by Wendy James
“Can I ask you, Miss O’Halloran, whether a Mr. Albert Fielding is one of your . . . er . . . one of the residents at the home?”
She gave the prosecution lawyers an anxious look. “Mr. Fielding. I, ah. I think so? Yes.”
“And are you aware that he is Honor Fielding’s father?”
“Yes. That’s right. Yes, he is.”
“So I take it you know Ms. Fielding, then?”
“I . . . er. Yes. I knew her a bit at school. And I see her occasionally when she comes in to see her father.”
“So you would recognize her if she happened to visit Suzannah Wells’s home. You’d know who she was?”
“I guess. I mean, of course.”
“And did she?”
The woman blinked. “Did she what?”
“Did Ms. Fielding ever call in when you were there?”
“I, ah. I don’t remember her—”
“We actually have a statement here from Mary Squires, Miss O’Halloran. She says that she remembers Honor Fielding visiting the house while you were there.”
The prosecution’s counsel interjected, “Objection, Your Honor. Miss Squires is hardly a reliable witness. If she was, we’d be prosecuting her, too.”
“The prosecution seems to have allowed Miss Squires’s testimony where it suited them, Your Honor. They’ve brought in medical experts to have her statement included in the brief—”
“Yes, yes. That’s fair enough. But perhaps you could get to the point, Mr. Gascoyne?”
“Miss O’Halloran, if you could answer my question. Do you remember Ms. Fielding visiting Ms. Wells’s residence while you were there?”
“Oh. I . . . I don’t . . .”
She paused, looked imploringly at the prosecuting counsel, who responded with a not terribly encouraging smile.
“You must answer the question, Miss O’Halloran.” The judge spoke sharply. “And remember, you must answer truthfully at all times.”
“Well, maybe she did call in once.”
“Can you remember when that was?”
She frowned, concentrating fiercely. “It was a Monday, I know that, because she came when I was watching my serial.”
“Can you remember which Monday?”
“Not really.”
“Was it in winter?”
“It must of been. I remember thinking her feet must’ve been freezing. She was wearing sandals, and there was still frost outside.”
“Can you recall the month?”
“Frost was late this year. Not till the last week of July. I know because of my roses,” she added helpfully.
“So after the July school holidays, then?”
“It must of been.”
“And before news of Miss Canning’s escape.”
“I guess.”
“And can you recall the purpose of Ms. Fielding’s visit?”
“I don’t really know. I think she . . . Yes, she said that there was something she needed to pick up. She was borrowing a dress, maybe? She thought it was in the laundry.”
“And did she go into the laundry?”
“I suppose so.”
“You didn’t accompany her?”
“No. I was . . . busy. And she said not to worry, she knew what she was doing.”
“So you didn’t actually see where she went?”
“No. But she told me she was going to the laundry.”
“Do you know how to access the laundry from inside the house?”
“I’ve never had any reason to go there, but I know it’s downstairs.”
“Yes, it’s downstairs. You can get to it from outside the house, too, but it’s generally accessed through the door in the hallway—that very one you say you were told not to open in case Mary fell down the stairs. The same one that you say you heard strange noises emanating from.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed. So, as far as you know, Ms. Fielding went downstairs to retrieve an item from the laundry.”
“Yes.”
“And she didn’t have any trouble opening the hallway door?”
“Not that she said. No. You’d have to ask her, though, to be sure.”
“But you’ve stated that the door to the downstairs rooms was always kept locked—that you were expressly told never to use it.”
“Maybe . . . maybe Honor had a key?”
“This visit—if you’re correct about the day—must have been during the time that Ellie Canning was allegedly being held downstairs.”
“Oh, but . . . I’m not sure.”
“Did you happen to see the item of clothing that Honor Fielding retrieved from the laundry when she left? What it was that she borrowed?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Miss Squires has suggested that the visit had something to do with Ms. Wells’s birthday. Some sort of surprise, apparently.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“And you didn’t think you should mention the visit to Suzannah Wells when she arrived home? Just to let her know what had gone on that day. Wouldn’t that be the standard thing to do in such a situation?”
“I must—well, we’re always in a bit of a rush in the afternoon. I guess, I guess I just . . . forgot all about it.”
“And you didn’t think to ‘remember’ it later, when all this happened, like you ‘remembered’ the noises?”
“I don’t see what difference it makes. That girl could of still been down there. Maybe Honor just didn’t see her . . .”
“And didn’t hear anything, either, apparently. These shouts that you say you heard coming from the basement rooms. Did you hear them when Honor Fielding was visiting, when she went downstairs to the laundry?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I mean, it’s not like I heard them all the time. Maybe it was when she was . . . asleep, or unconscious or whatever.”
“Perhaps it was. I just have a few more questions, if you don’t mind. Now, Miss O’Halloran, if you can cast your mind back a little further, to a few days before Ms. Fielding’s trip downstairs to the laundry.”
This was something new. I looked at Chip inquiringly, but he shrugged, whispered, “No idea. I know Hal got an investigator to do some hunting around. He must have found something else.”
Sally took her time, frowning. “A few days before? I’m not sure. It’s a long time ago now.”
“It is, isn’t it? But I’ll see if I can narrow it down for you. This time we have an exact date: July 27. It was a Friday. On that evening Ms. Fielding visited your home.”
“Oh. Maybe.”
“No maybes. She did. We have a witness, one of your neighbors, who says she saw Honor pull up outside your home and go inside. The witness was surprised, because she didn’t realize you and Honor were friends.”
“We’re not.”
“But she visited your home?”
“I . . . yes. She did.”
“Would you be able to tell us why?”
“I . . .” Sally looked about wildly, her growing desperation evident.
The prosecution’s counsel stood. “Objection. The witness doesn’t need to answer that question, Your Honor. It has no bearing on the case.”
The magistrate gave Sally a long, thoughtful look. “Actually, I think I’d like to hear this. Miss O’Halloran, please answer Mr. Gascoyne’s question. Why did Ms. Fielding visit you at home?”
“She . . . wanted to talk to me.”
“Can you tell us what she wanted to talk to you about?” Hal asked the question casually enough, but there was an edge of excitement in his voice.
“No.”
“No?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You can’t or you won’t? Is that because Ms. Fielding wanted you to do something unlawful?”
“Objection!”
“You may ignore that, Miss O’Halloran. Mr. Gascoyne, the witness has told you that she can’t remember. Have you anything further to ask?”
“No more questions, Your Honor. Thank
you, Miss O’Halloran. You’ve been a great help.”
Sally got to her feet, then stood, unmoving, as if dazed. The usher spoke to her quietly, then led her gently from the box. She exited the court quickly, her head down, careful not to make eye contact with anyone.
Chip turned and glared as she passed us, but I looked straight ahead. Hal turned around in his seat and nodded before turning back to call the defense team’s first and only witness, David Lee. The prosecution team was struggling to hide their alarm, shuffling through papers, passing notes. “We haven’t been advised of this witness.”
The magistrate looked up briefly. “Apparently the witness has only just been located. No matter—you’ll get your cross-examination, Ms. Battisti.”
Lee was somewhere in his midthirties and exceptionally good-looking. His shirt, untucked, was rolled halfway up well-defined forearms, displaying intricately tattooed sleeves. The judge looked alert for the first time all day, clearly intrigued by the way things were progressing.
Hal stood up. “Mr. Lee, you describe yourself as an ‘artrepreneur.’ Can you tell us what that means?” He gave the man an encouraging smile.
Lee didn’t smile back. “I’m a photographer and filmmaker.”
“How would you describe your work?”
“Objection. I fail to see how this is relevant.” The prosecuting counsel looked flustered.
The magistrate gave her a small smile. “No. But I suspect you’re going to find out. Objection overruled.” He turned his attention to Hal. “This had better be good.”
Hal gave a curt nod and turned back to Lee.
“Mr. Lee, can you tell us a little about your work? Your subjects, your audience, that sort of thing.”
Lee cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a bit more than just art—I like to think that I’m actually providing a social service. I’m all about helping women explore their potential. I get them comfortable with their bodies, then take them out of their comfort zones when it comes to connecting with others. It’s a serious project.”
“Your website features pictures of half-naked women, Mr. Lee. Some might call it soft porn.”
Lee looked disdainful. “I suppose they might, but they’re looking at it from a typical heteronormative perspective. It’s not about cheap thrills; it’s about empowering women.”
“I guess it’s all a matter of perspective, as you say. Regardless, the pictures are reasonably tame, aren’t they?”
“We do the occasional full frontal, but it’s always tasteful.”
“And you just . . . sell these photographs through your website? Forgive me if I’m being a little cynical here, but these images don’t really seem like they’d cater to contemporary tastes.”
The man shrugged. “I have a pretty select clientele. They’re after something different. Arty. A bit retro.”
“And you’re a filmmaker as well? There’s no mention of films on your website. Why is that?”
Lee looked uncomfortable. “They’re only available to special members. Subscribers.”
“Are the films as retro as your photographs?”
“They’re not always retro. They’re for women who want to explore their limits, their power, take it further.”
“And by taking it further, do you mean you film them having sex?”
“If that’s what they choose to do.” Lee ignored the muffled laughter and stared straight ahead, his expression stony.
“How do you produce your films, Mr. Lee? How do you, for instance, find the ‘talent’ to act in them? Do you use an agency?”
“Not really, no. Usually . . . it’s a case of people finding me. They’re seeking the experience. But occasionally it’s just a . . . random meeting in a bar or whatever.”
“And when you film them, do these girls give their consent?”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious what’s going on, with the cameras and everything. I’ve never met a girl who isn’t turned on by a camera. They all want to be stars. And I pay them.”
“What about your male leads, Mr. Lee? Where do you, er, source them?”
Lee took a moment to answer. “Most of the time it’s me.”
“You mean you’re actively having sex while filming?”
“Yeah, sometimes it’s hard. But I know these girls—they trust me. We have a connection.” There was more muffled laughter, some awkward shuffling in the seats.
Hal took his time, playing the crowd. “Do the girls you work with know that you’re selling the footage?”
“Of course. Most of them anyway, yeah.”
“And they don’t mind?”
“No.” He glared defensively. “As I said, they get paid.”
“I’d like you to look at some photographs.” Hal’s clerk handed Lee a thin pile of printed sheets. “Can you confirm that these images have been taken from your site?”
The man shuffled through the papers. “Yes.”
“They haven’t been doctored in any way?”
“No. They look right.”
“And the date stamps at the bottom of each image—these are the dates that the pictures were taken?”
The man looked at the pages closely. “If that’s what’s on the site, yeah. There’s no reason to change them.”
“Would you mind telling us the range of the dates?”
The prosecutor objected, “Your Honor. I don’t see the relevance of this question.”
The magistrate gave a grim smile. “I think I’m beginning to, Ms. Battisti. Carry on, Mr. Gascoyne.”
“If you wouldn’t mind telling us the date of the earliest photograph and the date of the latest, Mr. Lee.”
Lee went through the sheets carefully. “Okay. The first one is dated July 7. And the . . . um . . . final one is July 25.”
“And are there images that were taken between these dates, too?”
The man shuffled through the papers again. “There’s probably some from almost every day.”
“I take it you remember the woman who is the subject of these photographs, Mr. Lee?”
“I do.”
“What name did you know her by?”
“She told me her name was Olivia.”
“And have you seen her elsewhere, before or since?”
“She’s that girl, the one who says she was kidnapped. Ellie Canning.”
There was a communal intake of breath, and the entire assembly seemed to shift forward in their seats, eager to hear more.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m dead certain. She told me she wanted shots for her portfolio—and ended up staying at my place for three weeks. We did a fair bit of . . . filming. Had a lot of fun. She didn’t give me a forwarding address, so I put her pictures up. I assumed she’d be in touch. Actually, I was sorry when she went; she has talent. I think I could have taken her a long way.” He looked regretful. “I could really have pushed through those boundaries.”
HONOR: JANUARY 2019
Honor sat in the gallery, where she could get a decent view of everyone but still go virtually unnoticed herself. She wasn’t there to be seen—not yet anyway. She had a simple statement ready to make on Ellie’s behalf, once this show was done and dusted, but right now she was happy to blend into the background. She tried and failed to suppress a pang when she saw Chip and Suzannah take their seats, with a frail and uncharacteristically scared-looking Mary between them. Despite the very obvious stress of her situation, the now heavily pregnant Suzannah looked radiant—her skin clear, her eyes bright, her dark hair thicker than Honor recalled.
Honor had prepared herself for what she imagined would be a boring and unnecessary rehash of the prosecution’s evidence. She’d felt a vague sense of unease when the defense insisted on the hearing, but Ellie’s lawyers had reassured them that it was just a way for the defense to gain time and there was nothing to worry about. They might cross-examine, but they had submitted no new evidence, called no new witnesses. On her advice, Ellie, who wasn’t required at the hearing, had taken a
flight to an exclusive Fijian resort with Jamie and was no doubt lying back in her private spa right now, enjoying a cocktail and whatever else was on offer.
The initial proceedings had been exactly what Honor had anticipated—the witnesses introduced nothing new in their testimony, and the defense cross-examination had been perfunctory. Even Hal’s questions regarding the possibility of the DNA evidence being planted had lacked energy. And Sally O’Halloran had scrubbed up surprisingly well for her appearance. Her hair had been colored and styled, and the suit she was wearing, though an appalling mauve color, looked almost stylish. She answered the prosecution’s questions calmly and clearly and made a far better impression than Honor had expected, her description of the noises she’d heard from the basement somehow managing to be both understated and chilling. It was only when the defense began their cross-examination of Sally, and Honor intercepted an expectant look between Chip and Suzannah, that she began to worry that something was about to go badly wrong. By the time David Lee made his surprise appearance, it was clear that the whole house of cards was about to collapse.
She’d had to resist the urge to run then, to make her escape swiftly and out of the public eye, had forced herself to sit through the magistrate’s sternly worded decision. It was not his job to stitch together the facts of the matter, he said, only to decide whether Suzannah Wells had a case to answer. Which, as Miss Canning appeared to have been otherwise engaged at the time in question, she most certainly did not. What had really occurred was something for others to discover, though he had no doubt that it involved criminal conspiracy and collusion. It was a grave matter—quite apart from the very real reputational and psychological damage suffered by the defendant, it had wasted valuable police and judicial time, which was not a matter that should ever be taken lightly. He would most certainly be making a recommendation to the DPP that the matter be investigated.
The case was dismissed, the defendant discharged.
Honor left the court with the crowd, hoping she would go unnoticed, but her ruse didn’t work. The scandal-hungry media scrum surrounded her just as she reached the bottom step of the courthouse, thwarting her escape. For once they were not on her side, not her friends. It was almost the first time in her career that she didn’t have a response at the ready, that she hadn’t prepared for a worst-case scenario. She should have seen the danger when the footage first appeared, but she’d managed to smooth things over with Andy Stiles, had been confident that that little problem had been permanently put to rest. Honor could always be relied upon to bury the bodies; it was how she’d made her reputation. But this time the hole hadn’t been quite deep enough. She’d miscalculated and exposed not only the client but herself.