by Wendy James
Lee was somewhere in his mid-thirties 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 film-maker.’
‘You run a website called Aphroditeblue.com, which features some of your photography. Would you mind telling me a little bit about it?’
The prosecuting counsel interjected. ‘Objection. I fail to see how this is relevant.’
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, challenge their boundaries. 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 film-maker 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 spontaneous. You know, I might meet a random girl 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 interjected. ‘Your Honour. 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 seventh. And the . . . um . . . final one is July twenty-fifth.’
‘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 young 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. ‘Together we could have smashed right 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 behalf of Ellie, 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 defence insisted on the hearing, but Ellie’s lawyers had reassured them that it was just a way for the defence 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 she’d anticipated – the witnesses introducing nothing new in their testimony, and the defence 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 coloured and styled, and the suit she was wearing, thoug
h an appalling mauve colour, 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 defence 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.
There was nothing to do but brazen it out. Honor made it clear that she wasn’t in the least fazed by the clamouring press, gave a sigh that was full of repressed impatience, raised a disdainful eyebrow.
‘This has been a clear miscarriage of justice, based on insinuations rather than facts.’ Her voice was clear, certain. ‘Ellie will release a statement about Mr Lee’s allegations shortly, and we will be talking to the DPP. I have no doubt that my client was abducted and held by Suzannah Wells. We will get to the bottom of these absurd claims, and my client will be vindicated.’
‘But what about Sally O’Halloran’s testimony, Honor? Is it true that you visited Suzannah’s home just before Ellie appeared?’
‘Did you visit Sally O’Halloran?’
Honor gave a cool smile. ‘Both of these women were known to me before Ellie Canning appeared, and both of these visits were entirely unconnected to the case.’
‘Why did you go down into the basement, Honor?’
She allowed herself a hard laugh. ‘I think Miss O’Halloran might have been a little confused about that.’
The defence team had exited the court, followed by Suzannah, Chip and Mary, and she was saved from any more scrutiny. As Honor watched the crowd surge back up the steps, Suzannah looked across at her and the two women made eye contact. Honor turned away quickly, but she had seen the burning anger in the other woman’s face. And the questions.
HONOR: JULY 2018
IT’S NOT LIKE SHE’D PLANNED ANY OF IT.
The girl had approached her outside the office when Honor left in the late afternoon. She had been annoyed at first, thinking she was being hit up for drug money, that the girl was a junkie. Because that’s what she looked like at first glance: underfed, half-dressed, her hair in need of a wash.
‘You’re Honor Fielding, aren’t you?’ The girl’s middle-class accent was jarringly at odds with her appearance.
‘Yes, but how . . .?’
‘You made a speech at The Abbey school last year. I’m a student there. Ellie. We had a conversation. You gave me your card – told me to give you a call when I’d finished school.’ She gave a sickly smile. ‘Well, I’ve finished.’
Honor recalled the conversation, the girl’s confidence, her bold admission. ‘My God. I remember you. What’s happened?’
‘I need your help,’ the girl said, her desperation apparent now. ‘I really need your help.’
The girl’s plight had moved Honor unaccountably, and she had made a split-second decision – for once not thinking about motives or possible consequences – and led her to her parked car. She had driven straight to her apartment, the girl slumped beside her in a drugged stupor. She had roused her gently, guided her to the elevator, gone straight up to the penthouse. Dougal was away on a golfing trip and Honor had planned a lazy night in, a meal of cheese, crackers and enough wine to blot out her recent humiliation. Instead, she’d ministered to the poor silly girl – prepared coffee, sat her before the fire, fed her a bowl of reheated minestrone and hot buttered sourdough. She’d poured her a drink, cold white wine, a generous glass. Then let her tell her story.
ELLIE: JULY 2018
ELLIE HAD BEEN CAUTIOUSLY OPTIMISTIC ABOUT THE LATEST plan for a mother–daughter reunion. Her mother had just been released from a stint in rehab and had written to tell Ellie that she’d been out and clean for three months. She’d been set up in a nice flat in Surry Hills, and she wanted to see Ellie. The letter had been followed by a phone call, and her mother had sounded good, better than Ellie could remember. They’d even had a proper conversation, her mum asking her how she was going at school, listening to her replies. When Ellie told her she had to visit Sydney for the interview at St Anne’s College, her mother had pressed her to visit, suggesting she stay for the holidays.
‘I haven’t seen you for so long, darlin’,’ she’d said huskily.
When Ellie had explained that she’d need to study for her trial exams, her mother had pressed even harder. Her place was quiet, she’d said, and she had work at a local cafe during the day, so she wouldn’t bother Ellie. She could study in the flat, or go to the library even, and then the two of them could spend the evenings together. She wasn’t much of a cook, it was true, but there was always takeaway, and how fun to curl up on the lounge together at night, watching The Bachelor and eating corn chips. The plan appealed – there was no particular joy for Ellie in her current foster home – and the wheels were set in motion. Her mother’s story had checked out, her living conditions had been deemed appropriate by the powers that be. Ellie would turn eighteen during the holidays, and after that the department’s responsibility was negligible.
Ellie had caught the train up from school, arrived early on the Friday evening, and caught the bus to her mother’s flat. From the outside, the flats had seemed respectable enough – an old redbrick block of six, on a tree-lined street. Her mother’s place was at the top, and Ellie had tramped slowly up the two flights of stairs, her heavy backpack jolting, and paused, slightly out of breath, when she reached the dim foyer. Before she could knock, her mother’s door opened, and a woman came crashing out, red-faced, angry, lugging a flat-screen television. She’d taken no notice of Ellie, pushed past her, still yelling obscenities as she blundered down the stairs.
Her mother followed, dressed in pyjama bottoms, an old T-shirt, socks, an unlit cigarette in one hand, bottle in the other. She paused momentarily when she saw Ellie, had grinned and given her a wink before screaming down the stairwell. ‘Cunt. You’re a cunt, Stacey.’ She’d broken off in a coughing fit and taken a swig from the bottle, then turned to her daughter, who was waiting patiently for her attention, resigned and barely surprised. ‘G’day, my baby. I forgot you were coming tonight. But good timing, eh? Give us twenty bucks and I’ll go get us a feed.’
&nb
sp; Her mother took the twenty dollars, which Ellie had handed over reluctantly, and stamped down the stairs. Ellie went inside and waited, although her first instinct had been to run. The flat was freezing, filthy, and almost completely bare – the only item of furniture a grimy suede couch in the middle of the lounge room. It was hard to imagine how the department had deemed it suitable for Ellie, although she supposed that the absence of furniture might have been a recent development.
Her mother returned half an hour later, but she brought no food, and there was no possibility of any sort of conversation. Within minutes her mother was dead to the world, curled on the worn carpet. Ellie covered her with a dirty leopard-print fleece she found covering the window in the bedroom, then locked and chained the front door, jamming a chair under the doorknob for good measure. She cleared a space on the couch and sat down. Took a swig from her mother’s bottle and considered her options.
There were, of course, girls in her year she could appeal to for a bed for the night – or even for the entire break, if it came to that. The four who had travelled up in the train with her – Annabel, Grace, Eliza and Sophie – all lived close by in the Eastern Suburbs. They were her friends, she supposed, as much as any of The Abbey girls could be considered friends, but the thought of having to disclose anything at all about her circumstances, the disaster that was her family life, made her feel physically ill. Being on a scholarship was only just acceptable – being a foster child with a junkie mother was something she didn’t need to share. She could imagine the patronising concern of the parents; the barely hidden disdain of her well-bred peers.
Clearly, there was no possibility of Ellie spending the holidays as planned now that the fantasy of mother–daughter bonding had dissolved. Ellie had the college interview early the next morning, so was stuck there overnight, but she didn’t have to go to sleep just yet. There was nothing to do here – no TV, no internet, just the ragged snoring of her slack-jawed waste of space mother. The night was young, and so was Ellie. She was in the big city, and she was hungry and thirsty – and not just for food.
