unwell. I’ve seen people admitted quicker for not saying anything to a nurse let alone smear their own faeces on themselves. Why does this not fucken surprise me.
It’s only takes a few minutes of hearing the prosecutor speak in the court room for my body to begin to sabotage my alertness. The temperature slowly rises, my eyes are getting heavier and my breathing begins to slow. Shit, I hope the registrar turns on the air conditioning soon. I look across at Harley and he seems to be staring off into whatever fantasy land his unfortunate mind is creating for him. The judge begins to speak and asks Harley if he wants to go to ward 27? He’s been living in a 20 foot shipping container for the past month, so of course he says yes. With that bail conditions are set and he gets remanded off to another date. As I’m contemplating lunch, the door to my right suddenly flies open, the handle narrowly misses my jaw and an unintelligible, hory laughter can be heard echoing from behind the door.
I quickly open the door to find Stabby standing there looking at me with his usual meat axe stare. There are three correction officers standing around him and don’t seem to be too fussed at the disruption he has just caused.
“You think your fucken funny doing that do ya?” I snap at him.
Sensing the confrontation he tries to take a step towards me, but I’ve already taken into account he is standing at the top of the staircase so I quickly move into his personal space.
“You think I’m a boy, I know how this works!” He replies. “Next time I’ll make sure that knife is a few inches higher”.
I visualise how a quick head butt would send this piece of shit hurtling backwards down the stairs, but I don’t need the hassle from the bosses.
“You know that you’re standing at the top of a stair case and you don’t exactly have a dainty figure so the injuries from you falling could be quite serious” I threaten.
He just stares straight at me. Hopefully by now he realises that I’m just as unstable as he is.
He hesitatingly takes a step back. “You know I’ll be seeing you around pig and when I do I’ll make sure that you don’t fucken walk away!” he threatens back.
“I look forward to it you piece of shit!” I quietly respond.
The corrections officers finally decide enough is enough and motion for him to carry on walking down the stairs. As they disappear out of view, one of the senior corrections officers starts talking to me.
“You know that he has just been granted electronic bail. I’d be careful” he warns.
“Well if you lot did your damn job properly rather than let him lead you around by the short and curlys, we may not have had this confrontation. You need to learn how to keep your animals under control!” I say frustratingly.
With that the corrections officer turns away and starts walking off after his colleagues down the stairs. Shit, I had better get back into the court room. Hopefully Harley hasn’t gone primal and started redecorating for them.
I open the door and quietly step back in and I’m greeted with a confused look from the judge, I look across at the prosecutor and he looks just as bewildered. Did they hear my threat to send him hurtling down the stairs? Ah fuck it, most people are aware that I don’t like letting offenders like that arsehole get away with shit. I once cut out an article with the headline “cops should punch more people in the face” and placed it around the station for everyone to see. The article was relating to an interview with a retired cop who was quoted saying that. Understandably most are too afraid to voice their opinion in uniform for fear of retribution, so they wait until they have left the job. Mind you while in uniform we are not supposed to have an opinion.
People know that we can’t lay a finger on them unless it is justified and then it has to be reasonable. Which is fair enough, but some people just won’t learn. This is shown by our joke of a court system, it’s all geared up for the offender. They know if they draw things out long enough they can potentially deter witnesses or victims through intimidation or just merely the fact they can’t be bothered with the hassle and drop off the face of the planet, so police end up having to withdraw charges.
“Is all okay young constable?” enquires the judge.
“Sorry sir just had to make sure one of our clients understands the correct court etiquette while he is visiting’ I reply, trying not to sound like too much of a smart arse.
“Good to hear”, the judge replies.
The decision relating to Harley’s freedom was interesting and left me a little confused. The judge’s words were, we will bail you from here to Ward 27, but you will have to voluntarily admit yourself. Isn’t that just setting him up to fail? What’s voluntary about putting him in the back of a police truck and taking him up to the psych ward. If he is crazy enough for the court to want him to have his mental health assessed, why don’t they just have him sectioned under the mental health act. With that decision Harley is directed into the courts custody and he’s herded back downstairs to await his inevitable incarceration. I lock the door behind him and ‘Stabby’ appears with two corrections officers by each side. His eyes lock with mine. Words exit his mouth tarnished with his stereo typical piece of shit accent. “Next time, next time you won’t be walking away”.
A quick jab to the face seems like the appropriate response at this point. I could easily get one on target before he or the guards register what had just happened.
I bite my tongue, and let a little smile creep across my face. Nothing more needs to be said. In that moment I knew he just made the decision easy for me, I was going to get this piece of shit. I’m going to make sure he never sees me again. A life of torture and pain would be the only way that he would ever truly repay his victims. If he could only feel the fear, vulnerability and loneliness that he has caused his victims over the years.
They keep on walking.
I quickly check with one of the registrars and it turns out that this arsehole has made a successful bail application. Fuck I say under my breath, “do you have a copy of his bail bond?” Sure enough, there it is, I can see the fucken joy in his signature. I scan back up the page to find his bail address, 10 Beveridge Place.
As I leave court for the day, my mind continues to play over and over what he said to me. Anger comes first as I repeat his words and I start to wonder what might happen. It’s the unknown that scares me the most, the unknown coupled with the ability of humans to be sadistic and twisted creatures.
Chapter Sixteen