The Bridge

by Enza Gandolfo

  ‘By all accounts, Jo isn’t particularly outgoing or confident. Often shy, she didn’t have many friends in primary school. She was a chubby child, and there was some bullying and taunting. She met Ashleigh on the first day of high school and they became close friends immediately. Ashleigh was the more confident of the two, and she did better at school. Jo isn’t academic. But no matter their differences, they loved each other and loved being together. Both families attest to the strong bond between them.

  ‘According to the statements submitted by the other two passengers in the car, Jo and Ashleigh were out of sorts that night, they were fighting. Who hasn’t fought with their best friend? What were they fighting about? Jo says she thought Ashleigh didn’t want to be her friend anymore. Is this true? I don’t know. We don’t know. Did the fight contribute to the accident? We don’t know. Does any of what I’ve told you about Jo’s life explain the accident? Did any of it contribute to it? Does any of this excuse what Jo did? Not according to the law. Jo made a mistake. She shouldn’t have driven home from the party.’ Sarah paused. ‘Ashleigh, Laura, and Mani also made a mistake that night; they shouldn’t have got in the car with Jo. If all four girls had survived the accident, we’d be angry at all of them. But Ashleigh, Laura, and Mani weren’t the ones behind the wheel. They might’ve been, but Jo was the only one with a licence and she drove her friends around. She was the driver and she was responsible. It was a bad decision — the worst decision she’ll ever make, even if she lives to be a hundred. She’s pleaded guilty and is waiting to be punished. In her statement, she writes: I’ll get the punishment I deserve, but it won’t ever be enough. I hope for her sake that’s not true.

  ‘The accident happened at the base of the West Gate Bridge. In a couple of months’ time it will be the fortieth anniversary of the bridge’s collapse. Thirty-five men died during the construction of the bridge. On the morning of the fifteenth of October 1970, a span of the bridge was hoisted to the top, but when they put the bolts in, the span didn’t fit, didn’t line up with the adjoining span. The engineer managing that day’s work told the men to remove the bolts that were holding two spans together. It was a mistake. Bad judgement. Poor judgement. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t on drugs. He was stressed and under a great deal of pressure. The bridge was behind schedule.

  ‘The Royal Commission set up to investigate wrote in their report, The bridge collapsed because of acts of inefficiency and omissions by those entrusted with building a bridge. It apportioned blame to several companies, the designers, even the unions. And the engineer who was on site that day. But too late — he was one of the dead. They finished building the bridge, but not before another man died. And we drive over it. Life goes on. It’s supposed to go on. Why am I telling you about the West Gate Bridge? Because it was a tragedy. Because it could’ve been prevented. Because we’re all human and we sometimes make mistakes, and some of us have had lucky escapes, and no consequences. We think, Oh, that was close, but we thank God, if we are religious, or our lucky stars, if we aren’t, that nothing worse happened.

  ‘Every night people, young and old, drive home drunk. They shouldn’t, and we need to do what we can to stop them. Most of them, like Jo, think they’ll be fine: It’s only ten minutes down the road. Or they don’t think at all. When you’re young, death is something that happens to old people.

  ‘The collapse of the West Gate is Victoria’s worst industrial accident. Ten times more people die on our roads every year. We build bridges and tunnels and skyscrapers — projects that are dangerous and that put workers’ lives at risk. We build faster and faster cars. We allow alcohol advertising and we perpetuate a drinking culture. If we want to reduce the road toll, we need to address these problems.

  ‘The individual has to take responsibility for their actions. Jo has to take responsibility for her actions. The law says she’s a criminal, and so she must be punished. Prisons are awful places — of course; they shouldn’t be easy — but on the whole they don’t lead to rehabilitation, they don’t help people remake their lives. Jo doesn’t belong in prison.

  ‘Jo isn’t a bad person. She isn’t the sort of young woman we’d ever expect to find in a criminal court. She can make a contribution to the community, and I hope whatever sentence is handed down will lead her in that direction rather than away from it. Jo is an ordinary young woman from a working-class background. I could’ve tried to spin her story into one of drama. I could’ve made her family look dysfunctional and Jo disturbed. But though she didn’t have the advantages many of us grew up with, she’s been loved and cared for. There is no significant family drama. No dysfunctional family. She’s no delinquent. She’s an ordinary girl who was sad and lonely that night as she imagined losing her friend, as she imagined being alone, and she drank … There is no one in this room who hasn’t been lonely, felt anxious, who doesn’t understand that feeling. All human tragedy is caused by the failure of someone to understand and conquer their own flaws. If Jo had been more confident, less anxious, if she believed in her own self-worth, things may well have turned out differently, but she’s young, and most of us don’t gain power over our fears in a lifetime.

  ‘Your Honour, thank you for your time and attention. In your deliberations on the appropriate sentence, I urge you to consider Jo’s youth, her remorse, and the terrible damage that our prison system can do to a young woman.’

  Sarah sat down; sweat was dripping down her temples. She was exhausted. Behind her, she heard sobbing — Mary or maybe even Mandy crying. In the brief moments she’d turned around during her statement, she’d noted tears on the faces of several of Ashleigh’s relatives.

  For a minute there was silence. The judge made notes. No one spoke.

  ‘In my experience,’ the judge said eventually, looking up from her notes, ‘most of the young people who end up here on culpable driving charges aren’t the sort of people one would expect to find in court. But she’s here, and I agree this is the tragedy. Her friend is dead, and Ashleigh Bassillo-White’s family have lost their daughter in an accident that should never have happened.’

  She didn’t raise her voice; there was frustration, not anger, in it. Aretha Ryan was an experienced judge. She’d recently celebrated twenty years on the bench: a rare achievement for any judge, but especially a woman. The first female judge in Victoria was only appointed in the mid-1970s. By the time Aretha was appointed in 1990, there were women judges in most courts across the country, but even now they made up less than a third of all judges.

  Judge Ryan leant forward, towards the bench, pushed her glasses back, and stared out across the courtroom. ‘It’s true that as a community, we’re all responsible for the alcohol abuse, for the fatalities on our roads, but letting individuals off the hook isn’t taking our responsibilities seriously; it would be negligent. Joanne Neilson, you were driving and you were drunk. That is something we can’t dismiss, no matter what other good deeds you have done or were planning to do.’

  Jo heard everything and nothing. When the hearing first began, she’d forced herself to listen to the words, terrified that the judge or Sarah — though Sarah had already told her she wouldn’t have to say anything — would ask her a question, that they’d test her to make sure she was listening. But the more she concentrated on the words, on what Sarah and the other lawyer and the judge were saying, the less she heard. And then, halfway through the reading of Jane’s statement, she lost all sense … Words, individual words, fell like stones from people’s mouths. They formed hills and mountains, and they created valleys; they changed the landscape of the room, and she was lost.

  ‘At approximately 12.30 am on Sunday, the twentieth of September 2009, you, Joanne Neilson, along with your best friend, Ashleigh Bassillo-White, and two other friends, Mani Cruz and Laura Roberts, left the eighteenth birthday party being held at Siren’s restaurant in Williamstown. All four of you had been drinking for several hours …’

  Jo gripped t
he edges of the chair. She’d expected the judge to talk directly to her, to point her finger and yell out ‘lock her up’, but the judge was reading from her notes and addressing the whole court.

  ‘… At approximately 12.45 am you were driving along Douglas Parade towards Footscray. You were driving over 90 kilometres an hour. This was well over the speed limit. You were arguing with Ashleigh and you were distracted. Ashleigh asked you to slow down. You …’

  Ash had asked her to slow down. Ash had switched the radio off. Jo had been so angry at Ash. She wanted to stop the car and hit Ash, to stop the car and throw Ash out. But she kept driving: Focus on the road. Focus on the road. She knew she wasn’t in control … lights racing across the windscreen … the steering wheel slipping out of her grasp …

  Loud sobbing thrust Jo back into the room. The jolt resonated through her body as if she’d been caught in the grip of a powerful tornado and then dropped. The judge paused. Ash’s grandmother Paolina was crying. Antonello reached out to hold her hand.

  Jo felt tears running down her own face. They were unexpected, and she was bewildered by them. She hadn’t heard all of what the judge said, but she was getting what she deserved, so there was nothing to cry about. She didn’t dare to lift her hands to reach for the tissues on the table next to her; she didn’t dare move. Paolina’s sobbing continued. Others were crying too.

  The judge made a note in the margins of her papers before continuing. ‘As referred to earlier, your conduct had catastrophic consequences.’

  The end of the statement was coming — Jo sensed it in the changing tone of the judge’s voice, the intake of breath.

  ‘The penalty for this crime must involve a sentence of imprisonment so as to recognise the sanctity of life and the gravity of taking a life.’

  Jo closed her eyes, but that only made the crying seem louder.

  ‘Ms Neilson, please stand.’

  Jo stood up. Her knees trembled. She gripped the rail in front of her and pushed her weight against it.

  ‘On the one charge of dangerous driving causing death, you will be convicted. You’re sentenced to be imprisoned for five years, with a non-parole period of three years.’ Mary stood up, but Mandy pulled her back down into her chair. ‘Do you understand, Ms Neilson?’

  Jo nodded, though she knew she’d missed the details of the sentence. Five years. The sentencing came as a relief. She fell back into her chair.

  The policewoman opened the dock gate and lead Jo out through the back door, while everyone else remained seated.

  ‘Will they take me away now?’ Jo asked.

  The policewoman shook her head. ‘You’ll be here for a while. Give your family a chance to say goodbye.’

  Please, Jo thought, take me now.

  Mandy and Mary were weeping when they came into the room, led by Sarah. Mary didn’t make any effort to stop; she hugged Jo close to her and sobbed. Mandy drew in her breath, wiped away her tears. ‘I’ll come and see you as often as they let me,’ she said.

  Jo nodded. When Mary let her go, Mandy gave her a hug. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  Maybe it’s better, Jo wanted to say, if you don’t visit at all. But that seemed cruel.

  ‘Five years,’ Jo said. ‘A lot can change in that time.’

  ‘Less,’ Sarah answered. ‘We can apply for parole in three years.’

  Up until recently, one year had seemed like an eternity. Another whole year of school, Jo had said to her mother at the beginning of Year 12, not sure I can last that long.

  Chapter 29

  The week after the court case, Mandy stayed home in bed. She hadn’t slept for days and couldn’t get herself across town to work. She’d spoken to Jo twice on the phone — the fear in Jo’s voice was raw, but neither of them acknowledged it. They were both being stoic: what choice did they have?

  ‘Have you put the house on the market?’ Jo had asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mum, what are you waiting for?’

  ‘I’ll do it soon. I’m planning to ring the agent today. I’ll let you know how I go when I come to visit you next week.’

  Mandy planned to visit once a fortnight. Jo said that was too often, too long a journey, but Mandy insisted. She didn’t tell Jo that once she sold the house she planned to rent in Bendigo, only half an hour’s drive from Tarrengower Prison. Once Jo was released they could decide on where to move permanently.

  But Mandy knew she couldn’t leave Yarraville without seeing Ashleigh’s parents. To sell the house, pack up, and disappear without speaking to Rae or Alex — especially to Rae — was not right. She was being a coward.

  Once the real-estate agent set a date for the auction, Mandy took out the photograph albums and carefully removed all the photographs she’d taken over the years of Ashleigh and Jo — during family outings, at birthday parties, when Ashleigh stayed over. She picked a dozen or so of them and put them in an envelope. She planned to give them to Rae and Alex in person, but they might not want to speak to her, so she wrote a brief note as well:

  Dear Rae, Alex, and Jane,

  I have enclosed some photographs of Ashleigh that I took over the years that I thought you might like to have. Ashleigh was a beautiful young woman. She was bright and kind and a good friend to Jo. I am so sorry for your loss — and for Jo’s part in it and for my part in it. I know that no apology will ever be enough. I understand that you may never be able to forgive me or Jo.

  These photographs represent memories that I hold precious. Memories of the girls together. Please know that when your daughter was with us she was loved and cared for, and that I’ll always remember her.

  Mandy

  As she made her way towards Ashleigh’s house with the photographs and the note, Mandy was nervous. If Rae and Alex were angry, she needed to let them vent their anger. If they sent her away, she would need to go.

  When she reached the house, she saw that a magnolia had been planted where the rose garden used to be. It already had a spattering of white buds; soon it would flower. Mandy took a deep breath to stop herself from spiralling back into the past and the many times she’d walked up the path with Jo, and with Jo and Ashleigh. She went up to the door and rang the bell.

  Rae opened the door. ‘Mandy,’ she murmured, as if it Mandy were a ghost.

  ‘Hello, Rae.’

  She looked better than the last time Mandy had seen her, neat and well-groomed, but she had lost more weight and the suit she was wearing was loose. There was a fragility, an unsteadiness about her that Mandy recognised. She saw it each time she looked in the mirror.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I wanted to see you and Alex and —’

  ‘Alex isn’t home.’

  ‘It’s … I wanted to give you these.’ She held the envelope out to Rae, who didn’t take it. ‘They’re photographs of Ashleigh — of Ashleigh and Jo. Photographs I’ve taken over the years that I thought you might not have. That you might like.’

  Rae took the envelope but didn’t open it. ‘I went through a period of wanting to cut your daughter out of every photograph I had with her and Ashleigh. Jane said I was acting crazy.’

  Mandy nodded.

  ‘Seeing your daughter in court, I kept thinking that Ashleigh loved Jo, but Jo doubted that love, and that doubt ruined everything.’

  ‘We all have doubts, but they loved each other. They did.’

  ‘We loved your daughter,’ Rae said.

  They were both crying now, tears falling down their faces.

  ‘I loved Ashleigh too,’ Mandy said. ‘And I am so sorry, so sorry.’

  Rae wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. ‘I can’t ask you in. I can’t have you in my house.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mandy said, ‘I understand. I wanted you to know I’m selling the house and moving away.’

  ‘Okay.’ Rae nodded.r />
  Mandy started to walk back down the steps, and Rae called out to her, ‘How is Jo? How is she coping?’

  Mandy turned. ‘She doesn’t say much when I talk to her. I think it’s tough, but then it’s meant to be. I think more than anything she misses Ashleigh.’

  Rae shut the door. Mandy cried all the way home. She was glad she’d gone to see Rae; it had been the right thing to do. It was important, but she was not under any illusion that it would reduce the weight of Rae’s grief or her pain.

  Mandy hoped that Ashleigh would come to Rae and Alex in their dreams like her mother, Sal, came to her, surrounded by flowers in a garden that spread to the horizon. Mandy didn’t believe in heaven or hell, in an afterlife. The dead only lived in our memories and dreams. And there, they could live forever.

  Chapter 30

  Antonello changed three times. First a suit: the navy blue one he’d worn to Ashleigh’s funeral. But the suit smelt of incense and grief, and in the pocket of the jacket, folded and refolded, he found his eulogy notes and the sketches of Ashleigh. He took the suit off and shoved it far back into the wardrobe.

  ‘That’s the suit I want them to bury me in,’ he said to his reflection in the mirror. An old man — sagging skin, thinning hair — stared back at him. ‘You’re not dead yet. Not quite.’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Paolina called out from the kitchen.