Cyanide Games: A Peter Tanner Thriller

by Richard Beasley

  ‘Are you finished?’ Aitken said.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘To remind you that Elena Mancini had your client’s DNA under her nails when she was found dead.’

  ‘I can think of an innocent explanation.’

  ‘Your client didn’t offer any to police when he was questioned.’

  ‘He was drowsy.’

  ‘Mr Richter can explain the lawyer’s files, and we’re comfortable he’ll be believed on that, and about the night your client killed Elena. Miss Dabrowska will be too.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Discharging my obligation to try and save the state of New South Wales the time and cost of a trial.’

  ‘What’s the deal?’

  Aitken paused for a moment. ‘Involuntary manslaughter,’ he said. ‘We’ll agree facts to the sentencing judge that says your client was drunk, grabbed her, had no intent to kill, was just very clumsy. With this judge, that sounds like a range of about five to seven years to me.’

  ‘Sounds like an unfortunate accident, not a crime,’ Tanner said. ‘You should release him now.’

  Aitken smiled tightly, and shook his head. ‘Perhaps we should nominate him for some Australia Day honour too?’

  ‘The Queen’s knighted worse people.’

  ‘We’re not giving your guy a pass. Matheson got drunk, and gave everyone coke. It was no accident, grabbing this girl. He did it with negligent or reckless force. She died as a result. That’s manslaughter. Nothing else flies.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are you so worried you can’t get a conviction now? Something more than the Cook files?’

  ‘I doubt you’ll even get them into evidence. They’re just a smoke screen.’

  ‘All my clients’ defences are smoke screens, Richard. Is Dabrowska your problem?’

  Aitken stood, and walked to the door. ‘I’m going to get a conviction for at least manslaughter, Peter. Your client is taking a hell of a risk going for complete acquittal. We can do a deal on intoxication knocking out intent to kill, leaving him with manslaughter. You’ve been around long enough to know the judge will give him something like five to seven for that in a case like this. You might even get luckier. I think Knight’s an old boy of your client’s school. That might get another year or two discount.’

  ‘He says he didn’t touch the girl.’

  Aitken shook his head. ‘You should talk to your client about our offer. It won’t be on the table once we start.’

  ‘I’d rather talk to Klaudia.’

  ‘I have to go,’ Aitken said.

  ‘Ask Richter how hard you have to squeeze someone’s throat to leave the kind of bruises he left on Nikki. That was done with reckless force too.’

  ‘Once we start, no deal on manslaughter,’ Aitken said, leaving the room.

  • • •

  After they’d grabbed lunch, Tanner, Ross and Porter went to see Matheson in the holding cells at Darlinghurst Court, where his trial was due to commence in a little over an hour.

  ‘Two things,’ Tanner said when they were seated in the interview room. ‘The first is good news.’

  ‘They’re dropping the charges?’ Matheson said dryly.

  ‘You’re keeping your sense of humour at least.’

  ‘I don’t have much else left.’

  ‘We have Nikki’s divorce files.’

  Matheson took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. ‘Has anyone looked at them yet?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’ll help,’ Tanner said. ‘We need to discuss something, though.’ He relayed the conversation they’d had with the prosecutor, and the terms of the offer to accept a plea of manslaughter. ‘It’s not that bad a deal.’

  ‘Maybe five years? I have a conviction for manslaughter. I see my kids once a month. I lose my career, my reputation. That’s a good deal?’

  ‘Your reputation is hanging by a thread, Justin. Let’s put that aside and focus on facts. They have Klaudia. Maybe she’ll come across as a sympathetic witness. They have Richter. I’ll try to make him look like the prick he is, but Klaudia is going to say he’s telling the truth. Believe her, believe him. Then there’s the DNA. We have to sell a big conspiracy to get around what was under Elena’s nails.’

  Matheson looked at the ground. ‘So you’re saying I should take it?’

  ‘No. I’m telling you it’s not the worst offer I’ve ever had. I can’t guarantee you five years, but this is a reasonable judge we have. If you plead to the facts the prosecutor seems willing to agree to, you might even do a touch better than five.’

  ‘We can win, though, right? My chances are better with the files from Nikki’s lawyer?’

  ‘We can win. We can lose. That’s why five to seven is something you have to think about. It leaves you with a life. Twenty plus for murder is a different ball game.’

  Matheson ran his hand over his face. ‘This is hard.’

  ‘I can get Aitken to leave it on the table until tomorrow,’ Tanner said. ‘You should talk it through with your family.’

  Matheson looked at Tanner, and a sad smile came across his face. ‘Sarah and I got married young, you know?’

  Tanner glanced at Ross. ‘Justin, we should –’

  ‘With Amanda . . . Sarah and I – we’d had a massive fight. It was over . . . Jesus, it was over whether we were having Christmas lunch at her parents’ house or at mine. You know, “it was with your parents last year”, “my grandmother won’t last another year” . . . it got out of hand. I spent two nights on a friend’s couch. It’s why Sarah wasn’t with me on the boat. I met Amanda . . . I’d been drinking all day . . .’

  ‘We can fill in the blanks from there, Justin.’

  ‘I liked her. I should have – I let it go on for a few weeks. She was furious when she found out.’

  ‘Do you blame her?’

  Matheson smiled bitterly. ‘I was so fucking guilty about what I did, I caved over Christmas. We had it at Sarah’s parents’ place.’

  ‘Justin, the offer that’s been made – you have to –’

  ‘Then with Deborah –’ Matheson continued as though Tanner hadn’t spoken, ‘– we were out of town, we had dinner, she turns up virtually naked at my hotel door –’

  ‘We’ve heard the story, Justin.’

  ‘I didn’t do the things her lawyers put in her claim. You believe me, right?’

  Tanner looked at his client for a long moment. ‘Can I tell you something about my job, Justin?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Tanner leant back and took a deep breath, which he then let out slowly. ‘My first murder case was a guilty plea,’ he then said. ‘My client was thirty-one years old, and had two stepchildren. He came home drunk one night, and went to bed. He soon woke up, though, because his two-year-old stepson still cried half the night. He’d been doing it for too long, according to my client. So do you know what he did, Justin?’

  Matheson shook his head.

  ‘He took the iron his wife had left out after doing some laundry, went into the boy’s bedroom, and beat him to death with it.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Matheson said.

  ‘In relative terms, you’re not a bad person compared to some of my clients. None of them has bought anyone a wheelchair. It doesn’t matter what I believe, but I don’t think you’re a killer, if that’s really what you want to hear.’

  Matheson nodded slowly. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘because I didn’t do it. Tell them no to the deal.’

  Tanner nodded. ‘I won’t be sending you a card at Christmas when we’re done, though, okay?’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘I’m also going to get Charles to draft up a document saying we’ve passed on to you what the prosecutor offered, and our advice about that, but you want to push on to seek an acquittal. You’re going to have to sign that document.’

  Matheson smile crookedly. ‘You don’t trust
me, Peter?’

  Tanner stood to leave. ‘If you were a run of the mill crim, Justin, I might,’ he said. ‘But you’re not. You work for a global investment bank. No, I don’t trust you.’

  44

  That afternoon, Richard Aitken told the members of the jury pool that the accused, Justin Matheson, was charged with the murder of Elena Mancini. At the end of the trial he would ask them to convict him of that offence. They would also be entitled to convict him of manslaughter if that was their verdict. He then read out a list of the prosecution’s witnesses. Based on that information, he asked anyone who thought they couldn’t give impartial consideration to the evidence to apply to be excused.

  A woman stood, and explained that three years before, she’d sat on an insider trading case that had lasted twelve weeks.

  ‘Enough service for two lifetimes,’ Knight said, and the woman was allowed to leave.

  After she’d gone, the identification numbers of those remaining were put in a box, and a court officer pulled them out, one at a time. The prosecution and the defence were each allowed three challenges to the empanelment of a juror. In New South Wales, counsel have to make a call on whether someone is likely to favour the defence or the prosecution simply by the way they look. It was hard to know whether a handsome banker like Justin Matheson, who’d been unfaithful to his wife, would be better off with women jurors than men. And what would those jurors make of John Richter? There wasn’t much science to it, but Tanner decided to exercise the accused’s challenges on three men.

  Once the jury panel was sworn in, they were left with eight women and five men, one of whom would act as an alternate if required. They ranged in age from late twenties to early sixties.

  When the jury was seated in their box, the courtroom quickly filled to capacity. Then the judge cleared his throat in a loud fashion, the murmuring died down, and the show began.

  Justice Knight’s opening was as Tanner expected – concise, efficient and by the book. Thirty years as a prosecutor and a decade as a Supreme Court judge meant Knight was able to deliver his comments without notes. First, he reminded the jury of the charge. It was murder, with the alternative charge of manslaughter. He told them that the accused had pleaded not guilty to both charges.

  He told them next that they had each just become a judge. He would rule on the law, on what evidence was relevant, and what was not. On the law, they had to follow him; on the facts, they were in charge. They decided what witnesses could be believed. And, when it was all over, they would decide a verdict.

  He then explained the role of the Crown Prosecutor, Mr Aitken, and warned the jury not to put any special weight on his arguments just because he represented the state. He then introduced Tanner, and his co-counsel, Ms Ross.

  They were told they needed to elect a foreperson. It was up to them how they did that, but no matter who was chosen, they remained equals in the jury room. The foreperson would announce their verdict, and through that person any concerns or questions about evidence or procedure could be relayed to the judge.

  The judge then gave the jurors the usual warnings and admonitions about not discussing the case with people outside the jury room. ‘You should keep away from the internet during the course of this trial, ladies and gentlemen,’ the judge said. ‘You mustn’t text anyone or use your phones to communicate anything about this trial. You should also keep away from – and I apologise, but I will have to read this part – Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, Instagram or YouTube – or any other social networking site. I have no idea why any intelligent member of the community would want to use any of the things I have just mentioned, but if my assessment is wrong about that, then please at least stay away from the attractions of these things, whatever they may be, during the course of this trial.

  ‘Remember your oath, ladies and gentlemen,’ the judge said. ‘This case has attracted publicity. It will continue to do so. That publicity will not be helpful to you in your deliberations. Put what you have read, if anything, or seen, out of your minds. Do not follow the case in the media. Your duty is to determine your verdict only on the evidence presented to this court. Newspaper articles and television stories are not evidence. Although I’ve already asked, if any of you feel, having considered any matter in the press or media you may have seen concerning this trial, that you can’t objectively assess the evidence, please ask now to be excused. It is of fundamental importance that you are able to fulfil the oath you have sworn to be impartial.’

  The judge eyed each member of the jury in turn, and none of them moved.

  Finally, he outlined for them what would happen at the trial. Opening statements, the Crown witnesses and other evidence, the defence case, the closing statements, then his summation. At the end of it all were the things that mattered the most: their deliberation; their verdict.

  He told them that a guilty verdict could only be reached if the prosecution proved its case beyond any reasonable doubt. The accused, on the other hand, had to prove nothing. He was presumed to be innocent.

  Tanner had heard these words many times before, and no longer believed them. Jurors didn’t presume anyone sitting in a criminal dock was innocent. You had to make some dent in a prosecution case to win a trial.

  When Aitken was invited to open, he commenced the way all good prosecutors should in a murder trial. He told them Justin Matheson was a killer.

  ‘In the early hours of the morning of 9 October last year,’ he began, ‘a struggle took place between Justin Matheson and a young woman called Elena Mancini. The result of that struggle left Elena with a fracture to the skull, and a brain haemorrhage from which she died quickly. Justin Matheson killed her.

  ‘He may not have known that he’d killed Elena at the time. He was found semiconscious by a witness shortly after the struggle. That he killed her, though, there is no doubt.

  ‘Mr Matheson is 191 centimetres tall, members of the jury. That’s six foot three in the old scale. He weighed eighty-nine kilos. Most of that is muscle. He played fullback for his school and university rugby teams.

  ‘Elena Mancini was 178 centimetres tall. Five-ten in the old scale. She’d always been a thin girl, her parents have told me. That’s Mr and Mrs Mancini behind me, by the way. Her elder sister is seated with them. Elena was Italian, out here to study English literature at one of our universities. She weighed forty-nine kilograms. The struggle I mentioned – it wasn’t a fair one.

  ‘Elena was twenty-two years old when she died. That doesn’t seem fair either, does it? Her parents are here to see that justice is now done. That’s what will ultimately rest in your hands.’

  Tanner sat still as Aitken spoke. Occasionaly he stole a glance at a juror to see how closely they were following the prosecutor. They were all listening intently, and provided the opening didn’t go on too long, they would continue to. This was a murder trial, after all, and the stakes were high. And, with each word, they got higher still for Justin Matheson. When the trial had started, he was the accused. The prosecutor had now given him a different label: killer. It would be up to Tanner to try to shift that stain.

  Aitken continued his opening, succinctly running through the facts as they were known. Justin and John Richter at Pantheon. The trip to the Richter estate. Justin Matheson bringing out the drugs. Elena, not long after, lying in a pool of her own blood.

  With leave of the court, he was allowed to show a photo of her body that would later be tendered as evidence through the chief investigating police officer: Elena, lying face up on the floor, blood around her head, staining the carpet. Yellow evidence markers were placed near some blood splatter on the edge of the coffee table, and next to the main stain.

  Aitken embraced all the weaknesses in his case, and made them strengths. John Richter had been out drinking a few nights after his wife’s funeral. He went to his club, and two young women came back to his home. People react differently to grief. He wasn’t partying – he was anaesthetising himself. He was the one who had rung the ambulance,
and sought the police. He didn’t try to cover things up for his friend, or for himself.

  Aitken skirted deftly around any evidence that might not be admissible. Deborah Edelman was only indirectly referred to. ‘Justin Matheson’s family and friends might think they know him,’ Aitken said. ‘Maybe they only know part of him. You’ll have to decide, members of the jury, if they really know what he’s capable of.

  ‘One thing we do know about the accused,’ Aitken continued, ‘is that he’s capable of drinking a lot of alcohol.’ He went on to explain to the jury that intoxication was no defence to manslaughter.

  He left his strongest point for last, just as Tanner would have done if the roles were reversed.

  ‘Elena Mancini can’t tell us what happened that night. Something can though: science. You will hear evidence from a forensics expert about what was found under Elena’s nails. Justin Matheson was found there. His DNA. So if Elena Mancini can’t tell us who killed her, that doesn’t mean we don’t know. The evidence will speak for her.’

  • • •

  When Tanner moved to the lectern, he was holding one of the police photos of Elena Mancini lying dead on the floor of John Richter’s retreat. He showed it to the jury, then slowly put the photo down on the bar table in front of him. ‘A lot of lawyers would have objected to the prosecutor showing you this photo in his opening,’ he began. ‘They’d say it’s too prejudicial to have it shown unnecessarily.’

  Tanner paused and briefly scanned each member of the jury. ‘There’s a natural reaction, when you see a photo like that,’ he continued, ‘and I bet every one of you had it. “I want to find who is responsible for this.” A young woman, her whole life in front of her, has been killed. Someone must be held to account for this crime.

  ‘That was my reaction. Whoever is responsible for this act, they have to be punished. And although I can’t speak for them, or feel the pain they’ve suffered, it’s not hard to imagine that at least one of the wishes of Elena Mancini’s family is that: Whoever hurt our daughter, whoever took my sister from me, they must be held to account. As a society, we have a duty to allocate responsibility, and to punish justly.’