‘And what about other budgie? He disappear too. Spangle. Very colourful. Nice bird.’
‘I’m sure it was, Mr Picozzi,’ I said. ‘By the way,’ I then asked, seeing a potential flaw in the plan to sue for damages, ‘did the cat break into the birdcage? What happened?’
‘I feed bird, on my hand, sir, like this. Cat pounce. From nowhere.’ Mr Picozzi then got up and demonstrated what I assume was either a Pina Bausch dance manoeuvre followed by a massive stroke, or a cat leaping on him. I knew the feeling.
Part of me wanted to help Mr Picozzi. An AVO against a cat. I would have liked to add a certain muscular little Burmese named Bushy to the complaint against the long-haired Himalayan. Make it a class action. You had to be practical on Thursday nights, though. In between the people who had been sacked, injured, discriminated against, arrested, caught up in a domestic or child custody crisis, or who had simply crashed a car or racked up debt way beyond their capacity to pay in this or numerous other lifetimes, you had to deal, as sympathetically as possible, with the occasional nutter who wanted to sue the world for reasons that could at best be described as idiosyncratic.
Over the course of the last decade, on my volunteer nights at the Randwick South Legal Centre I had advised clients who had wanted to sue judges, politicians, various police commissioners, every prime minister and premier, the CEOs of most major companies, Bill Gates, L. Ron Hubbard, several church leaders, and two who wanted to sue the Queen. Thinking back on that list, perhaps it’s harsh to call them all nutters. The world is richer for those who march to the beat of a different drum.
No matter what the problem, you can only advise people, give them options. There aren’t enough funding dollars to do much beyond that. Certainly the budget of the Randwick South Legal Centre didn’t extend to opening a file to take on a case to seek an AVO against a cat. It would have been nice if it did, but the RSLC was my window to the real world, and in the real world there was no more I could do for Mr P. than draft a letter for him demanding damages from the cat’s owner, and hope he would be able to track them both down. If he couldn’t, I knew it wouldn’t be from lack of trying. And if he did, and decided to take the law into his own hands, well . . . I was sure the cat had it coming.
Mr Picozzi took the letter, somewhat ungratefully, grumbled, and then left the centre. I looked at the law student as he did so. ‘I hope you’re taking notes,’ I said. ‘That’s most of our careers in a nutshell. Another dissatisfied customer.’
I walked sheepishly back to the long communal table where the usual Thursday night volunteer crew was sitting around, waiting for students to finish the initial interviews with clients. I was still nervous about the first question or wisecrack about my new job. Four weeks in, and no one had said anything.
Everyone was sensitive about my financial meltdown, my tax problems, even the Securities Commission charges – especially when they heard my version instead of the distortions in the papers – and genuinely sympathetic when the Bar Association led me blindfolded to the barristers’ gas chamber to the cries of ‘dead lawyer walking’. Explaining that I was now a claims officer in a large insurance company would be quite another thing. The Randwick South Legal Centre was not populated by volunteer lawyers who did much defendant work unless a felony was involved, and the permanent solicitors would take some convincing that any amount of financial desperation could lead a person so far over to what they would see as the wrong side of the law. At least I hadn’t had to fully explain myself to Hannah, whom I had confessed to by e-mail. Recent promotion had seen her move on from Thursday nights, and now a new solicitor called Gabrielle Shepherd was in charge.
I had avoided telling Gabrielle I worked for an insurance company. I had my reasons. She was a senior member on the executive of the Socialist Party of Australia, for a start. Only three weeks before, she had come back from London where she had been an Australian delegate at the Annual Conference of the Committee for Workers International. She delivered a paper on the subject of how women held the key to ending the tyrannical reign of big business. She chaired a forum entitled ‘Women Against Capitalism’s Continual Erosion of Democracy and Social Justice’. Something like that. The night I met her she was wearing a T-shirt with the words ‘Resist Capitalism’ on the front. The next week ‘Build Socialism’ was the message. Her father had been secretary of one of the largest left-wing unions before heading into politics with the Labor Party, where on most issues he positioned himself within a bee’s dick of the Greens whenever possible. Strictly within the confines of caucus, in other words. Working for an insurance company? I thought I’d tell her I slaughtered seal pups instead.
My real problem was, I did want to talk to Gabrielle Shepherd. It had been nearly six months since my bust-up with Sam the Spinner. Which meant it had been a damn sight longer since I’d had sex. Hell, it had been nearly six months since I’d even seen anyone having sex. I know some men who after that kind of hiatus might mistake Dame Edna for Halle Berry. But I didn’t think I was seeing things when I looked at Gabrielle Shepherd. On the assumption I wasn’t suffering testosterone-induced hallucination, she looked more like Catherine Zeta-Jones than any socialist I’d ever met.
When not streaked blue or hot pink, the natural state of her hair had something of the sheen of melted chocolate. Her lips were a warm mix of cocoa and rose, her mouth epicurean, her skin flawless olive, her eyes a rich hazel. Hallucinating or not, all in all she seemed some kind of delicious Movie Star-Leon Trotsky cross. Physically, emphasise Welsh-Hollywood, hold the Ukraine-Intellectual. So in between clients, I now spent my Thursday nights at RSLC stealing glances at Gabrielle Shepherd.
Gabrielle sat next to me as soon as I dropped into a chair at the table after Mr Picozzi had departed. She was now responsible for signing off on my advice sheets. She looked over my notes, then turned and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘He had photographs?’
‘Cat prints and DNA samples too.’
‘Does the suspect have a name?’
‘Cat.’
‘That’s all you’ve got?’
‘We’re following up some leads.’
‘Keep me posted.’
‘Detective.’
Gabrielle signed my sheet, picked up a corn chip from the middle of the table, dipped it in the hummus, and thereby finished the dinner the RSLC’s budget stretched to. She then crunched, wiped a little hummus from the corner of her mouth, and smiled at me mischievously, making it clear that she was onto my little secret. The secret being that I thought she looked like Catherine Zeta-Jones, etc.
‘So, Chris,’ she said. ‘I hear you’ve gotten yourself a job.’
Ah, that little secret. Shit.
There’s usually plenty of noise at RSLC on Thursday nights. Volunteer solicitors chatting around the main table, asking questions, burning effigies of the prime minister, clients screaming at students in the interview room, throwing the odd one against the wall, that sort of thing. On the final inflection in Gabrielle’s question, though, silence. Bill, Gale, Helen, Ivanka, Gabrielle and Mario all glared at me. Members of the Bolshevik Party, circa 1917, finding a cousin of the Tsar in their midst.
I did, of course, have a speech prepared. ‘Yes,’ I said softly. Like I said, I had a speech prepared.
‘How’s that going?’ Gabrielle pressed, smirking.
‘Okay,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘You’ve kept it pretty quiet. I hear you’ve been there a month. Who you with again? Amnesty?’
I never used to mind people taking the piss. Now my trustee regulates my sense of humour. ‘Okay,’ I said rising from the chair. ‘I’m working for an insurance company. Claims officer. Keeping the plaintiffs honest. And now I’m getting a coffee. The stoning can begin in the kitchen in five minutes.’
I went out the back and heated some water in the microwave that had been donated by some big deal law firm. Greed, Overcharge and Sexist, I think. Or is that mean? Is it a cliché to think that? And there’s a war against cli
ché. Like there’s a war against so many things now. Terrorism, al-Qaeda and the Taliban. Drugs always. A war against the do-gooders. The proponents of the black-armband view of history. A war against all those people, those churlish people, that rant on and on about detention centres and wars based on lies. And there’s that war on human rights. All upstanding members of the community know that there have been far too many human rights available to far too many people for far too long in this and countless other countries. Except the ones we decide to invade.
Is that why I’m here, at the Randwick South Legal Centre, using the fridge donated by Greed, Overcharge, Beagle, etc.? Because I believe in human rights? Whatever the hell that means. Well, I believe in them for disbarred ambulance chasers, so there’s a start. Even for people who want an AVO against budgie-killing cats. I’m wearing a black armband for them. But not just for them. And if financial imperatives dictate that I have to, temporarily, work as an insurance claims officer, well, then . . . I’m still . . .
I made my coffee, thought briefly of these things, and Gabrielle appeared at the kitchen door. ‘I was just teasing,’ she said.
‘I need the money,’ I said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. ‘I needed a job. Do you know why?’
She nodded. ‘Hannah told me. I think I saw it in the paper.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said, cutting her off from going further down that path. ‘What’s wrong with looking after an insurer’s interests? Why is that so different to looking after a plaintiff’s?’ I can’t say it was a rhetorical question, but I didn’t expect an answer either.
‘Like I said, Chris, calm down. I was only teasing.’
I threw my coffee in the sink. Christ knows why I made it. I could have done with something a little stronger. Perhaps I should ask her now?
‘You’re still limping,’ Gabrielle said.
‘Yeah. I’m having to kick injured plaintiffs with my left foot at the moment.’
She smiled. ‘How did you do it again?’
‘It was round seven with a fruit bat. Centennial Park arena.’
‘A bat?’
‘And another cat, would you believe? It’s a long story,’ I said. Then I thought, what the hell, we’re alone here. ‘I’ll tell you later, if you like. Over a beer. Would you like to have a drink after we finish?’
About a year later, she said, ‘With the others?’
What’s the best way to say no? I was working on an answer when a student burst into the kitchen. ‘Are you Christopher?’ she asked.
I wasn’t sure if I was being reprieved or rudely interrupted. ‘Unless you’re from the tax office,’ I said to the girl, ‘I guess I am.’
I had a client to see. A debt matter. My specialty.
‘Whatever you want,’ I said to Gabrielle as I stood up to leave, ‘wherever you want.’
I think I would have gotten away with the first part, but the second part came dancing behind me like a Mardi Gras float. Whatever you want, wherever you want. Jesus.
She smiled and shook her head slowly. ‘I think I’ll have to take a rain check,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some things to tidy up.’
Not exactly the answer I was after, but what did I expect after wherever you want? I put on a brave face. I was becoming an expert at this. Eventually I knew I was going to run out, or the Zoloft I was on would stop working. But not here, not tonight.
It had gone eight thirty by the time the last client for the evening was being interviewed. I had done my bit for the world, said goodnight, and the bastards all wished me a good day at work tomorrow. The phone rang just as I was getting to the door. The answering machine clicked on and informed the caller that the advice hotline ceased at 8:15, but Gabrielle picked up the phone.
‘Chris,’ she shouted as the door shut behind me. I stepped back inside. ‘It was Mr Picozzi you saw?’ she said, covering the phone and smiling.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s on the phone.’
‘What now?’
‘The cat. He’s found it. He wants to know what he can and can’t do.’
Six
I sat upright the moment I read the story. A paralysed man was crossing a road in his electric wheelchair in the late afternoon. No one saw the impact, only two people saw the car drive away. Neither got a good description. A grey or blue Ford Falcon. All that was left at the scene were some tyre marks, the hot urgent smell of rubber, a crumpled wheelchair, its occupant already dead.
The newspaper article was a damn sight more compelling than my files. A bunch of routine matters a clerk could handle. Bored, I rebelliously commenced my working day by flicking through the Herald, where I saw the story. The car had driven straight through a pedestrian crossing and lethally swiped its victim before speeding off around the corner. Police were ‘calling for witnesses to come forward’. It was the name of the paralysed man that had jolted me. Simon Broun.
Simon Broun was a graphic artist. In his early thirties, he owned his own business. One Saturday night about three years ago, he and his girlfriend went to a party at a house to celebrate its purchase. He’d had a few wines, but he wasn’t drunk. Not unless you call a blood alcohol reading of 0.058 drunk, which I certainly don’t. A little happy maybe, and enjoying the district views from the upstairs terrace. Then he leant back on the balcony. He was not a big man, but the railing snapped at the corner like a twig. He fell less than three metres, but that’s more than enough if you land on your neck. He was lucky to be alive. He was also a C4 quadriplegic, so ‘lucky’ was a relative word. He sued the owners of the house. And they were insured by South Pacific.
It was about eighteen months since I first met with Simon Broun’s solicitor. He briefed me with some witness statements, some medical reports, and instructed me to draft a Statement of Claim. I remember him telling me the defendants had their public liability insurance with South Pacific. I was then asked to prepare an advice on the prospects of success. I thought they were excellent. Not long after that I was struck off, and the brief to advise and appear for Simon Broun left my chambers, and I left shortly after, both marked never to return.
I hadn’t thought about the case since, but it was the kind you remember because of the catastrophic injuries. The defendants – more accurately South Pacific – were a dead duck on liability. The only question was how much. Given Broun’s injuries even that wasn’t in much doubt. There was no medical issue. He would need twenty-four-hour nursing and domestic care for life. He may have had some reduced life expectancy like some people with spinal injuries, but he was doing better than many. The coin required to settle this case was somewhere between eight and twelve million. All that needed to be found was the figure between those two where everyone would say ‘yes’.
I did a computer search to check who was handling the claim so I could ask if they’d seen the article. To examine pleadings, advices, expert reports and medical reports, you either had to look at the hard copy file or have an access code I didn’t have for an electronic file, but the general records stored on the system disclosed what kind of claim a matter was, who was handling it, and what panel solicitors the matter had been referred to, if it had. It also contained a record of the reserve – the estimate of what South Pacific might have to pay out on the claim. For Simon Broun the reserve was only $10,000, and no estimate had been given for likely damages. This was a case that should have been reserved at a million at least, if not more. Ten K would barely cover Broun’s first couple of days in intensive care.
The reserve wasn’t the only odd thing. The matter had progressed a long way in the court system, but still seemed to be in-house – at least, there was no indication it had been referred to SP’s lawyers. All the pleadings were on, and many expert reports had been served even more than a year ago when I had the brief. Usually a file like this would be out the door and with the panel lawyers by now. Still, whoever signed off on the reserve was clairvoyant. With Simon Broun now dead most of his claim, particularly the big-ticket items – future me
dical care, future nursing care, future domestic care, future economic loss – perished with him at the accident scene. An eight to twelve million claim could no doubt be settled now with his estate for a few hundred grand.
The other thing I noticed was that the file didn’t seem to have a home. Next to the claims number the initials of the claims officer handling it should have appeared. Simon Broun’s case was ownerless. As National Head of Claims, De Luca must have known about the claim, and I wondered whether he had read the story. I could see the back of his head through the glass wall of his office, black hair glistening with gel, so I decided to wander in and check if he knew about the company’s windfall.
‘You seen this?’ I asked, holding up page nine of the paper.
‘What?’ De Luca looked in no mood to be disturbed.
‘This,’ I said, pointing to the headline.
‘What about it?’ he asked, without interest.
‘Don’t you have a claim from someone called Simon Broun? Have you seen this?’
‘How do you know about his claim?’
‘Previous life,’ I said. ‘I drafted his Statement of Claim.’
De Luca looked surprised. ‘Shouldn’t you have told us that?’
I laughed. ‘C’mon, Ang. A few things have happened to me since I took that brief. Like losing it when I lost my practising certificate. I forgot. I’ve had cases against every insurer in town.’
He didn’t look satisfied, seemed to be about to say something, then stopped. ‘So,’ he said after a pause, ‘what’s in the paper?’
‘He was killed. Hit and run.’
‘No kidding.’ De Luca’s tone was now big deal. This is what you interrupted me for?
‘You’re not interested?’
‘Of course I am. I heard last night. Tragic.’
‘You owe the prick driving the car a drink, whoever he is. If he hadn’t had a skinful before he did it. He’s saved us a lot of money.’
The Ambulance Chaser Page 5