‘Ham,’ muttered Harris.
Ferguson acknowledged in a question that one of Rafiq’s brothers had been a serious criminal, but the rest of the siblings were devoted to hard and honest toil. Rafiq explained that Farid ran a restaurant and cafe; Jamila was married to a successful young solicitor; and John was a senior mechanic at Auburn Toyota. This was a family of solid Australian citizens paying their taxes and making a valuable contribution.
Bec hoped Mabey would object to this, at least raise the matter of the father’s jail time, but there was no movement from the barrister. Ferguson went on, in a frank manner, to concede that Imad was in jail. As the entire city was aware of this, there was nothing to lose by such frankness.
‘It is true, isn’t it,’ said Ferguson, ‘that after Imad went to jail the Habib family determined to draw a line in the sand, as it were, and make sure there would never again be grounds for any of its members to even be suspected of a misdemeanour? Not even a speeding fine?’
‘That is true,’ said Rafiq, ‘but I am sorry to say I did the wrong thing and I have let my family down.’
The Habibs and their friends—there were more here today, almost twenty—had sat stone-faced through Ferguson’s question. But with Rafiq’s answer there was a release of emotion and a reaching for tissues. The judge spoke up and asked if Rafiq would like to request a Section 128 certificate to ensure that anything he now said could never be used to prosecute him for other offences, and Rafiq accepted this offer with respect and gratitude.
Ferguson: ‘Tell the court about your Aunt Dalia.’
Habib: ‘She is my mother’s older sister in Lebanon and she is dying of cancer. This makes my mama very sad all the time, and she is crying a lot of the time and wanting very much to go back to visit her sister and have last words before she dies, but the family cannot afford it.’
Ferguson: ‘What would it cost?’
Habib: ‘Mama cannot travel by herself, her English is not that good and she is not good with airports, she is a simple woman who grew up in a village. So Papa would have to go with her or one of us kids and we would need to hire a car and a place to stay in Beirut and the travel insurance and stuff. About eight thousand dollars.’
Ferguson: ‘Your family does not have that kind of money?’
Bec could see it coming now. It was like they were on a road and the destination had been in the distance, but now it was just up ahead.
Habib: ‘No way. Papa’s on the disability pension because of the accident he had to his back at work and Farid’s restaurant is struggling at the moment. They’re supporting Imad’s family and me at the uni. I asked—’
Ferguson: ‘So there’s no way the family can afford to fly your mother to Lebanon to see her dying sister?’
He was leading the witness and again Bec wanted Mabey to object, but Mabey sat still.
Habib: ‘No way. She hasn’t seen Aunt Dalia for like twenty years and there is so much for these sisters to say to each other before she dies. It is breaking my heart and also like guilt, I was guilty the family were supporting me at uni. Like if they were not doing that, they would have enough money for Mama to go to Lebanon.’
Ferguson: ‘And this sense of guilt, when did it start?’
Habib: ‘About a year ago when we heard Aunt Dalia is dying of the terrible cancer.’
Ferguson: ‘It has been intense would you say?’
Habib: ‘Sure thing. I am crying every night with guilt.’
Ferguson: ‘Did you decide at some point to do something about this guilt?’
Habib: ‘I am so ashamed, the answer to that is yes, I decided to get the money the only way I could, by selling drugs. I know about this stuff from some of the guys I went to school with.’
The handsome boy—and he looked like a boy now, despite his twenty-one years—was crying. The wooden bench creaked as Harris shifted with fury.
Ferguson: ‘You don’t use drugs yourself?’
Habib: ‘No way. But I go to this gym and I see all these people buying and selling drugs sometimes from this guy Jason Teller. And when I needed money it just seemed like the only thing to do, you know?’
Ferguson: ‘So you asked Teller if you could buy some drugs from him?’
Habib: ‘That’s right. And first he sells me a small amount and I sell that in these clubs and make a bit of money. Then I make a bit more and it goes on, but I was never going to make enough to send Mama to Lebanon to visit Aunt Dalia. So—’
The account was beginning to sound rehearsed, and Ferguson broke in: ‘What did you decide to do?’
For a second Rafiq looked angry, then he recovered. ‘Yeah, right. I asked this Teller if I could buy a real lot of drugs ’cause I knew these people from the North Shore who wanted to make a big buy. One of them’s this lawyer’s—’
Ferguson: ‘Just stick to the question, please.’
Habib: ‘Yeah, no names. I am thinking if I can do this one big deal I can send Mama to Lebanon and never have anything to do with drugs again.’
Ferguson: ‘You knew these people?’
Habib: ‘Edi Sande did, he’s my mate. He was going to help me not for any money, but just for Aunt Dalia. But we needed ten grand up front and I didn’t have that, so I suggested to Jason Teller he keep my car as collateral, until I sold the stuff and paid him.’
Ferguson: ‘And he agreed to that?’
Habib: ‘Sure. So we did the deal and Edi sold the coke but we only made five grand profit, so we had to do it again.’
Ferguson: ‘You paid Teller back the first amount of money, the ten?’
Habib: ‘That’s right, so we done it again and I met him that night to give him the other ten and get my car back because there was no way I was going to have anything to do with drugs again.’
Ferguson: ‘So you made five again—’
Habib: ‘I made four the second time, so I had nine, that was enough for Mama’s trip.’
Ferguson: ‘Was that the last time you were going to sell drugs?’
Habib: ‘Of course, I hate drugs. But Mama had to see her sister before she died from cancer, you know?’ He looked at the jury. ‘This is something only immigrant families can really understand.’
Ferguson nodded and paused. Then: ‘What happened the night Jason Teller was shot?’
Habib: ‘I had the money in a bag and I met him in that Gallipoli Park, gave it to him and he gave me the keys to the Carrera.’
Ferguson: ‘How did Teller seem when he met you? In himself.’
Habib: ‘He was nervous. He was a nervous guy anyway because he was cheating on the Deebs. He was getting this cocaine from some private source, he told me if Sam Deeb ever found out he’d be dead meat.’
Ferguson: ‘The deceased actually used those words?’
Habib: ‘“Dead man walking” is what he said. He said they would have to make an example of him, for not cutting them in. But he hated them, you know, because of how he got treated as an employee. That’s why he didn’t mind dealing with one of us Habibs, because—’
Ferguson: ‘Did he have any other concerns that night?’
Habib: ‘He was a bit tense because his muscle wasn’t with him, you know usually he had one or two other big guys with him when he was holding, to stop him being ripped off. He said these guys hadn’t turned up that night and he didn’t know why. He thought someone had been following his car after he left Wiley Park, he didn’t trust The Five. He thought they might have found another source and if they did, one day they might just shoot him and take their money back. ’Cause he wasn’t Asian or nothing.’
Ferguson: ‘And he was worried about this on that particular night?’
Habib: ‘Oh yeah, real worried. He told me, “Rafi,” he said, “my car has been followed” and everything.’
Ferguson: ‘So it’s true to say on the night of 4 April last year, Jason Teller feared there might be an attempt on his life from two sources, the Deebs or the Vietnamese?’
Habib: ‘Sure. I
t’s what I’m saying.’
Bec wondered if anyone could believe this nonsense. The jurors were paying close attention.
Ferguson: ‘Why did you meet at Gallipoli Park and not somewhere closer to where Teller lived?’
Habib: ‘He didn’t want to do it in the inner city in case someone saw us and told the Deebs. He’d heard Sam was suspicious so he’d started being more careful. I told him I went to the barbecue every Sunday so he told me ’cause he was meeting with those people at Wiley Park, he’d swing by me later, two birds with one stone kind of thing.’
Ferguson: ‘Wouldn’t it have made more sense to meet at his flat? Where the car was?’
Habib: ‘He told me he had some other business out there. That’s right, he was waiting to meet someone else after me. He needed money for them.’
Ferguson: ‘Did he say who he was meeting?’
Habib: ‘Ah, no.’
Ferguson: ‘How did you get your family to give you a false alibi?’
Habib: ‘Wasn’t their fault or nothing.’ [Begins to cry again.] ‘There was so many people there at the barbecue they didn’t know I’d gone. I just told them I’d been there all along and they believed me. They trusted me. I am so ashamed on that.’
Ferguson: ‘So, you arrive by taxi at Gallipoli Park and do your business. What happened next?’
Habib: ‘I walked away, back to the main road, and I hear these bangs. So I just ran.’
Ferguson: ‘Why didn’t you go back to see what had happened?’
Habib: ‘Sir, I’m not stupid. That Teller was a very dangerous guy, I thought he might have shot somebody. I didn’t want to know.’
Ferguson: ‘He only gave you the keys to your car? Not any other keys?’
Habib: ‘No way, just the Carrera.’
Ferguson: ‘So you found a taxi and went and recovered your car?’
Habib: ‘Sure, it was my car. And I’d paid him all the money I owed him. That was our arrangement.’
Ferguson: ‘How did you get in the front door of The Surry, where he lived?’
Habib: ‘The door was just open, maybe the last person hadn’t shut it properly or something.’
Ferguson: ‘How did you exit the car park? Did you need a pass?’
Habib: ‘Sure, he gave me this pass thing too, told me to leave it at the front desk. But I guess I forgot.’
It was a good story, based on the old rule: tell people something bad about yourself and they’ll believe the rest. Ferguson reached down and picked up a glass, sipped some water. ‘Did you use your phone the next day?’
Habib: ‘Yeah. I was just using it. Then I heard the news about Jason Teller getting shot, and I thought you know, shit, maybe they’d think it was me. I didn’t know if they could trace my phone so I went through all that stuff about losing it and everything. I got another one.’
Ferguson: ‘You told lies to Telstra and to the police about the phone, didn’t you?’
Habib: ‘I am so—’ Ferguson: ‘Would you say you were panicking?’
Habib: ‘Sir, I was scared—I was really scared. I was thinking if some heavy guys’d killed Teller they heard I was there they might think I was a witness and they’d kill me next.’
Ferguson: ‘You were afraid for your life?’
Habib: ‘That’s right, I was afraid on my life. And when the police come for me it’s not like, “You’re a witness can you help us with our inquiries?” It’s like, “You’re a murderer” and that’s all they wanted to believe. I was scared.’
Ferguson: ‘What about the money you made from the drug sales, the nine thousand dollars?’
Habib: ‘When I gave it to my Mama she refused to take it. I didn’t tell her where it came from but she must have guessed.’
Ferguson: ‘Did she make the trip to Beirut?’
Habib: ‘No. Aunt Dalia, she’s still alive but she hasn’t got long to go.’
Ferguson: ‘And the money?’
Habib: ‘My solicitor Salim Soufi handed it in to Sydney Police Centre this morning.’
Ferguson [looking around the courtroom]: ‘No more questions.’
His eyes briefly met Bec’s. In them she saw a complex expression, partly defiance but mainly contempt. It was surprisingly common with extremely aggressive people, in her experience, the need to despise their opponents.
Mabey spent an hour cross-examining Rafiq Habib but it was hard going. The judge allowed her to ask about the lateness of the story, which didn’t really help. If you accepted the great coincidence of Teller being shot minutes after Rafiq left him, the story fitted all the requirements of the case, literal and emotional. On the jurors’ faces reasonable doubt was hard at work.
Did Aunt Dalia exist, and was she dying of cancer? Mabey couldn’t push Rafiq too hard on this, didn’t want the jury thinking she was heartless. But still . . . not a lot to lose, so she pushed a little and Rafiq came back smoothly, said there was a medical certificate from Beirut, it would be produced in evidence by his father.
‘Shit,’ murmured Harris.
‘We’ll check,’ Bec said.
But there would be a certificate. Probably signed by a real doctor. They’d have to find him, in Beirut. Over the weekend. Get him to admit he’d been paid. Easy.
Mabey asked Habib for Aunt Dalia’s surname, he said he didn’t know. Bec looked over to the other side of the public gallery and saw Mrs Habib wasn’t there. Of course.
Mabey asked if there were any witnesses to his amazing story about his dealing with Jason Teller, now Teller was dead. Rafiq said there were three people who helped him sell cocaine and he wasn’t going to name two of them, but the other was his best friend Edi Sande, who was going to give evidence. Harris swore again, softly; she sensed the anger coming off him like heat.
Mabey went over most of Rafiq’s evidence, probing here and there, in other places using touches of irony or surprise to suggest to the jury the extraordinary convenience of the story. She managed to establish the absence of any firm evidence that not just one but two sinister gangs had been waiting in the wings to end Teller’s life. She got in how a year ago the family had paid ten thousand dollars for John Habib and his girlfriend to holiday on the Gold Coast, yet couldn’t afford the mercy dash to Beirut.
At the end of her cross-examination, Mabey suggested the whole thing—the reasons for depriving him of his car, the timing of the shooting—was implausible, accused Rafiq of being a serious drug dealer and a serial liar. He fought back the tears, stared at her with sad brown eyes. There were two young women on the jury Bec was worried about, and one of them now reached for a handkerchief. In the media box the reporters were scribbling like fury.
Habib: ‘I did tell some lies to the police at the start when I panicked without my solicitor. I’m very sorry about that and I’m prepared to pay the consequences for my drug involvement. I’ve been very stupid, but I swear to you I did not—’
Mabey: ‘But there’ll be no consequences, will there, for the drugs? His Honour has given you an indemnity from prosecution. If you’re found not guilty of murder, you’ll walk out of here a free man.’
Habib: ‘All I know is, I’m very sorry for the things I did when I was trying to help my Mama visit her dying sister.’
Harris was twisting in his seat, as though he wanted to jump the low wall before them and race over to the witness box and do something to Habib.
‘He’s a righteous liar,’ Bec whispered, trying to soothe him.
‘What?’ She repeated her comment and he said, ‘He’s fucking made for the corporate world. Should have stuck to his uni course.’
It was time for the morning break and Mabey sat down slowly, as though the effort was difficult. Her voice had been growing croaky towards the end, and the judge asked if she was fit to proceed. Mabey returned to her feet, tottered fetchingly, and said perhaps not.
‘You came back to work too early, Madam Crown.’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘Your dedication does you cr
edit.’
Ferguson murmured something—Bec could see he was furious. The judge adjourned the trial until Monday and left the bench. Ferguson had turned red and began to abuse Mabey sotto voce, spittle flying.
Bec had to work quickly. The exit from the public gallery was jammed by Habibs, so she leaned over the low wall at the front and called to Salim Soufi, ‘Where’s Mrs Habib?’
At first he pretended not to hear. Ferguson, who was now putting his wig into a large biscuit tin, crammed the lid on and hurried off. Bec repeated the question, noticing that Mabey was wiping her face with a tissue.
‘I dunno,’ said Soufi. ‘You might want to ask the family.’
‘You are family.’
He shrugged. She saw the exit was clear now and headed out, caught up with John Habib, holding hands with Danielle Dwyer.
‘Mama’s gone to Melbourne to see a friend,’ he said. ‘This trial’s been killing her, you know? She couldn’t stand it no more.’
‘I need the address.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Mr Habib!’ she called out to the father, who looked small standing between two large women shrouded in brown cloth. Every man in the group turned to look at Bec, who said, ‘Mahmud!’
He turned away.
‘We’ll come to your home and ask the rest of the family,’ she said to John.
‘None of us knows. Mama didn’t give us the address or a phone number or nothing. She’s not good with that sort of stuff.’
‘She’s with your sister?’
‘They ain’t got mobiles. None of them.’
Although it was ludicrous, he did not smile but regarded her steadily, as though interested in her reaction. Then Dwyer pulled him away.
Later Bec put in a request for the Federal Police to ask the Lebanese cops to find Aunt Dalia’s married surname and track her down. The man on the phone was not optimistic. ‘Beirut’s a big place.’
She rang Vella and gave him the news.
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