More drama, the constant drama that drove out everything else. Her friend Fi liked to say we all need to live more in the moment. Fi didn’t know any junkies.
She went back to Rozelle the next afternoon, not knowing what she was doing. A girl opened the door this time and said Ian was at work.
‘I’m Karen.’
Hand out, soft shake, the girl said, ‘Yes.’
Uninvited, Karen walked down the dark and narrow hall, into a fuggy lounge room. Said, ‘Work?’
‘You know, the taxi.’
The girl was slightly plump, long dyed black hair and pale skin, with piercings and a dragonfly tattoo on the back of her left hand. What a boon for police all these tattoos had been.
She seemed to like Ian, and this struck Karen as repellant. Said he’d stopped going to university again. As she spoke, Karen looked around the room, empty bottles and glasses stained with red wine, an overflowing ashtray. She took a step towards a low table and stopped, wondered why she was here.
‘You live in Killara?’ asked the girl.
‘Yes.’
Trees and beautiful houses, quiet streets. You want the best for your children, but it doesn’t matter what you want, apparently. She hoped it would be different for the twins.
‘Tea?’
Karen tried not to shudder. ‘I’m not thirsty.’
‘I come from Wollongong.’
‘Good.’ She nodded firmly.
‘It’s not really. Ian doesn’t like his dad much.’
‘Has he, Phillip, been here?’
‘Phillip, is that his name?’
She was talking to this girl as though they were equals, which was absurd. The things love will do to you. ‘Ian hasn’t told you his father’s name?’
‘He goes off about him, sometimes. But he took some of his pictures over to show him. Right depressed when he got home, burned them out back.’
Home, Karen thought, looking around at the dirt, the crusted carpet. Ian had once said, ‘I’m sorry I’ve ended up with nostalgie de la boue.’ A yearning for the mud. He’d studied French at Grammar, done well. Although this was one of those terms, like bête noire and outré, not used in French in the same way it was in English. But she’d been so happy he’d spoken any French at all to her that she hadn’t corrected him.
She said, ‘Do you think I could see some of Ian’s pictures?’
The girl took her into the room next door, another lounge area with two old sofas, a large TV, and a big sheet of canvas nailed to one wall. On it was a spray-painted picture of a three-piece band, vigorous and crude, red and blue. There was a black portfolio leaning against the end of one of the sofas. The girl pulled out some large sheets of paper, which she laid on the floor proudly. Karen realised with a shock this girl, whose name she still did not know, loved her son.
Three of the pictures, done in crayons, were of a creature like a werewolf lurking in a suburban street. Trees and gabled houses. Others were Metropolis-style attempts to capture the race of the city, escalators, trains and planes, lots of bridges. The effect was dizzying and Karen stepped back, felt herself going into mild shock. She had not thought him observant. Assumed heroin was his whole life. It wasn’t, of course.
‘He’s really getting more into the graffiti now,’ the girl said, turning around from the portfolio, holding some large photos.
‘Ian did these?’
‘The drawings. I did the photos.’
The wolf again, in a forest now, chasing a boy. Or maybe a girl. Done in spray-paint on a concrete wall, the photo altered somehow so that it looked like a picture on paper, but paper with a very unusual texture. In wonder Karen reached out to touch it, and realised the paper on which the manipulated photo had been printed bore the texture. She withdrew her hand, unsure of what was what.
‘You like it?’
She felt old. It had happened occasionally in the past few years, not old age itself, but a premonition.
‘Is Ian using heroin?’
‘Not anymore. You need to be fit to do this sort of art. We did walls along the railway lines for a bit but you know, you get chased. Now it’s just speed.’ She looked away uneasily, as though remembering who Karen was. ‘Not much. Soldiers had it in the war.’
‘So these were done recently?’
‘Yeah. He’s had, you know, like a spurt. That’s how it is with artists.’
Karen wondered how long you had to be off heroin to be reasonably confident you wouldn’t go back to it.
The girl began to pack away the pictures and Karen said, stupidly, ‘He was never good at art.’
‘Maybe it was the wrong sort of art.’
The sheets of paper disappeared, and it was as though Ian was gone too. ‘Do you think I could buy one?’
The girl did not pause in closing the portfolio. ‘They’re not for sale. Ian might give you one, if you ask.’ There was a strange confidence to some of her answers. She finished her job and propped the portfolio against the television screen. ‘You’re sad, aren’t you?’
DAY TWELVE
Finally Bec went into the witness box. Ferguson started politely enough. He asked if, at Rafiq Habib’s first interview, the police had withheld information about the phone taps on Jason Teller. Bec agreed.
Ferguson: ‘It was a trap, wasn’t it?’
Ralston: ‘It was an opportunity.’
Ferguson: ‘It was a trap.’
Ralston: ‘An opportunity for Mr Habib to tell the truth if he chose to.’
Ferguson: ‘You’re telling us the truth now?’
Ralston: ‘I am veracious.’
Ferguson: ‘What? What was that word?’
Ralston: ‘Veracious.’
Ferguson: ‘Could you define it? For the jury.’
Ralston: ‘I tell the truth.’
Ferguson: ‘There was no lawyer present, was there?’
Ralston: ‘Mr Habib was accompanied by his older brother John. His lawyer, Mr Soufi, was supposed to attend but missed the appointment.’
Ferguson: ‘Did you consider waiting for him?’
Ralston: ‘We waited half an hour. Then Mr Habib agreed to do the interview with his brother present.’
You had to answer each question promptly. The defence would try to rattle you, and some police responded by adopting a terse sullenness that didn’t go down well with jurors. Bec took a quiet pleasure in remaining affable.
Ferguson: ‘You didn’t consider postponing it until his lawyer was available? In the interests of justice?’
Ralston: ‘It was necessary to talk to Mr Habib as soon as possible, in the interest—’ Ferguson: ‘Even without a lawyer present?’
Ralston: ‘We’d heard his life was in danger, some people thought he’d killed the deceased. We needed to inform him of that and—’
Ferguson: ‘But you already had, hadn’t you? You’d told his lawyer.’
Knight might have, but he hadn’t told Bec.
Ralston: ‘We wanted to tell him formally, make sure he understood how serious it was. And of course we wanted to find out if it was true he’d killed Jason Teller. If it wasn’t, we needed to inform these other people as a matter of urgency.’
Ferguson: ‘Who were these other people?’
Ralston: ‘Sam Deeb and his colleagues.’
Ferguson: ‘What made you think they intended harm to my client?’
Ralston: ‘We had criminal intelligence to that effect. We didn’t know if it was true, but we had to act on it.’
Ferguson: ‘You think they’re bad men?’
Ralston: ‘It’s a matter of record they’re outlaws. Let me rephrase that, miscreants. Who sometimes act with temerity.’
Ferguson was smiling at her, at the jury. Shit.
Ferguson: ‘Temerity. Could you remind the jury what that means?’
Ralston: ‘Recklessness.’
Ferguson: ‘You have an impressive vocabulary. But it might be best to stick with words in more common usage while giving evidence.�
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Ralston: ‘I’m sorry.’
The questions went on like building blocks, each one added to the pile. When Ferguson reached the top, he would drop the last one on her head.
Ferguson: ‘So, the interview proceeded and Mr Habib panicked and gave you an incorrect version of events, I would suggest. He was a young man in a very difficult situation without the legal assistance to which he was entitled by law.’
Ralston: ‘Mr Soufi—’
Ferguson: ‘And once you’d put him in this situation by withholding relevant evidence from him, you used that to apply emotional blackmail. Didn’t you?’
Ralston: ‘I wouldn’t—’
Ferguson: ‘What else would you call it?’
Mabey: ‘Objection, the—’
Judge: ‘Sustained.’
Ferguson: ‘I withdraw that. Please finish your answer.’
Ralston: ‘It’s standard practice to begin an interview with a suspect by asking for their version of events. If their version conflicts with other evidence, that can sometimes be helpful to us.’
Ferguson: ‘So you trap them into lying?’
Mabey’s left forefinger was tapping the bar table, and Bec knew she was deciding whether to interject.
Ralston: ‘We give them the opportunity to tell the truth. Whether they take it or not is entirely their decision.’
Mabey’s finger went still.
Ferguson: ‘In the circumstances, he might have been feeling quite nervous, in a general sense?’
Ralston: ‘I think he’s had enough experience of police stations—’
Ferguson: ‘Can you stop right there. Your Honour, can I ask for the jury to be sent out?’
The judge did as Ferguson directed. Suddenly Bec realised what had happened. She’d been about to allude to the Habib family’s familiarity with the justice system. Mabey was scowling at her. When the jurors had left the room, Ferguson asked the judge to discharge the jury and start a new trial. Bec wished she could disappear, be anywhere else in the world.
Mabey argued that because Ferguson had stopped Bec when he had, no damage had been done. After a few minutes’ chat the judge agreed, warned Bec to restrict her answers to the questions. Bec said she would, felt wretched as the jury was brought back in. How she hated Russell Knight for putting her in this position.
Ferguson: ‘Did it occur to you that in providing an alibi, Mr Habib’s family might have supported him out of a mistaken sense of love—’
Judge: ‘Mr Ferguson—’
Ferguson: ‘I don’t press it. At any time, did you or any other officer tell my client or his lawyer you would prosecute his parents for perjury unless he told you he had killed Jason Teller?’
Ralston: ‘No.’
Ferguson: ‘You can say that with confidence, can you, on behalf of Detective Sergeant Knight, who of course was the OIC of the investigation?’
Ralston: ‘Yes.’
Ferguson: ‘You left Strike Force Beldin, didn’t you, before my client was charged?’
Ralston: ‘Yes.’
Ferguson: ‘Why was that?’
Ralston: ‘The workload was running down and I was needed back at my station. That usually happens—’
Ferguson: ‘So you’re not really well placed to be giving this evidence, are you?’
Ralston: ‘I know all about the investigation.’
Ferguson: ‘Unlike other officers, you weren’t there for its last part?’
Ralston: ‘Sir, I—’
Ferguson: ‘Now, returning to Rafiq Habib, what was the point in obtaining sworn alibi statements from members of the family, about my client’s presence at the barbecue that night, when you believed these were incorrect?’
Like all good defence barristers, Fereguson kept coming, altering the angle of attack each time. The idea was to wear you down so you’d give him something just to make him go away.
Ralston: ‘We thought it might occur to the accused that if he was lying, he was putting them in a tight spot. We assumed he’d work that out for himself.’
Ferguson: ‘Is that what it’s come to in New South Wales, is this how the police go about their duties, by putting families under this sort of pressure?’
Ralston: ‘It’s the way police catch criminals everywhere—’
Ferguson: ‘Just answer the question.’
Ralston: ‘—Mr Ferguson.’
Defence barristers didn’t like it when you mentioned their name in court. Bec didn’t know why, but it was true. As though they really believed those ridiculous wigs disguised their identity.
Mate, when I got this subpoena from the Crown to give evidence in Rafi’s trial I almost spewed. We discussed it at dinner and Rafi said, Do not do this thing bro not against your own brother, and the mama and the sisters were nodding their heads. But the papa was just chewing on his lamb and you could see him thinking hard, then he said, This is not easy because if John does not give evidence the judge can issue a warrant and the jacks might put him in the jail. It is something I am never understanding about courts. The accused does not have to give evidence but if there is a subpoena the witnesses do.
Rafi did not like this at all. It is me or him, he shouted, like it was my fault, and he stood up and looked at us all with anger in his eyes but sadness too, like he was just starting to realise how serious was this thing. Then he pushed back his chair very noisily and went out of the room and soon we heard the front door bang and then the mama started to cry because the car drove off. Mama said, What are you going to do about this, John? Like I could do anything about my younger brother going out and drinking alcohol and snorting coke. He had already lost his licence too, because he lost all his points, but I did not want to tell the mama that because it would only make her more unhappy. I said, What can I do? And she got the sad eyes too, and I could see where Rafi got them from.
It is bad this is happening to the Habib family that is so great. I remember when Imad was free we was like kings, there was one time some of the people was bashed at Cessnock jail by the Aboriginals and Imad is organising a drive-by in Eveleigh Street, we is going through shooting up their disgusting old houses where the Aboriginals live like pigs. I was not shooting any guns, I was only twelve then, but my job was to throw out the Lebanese flag so they is knowing who not to mess with, and on that day I is feeling so proud. Now I is wanting to be proud like that again, but with Rafiq this is not possible and I have to stop myself thinking about him so much in case I get sad too.
Later, after the papa had finished watching TV, I asked him what can we do about the subpoena. I asked if he had called Salim and he said no, which came as a big surprise to me. When Mr White was our lawyer the papa would have rung him for sure about something like this, I would have been there to interpret and Mr White would have come around and drunk coffee even if it was night-time and it would have been a big business, with Imad coming over with his family and the men walking up and down the garden and everyone talking about it. But now it was all different, and the papa said he would call Salim the next morning. Salim does not work nights, he said. He is a busy young man who must have time for his family. This was fair enough, I thought, but it made me wonder why we changed a lawyer who did work nights to one who did not.
Then we is having another drama in the family because Shada starts crying and goes into her room and bangs the door and the mama is going in there and they is doing more of the heavy talking. I am telling you it is just as well the papa and the mama is not working because they is needing all their time for the family dramas right now. If she is just marrying Michael, the papa says, everything is being all right. This is our cousin Michael from Lebanon that Shada is getting engaged to when she visited Lebanon three years ago; this is what often happens to the people. But Shada being who she is, when she is coming home with a lovely big ring she is announcing one night, I do not want to marry this man just so he can get a visa, I is not loving him at all. This of course is the big disgrace among the people, to be chang
ing your mind about an engagement. We is having this saying, A woman is like a piece of glass. Once scratched it is never the same again. Actually, that is more about divorce than this engagement thing, but still I am telling you afterwards Shada is never being the same again, wanting to go to the uni and wear T-shirts outside the house and all this stuff. There was drama about this engagement for years, with the mama telling her how lucky she was and how in her time girls used to be promised to men they had never even met. In the end we is sending back the diamond ring by FedEx and Michael is marrying a cousin in New Jersey.
The next day I called the papa from work but it was okay, I made the call during the morning tea break when it was all right to use the phone. That Chris Taylor was starting to give me the shits the way he was always watching me and walking past where I was working. The day the guy brought me the subpoena at work, Chris Taylor went up to see the bosses he was up there half an hour. They’d even brung in this new rule to say mechanics could not have mobile phones turned on during work and the other guys had the shits with me over that.
The papa said he had rung Salim and was waiting for him to ring him back. At lunchtime there was no message from Papa so I rung again and Papa said he had talked to Salim but only for a minute because Salim had been in court. Salim had got angry when he heard about the subpoena and said, No way no way no way. If John was married to Rafi there is no way he would have to give evidence. But he is not married to him, the papa had said, he is his brother. I am just saying, Salim said, how unfair the whole system is. And the Crown was supposed to tell us the names of all their witnesses like a month ago and have not. I will have to think about this, maybe John will have to give evidence, we will have to decide what he will say. Then he said, I have to go back into court now, this is a very important case here at the Downing Centre.
I have been to the Downing Centre heaps of times and it is a big old place full of lawyers in black gowns and wigs racing around everywhere and up and down in the lifts. So I was sure Salim was doing something really important there, but I wished he could have done a bit more for the family. On the phone telling me about this the papa was not sounding too good, his voice a bit shaky. He is always having to check things, he said about Salim. I do not know why he does not know these things from spending the four years at the university. Ronald White did not need to check things all the time.
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