by Herb Hamlet
After setting up his private detective business, Dick canvassed all the law firms in Brisbane for work. To his dismay, he found word had circulated that former Detective Sergeant Dick Argent was on the outer with the police department and the state government generally. Settling into his new career, the majority of his work came through the offices of Henry Flanagan, the pair becoming close colleagues and good friends. The friendship was enhanced when Henry successfully represented Dick’s son, Troy, who’d been charged with drug possession. During the hearing it became apparent the marijuana had been planted in the teenager’s bag, because his fingerprints were nowhere to be found on the package. Henry had called a number of witnesses who’d been in Troy’s company at the time. All had supported his testimony that he’d never used drugs of any description. In summing up, Henry had raised Dick’s unblemished career with the police department and the attitudes of certain officers toward him and his family. The judge was scathing in his condemnation of the crown prosecutor’s case, and the police force in particular.
Dick’s reputation grew to such an extent, legal firms used his services, because of his professionalism, his competence and his uncanny ability to produce the goods. Now Henry Flanagan was back practicing law, Dick was pleased to put aside his demanding schedule to track down the missing witness; the person so crucial to his friend’s case. Try as he might though, he was unable to uncover any leads concerning the whereabouts of the doctor who’d treated Jim Rankin following his assault. Dr Simpson seemed to have vanished off the face of the Earth.
Sitting opposite Henry, he shook his head. “Sorry mate, can’t find him anywhere.” He sighed.
“They’ve transferred him somewhere, that’s for sure, the conniving pricks!” Henry paused. “Where have you looked, Dick?”
“I’ve done the rounds of all the hospitals and the medical fraternity generally. I even tried the AMA, but their records are confidential... wouldn’t give me the time of day. I’ve also got a contact in the Health Department who looked up staff records on the computer for me. Nothing!” His face was grim, and he paused, pondering.
“What about other state government departments who may need the services of a medical practitioner?” Henry asked. “He has to be in the system somewhere.”
“Yeah, that’s right, mate. Leave it with me.” Dick paused, a small smile flickering at the corners of his virtually non-existent lips. “There was one thing I did discover about our doctor friend. In the past, it seems he had a little flirtation with drugs and his license was revoked for three years. That’s why he found it difficult to find employment in the private sector.”
“Aha, that could be something, Dick. Keep trying will you, mate? We need him desperately.” Henry sensed by the look on Dick’s face that finding Dr Simpson would be no small feat
“Don’t worry, Henry. I’ll find him.” He changed the subject. “What’s next for you?”
Henry shot him an irritated glance. “At the moment, we’re in the process of trying to access Jim Rankin’s medical file at Pukka Correctional centre. But of course the bastards won’t let us have it will they, even though we have Jim’s consent in writing. The Corrective Services Department and International Corrections claim the medical records of inmates are confidential.”
“What are you going to do?” He leaned forward in his chair.
“Apply to the State Ombudsman who is another of Lawson’s political appointments.” He shrugged. “If I don’t have success there, I’ll take them to court.”
***
With Henry’s rejection of Justice Barton and the Queensland Law Society, his everyday bread and butter briefs slowly dried up, even the few passed on by his previous practice. A deterioration in finances could not have come at a worse time. He needed the ongoing work to help pay for costs associated with the Rankin case, as well as the day to day outlays of conducting a law practice. His financial situation had become insecure, to say the least.
Looking up from his evening meal, he found Elaine staring at him intently. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
She hesitated for a few moments. “I know you’re worried over the reduced number of briefs coming our way, Henry. Would it help if you cut my hours?”
As always, the sincerity in her eyes moved him. He could have reached over and touched her. “No, sweetheart, and thank you for the offer.” He swallowed. “Reducing your hours wouldn’t make much difference to the overall financial position of the practice. I mean, I still have to pay the rent, the telephone bills, and the electricity. Anyway.” He grinned. “I need you at the office, don’t I? Don’t worry, something will turn up.”
***
Arriving at the office the following morning, Elaine found a well groomed woman aged in her mid-fifties waiting in the corridor. “Good morning.” She opened brightly, with a glowing smile of welcome. “Can we help you?”
“Is Mr. Flanagan in?” Pursing her thin lips, the woman looked down her beaked nose at Elaine.
“Yes, he’ll just be a few minutes,” Elaine explained. “He stopped off to buy a newspaper. Is there anything I can do to help you?” she asked as she beckoned the woman to follow her into the office.
“No, I don’t think so.” The tone was dismissive.
In spite of the woman’s overbearing manner, bordering on rudeness, Elaine remained on her best behavior. We need as many clients as we can get. Even the rude ones. “May I have your name, please?” she asked pleasantly.
“Emily Atkins, from the Prisoner’s Aid Society.”
At that moment, Henry strode through the door. The woman rose to her feet and gave him a strained smile as she held out her hand. Elaine made the introductions.
“I’m sorry I don’t have an appointment to see you, Mr. Flanagan,” she began. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” She looked sideways over her prominent nose at Elaine.
“Yes, of course. Come this way,” he replied politely, pointing to the door of his private office. Before entering, he looked back at Elaine and screwed up his nose, making her giggle.
***
Henry pointed to a straight backed chair in front of his desk. “Now, what can I do for you Ms. Atkins?”
“Miss Atkins if you don’t mind, Mr. Flanagan.” She removed a thin manila file from a black leather briefcase at her feet. “I’ll come straight to the point. The Prisoner’s Aid Society of Queensland wishes to offer financial assistance in the Rankin case.”
Henry couldn’t believe his ears. “Financial assistance?”
“Yes, Mr. Flanagan.” She again pursed her lips officiously. “We are well aware your practice is bereft of legal briefs at the moment.” She looked at him impassively. “We have no wish to see the James Rankin civil action dropped simply because you don’t have the financial means to pursue the case to its conclusion,” she said in a haughty manner.
Henry’s cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. He rose from his chair to glare down at the woman trying to belittle him. “We aren’t in the poorhouse yet, Miss Atkins, and I don’t appreciate you or your organisation’s condescending attitude toward my legal practice. In fact,” his voice rose angrily, “we’ll see the Rankin case to its conclusion without you.”
Henry’s outburst had little effect on Emily Atkins, who remained seated in the straight backed chair. Her eyes glinted through narrow slits. “Mr. Flanagan,” she began in an even tone. “I was merely pointing out the facts to you. There was never any intent on my, or the Prisoners Aid Society, to insult you or your firm. Our first consideration is to the prisoner, James Rankin, who has suffered so grievously under our present correctional services policy,” she added stiffly. “Our intention is to assist him in this matter.”
“Then I strongly suggest that in your dealings with me or my administrative assistant, Elaine Slater, you adopt a less pompous attitude. I see enough of that in the court
system, if you don’t mind.” Watching her face turn red, Henry changed the subject. “Well, how much assistance are we talking about?”
Emily Atkins checked the file. “The Prisoner’s Aid Society is prepared to cover the bulk of your legal fees and a portion of the associated costs.” She emphasised each word. “However, there are some strings attached, Mr. Flanagan.”
“There always is where organisations such as yours are concerned, Miss Atkins.” He sighed, shaking his head. “What’s the catch?” He slumped down in his chair and leaned back.
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Mr. Flanagan,” she said stiffly tilting her head back. To Henry, it seemed as if her long nose positively quivered. “This particular case is attracting considerable publicity in the media, not only here in Queensland, but also in the southern states. And it will attract even more during the actual court proceedings. It’s an opportunity for our organisation to bring Queensland’s brutal jail conditions to the attention of the general public.”
“And precisely how will you do that?” Henry knew the answer as soon as he asked the question.
“Through you of course, Mr. Flanagan.” She read from the file. “Every time you’re interviewed by the media, you will raise the plight of prisoners and their families under our present system.”
Henry shook his head. “Look Miss Atkins, I’ve had many, many dealings with men and women of all descriptions who are serving time in jail. They come from a wide variety of socioeconomic backgrounds. The majority, I’m afraid to say, deserve to be there. So please don’t give me the bleeding heart approach.”
“I’m certainly doing nothing of the sort, Mr. Flanagan,” she retorted. “The Prisoner’s Aid Society of Queensland is more concerned with the treatment of inmates once they’ve been incarcerated.” A look of disgust filled her bird-like features. “Just look at the privatisation of our prison system. Overseas companies, such as International Correctional Services, are simply in the prison business for the profits they can make for their shareholders. They’ve savagely cut staffing levels to the point individual prisoners cannot be afforded the protection they need and deserve.”
The tiny hairs on the back of Henry’s neck rose straight up and his head snapped toward his visitor. “Do you keep records on any of this?” A smile of anticipation played at the corners of his mouth.
“Of course.”
“Good, we’ll need them.” He reclined in his chair and chewed thoughtfully on the end of his favorite gold pen for a moment. He made a note before looking up. “Anything else?”
“No, I don’t think so.” She reached for her briefcase.
“Good, I’ll expect a check for ten thousand dollars by close of business on Friday. Good morning.”
Elaine sidled into his office once the woman was gone. “A client?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes!” He replied with a broad grin. “Miss Bignose represents the Prisoner’s Aid Society of Queensland and they are going to back us financially in the Rankin case.”
“That’s great, Henry.” Her radiant smile began to fade. “What’s the catch?”
He chuckled. “There are no flies on you, sweetheart.” He winked at her. “All I have to do is mention certain aspects of prison conditions when I’m interviewed by various media organisations. And I don’t really mind doing that. After all, I won’t be telling any lies, will I?”
Chapter Thirteen
“So that bastard, Flanagan, has applied to the Ombudsman for access to Rankin’s medical file, Phillip.” It was a statement by the Premier Lawson, not a question.
The men sitting each side of him couldn’t help noticing his garish appearance had changed little since their meeting two days previously. He wore another checked suit, complimented by a tasteless bright pink shirt and spotted tie.
“Yes, Premier. What do you think we should do about it?” The immaculately dressed state Attorney General, Phillip Marshall, removed his spectacles and began polishing them.
“Give it to the bastard.” A sly grin broke across Lawson’s narrow lips.
“Give it to him?” The treasurer, Lionel Joury, was aghast.
“Yeah, that’s right Lionel, give it to him.” Lawson continued to grin slyly. “We know if the Ombudsman disallows Flanagan’s request, he’ll just take the matter to the Supreme Court, even the bloody High Court, if he has to. But what if we give him a medical file that contains no detail of Rankin’s actual attack or his injuries?” His lips twisted into a crooked smile. “What can our Labor friend do then?”
“Yes, of course, Paul. Well done.” Joury’s mood brightened. “We’ll simply give him a dummy file. No one will know the difference. Well done, Paul.”
***
Later that same evening, as he stood waiting in the same conference room, Premier Lawson approached the drinks tray to splash a liberal helping of Johnny Walker over the ice in his whiskey glass. He sat, slowly positioning himself in a brown leather armchair, and gazed out the window at the Brisbane skyline. Reaching for a box of Cuban cigars on the coffee table near his elbow, he removed one and lifted it to his nostrils, savoring its aroma, before snipping off one end with a solid metal clipper. Taking another sip of whiskey, he lifted a cheap lighter and lit the cigar. As smoke wafted toward the ceiling, his eyes narrowed malevolently. He smiled to himself. Legal action against the state government and International Correctional Services? I’ll beat that bastard Flanagan, one way or another. Who does he think he is? Should Flanagan’s legal action be successful, the floodgates would open, and Queensland couldn’t afford the consequences of future litigation taken on behalf of ex-prisoners, claiming to have been bashed or raped while serving time in one of the state’s correctional facilities. Lawson, however, was driven by other motives. Used to having his own way, he desperately needed to best Henry Flanagan.
He heard the light knock, and stubbed out his cigar. He rose and drew back the door to greet the man who would carry out a very important task for him.
“Come in, Inspector.” The Premier extended his hand, taken in a limp grip by the tall thickset man who’d entered the room. “You’re right on time.”
“I always try to be punctual, sir.” His tone was impassive.
Lawson pointed to a chair at the conference table. “Take a seat.” He sat opposite his visitor.
“Well, Inspector Malone, how are things in our Police Department’s Special Branch?”
“Excellent, sir.”
He gave his guest his most charming smile. “Are you still adding to the secret files on members of the Opposition?” Lawson ignored media allegations that Special Branch operated as his personal police force.
“Of course, sir.”
“Bob, how long have we known each other?”
“A considerable number of years, sir.” Robert Malone was unaccustomed to being treated so civilly.
“And you’ve received high level promotions under my government, right?” The Premier’s tone had become more business-like.
“Yes sir, that’s right, and I’m very grateful.”
“You are no doubt well aware there is a vacancy for an Assistant Commissioner coming up next year, Bob?”
“Yes, Premier.”
“And our current Police Commissioner retires the following year.” Lawson arched one eyebrow. “You know, I always thought you’d make a first rate police commissioner, Bob.”
“Thank you, sir.” He gave a short explosive laugh.
Lawson thought it time to move on to the matter at hand. “In the past, Special Branch has been of tremendous assistance to the government and for that I personally thank you.” No reply, he cleared his throat. “Things have happened to various opponents of the government. For example, those bloody greenies who were taking us to court for the illegal clearing of government controlled national parks. Drugs were found on a nu
mber of the troublemakers and they were subsequently convicted by the courts.” He grinned knowingly. “They even had the gall to claim the drugs had been planted by officers from Special Branch who had infiltrated their organisation.” Lawson chuckled to himself.
“Yes, sir. That particular operation went very well, even if I say so myself.”
“And what about that wheat farmer bastard who threatened me with legal action? Claims I cheated him out of a property he owned on the Darling Downs. The poor man ended up in hospital with a number of fractures to his arms and legs.” He feigned sympathy. “Said he had an unfortunate accident and withdrew his claims. All on the quiet.”
“Yes, Premier. Another one of our successes.” Robert Malone answered uncomfortably.
Paul Lawson coughed, again clearing his throat. “Bob, you’re no doubt aware of the current legal action being taken against the Department of Corrective Services and ICS by an inmate named Rankin who was supposedly bashed and raped at Pukka?” The Premier’s eyes riveted on Malone’s.
“Yes, of course, Premier. I’ve read about it in the newspapers.”
“You can appreciate, Bob, that the state government cannot allow this action to be successful. Queensland couldn’t afford the subsequent claims that would flood the legal system.”