Big White Lies

by Jay Darby

  “Superintendent Williams, it’s very late, and I’ve still several officers to get through,” Deidre Sharpe said from the interview room’s doorway. “Is there a problem?”

  Williams grabbed Porter’s elbow. “Hang on, I’ll sort it out.”

  Porter shook his arm loose, then leaned against a table.

  Williams followed Sharpe into the interview room. Five minutes later, he came out smiling. “Deidre’s reluctant, but I’ve vouched for you until Monday.”

  “I still have to see her?”

  “Yes, there’s no avoiding it…” Williams grinned. “Just don’t neck yourself before then, it’s my job on the line…”

  Porter laughed, then grimaced from the effort. “Better for her anyway, not having to deal with me right now.”

  “Told her the same…”

  Porter searched for the question he’d wanted to ask. His head rocked back when he found it. “We were heading to another job when the robbery went down. Check bona fides of a white van at City East cinema...”

  “Yes, heard you acknowledge it…”

  “Anyone check it out?”

  “All crews headed to the robbery once you called pursuit…One finally got to the cinema a couple of hours later. Van was long gone…”

  Porter forced air through gritted teeth. “Should’ve listened to Betts and ignored the robbery. Boys would still be alive, and we could’ve had that van...”

  “Don’t lump that crap on yourself, you made the right decision.” Williams walked to the elevator and pushed a button on the wall. “Come on, will run you home, then I’ve gotta get back to Redfern...”

  The doors opened, and Porter stepped into the elevator. “You’re not finished at the shooting scene? What’s going on?”

  Williams followed him and pressed a button. The doors closed, the elevator descended. “Locals are running amok. Lighting fires, trashing cars and buildings. Gangs of Koori and Islander kids roam the city, bashing the crap out of any whiteys they get their hands on. Have six in intensive care already.”

  “Bloody hell...”

  “Your mate Tugger’s in the thick of it, trying to restore calm. But it’s useless. ‘Doing it for our murdered brothers’ they’ve told him. A hundred cops and the whole riot squad’s fighting for control of Redfern. It’s full-blown mayhem.”

  Porter ran a hand over sticky hair at the back of his head. “Knew the locals would go off…”

  “They were bound to, it’s been brewing for weeks. First, the pricks abducting the girls want to humiliate us…Now pissed off Kooris want revenge, the blood of dead coppers on their hands. And I fear they won’t stop until they get it.”

  FIFTEEN

  Lionel Roberts entered the National Human Rights Commission’s waiting room in Martin Place, Sydney on a chilly Friday morning. He wore a black Armani suit, with a white shirt and red tie underneath it. He’d shined his best shoes, cut his wayward curls, and trimmed his goatee. The receptionist asked him to sit and wait. A grandfather clock in the corner showed 8.55am on the most important day of his life.

  He yawned and rubbed aching eyes. He’d worked till the early hours on the submission paper he’d present to Charles McKinlay, but had found it difficult to concentrate after learning of the boys murdered in Redfern. Koori leaders had kept him informed throughout the night, about the riots and brawls that had spread across the city. Part of him had wanted to join them and vent his anger. But he’d resisted, because the meeting with McKinlay was contingent on him staying out of a police cell.

  The grandfather clock chimed nine times. Charles McKinlay opened his office door and told Lionel to join him.

  Lionel stepped forward, briefcase held to the front in two hands like a bashful schoolboy. McKinlay had been a God-like figure in the courtroom, perched high in his leather throne. But up close the hunched old man seemed a mere mortal. He stood half a foot shorter than Lionel, and the grey suit hung from his skeletal frame.

  Lionel met his intense gaze, was mesmerized by fluorescent blue eyes, then had to look away. The whirlpool in his stomach threatened to pull him under, he offered a sweaty hand. “Mr McKinlay, thank you for seeing me, sir.” He heard his own voice, soft and trembling. He wriggled his nose at the rich smell of leather and antique timber furnishings.

  McKinlay took his hand in a weak grip, shook it once, then closed the door. “Take a seat.” He shuffled to the opposite side of a mahogany desk.

  Lionel placed his briefcase on the floor then sat and watched him. McKinlay had been hard but fair throughout his career, a high-court Judge intolerant of those who’d wasted his time and the taxpayers’ money. He’d made his way up through the lower courts, and his support of the Police Force during his rise to the top had been a rarity. He believed in public order and had dealt out justice accordingly, unperturbed by civil rights protagonist who’d cried foul over the lengthy sentences imposed. He’d recently turned seventy-eight, and judging by the gossip Lionel heard in legal circles, his razor-sharp mind hadn’t blunted with age.

  “Can I see your submission documents, Mr Roberts?” McKinlay said in a well-practiced, dreary tone.

  Lionel took two folders from his briefcase and laid them on the desk. Folders thick as a yellow-pages phonebook, bound in dark leather. The imprinted gold font on each cover described their contents.

  McKinlay reached forward, picked up a folder and weighed it in bony hands. “The Commission requires a paper that outlines your proposal, Mr Roberts. Not an encyclopedia…”

  Lionel shifted in the chair. “The issue’s too important for lack of detail, sir.”

  McKinlay eyed him with nonchalance. “I shall get straight to the point…I can see you have spent many hours on this submission, but at present, there is no need for me to read it. My fellow panel members have already voted in your favor. Against my advice…”

  “That’s wonderful news.”

  McKinlay groaned. “Calm down, you do not have your inquiry yet…Rothwell wants me to grant you an investigation phase, fully sponsored by the Attorney-General’s department. I want you to tell me. Why should I?”

  “The details are in my submission, sir. Multiple reports suggest Koori children are being abused and neglected in the far-western districts. Police are aware of the problem and have identified suspects, yet not one arrest has been made. These children’s human rights are being ignored, and that’s why you should…Sir.”

  McKinlay stroked wispy white hair at his forehead. “How does such an investigation, so very far away, aid the situation here in Sydney?”

  “Positive action in the outback can influence what happens in the city, sir. Kooris will take note, and realize they aren't being totally ignored. It’s all related…”

  “If you are referring to the missing girls’ cases, surely Senator Galios has made you aware of the reasons for taskforce Azelia’s termination? You will never convince me the police have neglected the human rights of a few by favoring anti-terrorism measures that protect millions...”

  “It’s not my place to argue the point, sir, but the murder of those boys in Redfern last night is the spark Kooris were waiting for, and it’s lit a fire of discontent that threatens to burn out of control...Grant this investigation in the far-west and support any subsequent inquiry. Let it be the positive action that can extinguish the fire.”

  McKinlay’s thick eyebrows jumped. “Have you spoken to Rothwell? It is exactly what he said…”

  Lionel resisted a smile. “Attorney-General Rothwell’s a wise man, sir.”

  “No, he is a typical politician…A weak fool, spooked by media coverage of Azelia and the murdered Tindall girl, who considers it too hazardous to ignore you.”

  “Sir, if I don’t find evidence, it works in your favor. Observers would say you acted in the best interests of human rights. And your police buddies will be happy…”

  “I shall ignore the reference to my, ‘police buddies’.” McKinlay glared at him. “And what if human rights abuses are detecte
d out there? Even then, a parliamentary inquiry would not be a given…Rothwell and other politicians prefer to protect the public, and themselves, from such revelations.”

  “As Mr Rothwell seems to agree, protecting the public’s one matter, but ignoring them is another?”

  McKinlay sneered. “You lot had your inquiry in ’96 and achieved the desired outcome. Why drag the State, and this great nation, through the same muddy bog, over and over again?”

  Lionel rocked back in the chair. You lot? He leaned forward, emboldened by a sudden, unknown force within him. “Mr McKinlay, sir, my people continue to drown in that muddy bog. It hasn’t disappeared…”

  McKinlay dismissed the statement with a flick of his hand. “An interesting debate, for another time…You forget though, that unlike Rothwell I am not influenced by public sentiment, nor the media.” He hesitated, his eyes bored into Lionel. “Tell me about Sinclair and Flintoff…Why did they support you, without having any detailed knowledge of your proposal?”

  “I’ve no idea, sir.”

  McKinlay squinted as he grunted. “I am convinced there was foul play, that they were somehow influenced…I shall find out who is responsible, Mr Roberts, and there will be harsh consequences.”

  “What exactly are you referring to, sir?”

  “Ah, you give your arrogant smile, as though enjoying a victory over me…You, a Koori kid, barely out of law school.” McKinlay scoffed so hard he coughed. His eyes sparkled. “Are you aware that as Chairman, under the Act, I set the time-frame for the investigation phase?”

  Lionel took a deep breath, tried to calm himself, then exhaled through pursed lips. “I am, sir…How long will I have?”

  McKinlay clasped hands on his child-like belly. “I grant you a three-month investigation period. You will appear before me at its’ conclusion when a final decision regarding an inquiry will be made.”

  “Three months?” Lionel’s voice quivered. “It could take weeks just to form a team…I have multiple locations to visit, and hundreds of witnesses to interview…It’s impossible to complete it in three months.”

  “It is simply a matter of prioritization, Mr Roberts. And surely you wish to finalize it as quickly as possible? I imagine you will then be eager to start building your bridges, having found the, solutions, to our nation’s problems?”

  Lionel refused to take the bait and held his nerve. “I’ll return in three months with sufficient evidence to support a parliamentary inquiry, and I’m extremely grateful for the opportunity the Commission affords me. Thank you, sir.”

  McKinlay’s face crumpled, a picture of confusion. “Very well…Karen Flintoff will provide the details you need. Are you conversant with investigation protocols under the Act?”

  “I am, unless they’ve changed?”

  “They have not…You will lead an investigation team of three, and can interview witnesses and so on, but your primary role is to co-ordinate the police investigators.” McKinlay waited. Lionel gave a confident nod. “Two Federal Police investigators are required, and I shall contact Federal Police Commissioner Watkins to arrange the secondment and ensure their integrity. One investigator will be seconded from the New South Wales Police Force.”

  “Must I arrange that?”

  “No, I will personally send a request to Commissioner Delaney…Questions?”

  “Yes, one…Is it still a requirement to nominate a home-base, a secure residence for the safekeeping of evidence, etcetera?”

  McKinlay tapped his temple with an open hand. “Silly of me…It is, and this being the official first day, tell me, where will that home-base be?”

  “The Crooked River district…The townships and Aboriginal communities within it.”

  “Out near the South Australian border is it not? Far north-western corner of the State?”

  “That’s right.”

  McKinlay leaned forward. “Interesting…Why Crooked River?”

  “It’s the logical choice.”

  McKinlay’s forehead wrinkled as he opened the folder in front of him. His eyes skimmed over the submission document. “And yet there is no mention of it here, on page ten, where you have listed the top ten districts of interest. I do hope you have not ignored relevant statistics in making that choice. If I find that to be the case, I shall reject your proposal outright and cancel the investigation.”

  Lionel frowned at his change of tact. “Sir, statistics only reflect official complaints. Based on my own observations over recent years, the Crooked River district has an alarming number of unreported incidents. Of abuse and neglect…” He broke eye contact to tell his lie. “I always intended to start there...”

  McKinlay’s fingers formed a tepee under his nose. His piercing eyes darted over Lionel’s face for what seemed an hour. “Mr Roberts, as I would say to my son when he was a boy…Have your fun, stir the wasp’s nest, but do not come running to me when they bite.”

  SIXTEEN

  Lionel Roberts finished the mixed grill with extra bacon, the usual Saturday brunch at his favorite eatery on George Street. He sipped a cappuccino then opened the newspaper and closed it again, unable to think of anything but his pending investigation. He glanced at his phone. 10.45am. He had a grand performance planned for 11am and didn’t want to be late, so he called the waitress and paid his bill.

  He’d made numerous enemies since returning to Sydney, with those on both sides of the justice system who didn’t appreciate his forthright manner. But Sam Cartright, the self-elected president of ‘South Sydney Rights for Aboriginals’, was one of few allies. He’d always been like a big brother, someone who shared Lionel’s passion for Koori justice but delivered it by more violent means. When Sam had asked for assistance, he’d eagerly agreed to support his Hyde Park protest rally.

  He left the café, turned his jacket’s collar up to protect his neck from August winds, and turned towards the park. A group of boisterous teenagers swept him along the footpath with them. They thrust homemade banners in the air and chanted. Cops are kiddy killers! Pigs don’t care! They reminded him of his student days, when he’d supported causes he didn’t fully understand while insisting he did.

  He dipped his head to a horse-mounted policewoman as he rushed past. Sirens whirled, car horns honked. Traffic police shouted instructions, tried to clear cars and pedestrians from gridlocked streets. He glanced to the opposite side of the road, where hundreds of protestors surged towards the rally. Armed with song and banner, an army laid siege to the heart of Sydney.

  He entered Hyde Park and saw a stage up ahead. Sam stood on it and spoke into a microphone.

  Lionel shuffled towards the stage and studied the faces of those jammed tight around him. They were aged from teens to old age pensioners, with white skin, dark skin and all shades in between. Whether they were there to support Kooris or simply hated the government, he didn’t care. Angry crowds made for nervous politicians.

  He squeezed his way to the front, and Sam sent security guards to escort him onto the stage. He acknowledged Sam’s introduction with a quick wave to the fifty-thousand strong crowd, then took the microphone from him.

  A gifted public speaker, Lionel whipped the crowd into a frenzy. He told them how the Police Force had failed every citizen of the State. How the government didn’t care about Sydney’s missing girls of minority ethnic groups, and had poured money into anti-terrorism initiatives because two Caucasian women had died in a recent hostage situation. The crowd jeered the name of each politician he slandered.

  He then told the story of Eddy Tindall and Ben Neilsen, two respectable Koori boys, future boxing champions who’d been cut down in their prime by trigger-happy cops. Killed in cold blood, for committing a petty crime…And the cops who’d done it? Betts the shooter, Lionel told them, had been charged with two counts of manslaughter overnight. They cheered.

  “But what about Senior Constable Daniel Porter?” Lionel asked them. They booed. “He forced them into a corner…Was there a choice for those frightened boys, b
ut to fight back?”

  “No!” they replied with fury.

  “Do we want them both to rot in jail?”

  “Yes,” they roared as one.

  Lionel paused to let the noise subside, then continued in a calmer tone. “We will prevail in this battle, but please, stop fighting amongst yourselves and hurting the innocent. Save your fury for the government, and the police, the real enemy.” They roared. He pumped a clenched fist above his head and yelled into the microphone. “Stop police brutality, the neglect of human rights. Stop it now!”

  Hyde Park erupted in a chorus of defiance. Signs bobbed up and down, banners flew high. “Stop it now! Stop it now!” thousands chanted, over and over.

  Lionel’s chest heaved, a wave of euphoria washed over him.

  Sam took the microphone and placed an arm around his shoulder. “Awesome job bro, they love you,” he shouted above the noise, then put the microphone to his mouth. “Let’s hear it for Lionel Roberts, our number one human rights lawyer. A seeker of Koori justice, all justice.”

  The crowd roared their admiration. Lionel waved to acknowledge them, hugged Sam, then walked to the back of the stage. He spotted a gap in the crowd, his exit route from the park, and stepped down the stairs.

  When he reached the bottom, Tugger Walford grabbed his elbow and marched him into a cordoned area behind the stage. Lines of riot police with shields stood close by.

  “What the hell you doin’?” Tugger said, his face crimson.

  “Let go of my arm.” Lionel glared at him. “Is this how you treat an old friend?”

  Riot police turned towards them.

  Tugger presented the ID card hanging around his neck. When they turned away, he prodded Lionel’s chest. “We are friends…But after the rubbish I’ve just heard, aint sure for how much longer.”

  Lionel hesitated, to compose himself. His heart thumped like a bass drum, still flooded with the adrenaline he’d sucked from the crowd. “You can’t shove me around like this, Derek.”

  “Only mum and me enemies call me Derek, and you aint me mum…Look, I’ve spent the last two days tryin’ to calm this mob. And now you’ve gone an’ blown it all up again.”