Drive By

by Michael Duffy

  So why the fuck did you get rid of Mr White? I thought to myself again, and then I felt ashamed in myself for having such anger towards the papa, so I just said, P’raps you should call Mr White about this one thing. Papa said, No, my son, Imad has decided and he has talked to experts they have in the supermax and we must do what he says. But you are the papa, I say, you know more than Imad or any of us boys. The papa coughed then and said, Son, you better be getting back to work. I don’t want to get you into any trouble with that foreman you have there who hates us Muslims. He does not hate Muslims, I said and the papa got angry then and he was yelling at me, telling me not to disrespect him.

  He was just like the papa used to be and this made me happy.

  Ray Vella called just as she was going into court and asked if things were okay. When she began to explain he interrupted. ‘Rebecca, this business with Tony Morrow, I just wanted to let you know . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘If you are thinking of applying for Homicide one day, something like that would not be a problem. A confusion about responsibility in what by all accounts was a very busy operational situation.’

  It took her a moment to catch up with him. She had not thought about Baby Bethane for more than a day. ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t say anything now. But will you do me a favour and just think about that?’

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  She turned her phone off and went in, stood up the back for a few minutes, watching the extended Habib family and friends settle themselves in the benches behind the defence lawyers. The older women and two of the younger ones were like figures from another century, solid and swathed in brown shawls over their necks and shoulders, so that from behind they looked like smooth sculptures. She doubted they would leave their babies in the care of a man like Gary Stern. The other young women were bare-headed, thin and attractive, strong features and brown skin. In many ways they were like any group of girls from the south-west, big sunnies up on long dyed hair, lots of piercings—ears, nose, both lips—painted nails, sprayed-on jeans, thongs. Two were wearing tops with scooped necks that revealed words across the tops of their backs. On one Bec saw Arabic words in a gothic script, on the other the words ‘father’ and ‘heaven’ above a stylised eye. She wondered if girls got tatts like this in Lebanon, or if it was some New World thing, the local tattoo culture mixing with Islam. There was no one to ask. There’d been no Muslims in Dubbo, or the navy.

  She walked into the public gallery and sat down. Fuck Vella.

  Karen still rang Ian and he’d talk, but they were dead conversations. No questions from him, almost monosyllabic answers. She asked about the drawings, his oeuvre, but he didn’t want to discuss them. She asked why, and he said they weren’t interesting. He wouldn’t care if she never called him again, she could tell. She kept on ringing because you have to maintain contact, it’s what everyone says. But everyone might be wrong.

  Her world was not disintegrating, but cracks had appeared. It was slowly dawning on her just how much her life had been based on the belief that hard work leads to happiness and success. She wasn’t a Christian, or a nationalist, or even an environmentalist, but she had believed in this. Now she confronted the reality that it was not true, not always, anyway. She felt desolate, wondered if it was too late to adopt one of those robust belief systems that do not even pretend to be logical.

  This week’s call. ‘Ian?’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘We’re well. Stephen—’ He didn’t care how Stephen was. ‘I’ve got this case—’ He wasn’t interested in her work. He lacked, lacked it completely, empathy. Curiosity. ‘The twins send their love.’

  ‘Georgie’s still riding?’

  A question! She told him about Georgia’s last fall; she rode at Terrey Hills. ‘I’m just calling to see if you’ve thought anymore about giving me one of your paintings.’

  Take an interest, the psychologist had said. Also one of the books she’d read, recommended by the support group: Keep avenues of communication open using subjects of common interest.

  ‘Sure, yes, I just want to do a good one for you.’

  ‘What about one of the ones I saw, the forest?’

  No answer. They’d had an argument when she’d told him about her visit. She’d asked about his mademoiselle, and he’d reacted as though it was an interrogation.

  She said, ‘I went to the New Wave exhibition at the National Gallery last weekend. It was very good.’ She’d invited him to come to Canberra with them, but he’d declined, said he was going with friends. ‘You’ve seen it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I have to go down again for work next week, by myself.’ To appear before the High Court, but he wouldn’t care about that. ‘Would you like to come?’

  ‘Thanks, but I can’t. I’m busy.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I have to go now. Some people are here.’

  The problem was, he felt threatened by any interest she displayed, she could sense that. It was what the people who’d written the books did not realise. Fi agreed that books were no good, and said she’d have to rely on her instincts. Karen wasn’t sure her instincts were right, or even if they existed in any useful way where Ian was concerned. Instead there was an encroaching greyness, a reluctance to feel or even think about him. Maybe it was self-protection, but she must fight it. She’d told some of this to Fi and her friend had just looked impatient, as though she were slacking off. But Fi had not been through anything like this. She still had the faith.

  The next witness was Peter Ross, principal of a finance company that specialised in high-end motor vehicles.

  Mabey: ‘You say a member of your staff recognised the Carrera when a photo appeared on the Channel Nine news?’

  Ross: ‘Correct.’

  Mabey: ‘In what context?’

  Ross: ‘Two years ago my company lent a man named Ahmad Ismail one hundred and ten thousand dollars to buy the vehicle. Mr Ismail stopped making his payments six months later and we were unable to locate him, or the car.’

  Mabey: ‘When you saw the vehicle on television after the accused was arrested, you approached police?’

  Ross: ‘Yes, we learned the car had come into the possession of a woman named Fida Batour, who paid sixty thousand dollars to Mr Ismail. She sold it four months later to John Habib, for eighty thousand.’

  The trial dragged on. Other witnesses came and went. Easterley was in court. At lunch he strolled up to Queens Square with Bec.

  ‘Not going so well?’ he said. Maybe here to check on her. ‘Beldin was always a bit weird. The super was surprised Knight got the job in the first place, with Harris involved. There’s some sort of history.’

  ‘They worked together at Parramatta in the eighties.’

  ‘Not that. Knight framed someone later on, Harris helped him. I don’t know the details.’

  Bec stared at him. Knight possibly, but not Harris, he was pure.

  ‘Baggage, all those old guys have it,’ Easterley said. ‘They say Knight was lucky to survive the Commission.’

  ‘Harris?’

  ‘Brian’s okay. The world needs a few heroes.’ Harris and Knight. Knight and Harris. There was something there but it was closed to her, she had no way in. Easterley yawned. ‘I’m off on leave at the end of the week. A fortnight on Lord Howe.’ Pointed to the slow traffic and the fast pedestrians. ‘Can’t wait. What about you?’

  ‘I haven’t been on holidays for two years.’

  ‘I didn’t think we could accumulate.’

  She thought of her mother, and of Tiny. ‘My life is different.’

  Mate, apart from that possession matter at Burwood, and the alibi the other time at Penrith, this was the first time I’d had to give evidence in court, and mate was it different. It was an old courthouse like you’d see in Beirut or somewhere, more old than any building I seen in Sydney.
It was in pretty good nick but you had to worry it was going to fall down on you, a building that ancient.

  I actually felt real proud back on the first day of the trial going into the city with the family and walking into that old building with the lawyers and stuff. It was the way I always felt in courts, like we belonged in the society, people was paying attention to us and what we did mattered to more people than just Lebanese people and a bunch of junkies. Judges and barristers and blokes in uniforms, they is all paying attention to the people. I know this is kind of weird, I once told Mr White and he told me it was unhealthy thinking. But I felt good the way I feel when I go into Auburn Toyota every morning.

  And the one thing is it is justice for all. When you’re in the court there’s these laws everyone got to obey, if they’re the people or skips or wogs or Chinks or even from Africa. It’s like all that multicultural bullshit they teach you at school, except in the courts it’s true. You can even have an interpreter and it doesn’t cost you nothing.

  I tell you though, that Court Number Two is a scary place. You go through this big dark corridor and then through these creaky old wooden doors, so you’re already feeling like you’d like to be out in the sun because there’s these shadows and old smell all around you and all this wood. There’s so much wood inside the courtroom it’s like someone’s done over the timber section out the back of Bunnings, but this wood is not pine, it’s all dark and shiny. The room is really high up and the ceiling is all decorated and painted and down below there’s these stairs and walls and seats and people racing around who know where they’re going. It’s like the first time you go to one of them kids’ mazes at McDonald’s.

  Luckily Salim comes in and he tells us where to sit, behind him and Rafi’s barrister, a tall skip named Mr Ferguson I saw before at Imad’s trial. He shakes all our hands and has a whisper to Salim, who goes red and tells me because I am a witness I cannot stay in court. So just as we’re all settled on this bench we all have to stand up again so I can get out and wait outside. On the way out I pass Detective Ralston carrying a box of papers and I hold the door for her to let her know I understand what this is all about, a trial is like a game where everyone pretends to be polite but really hates the other side but cannot show this. Ralston looks surprised then she gives me this nasty kind of smile and I think, Mate, one day, but I just smile back to give her something to think about. I remember once coming out of Burwood Local Court with Mr White and he said, John, we are playing with their minds. Do you know what I mean? I go, No, Mr White, not really. But I have thought about this a lot and now I know what he was saying.

  So I am waiting outside, first on one of the benches in this dark corridor then I go out into the sunshine because I needed some fresh air and was thinking p’raps Danielle would come out too. But she doesn’t come out and I have to sit out there for days until it is my turn to give evidence. Luckily I had days because I was taking my annual leave from work. That fucking jack Ralston is there too, waiting to give evidence, and sometimes I is giving her the hard eye but she is staring right back tough like a guy. Probably she is a lezzo or something.

  Mate, you try to be brave but I tell you when they call you in to give evidence it is kind of spooky. One good thing is Sam Deeb’s guys, that Samoan Joe and the other one, is not in the court anymore. But still it is spooky. You go back in and as well as all the wood and the lawyers in their wigs there’s these people sitting up along the side all staring at you. These are the jury and they are the ones to decide if Rafiq will go to jail and there is not one of the people among them—how unfair is that? They say justice for all but mate, I’m telling you it’s just prejudiced like everything else.

  This jury at Rafi’s trial had about half females which was good because Rafi is so handsome although two were Chinks. One of the men was an Islander, which was not so good because in my experience Islanders can be very stupid. But they don’t like the jacks, so p’raps it was good anyway.

  Everyone is staring at you when you come in so I was keeping my eyes on the ground, trying to show them I don’t give a shit but just needing a few moments to adjust to the situation, the room was very quiet. I followed the officer up to the witness chair and I never saw the judge until I got there. He was sitting up under this roof thing, an old skip looking silly in a wig except no one was laughing and this sort of red dressing-gown with a grey bib around his neck. They had this Qur’an there in a cloth case and they done it all right, took it out and asked me if it was the True Book and I said, Yes, no worries, and then they made me swear to tell the truth. It’s funny how your voice can get a bit shaky just because you know everyone is listening and they even had this woman writing everything down we said on a weird little typewriter thing. I had to face the judge while I said I swore to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth, it was just like the movies and he was not looking funny anymore and everything was serious. I don’t know why it was but suddenly it was like something was pressing on my chest. My mouth went dry and I asked for a glass of water, and the judge told me to speak up.

  This Crown lawyer was some tall skip and I guess she didn’t know how stupid she looked with a wig because she had long hair anyway and like, why would you need to wear a wig if you had long hair anyway? You can see why a guy might want to wear it to make his hair long, but for a woman with long hair it is totally unnecessary. I was thinking this and telling myself it was not the time to say anything when I realised she had asked me a question. Then she is asking me if I am distracted in a teacher’s voice and I took a deep breath and got concentrated.

  She asks me all about the Carrera because it was in my name and I told her how I’d taken out a loan for eighty thousand dollars from the ANZ Bank guaranteed by my brother Farid to buy it from Fida Batour. She asks me if I knew where Fida got it from and I say I had no idea but the papers was all in order so I knew it was hers, and I checked out the car because I am a qualified mechanic and—Just answer the question, she says. This is rude and I am about to go off at her but I see Salim’s eyes like he is warning me, so I calm down.

  I say nothing and wait for her next question. I look at the family sitting in the first two rows of seats behind Salim and Mr Ferguson and they are smiling at me and I feel proud.

  Eighty thousand was a good price for a Porsche Carrera in top condition, she says, like she knows all about cars. According to my advice the average price would be more like a hundred thousand. I tell her I do not know about these things ask me about any Toyota and I could tell you the exact price because I have a professional interest, but one person cannot know about every kind of car. Rafi chose this car and I paid what he wanted because when he leaves the uni and becomes an accountant I will sell the car to him, that is the arrangement. She goes, You just thought it would be pleasant for him to have a nice car to drive while he was at university? That is right, I say. A Porsche? she says. I’m sorry? I say, copying that skip thing when they say they’re sorry when they’re not, but she did not get it. She said again, You thought an undergraduate deserved a Porsche Carrera? I shrugged my shoulders at that word and looked at Salim, and the judge goes, Madam Crown means a university student, Mr Habib, and I said, Thank you, Your Honour. Why the fuck—but I am not saying this bit—did she not say that if that is what she meant?

  She says, You can take it from me the purchase of the Porsche was a very good deal. You bought this fine automobile for at least twenty thousand dollars less than its market value. I say, It was five years old, and she says, I mean the market value for a five-year-old Porsche Carrera. Do you accept that? I tell her how can I accept it when I do not know it? Salim told me this Madam Crown might try to trick me so I have to look out for traps and I have just jumped over one, but I must have raised my voice because the judge tells me to speak more quietly and not get excited. I feel like telling him, Mate, if you think this is excited you have not seen nothing. But I keep quiet. Farid is not in the court, with his reputation Salim thought it was not a goo
d idea, but he will be hearing all about it I know. I remember what he told me and I say to Madam Crown, Fida Batour must have given me a good deal because she is a very nice person and a friend of the family. A very good friend, says Madam Crown, and I say, Yes, the family has lots of very good friends. Then some of the jacks in the court is laughing.

  She goes through all the financial arrangements and stuff for the car and I explain things like Salim has told me to, how I’m on a good wage at Auburn Toyota and I got no difficulties paying the ANZ Bank. She says is it true your older brother Farid is giving you the exact same amount of the car repayments every month so they are not actually costing you anything? Salim has talked about this too and because Farid pays me in cash and I do not bank it, there is no way they can know this, they is only guessing, so I say, No way, I told you I earn a good wage myself. You put it all in the bank? she says. I say, Yes. She says, How much do you withdraw each month for your outgoings? I tell her I do not know, I would have to check my bank account. She goes, We can help you with that, and picks up this pile of papers and gives copies to the jury and the judge and everyone. There is even a copy for me and I see it is a copy of my Westpac bank records. I am about to say, Where the fuck did you get these?—we Muslims have strict principles about personal privacy—then I remember Salim told me about this so I just look at them and I am glad I have nothing to hide. I tell you, Imad and Farid were made for this kind of business stuff, but all I want to do is get back to my cars.

  Madam Crown goes, We have checked with your employer and your net monthly wage of four thousand, two hundred and seventy-six dollars goes into your account, as we can see. From that there’s a deduction of a hundred dollars each month, what is that? I tell her it is what we call zakat, a gift to charity we Muslims is always making from our wages. Okay, she goes, and there is a direct deduction of six hundred and seventy-two dollars to ANZ Finance for the Porsche. Otherwise you have withdrawn an average of eighty dollars a month for the past six months. That is twenty dollars a week. Mr Habib, what do you live on?