‘All kinds of places. The gallery, your office, Nell, wherever you buy lunch. Just, just leave them everywhere you can think of. You know, places where women go.’
‘So you mean everywhere?’ Seymour clarified. ‘Because it’s 2016?’
‘Except men’s toilets,’ Nell added, putting aside her hurt feelings to join the gentle familial jest.
‘Well, no,’ Seymour agreed. ‘Not even men brave those. So we leave them everywhere but men’s toilets, right, Mum?’
Their mother nodded cautiously, not entirely sure whether she was once more the butt of their joke.
‘Anywhere you think. Here’s some for Patrick too.’
This shut Seymour up and he pretended to be suddenly taken by the detail of the bookmark. Nell looked down at the pile in her own hands, their mother’s face beaming from the corner. Where are all the womyn? the bookmark asked. She shoved them into her bag, and promptly forgot about them.
*
They met with the client early on Monday morning. Rani had emailed through information, though it only arrived moments before their meeting because the server had been acting up at Rani’s office again. Nell printed it off and hurried after DB.
Hi Nell,
Thanks for picking this up for us. Very excited about the new program! Lots of publicity already! This should be a simple enough case to start with. We said we’d do it but it’s a cross-application and we’re down a staff member and someone else is on personal leave so we just can’t make it to court on the day, and you know how quick the turn-around is on IVOs. Legal Aid can’t help out because the client doesn’t pass the means test. Her only other option is to self-represent but she’s likely not to turn up, given that scenario, and you know how busy the duty lawyers are at court, plus she’d get a different one each time she shows up, etc etc. Ex is a lawyer himself, very charismatic, lots of connections, you know the story. We’ve lodged her paperwork already, basically just need you to show up on the day/hold her hand/explain what’s happening, etc. Details attached. Really appreciate you doing this. Give me a buzz if anything comes up!
Talk soon,
Rani
Nell watched as DB turned the page and scanned the attachment. As his eyes roamed the paper, she stole a glance at the client. The woman sat straight-backed in the consulting room chair, her hands clasped together on her lap as if posed for a school photo. Blow-waved bob, subtle makeup, neat simple clothes that would have come with an impressive price tag. Her knuckles, Nell noticed, were mottled white, in stark contrast to the manicured nails. The woman cleared her throat as DB read through the document, a crisp high-pitched sound that reminded Nell of someone about to commence a lengthy monologue, only nothing followed. Apart from a polite hello when she’d first arrived, the client was yet to say anything. DB, on the other hand, was murmuring to himself as he worked through the document, a gentle indecipherable susurration reminiscent of a children’s television character. Every so often he nodded his head, ticking things off as he found them, his voice rising in an audible swoop. DB paused at the end of the document then laid it before him on the table. He had, Nell noted, adopted a strange swagger, as if modelling himself on the kind of shoot-from-the-hip devil-may-care lawyers one encountered in the unrealistic courtrooms of the silver screen. He triangulated his fingers, touching them to his lips, then proceeded.
‘Okay, Madeline, let’s walk through what we’ve got here,’ DB said.
The client, Madeline, unlocked her hands, drinking from the water glass in front of her before hooking them back together. She nodded once, eyes on DB.
‘The police attended an incident at your family home a fortnight ago and found the kitchen in a state of disarray. Broken plates, glassware shattered, things like that. Your husband had some obvious physical injuries, cuts and the like, and you yourself were, to quote their words, in a bit of a state. The police have reported you were difficult to calm, possibly intoxicated, and they’ve taken you to the station to settle down as your two young children were about and they were a bit worried about them seeing you like that. Husband’s gone off in an ambulance to get some stitches, mother-in-law’s come round to watch the kids, and you spent the night asleep on a bench at the station. By the time you’ve woken up your bruises have come through and the police can’t work out who started it so no charges are pressed. Says here you weren’t very cooperative, telling them it was all a bit of a misunderstanding and refusing to say much more. Meanwhile, your husband has popped down to court to get himself an interim intervention order and you’ve come home to find new locks on the doors and been served with an order telling you not to approach or contact your husband or the children. How does that sound so far?’
‘He also changed the banking passwords,’ Madeline said, unblinking.
‘Rani tells us that you want to contest the order against you and you’ve also filed a cross-application to get an IVO against him?’
He referred to the document.
‘Yep, okay. You’ve not submitted anything to the Family Court for parenting or property matters, I take it?’
Madeline shook her head.
‘And you’ve said there’s been a history of violence? Nothing reported, though?’
Madeline nodded once. Nell watched her, her poise at odds with the topic being discussed.
‘And you’ve given us some more information here, including more details about the altercation last month.’
DB checked the documents in front of him again. They’d had very little time to prepare for this meeting, what with the hoops that needed to be cleared to get the program happening in the first place, then finding a time in both their already packed schedules when they could meet with the client. The first mention was the following Monday and they were running almost entirely off the information Rani had gathered in her one and only appointment with the client. It was rushed and uncomfortable, the paperwork hastily completed, and not in keeping with Williams & Williams’ normal work approach, but as Rani had assured them, all fairly straightforward. Holding her hand, as Rani said, and waiting for the judge to switch the orders.
‘Is there anything in particular you want to know about next week?’ DB asked, motioning to Nell to refill his water glass.
She ignored him, focusing on Madeline instead. Madeline re-laced her fingers, swapping the dominant hand, then pressed her lips together.
‘Will I be able to see the kids after Monday?’
She reminded Nell of the women who used to congregate at the gates of her high school at three-fifteen, perched high in the seats of their hand-washed four-wheel drives. Slipping easily out of the diesel-beasts to chat airily among themselves as their progeny spilled from the school buildings, funnelling into two channels headed towards either their beaming parents or to loiter with delinquent idleness around the bus pick-up area. She saw it in this woman – the ease with which a certain lifestyle allowed one to carry oneself – and knew from the way he reclined confidently in his chair that DB saw it too. DB gave Madeline a generous smile.
‘If all goes to plan we should have you walking away with the intervention order in your name ready to go home to your kids. I can see we’re asking for your husband to be excluded from the family home, and there’s always the opportunity to ask the magistrate to include the kids on the order if you think he’s a threat to them.’
Madeline nodded once more, then cleared her throat. ‘And I don’t have to say anything? He won’t be able to ask me questions?’
‘Not at this stage. We’ll do all the speaking on your behalf.’
She sat back from the table. ‘Then I have no more questions.’
Nell showed her out then returned to DB. His face was pulled into an excited little smirk, his fingers drumming against the printouts.
‘Walk in the park,’ he said with a grin. ‘Simple mix-up. Interim order issued to the wrong person – it happ
ens. We’ll be back to the office by lunch. Home run for our first test case. Old Man Williams will be pretty chuffed. Might even buy us lunch if we’re lucky. Dumplings at the good place. Or that Korean joint if we’ve got the time. Love me some kimchi!’
He sat back, pondering the many possible options for their future culinary reward. Nell bit the inside of her lip, not entirely comfortable. A gut feeling. The one lawyers were meant to listen to.
‘She didn’t say much, though. Do we even have enough information? It doesn’t feel . . .’
DB’s focus was elsewhere, his gut preoccupied with fantasy meals accompanied by a liberal side order of praise.
‘Here in the paperwork. Gave your pal Rani some good details about the incident. He started the fight, she was defending herself, got all het up because they’d had a glass or two over dinner, etc etc. Kids were shaken up because they’ve never seen Mum like that. Refers to a couple of other incidents in the past as well. Not a lot of detail but not unusual given the timeframe.’
Nell didn’t respond. Open and shut. There you go. They’d have things sorted by lunch. Only it felt wrong . . . Madeline’s calmness felt wrong. DB turned to leave, then paused.
‘My parents used to do this stuff,’ he mused. ‘Criminal, family law and whatnot. I’m fifth generation lawyer. My great-great-great-granddaddy was Ned Kelly’s lawyer, or something like that.’
He set off with a merry whistle, bothering everyone in the open-plan office. For the rest of the day, all Nell could think of was the woman’s silence. She read and re-read the paltry handful of pages Rani had sent through, memorising them back to front. There was the intervention order application but most of that was personal details and administrative stuff, just a couple of boxes to detail the actual incident and anything that had happened before. DB would be doing all the speaking, of course, but she wanted to be prepared just in case. She owed it to the woman to be prepared. Her mother’s words drifted into her head but she pushed them to one side. Open and shut. Kimchi.
Later she found herself curled into the corner seat of a tram that smelt like fast food and urine. She hugged herself against the cold, thinking over Madeline’s calmness. It unsettled her still. Distracted, she once more overshot her stop. By how far she couldn’t tell, night-time gathering swiftly around her. Nell stumbled out at the next stop, crossing the street in search of the nearest return point. She waited a while, stamping her feet in the chill, before she decided to walk instead. She marched briskly, her breath tumbling out in waves. She didn’t know this part of the north, farther from the city than she usually roamed. She passed a store, a vibrant red-green-white flag plastered across the window alongside its Australian equivalent. Persian Grocers, the sign announced cautiously, as if worried its conspicuousness might attract a brick. She thought about Madeline as she walked, her stoicism set against those knuckles wrought white with tension. The rest of her body controlled as if all her worry was banished into the small spaces between each taut finger. Nell’s mind drifted back to her university days, when she’d supported other lawyers doing similar work. Mostly secretarial duties, but occasionally they’d let her sit in as they gathered material for affidavits. It was startling, all the different ways that anger could play out; in utter silence, in rambled disbelief. In abuse hurled at anyone who would listen. But Madeline was different. Had seemed so controlled. Soon Nell came across a small crowd spilling out across the pavement of a little suburban mall. A young man stood busking in the streetlight, the familiar chords of Adele tumbling from his piano accordion. Seymour’s song, one of the ones he listened to on repeat when he was mopey and nostalgic and thought no one could hear. When the young man finished, he held out his hat, upturned for change.
‘Help me continue to make a living doing what I love,’ he said, gesturing to the crowd.
Nell watched him, his crooked smile full of hope. She pulled out her wallet, rooting around for something gold. There was only shrapnel, five and ten cent pieces that were more an insult than encouragement. She slunk away, embarrassed, then stood in the shadows a moment listening to him play.
8
DB
Jonesy!
Loved the pic of the Eiffel Tower. Definitely looked like you were holding it up. Solid work on the acquisition too, bro. You’ll have a happy bank account waiting for you when you get home.
To news here, Williams & Williams are taking a foray into the world of pro bono legal work and yours truly has been selected to run the first case. Not exactly the ideal situation but I suspect it’s Old Man Williams testing the ol’ mettle with an eye to future promotions. So silver lining and whatnot, despite the fact we’ve only got a couple of prep days before court. Bit of a bugger alongside the rest of the workload but them’s the breaks, isn’t it? Reminds me of that time you had five hours to make a six-hour flight in order to convince the Saudis that they couldn’t walk away from that deal or you wouldn’t get that sweet bonus come Christmas. Praise be to Allah for private jets, right? In a similar fashion, I believe this is my Saudi deal, if you will. My hurdle to overcome in order to fully realise my full potential here at Williams & Williams and what have you.
Shouldn’t be too difficult – intervention order, pretty clear-cut. Get a good result and there’s no way they won’t be giving me some more higher-calibre stuff and sending me up a floor. Nell the Lionheart has thrown herself into things so that’s a blessing at least. Emerges every so often to ask questions then back to her notes like some kind of burrowing woodland creature. Could be worse, couldn’t it?
Also, guess who got a nice big pic in the paper? Link attached. Makes me look a bit like that actor from
‘Are you texting at the table?’
DB dropped the phone onto his lap and looked up innocently at the gathered Zambetti family.
‘It would never cross my mind to do such a thing.’
Sylvie went back to quietly seething, grinding her fork into an innocent slither of tomato. For the life of him DB couldn’t work out why. Her parents had been impressed, particularly because they’d seen him in the paper. Guiseppa had cut out the article and carefully stuck it on the fridge where it was surrounded by photographs of Rudy spanning birth to the present, and Tony from back when he had hair. They’d announced a celebratory dinner, tacked onto the usual mid-week dinner they had with Sylvie’s parents, with the promise of cake after the meal.
‘Look at this man!’ Nino had cooed, brandishing the clipping for all to see. ‘The next Prime Minister right there.’
DB smiled graciously, checking to see if his son was watching. Rudy seemed occupied with scraping the flesh off a potato.
‘And the suit,’ Nino continued. ‘What a husband, am I right, Sylvie?’
Sylvie made an unreadable face.
‘You’re both just impressed by anyone who wears a suit to work.’
This was true. Nino had recently bought a second-hand vacuum cleaner from a dodgy door-to-door salesman all because the man had been wearing a suit. And to this day Guiseppa still gushed about how sweet Rudy had looked in his little baptism outfit, all sensibilities vaporised at the incongruence of an infant in a three-piece suit.
‘Do they pay you more?’ Nino asked, his untouched meal cooling before him.
DB winced. ‘Not exactly. No. But there could be a promotion at the end of it.’
Sylvie’s huff was almost imperceptible. Guiseppa, on the other hand, laid down her cutlery, her mind seemingly blown by the generosity of her son-in-law.
‘You’re doing it for charity? What a gentleman. But it’s good you get that promotion too. Then you’ll be comfortable when the baby comes along and Sylvie stops working.’
‘I’m not going to stop working. I like working,’ Sylvie muttered. ‘And I’m not pregnant. And it wouldn’t be such a strain if we didn’t live in the second coming of the Hearst Castle.’
Nino paid her no attention,
his eyes gleaming with possibilities.
‘Maybe they’ll make you head of what do you call it? Social corporate responsibility. Mr Benjamin Arnolds – Head of the Social Corporate Responsibility Department.’
DB smiled politely. Head of the Cuddles Department? No thank you. Beside him, Sylvie let out a racehorse-like snort.
‘Good luck with that.’
Her father looked at her, abashed.
‘Do you know what he did last week?’ She looked around the table for a response. ‘At the kindy?’
Ah. So this was why she was angry.
‘Rudy comes home with a complaint – one complaint – that another kid is mean to him, and Mr Compassion over here calls the kindy and gives the teacher an earful. I’ve had the staff apologising to me all week about it.’
DB put down his fork. ‘It wasn’t one complaint, it was two, delivered over the course of the one evening. One count of pinching and another count of crayon snatching. And I will not stand by while my child is bullied at his own kinder. During story time, no less.’
Guiseppa’s hands flew to her throat. ‘Someone is bullying my Rodolfo?’
Rudy was short for Rudy, but despite this, Guiseppa insisted on Italianising it.
‘Not bullying,’ Sylvie insisted. ‘They’re kids. And the other child is an asylum seeker. Imagine what she’s been through. You want to talk about unfair treatment of children, that’s where you start.’
‘Rudy has the right to be safe,’ DB said, causing Guiseppa to grip the table edge in terror.
‘He’s not safe?’
‘He’s fine, Mum. Stop it, Ben. Rudy, baby, do you like playing with Niki?’
Rudy offered a light shrug.
‘Sometimes she won’t share.’
Guiseppa looked anguished now.
‘She has to share. They need to make the children share. Why won’t the teachers make the children share?’
‘Children have to share,’ Nino agreed, shaking his head at the state of the world.
The Book of Ordinary People Page 10