The Story of Danny Dunn

by Bryce Courtenay

  Danny’s ‘heroic’ role in the inquest was played up by the media for all it was worth. As a story it had all the elements of a pantomime: a proper villain who was exploiting the poor and the helpless, the strongest possible suggestion of a corrupt system that was aiding and abetting him, and a noble hero who was prepared to tilt at the tallest windmills and had elected to do so at no charge.

  In fact, Danny was made in media heaven: he was a war hero who sported a rakish eye patch and whose face, showing clear marks of suffering at the hands of the Japanese, drew immediate sympathy. He dressed like a prince and yet he was clearly a man of the people, with a set of social convictions they could readily admire. The usual dirt-diggers found none. His wife was clever and pretty and plainly her own person, a one-time lieutenant colonel in Australian intelligence and soon to be one of only a small number of the country’s female academics to have been awarded her doctorate. Somebody leaked the news that Bullnose Daintree, one of the victims of the fire, had been given permanent refuge in the Dunn home, which, despite Danny’s attempts at clarification, only increased his heroic status.

  The story of the twins out rowing with their father on the harbour four mornings a week also gave Danny the imprimatur of caring father and family man, and to Brenda’s joy the Women’s Weekly did an entire article praising the virtues of the high-profile lawyer and the academic who still managed to be ideal parents to their twin daughters.

  Nor did the media neglect the twins in the scramble for more material. Gabrielle was portrayed as a violinist who showed early promise and Samantha was being spoken of as potentially the next Dawn Fraser, ready for the 1966 Commonwealth Games and then the 1968 Olympics, when she would be seventeen years old.

  While basing any predictions on the pre-teen talents of either twin was drawing a pretty long bow, this didn’t stop the newspapers and magazines from speculating, much to the increasing annoyance of their mother, particularly when she caught Sam cutting out articles from magazines and pasting them into her school scrapbook.

  ‘Samantha, what are you doing?’ Helen asked sharply.

  ‘Fixing my scrapbook, Mummy,’ Samantha replied, surprised at the tone of her mother’s voice.

  ‘Not with that scuttlebutt, darling,’ Helen said, realising that Sam was unaware of what she was doing.

  ‘What’s scuttlebutt?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Gossip, tittle-tattle, rubbish, that sort of thing.’

  ‘But why can’t I paste it into my book?’

  ‘Because what it says is simply not true about any of us. The journalists exaggerate to make a good story. For instance, comparing you to Dawn Fraser is nonsense, it’s —’

  ‘No it’s not, Mummy. I’m going to win three gold medals just like her.’

  ‘Darling, you don’t know that.’

  Sam looked at her mother, her expression shocked. ‘Yes I do. I promised Sammy!’ She pointed to the article already pasted into her scrapbook. ‘They’re only saying what’s going to happen.’

  ‘Samantha, it’s very good to have ambition, but one thing we don’t do is count our chickens before they hatch, and in this case you haven’t even laid the eggs.’

  ‘I have! I have so! My coach says I’m doing the same times as Dawn did when she was eleven, and I’m only nine! So that’s fair!’

  ‘Darling, Dawn didn’t go around at ten or eleven telling everyone she was going to win three gold medals; she just went and did it.’ Helen made a mental note to have a quiet word with the twins’ swimming coach.

  ‘Well, so shall I!’

  ‘Samantha, I want you to take that article out of your scrapbook at once. You’re getting much too big for your boots. In eight years’ time, that’s nearly as long again as you’ve been alive, you may get your chance to prove you’re right, but until that time we need to be modest.’

  Sam looked again at her mother. ‘You just don’t understand, Mummy! I’m simply not the modest type!’

  Helen was hard put to maintain a straight face. ‘Perhaps you should take a leaf out of Gabrielle’s book. She doesn’t boast about the violin, does she now?’

  ‘Mummy, that’s silly! There’s nothing to boast about! The kids at school put their hands over their ears when she plays; doesn’t matter how nice she sounds. They’re calling her Catgut. As a matter of fact she’s going through a very hard time and I’m helping her. I’ve told her not to worry, her time will come. And besides, I’m going to give her one of my gold medals!’

  Danny might have expected a downturn in business in the period before the Riley trial. After all, he was being touted as the lawyer who had exposed government corruption, finally bringing into the open what everyone already knew. Those colluding with or benefiting from corruption were most often from the big end of town, and not necessarily even Labor supporters, but businessmen are, after all, pragmatists, and seize what opportunities they can. Supporting Danny might have been foolish but there was an election coming up and they might just have been hedging their bets. Whatever the reason, Danny and Franz were offered more work than they could possibly handle, and Danny’s reputation amongst the criminal class had, paradoxically, grown.

  As for Gareth Lachlan Riley, the coroner’s findings began an inexorable process that would lead to his ultimate destruction. He and his wife were found to be the sole directors of the Double Bay Syndicate, the other members from the protestant social elite having proved much too savvy to agree to sit on the board. The business had been highly profitable and their original contributions had long since been returned with a substantial profit. As Franz put it, it was time to cut their losses and head for the Bellevue Hill(s), the exclusive suburb on the rise above Double Bay where most of them had residences.

  Every door was suddenly closed to Riley. The brown-envelope mob big and small – municipal councillors, members of parliament, ministers and senior public servants – refused to accept his calls. His wife, Kathleen, resigned from the Black and White Ball Committee, as well as from numerous other high-profile charity organisations.

  Riley had committed the ultimate offence of being found out. Fanned by the righteous flames of the new talkback radio, television and the newspapers, former recipients of Riley’s largesse now looked blank when his name was mentioned, and silently and collectively decided he was to be abandoned to a fate none of them could alter even if they’d wanted to – the usual escape clause for those who routinely compromise their principles. A reinvigorated police investigation quickly provided a damning prosecution brief for the committal proceedings. Six months after the coroner’s inquiry, Riley was arraigned to face committal proceedings in the Darlinghurst Magistrates Court. The senior magistrate decided that a prima facie case had been established on a raft of charges, the most serious of these being manslaughter.

  Several days before the hearing was due to begin, Danny received a call from Steel Hammer, Riley’s barrister.

  ‘How are you, dear boy?’

  Danny, slightly taken aback, recovered quickly. ‘Well, I can’t say this isn’t a surprise, Steel. To what do I owe this honour?’

  ‘Thought you might like to have lunch. The Australian, tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m pretty busy, mate, and it’s awfully short notice. Is it important?’ Danny said, regaining the initiative.

  Steel chuckled. ‘Let me put it this way: my client wants to make a gesture – I think, an important one.’

  ‘Riley?’

  ‘Yes, we go to court in three days. I must say I’m relieved to see the court hasn’t appointed you as prosecutor. Young bloke called Wilder, heard of him?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘We’re submitting a not guilty plea.’

  ‘Hmm, no comment, except to say young doesn’t necessarily mean dumb.’

  Steel Hammer laughed. ‘What are you saying – you don’t like our chances?’

  ‘I wouldn�
�t want to venture an opinion; besides, I’m not a betting man. My business with Riley is over.’

  ‘Well, no, actually. I think he has one final piece of business he wishes me to conduct with you on his behalf, hence the lunch.’

  ‘Okay. The Australian? That the golf club at Rose Bay or the Australia club?’

  ‘The golf club.’

  Danny chuckled. ‘I’m a tyke, mate. You sure it’s kosher?’ he said cleverly, bringing a Jewish reference in as well.

  Hammer sighed theatrically. ‘Oh well, I’m sure it will be perfectly fine. I guess there are one or two papists on the kitchen and dining-room staff.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be too sure, we’re usually fairly particular where we work,’ Danny replied.

  Hammer laughed. ‘One o’clock then, parking lot is at the back of the club house. Look forward to seeing you. Cheerio then, old son.’

  Franz was away finalising a property deal in Orange so Danny had no one to talk to about the luncheon appointment at the dreaded Australian Golf Club. But at dinner that night he mentioned the upcoming trial to Helen.

  ‘Lucky he didn’t get charged with murder,’ Helen said.

  ‘No, unlucky. This magistrate’s obviously after him.’

  ‘What do you mean, darling? Isn’t it the lesser charge?’ Helen asked, curious.

  ‘Juries are more likely to convict on a manslaughter charge than on murder and it carries a maximum sentence of life imprisonment. Besides, you have to prove intent for murder, which would not be possible in this case. Eight dead in a fire isn’t going to get him off lightly. He’d be better off pleading guilty. Fighting this one would be foolish. One look at the photographs, particularly of Sammy after his attempt to save those poor people, and any sympathy vote is gone.’

  ‘If you say it would be foolish to plead not guilty, why wouldn’t his barrister advise him not to do so?’

  ‘Can’t say. Perhaps Riley chose to ignore the advice of Hammer, who, by the way, called me today.’

  ‘What – Riley’s barrister? I should have thought you’d be the last person he’d want to speak to.’

  ‘Well, yes, I admit it came as a surprise. He’s invited me to have lunch with him tomorrow. You’ll never guess where.’

  Helen laughed. ‘Next time give me a hard question. The Australian Gold Club, of course!’

  ‘You bugger!’

  ‘I’m not just a pretty face, Daniel Corrib Dunn. Whatever for?’

  ‘That’s just it, I have absolutely no idea.’

  At lunch the following day Steel Hammer seemed relaxed and his usual urbane self. He was surprised when Danny declined the offer of a good bottle of red, but went ahead and ordered it anyway. Danny ordered a soda, lime and bitters in a tall glass. Hammer clutched his wine and began. ‘Before I say anything else, Danny, it would be remiss of me not to say what a fine demolition job you did on my client at the coroner’s inquiry, speaking purely professionally, of course.’

  ‘Of course . . . and thanks,’ Danny replied. ‘No hard feelings, then?’

  ‘Good lord, no, dear boy. All a part of our profession. Sometimes the law is an ass and sometimes it makes an ass out of us. The thing is, my client was assured it would be all right on the day.’

  ‘Lawless from the attorney-general’s department?’ Danny ventured.

  ‘I see you’re already a step ahead of me, old son.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there are nicer human beings on the planet.’

  ‘Quite. Since the inquiry, Riley has discovered the friends he thought he had in high places are no longer taking his calls. Once things blew up they didn’t want a bar of him.’

  ‘That’s understandable. He’s not exactly flavour of the month.’ Danny paused. ‘Steel, I’m afraid I don’t give a toss. My history with Riley goes way back. If you’re looking for sympathy you’ve come to the wrong man.’

  ‘Oh dear no. You’re quite wrong. In fact my client, in a sense anyway, wishes to show remorse.’

  ‘Huh?’ Danny was stunned. ‘Are you joking? Riley and remorse – that’s an impossible juxtaposition, an oxymoron.’

  ‘Well, of course, the remorse does come with a sting in the tail, though I hasten to say not one intended for you.’

  ‘Riley realises he can’t undo the past, but he wants to get back at the people who happily took his money and then, as happily, left him in the shit to fend for himself.’

  ‘Who? His fellow shareholders? He’s got Buckley’s. No, the brown-envelope mob. It extends all the way from the bottom rung to the top of the ladder,’ replied Hammer.

  ‘And you’re not going to make this a part of your defence?’

  Steel Hammer sipped at his wine. ‘If the prosecutor – Wilder – has half a brain, you know he’ll make it difficult to introduce this information as admissible evidence in the context of a manslaughter charge.’

  ‘You’re right. And the media, they’d lap it up?’

  ‘Yes, we thought of that, but to what purpose? The media already have their villain. It’s not going to help Riley if he’s seen as dobbing in his corrupt mates.’

  ‘Does he care?’

  ‘Well, yes. While he wants the material used to the utmost effect, he genuinely wants to apologise, in as much as he can, for the business of Glossy Denmeade’s boots.’

  ‘How do you know about that? He told you?’ Danny said, his surprise obvious.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not sure we – that is, those of us who came back from the camps – would be prepared to accept an apology. I certainly wouldn’t accept one from him.’

  Steel Hammer sighed. ‘Be that as it may, he wants me to give this to you.’ He reached down beside his chair and then handed a large manila envelope to Danny. ‘Open it,’ he instructed.

  Danny withdrew a half-inch-thick wad of foolscap sheets and began to read the top typewritten page. It was immediately apparent what it was, as well as the fifty or so pages that followed. ‘Shit!’ Each of the pages was headed with a name and address followed by dates and amounts but also, surprisingly, bank account numbers in a number of cases. Danny would later do his homework and discover that the fifty people receiving kickbacks extended across the spectrum – housing-commission personnel, police, right up to an assistant commissioner, and various members of the councils in which the eighty or so slum boarding houses were to be found. In addition, the list of politicians included all the local members, as well as the ministers for housing, health and social welfare.

  ‘God, this is dynamite!’

  ‘Riley said I should give it to you. Of course, at this stage it’s only allegations, but he said it will stand up in court. On the last page is a list of witnesses over the eight years.’

  Danny looked at Hammer, bemused. ‘If there are any strings attached, forget it. Why me . . . why of all people give it to me?’

  ‘Well, come to think of it, it’s not a bad choice. You have a reputation for going after the bad guys. You may have brought him undone but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t admire your persistence. Maybe it’s his way of saying he’s sorry, and there are no strings attached. What he did say to me was, “Tell Dunn to use this in any way he likes and I’ll back him up in court. I have a feeling the bastards are going to come after him. Having this list will help.”’ Riley’s barrister paused. ‘I agree, you’ve upset a lot of powerful politicos with this one, Danny.’

  Danny leaned back. ‘Well, whoever would have thought this possible? Tell him thanks.’

  ‘Right then, I recommend the roast beef – they carve it at the table – and the Yorkshire pudding is special,’ Steel Hammer said, unfolding his napkin and reaching over to refill his glass.

  Helen, of course, was most anxious to hear what happened at the lunch and called Danny’s office mid-afternoon, unable to wait any longer. ‘Danny, how’d you go?’ she asked when he came on the
phone.

  Danny pretended not to understand. ‘Go with what? Unusual for you to call in the middle of the afternoon, darling,’ he said, teasing her further.

  ‘Bastard! At lunch?’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Danny, I could cheerfully kill you sometimes! Was it good or bad?’

  ‘Frankly, I’m not sure, but it changes a lot of things . . . but then again, maybe not. Look, I’ll be home early. I’ll tell you then. It’s a bit complicated over the phone. Do you think the twins could stay at Mum’s tonight?’

  ‘What about Samantha’s swimming? Saturday is a big training day.’

  ‘I’ll pick her up at the Hero, 7 a.m. sharp,’ Danny said. ‘Perhaps we could go to dinner. Nothing over the top – Charity’s in Darling Street? The pasta’s great. It’s Friday night, so we’d better book.’

  At Charity’s that night Danny handed the envelope to Helen. ‘Take a squiz at this, darling.’

  ‘Is this what Riley’s barrister gave you?’ Helen asked, accepting the envelope.

  ‘Yeah, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Riley’s pay-off sheets.’

  Helen started to read. ‘Heavens to Betsy! If I wasn’t a lady I’d say, “Jesus!” Half the local council is in on it – Jack O’Shea, deputy mayor.’ She flipped pages looking for more names she recognised. ‘The housing minister and that ingrate O’Hearn, our odious local member; every time I see him he’s got fatter and more oleaginous in his manner. Will you go to the police with this?’

  Danny laughed. ‘Not your best idea, my love. There are at least half a dozen senior officers’ names on that list, including Don Barnes, one of the assistant commissioners.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘There’s an election coming up.’

  ‘So?’

  Danny was silent and Helen said suddenly, ‘Danny, you’re not?’

  ‘Not what?’