It was a pretty far-fetched plan, but it’s a pretty far-fetched city in a pretty far-fetched world. Regrettably, violence would probably be necessary. Fraud would be involved, and a considerable amount of lying. Maybe even to a judge. Deceit, subterfuge, false pretences. Other people would have to be convinced to put their lives at risk, and some blackmail would be necessary.
Violence. Fraud. Deceit. Lying in court. I was an ex-plaintiffs’ lawyer of twelve years standing. I was perfectly trained.
I took Gabby through claims 04150 and 061247 in her office. We agreed that an anonymous phone call to the plaintiffs’ lawyers suggesting their clients’ lives might be in danger would hardly provide much protection.
‘I’m going to arrange that myself,’ I said.
‘How?’
‘Private security firms. Twenty-four hour surveillance. To watch them at home and while they’re out. Guardian angels.’
‘Won’t that cost a fortune?’
‘A small one.’
‘And the money is coming from?’
‘Me.’
‘And a bankrupt gets that kind of money from?’
‘Later. Let’s call Dixon. I’ll put him on speaker. You stay quiet.’
He wasn’t at the station when I called, but Harry had given me his mobile number. He sounded like he was in a busy restaurant. A long, boozy lunch, no doubt. He didn’t sound pleased to hear from me. ‘Am I on speaker? How’d you get this number?’
‘No. Your Super gave it to me. He wanted me to check and see if you were at that topless restaurant again.’
‘Fuck off.’
I told him about 04150 and 061247, and the e-mail.
‘You broke into his house?’
‘It was open. Even the kid who cleans the pool has unfettered access. To the house and its valuables.’
‘What? You went into his private computer, though.’
‘I heard his wife have an orgasm too. Maybe two. The bathroom has an echo. None of that matters. The point is, can’t you see what that e-mail could mean?’
‘Yeah. A question mark about two claims a long way from my jurisdiction.’
‘You’re not going to do anything?’
‘Chris, I’ve told you. Write to Homicide – anonymously.’
‘Fine. Give me a name.’
He did. ‘You have an address for these two – these claimants you mentioned?’ he asked.
Well, well, well. ‘Why?’
‘Just give them to me. Full names and addresses. Plus the claims details.’
‘Why?’
‘Record-keeping purposes.’
‘Are we taking me seriously?’
‘No. The addresses.’ He was taking me seriously. I gave him the details he wanted.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘those company names I gave you, and those directors’ names. Did you find out anything?’
There was silence down the other end of the line for a moment. ‘No,’ he finally said.
‘Bullshit,’ I said. I’d known him when we were kids at school. I could tell he was lying. I’d heard that no before. ‘Col,’ I continued, ‘between you and me. Did you find anything out?’
Another long pause. ‘If I tell you,’ he said, ‘I’ll have to kill you.’
‘Haven’t you always wanted to?’
He laughed. Another pause. ‘Breathe a word of this,’ he said, ‘and I could be in serious shit.’
‘Col,’ I said, ‘I’ve confessed to you about a serious trespass, data theft, and not reporting my boss’s wife shagging the pool guy. You’re safe. What do you know?’
‘The companies and the directors,’ he said, ‘they seem to be tied up or associated with the Baldarno family.’
The Baldarnos. Where had I heard that name before? ‘Bikies?’ I don’t know much about crime families outside of The Sopranos and the people who brought Big Brother to television.
‘No, dickhead. Drug dealers. They own brothels, strip clubs. Three brothers. One’s in Long Bay now doing time over a drug bust.’
‘So, these Baldarnos, they’re well known? To the police, I mean? They’re like drug czars? Like Kings Cross Colombians? They run some sort of drug cartel here?’
There was silence again down the other end of the line for close to ten seconds. ‘You are a complete dickhead, you know that?’ Dixon finally said. ‘They are criminals. They deal in drugs, prostitution. We don’t usually refer to them as drug czars, though.’
‘What do they own, outside of the Risqué Pussy? What clubs? What brothels?’
‘Planning a visit?’
‘Aren’t you already there?’
‘You sure I’m not on speaker? It sounds like I’m on speaker.’
‘You are,’ I said. ‘I’m here with Reg and Ron Baldarno.’
‘Piss off. I’m breaking the fucking rules, mate, telling you –’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘And don’t tell anyone you’ve been discussing your . . . these ideas of yours with me. Okay?’
‘Why? I’m not planning to, but why?’
‘Just don’t. I was about to call you when you phoned. Don’t say anything to anyone, and don’t do anything more than you’ve already done. Understand? Breaking into houses and people’s computers means going to jail, you know that.’
I paused. ‘Are you looking into my crazy ideas without telling me?’
‘No. Just keep your mouth shut.’ There was that no again. ‘Just shut up, and do nothing.’
‘Fine.’ I was about to end the call when I remembered one final thing. ‘What about Gerton? Any news there?’ Another pause. ‘Col,’ I said, ‘if you’re going to pause before answering every bloody question I ask, I know you know something, so for Christ’s sake –’
‘Shut up, Chris,’ he said. ‘Okay. Want to know what killed him?’
A right-wing politician? Let me think. ‘Remorse?’
‘What?’
‘Shame?’
‘Shut up. Jesus, you annoy me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Spider bite.’
‘What?’
‘Male funnel-web.’
‘What? Shit. How do they . . . blood tests or something?’
‘Partly.’
‘And?’
‘They found the spider.’
I wasn’t sure now if he was winding me up. ‘Is it under arrest?’
‘I’m deadly fucking serious. They found it dead.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I’m telling you. No joke. Want to know what the theory is I’ve been told? The spider was probably in some of the wood he had for his fire – they love living in damp crevices and cracks, apparently. Clarrie probably disturbs it while he’s stoking up the fire. Goes back to his chair, pissed as a fart, tucks into his takeaway, the spider comes out for a sniff around.’
‘Jesus.’
‘It gets better. The male is aggressive and extremely poisonous. Rarely fatal, though, because there’s plenty of antivenom around. But Clarrie’s so smashed on scotch and Hunter Valley grog he collapses in a stupor in his chair, the spider crawls up his trackie daks, ends up near the wedding tackle, decides it’ll have a piece of what Clarrie’s got on offer.’
‘He was bitten on the . . . ?’
‘Nob. Right on the helmet. Swollen up like a pink volleyball by autopsy time. They thought it was gout or a tumour at first. What’s that noise?’ Gabby was under the table, gasping for air. ‘Are you sure I’m not on speaker?’
‘No, no,’ I said.
‘Anyway, it looks like it was a combination of Gerton’s dicky heart and the venom. He was also bitten in an area where there’s a huge concentration of blood vessels, so, you know . . .’
‘What killed the spider? Biting Clarrie on the –’
‘Fuck knows. They think he may have briefly woken up in pain from the bite and smashed it or something. Given his blood alcohol reading was 0.32, he probably collapsed back in the chair, then died soon after.’
And all
without dropping the remote. What a man we’ve lost.
I thanked Dixon for the update and said goodbye. I promised to say nothing.
Shit. What a way to go. You wouldn’t wish that on anyone. The late Hon Clarence D Gerton was now going to go down in the annals of Great Australian Political Deaths. The third of a great trifecta. Prime Minister Harold Holt. Kidnapped by a Chinese sub, executed at sea. Former Opposition leader Billy Sneddon. Died on the job. Former NSW right-faction organiser Clarrie Gerton. A fatal blow-job from an Atrax Robustus, the world’s deadliest and only left-wing spider.
It all brought tears to my eyes. That poor little eight-legged bastard.
After we stopped laughing, I got worried. Had they trained this fucking thing? What couldn’t these people do? And what kind of death would they dream up for me? We had to work fast.
Gabby typed an anonymous letter we drafted together that we mailed straight away to the name at Homicide Dixon had given me. We put together the whole history of every suspicious claim we knew about, finishing with the Perth and Brisbane claims. I had a feeling Dixon had already helped start up some sort of covert enquiry, anyway, but I was going to send the letter just in case.
‘Should we go to the press? Is that a naive thing to say?’
‘I take it you’ve heard of the Australian laws of defamation.’ Freedom of speech is apparently valued in some lands, hopefully even Iraq one day, but not Australia, its mother country, or North Korea. Defamation remains the one tort our politicians won’t reform. Except in their favour. Even pathological liars who are totally unfit for public life, manifestly unqualified for any portfolio, have difficulty apposing their forefinger and thumb, and who are unemployable on the open labour market, believe they have reputations that must be protected at all costs. Which I guess means that if we had freedom of speech in Australia the politicians might be in danger of being described as deluded. I assumed Gabby was more than aware of the cynical reasons for the non-existence of a public figure defence to libel in this country and so I simply said, ‘I don’t think my theories are going to find their way into a paper before it’s too late.’
‘Couldn’t they just stick to the facts?’
‘To what end? And I don’t like the press much. The ‘5-star bankrupt’ headline kind of put me off them. Besides, how much credibility do you think a 5-star bankrupt struck-off lawyer has with them, anyway? It’s an option, but we have to do something now. We mightn’t have much time. I don’t want someone to get killed while I talk to journos or cops.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Your drafting skills are very good,’ I said. ‘How would you like to have a go at a Statement of Claim?’
Thirty-Two
The Statement of Claim was a work of art.
It was the worst kind of injury you can imagine. To a fictitious young man of infinite promise. A medical student, a glorious career as a neurosurgeon appallingly cut short. He had been sent up a tree by a thoughtless head contractor. A gardener. The gardener was real, and his name was Bill Doyle, of Doyle’s Mowing and Gardening, and Doyle’s fortuitously had its public liability insurance with South Pacific. The fictitious plaintiff had been asked to retrieve a ball, of all things. A football. The tree was full of bats, something he wasn’t warned about. He became frightened, disorientated, lost his footing. The rest is tragedy.
There was some brain damage. Enough to deprive him of his higher functioning. Quadriplegia. He cannot breathe without a ventilator. Twenty-four hour, seven-day-a-week nursing care is vital. Life expectancy is unaffected, however, at least according to the expert reports. Damages for the costs of future medical, nursing and domestic care are in the order of $7 million. Top of the range future economic loss. A special car would be needed, a special house, hugely expensive medical equipment. A $10 million claim, even at the bottom end of the range. Not a word of this was true, but by the time South Pacific worked that out . . .
‘This unfortunate plaintiff,’ Gabby said to me during the drafting process, ‘you’ve made him up? None of this really happened?’
‘Not yet. He’s a fictitious creature, but a real person will be playing him – I hope.’
‘And I’ll meet him? The real person who’s going to play the character you’ve invented?’
‘I hope so. When you apologise to Bill Doyle for having your way with me in Mrs Hardcastle’s bathroom.’
She let that go with half a raise of an eyebrow. ‘And this person is injured like this imaginary plaintiff?’
I shook my head. ‘Not quite,’ I said. ‘Catastrophically injured. Not from falling out of a tree, though. A landmine.’
‘Christ almighty, Chris,’ she said. ‘Does this plaintiff have any lawyers?’
‘Black, Ackerman and Associates.’
‘Real or imaginary?’
‘Real,’ I said. ‘Medium sized plaintiffs’ operation.’
‘And do they know they act for a plaintiff that doesn’t exist?’
‘No. That shouldn’t be a problem.’
She smiled, a little frustrated. ‘Why?’
I explained. I would be instructing the accredited specialist in personal injury law at Black, Ackerman that the plaintiff’s relatives had come to the Randwick South Legal Centre for advice first. They lived in the area. They had seen me. I was referring them to Black, Ackerman. The plaintiff was borderline incapable of giving instructions. The parents wanted me to liaise with their son’s lawyers for them. I have agreed to do this, on a strictly no-fee basis, of course. They will not need to meet my fictional plaintiff.
‘So, you’re actually going to instruct this firm?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m going to take a statement from the “plaintiff”, one from his “mother”, give those documents to them plus our draft Statement of Claim, and the filing fee for the Supreme Court. I’m even going to put funds in their trust account, just a small amount for disbursements, and provide them with some medical reports, some of which I’ve already requested on the parents’ behalf. They won’t know the plaintiff they’re acting for doesn’t exist. Not until he’s served his purpose, anyway.’
She looked at me blankly. ‘I gather at some stage you’ll tell me how you got medical reports on the condition of a plaintiff who doesn’t exist.’
‘I will. It’s not hard.’
‘And Bill Doyle is happy to be named as a defendant in this scam?’
‘Not sure yet,’ I said. ‘We’ll find out tonight. He owes me one, though. This imaginary plaintiff could have been me if I’d landed on my neck instead of my ankle earlier in the year. Bill wanted me to make an insurance claim when I broke my ankle earlier this year. That’s how I know he’s with SP.’
‘Am I going to come with you when you pass on the instructions to the lawyers?’
I shook my head. ‘Not if you value your practising certificate,’ I said. ‘In fact, you know nothing about this. Nothing. You barely know me. We rarely talk, we don’t socialise, and I’ve certainly never pulled down your overalls. You understand?’
‘This claim. It’s going to turn up at South Pacific soon?’
I nodded. ‘As soon as the Statement of Claim is filed. Served with several medical reports.’
‘And, of course,’ she said, ‘the only claims manager capable of handling such a matter would be you.’
I smiled. ‘You catch on fast,’ I said. We both started laughing. I was fucking nuts. No doubt about it. ‘It will then be referred to Angelo De Luca,’ I continued. ‘Then, all things going to plan, to Barry Hardcastle and James Jarrett. I’ll make sure of it.’
Gabby looked at me for a while, rested her elbow on the table, put her chin in her palm. There was warmth in her hazel eyes. I was growing on her. Exposing myself must have tipped the scales. The Female Dr Carter must already be a distant memory, fading away down the dark reaches of the Congo. ‘What happens next?’
‘Next, Black, Ackerman write a letter to South Pacific. Seeking an early settlement. Twelve millio
n inclusive of costs will get rid of the matter. They want an answer in seven days. Their client is going to live in Europe at the end of the week. Special treatment in Switzerland. Something like that.’
‘Then?’
‘Then we stay close to the plaintiff, or at least the actor playing him, and if the bad guys come calling, I’ll be waiting.’
‘You’ll be waiting?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That, and a few other things. I’ll have some help. I may also have my own proceedings to launch.’
She looked at me again with those eyes. I was definitely growing on her. She smiled first. Teeth like lightning against her pink lips, olive skin. Then she started to laugh. ‘That is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,’ she said. ‘I love it. Provided you don’t get yourself killed, I love it.’ Given the context in which she put it, I wouldn’t say I loved it. I admired it. From a distance. That’s as far as I could take it at that stage. There were a few Is to dot and Ts to cross first. ‘I just sure as hell hope you’re right about all of this too,’ she added, ‘or you are going to be in some very deep shit.’
I nodded, and smiled. ‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘If I’m wrong, I go to jail. If I’m right, I could get killed.’
Frankly, it’s a dilemma more lawyers should face.
We met Bill Doyle right on six that night. The TAB-Sports Bar of the Coogee–Randwick Ex-Servicemen’s Club, just off Coogee Bay Road. Bill was seated at a table with half the tide out on a schooner and a full head of steam coming out of his ears. An abject apology and full explanation were required immediately. Jack Bartlett, the reason for the meeting, was sitting in his wheelchair, beer in hand, looking spritely, and mildly amused. He had obviously been informed of the bathroom incident at the Hardcastles’. He gave Gabby the once-over when he shook her hand, winked approvingly when he took mine.
Jack Bartlett was where the full explanation came in. He and Bill were in Vietnam together, had been in the same Company. They were close. And they were close when Jack stood on a landmine near a place called Binh Ba, and lost the bottom part of his right leg and a fair length of his gut. So, for his war service Jack earnt a prosthesis and a colostomy bag. Not long ago the good leg had packed it in with arthritic changes, and the struggle with crutches had given way to the wheelchair.
The Ambulance Chaser Page 27