He laughs. ‘It’ll be over in an hour. You’ve got this.’
He seems to genuinely believe it, too.
‘Hey, isn’t that the Foreign Minister?’ he says.
I take a deep breath and follow his finger, which I slap down. ‘Yes. Her name’s Jacqui. Don’t point.’
Jacqui Simmons swans up to the stage, trailed by a couple of assistants.
‘Annabelle,’ she says, extending a hand, and gripping mine in both of hers.
‘Uh, hi, Jacqui. I wasn’t expecting you to –’
‘I came for your father,’ she says under her breath. ‘The opposition is represented here, so we need a presence too, but the party thought it best to keep your father’s face out of the news.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad will be staying well clear.’ I roll my eyes.
Jacqui knows what Dad’s like. She’s been in our lives since Dad first went into politics and there’s enough of an overlap between justice and foreign affairs for them to be well acquainted.
‘Your father told me about your fight,’ she says, grimacing. ‘Don’t be too hard on him. He hasn’t had a smooth ride. He’ll come round.’
She says it like he’s a rational person, so I frown at her.
‘Listen, we’ve got a good-looking young Aussie guy on Death Row,’ she says. ‘And because you’ve brought him some coverage – and he’s very appealing – people are worked up about it. The execution of Tye Roberts is still very fresh in the public psyche. What happened to him was tragic. This is just … well, it’s a distraction none of us saw coming so close to the election.’
‘I didn’t do this on purpose.’
‘Hey,’ she says, holding up her hands. ‘That’s life, right? Unexpected things happen. So, are you confident?’ she asks quietly. ‘Need any last minute pointers?’
Then she smiles her trademark broad smile in the direction of the photographer who just started clicking at us. I’ve always liked Jacqui – so do voters, it seems. She strikes the perfect balance between corporate and keeping-it-real.
‘Are you kidding? I’m terrified,’ I say, smiling confidently for the camera.
‘Good. Use it,’ she says, between her still-smiling teeth. ‘Nerves are your friend.’
Jacqui gives my arm a squeeze, before stepping off-stage to greet the media. I hear them firing questions at her.
‘Ms Simmons, what power do you have to help Australians languishing in foreign prisons?’
‘Will you be requesting prisoner-exchange treaties?’
‘Will you be seeking clemency, Ms Simmons, on behalf of Australians facing execution? Is this the reason for your presence today?’
Jacqui smiles expertly at the cameras. ‘As Foreign Minister, I support the needs of all Australians overseas, particularly those facing harsh penalties for their actions.’
‘Are you opposed to the death penalty, Ms Simmons?’
She pauses, and a tired expression crosses her face briefly, before turning into a curt smile. ‘How I feel about the death penalty is irrelevant. I think it’s important to keep in mind that our election platform is about tough punishments for serious crimes, not about the death penalty. Drug trafficking is one of those crimes. Drugs cost countless Australians their lives, and countless more suffer because of the impact drugs have on our wider community.’
Her answers are all evasive and diplomatic. Something Dad, too, has mastered. But the journalists are seasoned and the questions keep coming.
‘But does that mean you support the death sentence handed to Micah Rawlinson?’ a young reporter asks. ‘Have you come here today in opposition to Bel Anderson’s campaign?’
Jacqui smiles. ‘Bel Anderson is doing a noble thing. But let’s not forget, she herself is a victim of drug crime.’ She casts a nod in my direction as she says it.
I could take it as a sign of respect, but she’s a politician. Everything she does and says publicly has a purpose.
‘We cannot allow debates about harsh penalties overseas to detract from the very real problem of the inadequate sentencing we’re seeing here.’
‘There’s Tash,’ Eli says.
I follow his eyes to where Watchkins is striding up the path flanked by Mr Robb, Airlie, Tash and a bunch of prefects. They’re all armed with placards of Micah and the boys.
Tash waves when she sees us. Puts her hands to her mouth, eyes wide at the size of the crowd. She breaks away from Airlie and the prefects and half runs to the stage, giving me a squeeze.
‘This is seriously impressive,’ she whispers into my hair. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
One of her curls has sprung out of place, so I tuck it behind her ear.
She looks at Eli. ‘Hi,’ she says.
‘Hey.’ He shoves his hands in his pockets, and I realise it’s their first contact since their date.
‘Can you two stay where I can see you?’ I ask. ‘I need allies in the crowd.’
‘We’ve got your back,’ Eli says.
Then they walk away from the stage. Watchkins is asking everyone to find a spot to sit on the grass, so Tash and Eli wander to the front of the crowd and sit together as though it’s not totally awkward for them.
‘This is some effort, Bel.’ Watchkins approaches, straightens my tie. ‘You look the part. Now hold yourself together and do us proud.’ She pats me on the arm, before being called by Mr Robb for an interview with Channel Nine.
The camera operators fiddle with their tripods, and reporters position themselves around the stage, jostling for the best angle as the crowd begins to shift.
That’s when I spot her watching me.
Airlie is smack bang in the front centre of the crowd. Oh, she’s going to enjoy it if I choke.
The crowd quietens as Jacqui and Airlie’s father, the Shadow Minister for Justice, step back on stage next to me.
‘It’s time,’ Jacqui says in my ear, nudging me gently forward. ‘Go get political, girl.’
She takes a backwards step, joining Watchkins, Mr Robb and Mr Smith.
Let’s do this, Micah.
I walk shakily over to the lectern. Adjust the mic. Dear God, don’t let them see my legs quivering. I scan the crowd, inhale deeply.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Let’s have a round of applause for everyone who’s turned up today.’
My voice is off-kilter, or maybe it’s the microphone. People look at each other awkwardly and a few start clapping. It’s not the effect I was going for.
‘Come on, you can do better than that. I want them to hear you all the way down in Martin Place! A massive round of applause, please. Be proud of yourselves.’
I raise my arms boldly, hold my breath. Faking it, faking it, hoping to hell I make it. I catch a glimpse of Airlie sitting with a crowd of girls, her arms firmly crossed. I take a deep breath.
A lone, loud clap breaks the silence. Eli. He’s joined by a second clapper, then another. It’s a low rumbling until Tash whistles through her fingers. Others copy her.
‘That’s more like it.’ I survey the crowd. ‘Today we want to be heard. And so do they.’ I extend my arm out to the poster of Micah and his boys. ‘Most of you know about my friend Micah. But this demonstration isn’t just about him. As Dostoevsky said, You can judge a society by the way it treats its prisoners.’
My voice is warming up now, and clutching the lectern gives me strength. ‘There are those who obviously deserve our sympathy, but what about those we don’t pity? Prisoners locked away in their cells, forgotten, abhorred. Are they so worthless they don’t deserve to live? Is the right to live something we should even have to earn?’
I point to Micah’s image again. ‘These guys all admit they did the wrong thing. They’re prisoners because they made bad choices. But they’re still people. Is it okay that we sit back and say nothing while a judicial system obliterates them from existence? Is it okay that we allow our government to be diplomatically silent while our citizens are killed? Tye Roberts died at the hands of a foreign government. By the t
ime we found out, it was too late. He was gone. Are we prepared to let this keep happening? Don’t forget that the punishment wasn’t only handed to Tye Roberts. It was given to his family too. For the rest of their days, they’ll suffer the pain of losing their boy.’
There are whistles of support from within the crowd, and they bolster me.
‘Any one of these guys could be your brother or your friend.’ I pause to scan the crowd and catch Airlie’s eye. This time she doesn’t rattle me. Hell, I’ve lived and breathed politics since I could walk.
‘Is existence only for the good and the fortunate? Define goodness? Define fortune? Is it a privilege only for those who follow the rules? Or is existence sacred? One of the inviolable rights we have as humans?’
There’s another loud whistle in the crowd, followed by applause and yelling.
‘And this is not just about Thailand. There are many governments who kill people and call it justice. But I call it murder dressed as justice.’ I raise my voice above the noise. ‘Isn’t justice meant make us better people, living in better societies? We need to ask how killing people could ever make us better.’ I reach my arms out to the crowd. ‘Many of us here are too young to vote. But as the next generation, we should have a say in what kind of justice system we want to inherit. One based on vengeance or one based on mercy? Micah’s prison is called “Big Tiger” because they say it eats prisoners alive. Well, you know what, there’s more than one tiger on the planet, and we can roar too!’
The crowd erupts again, and someone starts chanting ‘Tiger, Tiger, Tiger’. The chanting and applause grow louder, and while I wait for the crowd to quiet, I catch Airlie clapping, her hands held low. She looks straight at me and nods. I hate that her approval lifts me.
‘Today we’re saying no to legal systems that kill. In the words of Shakespeare, “Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?”
‘Today we ask our government: why are you silent when Australians face death? Crusading for tougher sentences on our home soil is one thing, allowing our people to die in prisons overseas is another. Are you silent because tougher sentences win votes? Or because you believe our Death Row prisoners are worthless?
‘Today, we look at the faces of two of our boys on Death Row. Today we say to our government, ‘Enough silence! It’s time to storm.’ Have you had enough of silence? Let me hear you roar!’
I raise my arms and hope to God the gesture encourages everyone to stand up. It does, and the movement gathers momentum like a wave, until every person is standing. The sound is thunderous, mirroring the thudding of my heart. The crowd is a mass of whistles, claps and whoops.
Power. I harnessed the beast.
‘Ms Anderson, as daughter of the Minister for Justice, how do you reconcile your views with your father’s?’ The young journalist has a predatory sparkle in her dark eyes. ‘This very moment, he’s pushing legislation through the Senate that would ensure mandatory prison terms for offences like drug trafficking. Aren’t these the very offences you were campaigning for leniency on today?’
I’m acutely aware that I have three microphones shoved under my nose and a large camera pointed squarely at my face, recording every syllable.
‘My father’s views …’ I clear my throat and try again. ‘My father is a good politician. This legislation he’s working on, it’s his life’s work –’
‘And doesn’t that make it even more pertinent then,’ the young reporter persists, ‘that you’ve come out today to speak against it?’
I draw back and frown as I envisage headlines declaring Daughter Wages War Against Justice Minister.
‘I wasn’t here speaking out against my father’s policy,’ I say defensively. ‘That was never my intention. I was –’
‘That’s not what you said in your speech,’ she presses. ‘You spoke about a desire for rehabilitative justice. Your father, on the other hand, wants mandatory sentencing. How do you two reconcile that at home, particularly in light of what happened to your mother?’
The colour drains from my face at the mention of her.
‘What happened to my mother was a tragedy,’ I say, narrowing my eyes. ‘But my father never has and never will advocate for the death penalty. And that’s what today’s protest was about.’
There, that’ll put her back in her box.
But it doesn’t.
‘So you’re not at all concerned that your opposing ideology may dampen public opinion towards your father’s bill in the Senate?’
She’s like a blowfly in my face that I want to squash.
‘You know what? My father is a seasoned politician with an impeccable record. He’s been in the public office for fifteen years. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a voice too. I needed to speak out for my friend Micah today, and that’s what I did.’
The reporter opens her mouth, looks set to fire at me again, but all she says is, ‘Thank you, Ms Anderson.’
She wraps up by talking directly to the camera. Then I watch the last TV van drive off.
It’s done.
My head throbs with exhaustion as I survey the mass of lingering protesters. People taking selfies next to the life-sized posters of Micah and his boys. Others sitting in groups on the grass eating morning tea. The mobile coffee guy packs up, and I’m watching him trundle his cart away when I feel a light tap on my elbow.
I spin around. A small woman with dark frizzy hair and deep lines on her face is behind me.
‘Excuse me?’ The woman’s voice quivers, and I notice she’s trembling from head to foot. Something about her face is familiar. ‘You say you’ve been to visit my boy in Thailand?’
Her eyes.
I inhale sharply. Micah has his mother’s eyes.
I stare at Micah’s mother, speechless. I feel my hand go to my mouth.
‘How is he?’ she asks. ‘Is he struggling real bad?’
Tears slip down her cheeks. ‘He won’t write to me. Won’t let me come visit. But you saw him, yeah?’
I nod. I can’t speak.
‘You’re … Micah’s mum,’ I finally manage.
She nods. Then clutches my hand, squeezes it hard. ‘How is he? Just tell me he’s okay.’
I think of him getting cracked across the jaw. His time in solitary. The murder. The Christmas stuff the guards kept from him. The shackles.
I shake it all away.
‘He has a good group of guys in there,’ I say. ‘They take care of him.’
She looks into the distance, like she’s trying to imagine his life, so I add, ‘He wrote to me about you. And he spoke about you when I saw him.’
She nods and more silent tears drop. ‘He won’t write to me.’
The sadness in her voice reaches right into my heart.
‘I wrote him a letter every week, and he never wrote back. I don’t care what he did …’ She wipes her nose with a tissue held in her clenched fist. ‘Can you tell him that for me?’ Her eyes are desperate and wobbly. ‘Tell him he’ll always be my boy?’
‘Mum, there you are.’ A boy jogs up behind her. He looks a bit younger than me.
‘Are you Sammy?’ I ask.
‘Sam,’ he say, straightening up. His answer is guarded.
‘Micah’s told me about you.’
Sam looks at his Mum and takes a step closer to her. Almost as if he’s trying to shield her from me. That’s when I know I’ve said the wrong thing. He probably hates me for getting letters from his brother when they don’t.
I want to tell him the only reason Micah hasn’t written is to protect them, but it’s plain to see they haven’t been protected at all. These are people in the depths of grief.
‘We haven’t given up on him,’ Micah’s mother says firmly.
She lifts her chin proudly. The lines on her face tell me she’s a survivor.
But everyone has a breaking point.
Our section of Hyde Park is all but empty. Police have unravelled their tape and driven to their next assignment. Scraps of food and rub
bish are trampled into the grass around our platform. Posters flap on the ground in the light breeze.
Eli and I load the platform pieces back into the van while Tash carries mic stands and amps. She hovers by my side as I roll up the last poster.
A cab pulls up on the road alongside the park and a man climbs out. I recognise him immediately, even from a distance.
‘Hey,’ Eli says, slamming the back door of the van shut. ‘You girls need a lift?’
He follows my gaze and falls silent.
‘I’ve got to clean up,’ I say briskly.
‘I can help.’ Tash says, squeezing my arm as Dad approaches. ‘Want me to stay?’
I shake my head as Dad walks up the grassy hill towards us.
He nods at Eli and Tash, who wave, before busying themselves. I feel suddenly trapped.
Dad clears his throat. ‘Sweetheart, I’d like a word if you have a minute.’
This time he’s at least asking to talk, not demanding. But that’s probably only because he’s about to disown me.
‘Eli, I could actually use a lift,’ Tash says. She gives me a hug. ‘See you at school.’
I don’t want to watch them go. And I don’t want to be left here with Dad, but I wave them off because this is something I have to face alone.
I shake out a garbage bag and start collecting cardboard cups abandoned on the grass.
‘Seriously, after a speech about making the world a better place, can’t people put a cup in the bin?’ I say.
But Dad just stands there looking at me. ‘Annabelle,’ he says. ‘Stop that for a minute. I need to tell you something.’ His voice is gruff. ‘After you left the other night, I took myself on a long drive. Quite a long drive, actually. I spent the night in Forster.’
I stop halfway bent. ‘Forster? Isn’t that like, four hours away?’
‘Look, the point is, I did some serious thinking. I know I can’t control how you feel, but when you were little Annabelle you came to all my rallies and you waved my banners with pride.’ He smiles, his voice thick with emotion. ‘The press had a field day about the little girl who was standing up for victim’s rights. The little girl who’d lost her mother. Those were the days of victim’s rights. They were so much simpler …’ He sighs.
Inside the Tiger Page 21