A Case in Question

by Herb Hamlet

  Walter Graham shot Henry an irritated glance as he rose. “Your Honour, the state of Queensland objects to changing the name of the Plaintiff in this case. It is far too late for such a radical step.”

  “I strongly disagree.” Henry remained standing. “The issues are exactly the same as they were when James Rankin was the Plaintiff. That being so, the state’s and ICS’s defense is not prejudiced in any way.”

  Justice Peter Barrow looked down at the state government’s barrister. “Your objection is overruled, Mr. Graham. Indeed, I must agree with Mr. Flanagan. Since the issues are precisely the same, the state’s case should not be hindered in any foreseeable way.”

  “But there are no witnesses to the offense, Your Honour.” His tone gave an indication of Graham’s frustration. “Surely the pursuance of this case would simply be a waste of the court’s time and resources.”

  Justice Barrow pursed his lips as he addressed Henry. “If it is found that the court’s time has been wasted, costs will be awarded accordingly. Do you understand, Mr. Flanagan?”

  “As the courts pleases, Your Honour.” Henry bowed.

  ***

  “Still fuckin’ proceeding with the case. I don’t believe it.” The Premier slammed the palm of his hand down heavily on the surface of his desk. “How the fuck can they proceed? Rankin’s dead, Phillip. He’s fuckin’ dead!”

  “Yes, we all know that, Premier.” The state Attorney General winced at the colourful language. “Unfortunately, his wife is the new Plaintiff.”

  “Shit!” Lawson exploded. “Well, how do we stand? Can they win?”

  “Not a chance, Premier,” Marshall smugly replied. “Not without witnesses.”

  “What about that fuckin’ doctor?” Lawson leaned forward in his chair.

  “He’s tucked away where no one can get at him.” He gave a short harsh laugh. “Even ASIO couldn’t find him.”

  “Excellent.” A malevolent smile lit up his face. “Just to be sure, we’ll assign Chief Justice Slater to the case.”

  “Flanagan will have a fit if you do that, Paul. You know that.” Marshall knew his appointment would create problems.

  “Let the Labor bastard have a fit,” Lawson spat. “The Queensland Government appoints judges to cases, not that Labor bastard, Flanagan.” His fleshless thin lips twisted into a snarl.

  ***

  CCO Weston never heard the sound of a visitor entering his office. He simply detected the presence of someone else in the room. He looked up a little startled. A tall thickset man, dressed in a two piece dark grey suit stood in front of his desk.

  “Shit you gave me a fright. Who the bloody hell are you?” he demanded, although instinctively he knew. A copper.

  “I’m Inspector Malone from Special Branch.” He held out his hand.

  “Have a seat, Inspector.” Releasing his visitor grip, Weston pointed to a swivel chair to the side of his desk. “What can I do for you?” He slumped into his own leather chair.

  “You’ve been subpoenaed to appear at the Rankin case?” Malone folded his arms.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” He shrugged. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’ve heard on the grapevine that you feel sorry for Rankin’s wife.”

  “Yes, I do feel a bit sorry for her. So what?” Weston said defensively. “But, don’t worry, I’ll be doing my best to support my employer.”

  “Even where Rankin’s assault is concerned?” The Inspector leaned forward in his chair. “What harm would it do to admit he was assaulted in Pukka?” He shrugged. “After all, it happens all the bloody time. And it may help his wife.”

  “Don’t go all soft on us, Mr. Weston.” The inspector’s tone came with a tinge of impatience. “Look, I think when you give evidence, it would be preferable if you just say James Rankin was never assaulted. Do I make myself clear?” He rose and placed his hands on the desk.

  “You don’t tell me what to do, you prick.” Weston glared up at him.

  “You’ll do as you’re told, my friend, or details included in a certain Department of Defence file will be made available to a number of media outlets.” There was ice in his voice. “The media release will contain details of your Army service, if you get what I mean.”

  Weston felt the colour rush out of his face and shrank back into himself. “You rotten bastard.” He pointed to the door. “Get the fuck out of here.”

  ***

  When Elaine told Henry of her former husband’s appointment to the Rankin case, he looked amused. “I thought the rotten sods would pull something like this and I’m fully prepared for them.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a couple of sheets of paper, holding them out to her. “One is my prepared news release, and the other has the names of the newspapers, television stations and radio outlets I want you to fax the release to. I’ve even included the shock-jocks on talk back radio.” He shuddered. “Much as I abhor them.”

  ***

  The next morning, the daily newspapers and talk back radio programs were promoting the news item, in which Henry seriously questioned Justice Slater’s impartiality to preside over the Rankin case. News outlets identified Slater as the judge who’d had Henry disbarred, and that his former wife was a member of the defense barrister’s staff. It was alleged that Henry Flanagan had been forced to come to his staff member’s rescue when Chief Justice Slater attempted to assault her in her own home. By evening, the story had become the main news item on television and current affairs programs.

  The phones at the Flanagan office ran hot for hours, with both Elaine and Henry taking calls. On answering one particular call, for the first few moments, there was only silence. Then Henry heard the voice he knew so well and hated so much.

  “You unprofessional bastard, Flanagan.” The tone in Justice Slater’s voice was venomous “You’ll be disbarred for life over this. And I’ll personally ensure you are.”

  “You’re not pushing a woman around here, Chief Justice Slater.” Henry emphasised the name so Elaine would realise who was on the other end of the line. “Blind Freddie would argue you should never have accepted the Rankin appointment in the first place, due to a considerable conflict of interest on your part and your inability to be impartial when hearing the case.” Henry’s face set as hard as stone. “The press release I forwarded to the media was just a factual account of the situation, and there are a number of witnesses who will support my claims in any court, should you wish to pursue the matter in that forum. However, I don’t think you’re stupid enough to do that. I’m sorry to say there’s nothing anyone can do. Not even the Bar’s disciplinary committee would take action over this. You know that.”

  “You’d stoop to anything, Flanagan,” he spat.

  Henry started to say something, then controlled himself. “No Slater, not anything. I could never hit a woman.”

  “Bastard!”

  The receiver was slammed down in Henry’s ear and he knew he’d won the day.

  Elaine moved over to wrap her arms around him. “I’m so proud of you, Henry.”

  He hugged her back. Speaking with Slater had made him vow to protect her all over again. “How much doth I detest that man?” How could he have hurt her? She’s so beautiful and wonderful. I can’t believe she’s mine, all mine. Even though they’d made love the previous evening, he knew they would make love again that night.

  “Don’t think about him. I don’t anymore.” She gazed up at him and he felt on top of the world.

  The late evening news carried the story about a change of judicial appointment in the Rankin case. With so much public scrutiny, the case would now be heard by Justice Peter Barrow who had allowed the change in the Plaintiff’s name.

  Henry felt relieved by the appointment, as Barrow had a reputation for fairness and impartiality. But I’ll still need to be on guar
d throughout the upcoming case. It’s not beyond Premier Lawson to apply pressure on Barrow to achieve the outcome he wants.

  ***

  On the first morning of the case, Elaine accompanied Henry as he walked from his law practice to the Brisbane court complex. She thought he looked very distinguished in his flowing black robe and wig. Her mind, however, turned to other things. “Have you heard from Dick?” She took his arm.

  “No, not yet, sweetheart. I’m afraid it’ll probably take some time yet.” She sensed by the grim look on his face that finding Dr Simpson would be no small feat. “Dick only flew to Cairns late yesterday afternoon. He was to charter a small plane this morning to take him to the Aboriginal reserve in question. It’s virtually at the tip of Cape York. It’ll be some time before we hear from him - bugger it.” He growled. “If we are to succeed, we need that doctor.”

  “And Dick doesn’t even know if the doctor is there, does he?” She said dejectedly.

  “Don’t remind me. I’m pinning all our hopes on this hunch of Dick’s.” He came to a brief halt. “God, I hope he’s right.”

  “So do I, Henry. So do I.” They began walking again. “What about applying for a continuance until his return?”

  “The court wouldn’t allow it,” he grunted. “Not after my previous assurances before Justice Barrow.”

  ***

  Under a cloudless sky, the tropical sun bore down mercilessly on the small North Queensland Aboriginal reserve. At mid-day there was barely a breath of air to relieve the stifling heat and humidity that forced many of its inhabitants indoors until late in the afternoon. On the horizon, heat-waves shimmered across the mirrored surface of the Torres Strait waters, barely lapping at the mangrove infested shore-line of the Aboriginal settlement. Cool sea-breezes had apparently deserted the small community for some time.

  Dick Argent stepped from the air-conditioned interior of the small plane, and heat hit him like a white hot brick wall, his clothes soon saturated with perspiration. Drawing the wide-brimmed akubra hat down to cover his eyes, he turned to the pilot. “This will probably take an hour or so, Geoff.” He tried to swallow but couldn’t. His mouth felt bone dry.

  “That’s all right mate,” the pilot’s voice followed him. “I charge by the minute anyway.” He grinned cheekily, removing a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his sweat soaked shirt. He leaned against the aircraft while Dick strode toward the settlement.

  As he approached the Aboriginal community’s common store, he was approached by three middle-aged ebony skinned men. The elder of the three eyed him suspiciously. “This Aboriginal reserve,” he stated in a loud voice. “What you doin’ here, whitefella?”

  He reached into a pocket of his shorts and removed an official looking government form. “I have a permit to come here, mate.” He held it in the air. “Dick Argent is my name.” He gave the three local men his most friendly smile and offered his hand. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” His eyes moved from one face to the next. “I need to speak with your doctor.”

  “What this fella’s name?” their spokesman asked.

  “Simpson. Doctor Reginald Simpson.” Dick emphasised each word.

  The three Aborigines looked at each and shrugged. The leader shook his head. “Nah, no Doctor Simpson here, fella. Name of Doctor that come here, his name, Smith.”

  “How long has Doctor Smith been practicing here?” The name Smith had hit a nerve.

  “Not long at all, fella. Few weeks maybe.” He shrugged. “Like I say, new doctor. But he good doctor.” He gave Dick an odd look as though wondering why the visitor would want to see their doctor. “People in community like him.”

  Nervous anticipation swirled in the pit of his stomach. “Could you show me where he is? As I said before, the matter is urgent.”

  “No problem, fella. You come with us.” The general spokesman pointed up the dusty unsealed road.

  He followed the three men as they slowly ambled through the small settlement. Along the way, they met friends and stopped to chat about the fish they’d caught and the mud crabs they’d found in the pots that morning. A few spoke in their Aboriginal dialect, Dick incapable of understanding a single word as he continued to wait, wondering when they would move on again.

  The adults may have been wary, but the children were all smiles for the stranger. Dick had other more pressing matters on his mind to pay heed to them. He needed to find the doctor and interview him, however his Aboriginal guides were in no hurry.

  ***

  At last, they arrived at the far end of the settlement. The leader came to a halt and pointed in the direction of a lowset, white weather board building, displaying a prominent red cross at its entrance. “That the clinic. He be there.”

  “Thanks fellas.” Dick again shook hands with each man.

  Entering the doorway, he found himself in a waiting room. An old Aboriginal woman sat in one corner reading and a man and a woman holding a small child were seated opposite her on a dilapidated bamboo couch with ripped cushions. The child looked distressed and obviously in considerable pain as he pressed a hand to his right ear. An ancient ceiling fan labored above them, groaning in protest at every turn as the blades cut through the heavy, oppressing air, hardly creating a ripple in the stifling room. As he took a seat in one of the vacant chairs, the other occupants of the room eyed him with curiosity. He kept checking his watch, drumming his fingers on his thigh. The door to the treatment room finally opened and a man dressed in a white coat accompanied by a teenager, emerged. Stepping into the waiting room, the doctor’s attention was immediately drawn to Dick, who rose to his feet. “Doctor Simpson?” More a statement than a question.

  The middle-aged man swallowed. “No, my name is Smith.” The colour drained from his face.

  “I need to speak with you urgently.” Dick stepped forward.

  The elderly Aboriginal woman lifted her head from the magazine. “You wait your turn, white fella,” she snapped. “We,” she pointed to the other three. “Been waitin’ here long time. This child in pain.”

  Dick’s face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ll wait until the doctor is available.”

  The wizened old woman nodded. “You betcha will.” She stood and followed the doctor into the treatment room. They emerged a few minutes later, and the doctor’s eyes couldn’t meet Dick’s as he beckoned to the child and his parents.

  Dick tapped his feet impatiently as he waited in the room’s suffocating atmosphere. He rose and walked to the door, the humidity too much to bear. He needed some fresh air. Just as he resumed his seat under the ceiling fan, the youngster and his parents appeared.

  “Make sure he takes these tablets as directed on the label.” The doctor pronounced each word slowly and deliberately, making sure they understood. “The ear infection should be gone in about four to five days.” He handed the mother a small bottle. The family walked out the door and the doctor gazed around the room as though looking for an escape route. A hint of panic filled in his eyes.

  He swallowed nervously as Dick rose to his feet. “Doctor Simpson.” The words were uttered as if there was only one answer.

  “No, I told you. My name is Smith.” He licked his lips.

  “Bullshit it is,” Dick shot back. “In fact, I’d go as far as to bet my balls that you’re Doctor Reginald Simpson.” He kept up the pressure. “Although I don’t have an actual photograph of you, a number of your medical colleagues have provided me with a complete description.” He eyeballed the medico. “You can’t deny it,” he said softly, enticingly.

  “All right, all right.” Visibly unnerved, he used a handkerchief to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead. “You’d better come in.” He led Dick into a sparsely furnished treatment room and slumped down into a battered leather chair. His pale pallor betrayed his nervousness. Dick watched him place his elbows
on a table and lean forward, his head down. Perspiration broke out on his forehead, the sweat-beads trickling into his eyebrows. Tiny droplets soon dripped onto the lenses of his horn-rimmed spectacles, perched precariously at the end of his prominent nose. He looked up at Dick through weary eyes. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to return to Brisbane with me and give evidence in the Judith Rankin case against the state government and International Correctional Services.” Dick watched the expression of shock spread over his face.

  “Judith Rankin? What’s she got to do with it? I thought the civil action was being taken by James Rankin.”

  “He’s dead. Didn’t you know?”

  “No!” He looked startled. “That’s terrible. The poor man.” He hesitated. “How did he die?”

  “The state is claiming he committed suicide, but we think he was murdered. In fact, we are positive he was.”

  “My God! They got at him.” His lips quivered.

  “Who?” He demanded.

  “Those prisoners who did that terrible thing to him, of course.” He shot him an uneasy look.