CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Randa Abdel-Fattah is the award-winning author of the young adult novels Does My Head Look Big in This?, Ten Things I Hate About Me and Where The Streets Had A Name. Her books have received acclaim around the world. Randa regularly gives talks and workshops at schools and writers’ festivals throughout Australia and around the world.
Randa lives in Sydney with her husband and their two children. She works as a litigation lawyer and is also a human rights activist, appearing on television programs such as the ABC’s First Tuesday Book Club, the ABC’s Q & A, SBS’s Insight and Channel Seven’s Sunrise.
Also by Randa Abdel-Fattah
Does My Head Look Big in This?
Ten Things I Hate About Me
Where the Streets Had a Name
First published 2010 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Copyright © Randa Abdel-Fattah 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
This project has been assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council for the Arts, its arts funding and advisory body.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Abdel-Fattah, Randa.
Noah’s law / Randa Abdel-Fattah.
ISBN 9780330426183 (pbk.)
Responsibility – Fiction.
A823.4
Cover photographs: iStock and www.sxc.hu
Typeset in Minion Pro 11/16pt by Post Pres-Press Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organizations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Noah’s Law
Randa Abdel-Fattah
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To my beautiful husband, Ibrahim
Acknowledgments
There are so many people to thank for supporting me juggle motherhood with my writing and legal career. First and foremost, my family who have all been so generous with their time and encouragement. I want to acknowledge my sensational agent, Sheila Drummond, whose opinion and judgment I value so much. I am blessed to be working with an amazing team at Pan Macmillan: Claire Craig, Joel Naoum, Sue Bobbermein, Cate Paterson. Five years on and I’m still pinching myself. I want to thank Ali for her scrupulous copy-editing and for picking up some really embarrassing typos! I also wish to thank the Australia Council for the Arts for their generous assistance.
Writing a legal thriller whilst still working as a lawyer will inevitably have colleagues wondering if they have inspired any characters or scenes. I can honestly say that any similarities are pure coincidence as I have approached this book as a work of fiction. Having said that, I will admit that the idea for this book occurred to me whilst I was in a team meeting at work. I pretended to be jotting down minutes of the meeting when in actual fact I was plotting this book. Which firm and which meeting is for me to know and for no-one to find out!
Fine. I’ll admit it was an immature thing to do. Childish even. But not stupid.
My dad disagreed.
There was really no need to involve him. I always knew Mr Kenard had low-life tendencies, but calling my dad in for a meeting to discuss my ‘attitude’ was going overboard.
Personally I couldn’t see what the big deal was. The essays were sitting on Mr Kenard’s desk.
Okay, so they were important. Worth eighty percent of our final mark. Well then why did Mr Kenard leave them on his desk when he went to the staffroom to take a phone call? When he knew I was alone in his office waiting for him to quiz me about my alleged (the italics are important) involvement in blocking the staff toilet cistern with tennis balls?
It seemed like an irresistible idea at the time (the essay affair, not the alleged toilet thing, although if I did do it, which I didn’t, I’d have to say that would have been pretty irresistible too). And yes I have admitted the essay thing was immature and childish. But changing the marks was fun and most definitely not stupid.
The essay topic was Explain what you understand by normal body temperature.
London Dicker’s response was Abnormal body temperature is the body’s response to Carla Ricci coming to school on mufti day in a see-through top. In order to maintain normal body temperature, Carla Ricci must not be in sight.
I mean, case closed as far as I’m concerned. The guy deserved the Order of Australia. So of course when I saw a 1/10 on London Dicker’s essay it seemed almost sinful not to celebrate his efforts.
So I added a stroke. One out of ten became seven out of ten.
Not to mention the guy could clearly use a break. For crying out loud, his parents have never even been to London. They work in a factory dipping almonds in sugar so that people at weddings have something to chew on when the conversation gets dull. London figures his parents need to make at least ten million of those almonds to afford half of one airfare. Apparently, naming their kid after the first place on their travel wish list was the next best thing to actually going there.
And I have issues?
Then there was Robyn. Three out of ten became eight
out of ten. It was another act of charity. The girl thinks ‘algebra’ is a Middle Eastern country.
Let’s just say there were several – okay, a large number – of other altered marks, all done with the best of intentions. Everybody deserves a little false hope now and again. Some people also need their egos deflated. That essay by Jade Donovan, with her ‘I don’t have time for people who don’t read the Financial Review’ snobbery, was practically a godsend. Ten out of one hundred with comments in the margin such as ‘SEE ME’ and ‘DISGRACEFUL’ in red pen. Simply beautiful.
Mr Kenard didn’t quite see it my way. ‘Noah Nabulsi, those students went home either ecstatic or devastated with their results,’ he said. ‘When they received their final mark, reflecting their actual ability – or should I say disability – I had their parents here in my office demanding an explanation! And then there was Jade. What do you say to a mother who tells you her daughter tried to overdose on her sister’s bottle of Iron Tablets for a Woman’s First Trimester because she was so distressed by her mark? Her mother wasn’t sure if Jade was pregnant or making a feeble suicide attempt! Worse still, she couldn’t decide which was more disturbing.’
Anyway, if you looked at the whole situation in terms of the law of causation, as I argued with my dad, it really was Mr Kenard’s fault. You see, the real and active cause of the act committed was not that I changed the marks, but that Mr Kenard supplied the bait. You don’t blame a fish for eating the worm, do you? That poor sucker is just acting on instinct. It’s not stupid for the fish to eat the worm; it’s only natural. But the fisherman has set it all up. And as far as I’m concerned, the cause of the fish getting caught is not his eating of the worm, but the fact that the fisherman put a fat, juicy worm on the hook.
My dad’s a lawyer so whenever we argue he likes to throw all this legal jargon at me because he thinks it will intimidate me into backing down. He doesn’t get that I don’t back down. Ever.
He mouthed off at me for the better part of an hour (‘Why do I bother sending you to one of Sydney’s top schools where a semester of fees could feed ten families for a year?’) in front of a tut-tutting Mr Kenard, and then pulled out the Latin stuff. ‘Causa sine qua non,’ he said and Mr Kenard grinned, pretending to understand even though he teaches biology. ‘ “Cause without which”, otherwise known as the “but for” test. And I’m afraid your argument cannot be sustained according to this test.’
‘Oh yeah? And why is that?’
‘Because but for your conduct, those essay results would not have been changed. It’s a question of apportioning legal responsibility for a given occurrence . . .’
Blah blah blah.
‘The High Court, in its infamous case on causation, has held that the law does not accept John Stuart Mill’s philosophical definition of cause as the sum of the conditions which are jointly sufficient to produce it . . .’
Blah blah blah.
‘Thus, at law, a person may be responsible for damage when his or her wrongful conduct is one of a number of conditions sufficient to produce that damage . . .’
BLAH BLAH BLAH.
‘Despite Mr Kenard leaving the essays within reach of a student, your conduct was one such condition which produced the damage, namely, the fabricated marks . . .’
Mr Kenard, looking bewildered, was probably wishing he was back in his lab dissecting a frog.
I paused. ‘Well,’ I said, staring my dad in the eye, ‘if it’s about sharing the blame, and my act was only one of many conditions that caused the . . . er . . . changed results, Mr Kenard is also guilty. He should cop some punishment too. Or my sentence should be reduced. That’s only fair.’
My argument didn’t go down too well. With either my dad or Mr Kenard.
My dad was ‘fed up’. He had ‘had enough’. Mr Kenard’s assurance that I would be on lunchtime detention until the end of year, which was two weeks away, wasn’t enough.
So my dad called my Aunt Nirvine and asked her for a favour. How could she refuse? She’d be getting six weeks of free labour.
I was going to be stuck working nine to five, five days a week, at Aunt Nirvine’s law firm for my entire summer holidays. Do I need to spell out what that meant? I wouldn’t be sleeping in, watching movies, clocking the Xbox, riding my bike, hanging out with Amit or checking out the unapproachable girls in the food hall at Westfield. Instead, as Aunt Nirvine informed me, I would become good friends with the photocopier and coffee machine.
My dad informed me that I’d be learning responsibility and fixing up my attitude.
I could think of plenty of foreign words, Latin included, I would have liked to throw at him in response.
It was the Sunday night before I was due to start at the law firm. I’d just put in a DVD, an episode of Law & Order: SVU. I was humming to the music during the opening credits when Dad walked in.
‘Our scheduled disciplinary hearing starts in five minutes,’ he said.
I gave him a blank stare and then, holding his gaze, repeated the opening voiceover.
‘In the criminal justice system, sexually based offences are considered especially heinous. In New York City the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the special victims unit. These are their stories.’
‘Riveting,’ he said in a tone drier than a towel that’s been left out for a week on a washing line in Alice Springs. ‘Court will be in session in five minutes. Penalties apply for late appearances.’
He walked out.
I waited six minutes and then shuffled into the dining room. It was a family affair, absent my mum, given my parents had been divorced for seven years and nearly faced multiple criminal charges the last time they were in a room together.
Mary, my youngest sister, was already sitting at the table, drumming her long fluoro-pink painted fingernails on her black and red notebook. She always used the same brand and had them stacked on her shelf in chronological order.
My other sister, Nadine, was drawing love hearts on the yellow legal pad she’d nicked from Dad’s office.
My dad was at the head of the table, holding a meat tenderiser (which he used as a gavel) and wearing his barrister’s wig and black robe. The robe was dishevelled and creased. According to a judge’s associate I met once at one of Dad’s dinner parties, the sloppier you look in court, the more senior you are. He wasn’t able to explain the significance of dandruff on a black lapel though.
The disciplinary hearings had been going on for about four years. They started when I substituted cooking chocolate for chocolate laxatives in a home economics class. Then there was the time I snuck into the coordinator’s office and wrapped her desk in foil. Or the time I hacked into the student newspaper and deleted the word ‘and’ every time it appeared, right before the paper went to print.
So Dad decided to bring the law home. He’d been making us suffer his courtroom dramas in the dining room ever since. It put a totally different perspective on the idea of ‘family meetings’.
I slumped down into the chair directly opposite Nadine. Dad slammed the meat tenderiser down onto the small wooden chopping board he’d bought especially for these hearings.
‘Right, this court is now in session,’ he declared. ‘Appearances, please. Loudly and clearly so that Mary is able to record them.’
We knew the drill. Mary started first.
‘I appear as the court reporter,’ she said, and then transcribed her own words. I’d told her countless times that she might as well write out her appearance and photocopy a stack of copies since she already knew what she was going to say. But she’s like Dad. A major nerd.
‘Next appearance, please,’ Dad said.
‘Nadine. Appearing for the defendant.’ Because I was the defendant at the hearing I wouldn’t formally appear. I had to sit there and let my lawyer, Nadine, do all the talking for me. I hated it when I was the defendant. Dad’s disciplinary hearings were only bearable when Nadine was the one in trouble
and I was the one defending her.
‘Thank you,’ Dad said in a solemn voice. ‘Now would counsel for the defendant please explain why I received the affidavit in support of the defendant’s application for a reduced sentence one day late? On the last occasion we met, I gave strict instructions that any affidavit material should be filed in the right-hand drawer of the hallway table forty-eight hours prior to the next disciplinary hearing, scheduled for today. If you are to survive in the big wide world, you must learn how to follow instructions, respect rules and adhere to timetables. Do I need to remind you that this courtroom will prepare you for the world? Please explain the delay. I’m happy to consider any extenuating circumstances.’
Nadine stood up.
‘Permission is granted to remain seated.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour. I much prefer to sit after those two noodle boxes I had for dinner. The defendant respectfully requests permission to give—’
‘The correct term is tender. Language is important. Only those who master their vocabulary excel in this world.’
‘Oh yeah, right. I respectfully request permission to tender the affidavit late ’cause I wasn’t talking to my client all week after he told his friend Amit that I think Amit’s hot. I’m sure you’d agree this was cruel and that my silent treatment was justified and within the terms of my agreement with my client, which specifically says that any low-life sibling activity from either of us temporarily wipes out our duties to act for each other. So I wasn’t able to get instructions from my client and then when he apologised, after he found out that Amit and his other friend, Luke, who isn’t as hot, are going to Terrigal from Friday to Sunday, 30 January to 1 February, the second last week of school holidays, and he wanted me to—’
‘Would counsel for the defendant kindly construct concise sentences?’ Dad said wearily.
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