by Peter Ralph
“From the public, and other members of your family?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises, Helen. This might become very nasty.”
Fiona Jeczik had struck up quite a friendship with Harry Denton. She liked his honesty, sincerity and caring nature and of course, his total disdain for Douglas Aspine. They sat, comfortable in each other’s company, in a little coffee shop at the bottom of a medium-rise building situated in Kew. “How’s your boss?” Harry asked.
“The publicity, particularly about his daughter, hurt him very badly.”
“Did he tell you to ease up on Aspine?”
“On the contrary. He knows that it’s impossible, but he’d like to see Aspine incarcerated for the death of poor Kerry Bartlett.”
“So would I. What do you make of the widow seeing so much of Aspine? It’s not three months since Kerry died, but they seem to be spending an awful lot of time together.”
“It’s strange. I interviewed her shortly after Kerry’s death, and was fairly blunt about what I thought Aspine had done. She defended him; said that Kerry had idolized him, and wouldn’t hear a word against him.”
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair and felt himself going red. “Do you think she was having an affair with Aspine, and that’s why Kerry took his life?”
“No, I just don’t think she’s terribly bright and by defending him she sees herself as being loyal to Kerry’s opinion.”
“He would’ve overwhelmed Kerry with his lies. He was a bright young man, but weak. Aspine employed him because he knew that he could be easily manipulated. I’m sure of that.”
“Have the ASIC investigators said anything about prosecuting?”
“Very little. I don’t think they have much evidence, and it won’t surprise me if he walks.”
Fiona smiled. “I’m about to help them with their decision.”
“You’re going to run another exposé?”
“Yes, we’re going to run a show on all the coincidences, and draw the conclusion that the circumstantial evidence warrants prosecution.”
“Good.”
“Maybe; ASIC isn’t an authority that usually responds to pressure,” Fiona said, standing up to leave. “If I don’t see you before, Harry, have a wonderful Christmas, and don’t let Mercury get between you and your family.”
“Same to you, Fiona, and let me offer you the same advice about Channel Sixteen.”
Ken Sturt from ASIC was under extreme pressure, as those above him lobbied hard to ensure that Douglas Aspine was charged for his many misdemeanours. Someone with political connections was exerting heavy pressure on his bosses and they were doing the same to him. He was worried, because the evidence against Aspine was mainly circumstantial and sketchy and, other than the signed financial accounts, did not include one document that bore his signature. Despite this, a summons was about to be issued, charging Aspine with falsifying company records, misleading and deceptive conduct, failing to keep proper books and records, and a variety of other offences under the Corporations Act, to be heard in Melbourne Magistrates Court. Sturt knew that Aspine would almost certainly mount an ‘aw shucks’ defence, so-named as a result of the many CEOs in America who used the defence, ‘aw shucks, I didn’t know, I’m not an accountant,’ to exonerate themselves from their misdemeanours. There would be a committal hearing, before a magistrate who would determine whether ASIC had enough evidence to have the case kicked up to a higher court where a jury of ‘twelve good men and women true’ would determine Aspine’s fate. Corporations law was complex and not something that magistrates had expertise in, and they almost always referred the hearing of the offences to a higher court. It was the ‘almost’ that worried Ken Sturt, because ASIC’s evidence, without Brad Hooper, was weak, and on rare occasions magistrates had been known to throw charges under the Corporations Act out of court.
- 42 -
“SAINSBURY & CO,” THE receptionist answered.
“Put me through to Hamish Gidley-Baird,” Aspine growled, peeved that he was still being given the runaround.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Aspine, Douglas Aspine. Christ!”
“Hold on just a second, sir.”
“You’re looking for a start date are you, Douglas?” the raspy voice asked.
The voice was vaguely familiar. “I want to talk to Hamish Gidley-Baird.”
“I bet you do.”
“Who is this?”
“You disappoint me, Douglas. I’m the new majority owner of Sainsbury & Co. I thought you’d be pleased to talk to me.”
“Vic-Vic Garland? Is that you?”
Garland laughed. “I take it that you’re phoning about the Philmont position? Sorry, the offer’s no longer on the table. We’d like our five million back.”
Aspine was trembling. He’d never anticipated this turn of events, but he knew that if you took on a billionaire in court, you couldn’t win. “What is this?”
“It’s payback time, Douggy. This morning I instructed my lawyers to recover the five million plus damages. I’ve also called in a few political favours to see that you get your just desserts.”
“You won’t win,” Aspine snarled, with false bravado.
“Maybe not but, before it’s over, the legal fees will bankrupt you. I may even have the satisfaction of seeing you being led away in chains. Oh, I nearly forgot, Hamish sends his regards,” Garland chuckled.
Aspine slammed the phone down, Vic Garland’s laughter still ringing in his ears.
Brad Hooper’s email was buoyant about his travels in South America and the girls in Paraguay, Brazil and Venezuela but, after nearly five months away, he was becoming homesick. Aspine responded carefully, informing him that investigators from ASIC and the ACCC wanted to talk to him, and that it would be for the best if he came home, and faced the music. He knew what Brad’s reaction would be, but if ASIC obtained an order to seize his computer, all they would find was a very responsible email.
Under the mature and honest leadership of Harry Denton, shares in Mercury climbed back to $2.00, as the market came to the realization that the company was not going to fail. The institutions had forced Sir Edwin Philby to resign in disgrace, and Harry found himself in the rare dual position of acting chairman and acting CEO.
Fiona Jeczik used Your Family Today to unleash a scathing attack on ASIC, and its failure to bring Douglas Aspine to account for rorting Mercury and misleading the market. “A young man lost his life because he was manipulated, perhaps forced, into acting against his will,” she said, through pursed lips and, narrow flashing eyes. “Thousands of small investors lost their savings while the fat cats bailed out. What is ASIC doing about it? When is it going to act to bring the culprit or culprits to justice?” Aspine watched in a cold rage. His exposure of Barry Seymour had obviously had no impact. Bitch! She’d soon have reason to regret ever starting her crusade.
Jasmine seemed to bear Aspine no malice. They saw each other regularly for coffee, dinner, and sometimes a movie. He’d offered to take the boys with them on Sunday drives, but she’d declined and he still hadn’t met them. He thought this a little strange but he didn’t persist, happy to be with her by himself. He was very careful to be on his best behaviour. Occasionally he put his arm around her waist to help her through a crowd, or took her hand as they were crossing a road. He ached to take her in his arms and crush her lips against his, to feel her warm body and the touch of her skin on his. But Kerry had not been dead six months, and he knew that she’d be offended if he moved too quickly. He thought that it was like having a rare fish hooked on the end of a line, which needed to be coaxed in gently if it was to be landed. The greeting and farewell kisses that had been on her cheek were now on her lips, and she showed no sign of being upset. It was a slow, frustrating process, but he was positive that she’d be worth it. She told him that she didn’t believe the stories about Kerry being coerced, and was openly annoyed that the press wouldn�
�t let it go. Aspine smiled. It was strange to think that she was the only ally he had.
The chiming of his front door bell was incessant, as if someone was holding the button down. He flung the front door open to see a shabbily dressed man, his finger still on the button. “Get your finger off that.”
“Douglas Aspine?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
“You’ve just been served,” the man said, handing Aspine a sheaf of documents, before rapidly departing.
Aspine flicked open the Summons and cursed Fiona Jeczik again. It’d been only seven days since her last hatchet job on him, and ASIC had responded by filing numerous charges under the Corporations Act against him.
When Aspine drove into the Fairhills Nursing Home car-park, he noticed the sedan with the signage, ADF Security, on its doors, and wondered whether Jeczik was having her father guarded. He parked at the end of the car-park, took a box from the passenger’s seat, tore the cellophane off, and walked over to the reception foyer. He asked to see Mrs Dunstall, saying that he was her nephew, just as he had on his earlier visit. As he ambled down the corridor, he saw a security guard dozing in front of the door to room 109, a door that strangely didn’t bear a patient’s name. He was certain that the bitch’s father was in that room. Nothing had changed when he entered Mrs Dunstall’s room, and the old woman in bed appeared comatose. He pulled out his prepaid and punched in the nursing home’s number. “Good morning, Fairhills Nursing Home.”
“It’s John, from ADF Security here. I need to talk to the guard on duty. It’s urgent.”
“Hold on. I’ll have to go and get him.”
He poked his head out of the door and watched the receptionist shake the guard awake. As the guard started to walk toward reception, Aspine strode down the corridor and entered the room. As he expected, Fiona Jeczik’s father was in bed, eyes open but unseeing. He took the lid off the box, placed it on the breakfast tray next to the bed. Fifteen seconds later he walked through the reception foyer unnoticed. The guard and receptionist were engaged in animated conversation.
Aspine waited until he was forty kilometres away from the nursing home and punched Channel Five’s number into his prepaid, and asked to speak to the producer of The Front Page. “Who’s calling?” A young female voice asked.
“Never mind, I have a major story for you. Fiona Jeczik’s alcoholic father is running amok in Fairhills Nursing Home. You need to get out there.”
“Who is this?”
Aspine hit the end button.
It was early afternoon when the director of Fairhills phoned Fiona Jeczik, and she reacted immediately. She sped along the roads leading to the nursing home, and forty-five minutes later, accelerated hard up the long tree-lined driveway, past the car-park, screeching to a halt in front of reception. She flung the door open, surprised to see Channel Five’s cameras focused on her. “What is this?” she snapped.
“Did your father tried to kill one of the nurses?” A barely-out-of-school young female reporter asked, thrusting a microphone into Fiona’s face.
Fiona tried to push past the reporter and cameramen but they closed up, blocking her. “Is it true that he’s an alcoholic and you’ve had him locked away out here for years?”
“Get out of my way,” she shouted, pushing one of the cameramen aside.
The director of the home, the receptionist, and the security guard were waiting in the foyer. “What happened?” Fiona barked. “Where’s my father?”
“Calm down,” the tall, distinguished man said, “everything’s under control.”
“Don’t tell me to bloody calm down, Julius. Who tipped the media off?” she scowled, eyeballing the receptionist. “What happened?”
“Someone left a box of chocolates in your father’s room, and he ate ...”
“Get to the point, he’s allowed to have chocolates. They’re not the reason he suddenly became desperate for alcohol.”
“They were liquor chocolates. You know the type, a thin layer of chocolate enclosing whisky, brandy and rum. Your father ate the whole box.”
“But how could he have got them? You were outside his door all the time,” she glared at the security guard, “weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What about when you went to the toilet?”
“I use the toilet in your father’s room.”
“So you never left my father’s door today?”
The security guard shuffled from foot to foot, his large belly moving with his feet, and he ran his hands through his scraggly long hair. “I left for about two minutes. Julie,” he said, nodding to the receptionist, “told me that I had an urgent call from work but, when I got to reception and picked up the phone, there was no-one there.”
Fiona groaned. “Did you phone your work?”
“Yes, and there was no-one looking for me,” he said, turning crimson.
“Where’s my father now?”
“We’ve sedated him,” Julius said. “For one so frail and old, his strength was truly amazing.”
“How’s the nurse?”
“She’s recovering. She’ll be fine. When your father tried to break out of the room, he slammed her head with the door.”
“I’d like to see him.”
That night Aspine crowed as he watched and recorded The Front Page. Channel Five had had a camera positioned at the front gate of Fairhills, and they’d captured Jeczik swerving through the gates, speeding up the driveway and coming to a screeching halt. Then they’d shown the confrontation with the young female reporter, slowly dragging it out with close-ups of the bitch’s face, ugly with rage. Aspine was exultant, replaying it repeatedly before going to bed.
It was 8pm but it was February, and with daylight saving it wouldn’t be dark for another hour. The early evening lights flickered through the window as Fiona sat in Barry Seymour’s office, watching a replay of The Front Page. “Have you filed a complaint with the police?”
“No, it’s pointless. I can’t prove it was Aspine and, even if I could, there’s no crime in giving someone a box of chocolates.”
“There is if he knew your father was an alcoholic.”
“He mocked me about it, so he knew alright but I can’t prove it.”
“I think you should drop your crusade. Your father could have been killed today or he might have killed someone else.”
Fiona’s eyes were red and she bit her lip hard. “No, I won’t. If I do he wins.”
“It’s not about winning or losing. It’s about your safety and that of your father. The public knows what Aspine is, and he’ll shortly be doing a long stretch in jail. I want you to drop it, Fiona. He’s not worth it.”
“Are you ordering me to stop?”
“Yes, but since when has that ever made any difference to you?” He laughed.
“He hurt me today. I’ve looked after my father as best I can, and now it looks like I discarded him and stuck him in a home.”
“I know the feeling.”
“I’m sorry, I forgot about your daughter.”
“It’s easy to be judgmental of others when you don’t know the full circumstances. Your father’s very lucky to have a caring daughter like you. I want you to stop your campaign against Aspine. He’s a dangerous man and, the closer he gets to jail, the less he has to lose by hurting you.”
“Thanks for your concern. I’m not promising anything, but I will think about it.”
- 43 -
A MURMUR WENT around a packed Melbourne Magistrates Court as Douglas Aspine entered, accompanied by Murray Bowden, Queen’s Counsel, his junior, Alexander Humphrey, and Max Vogel.
Ken Sturt looked around and a wave of nausea swept over him. Bowden was a brilliant QC with a rapier wit, who reputedly could not be retained for less than twenty thousand dollars a day. It was rare for Counsel as eminent as Bowden to appear in the lower courts, and his presence told Sturt that today was going to be far more than a routine hearing. Worse, the magistrate, Clifton Bond, was one of the few of
his brethren who actually thought that he had expertise in corporate law. Sturt would have far preferred a magistrate who knew nothing about companies, as this would have ensured referral to a higher court. ASIC, through the Public Solicitor’s office, had instructed the pompous Stuart Thistlewaite, Senior Counsel, who was attended by his junior, Penny Aldridge.
Aspine sat next to Bowden at the front of the court and turned to peer over his shoulder. The puny bank manager, Colin Sarll, was there, as was his old boss, Bob Dwyer, and Harry Denton and Sir Edwin Philby, who were sitting on opposite sides of the court. Vic Garland sat in the front row, surrounded by suits who Aspine guessed were his lawyers. Shirley Bloom sat at the back of the court, and Charlie sat two rows in front of her next to a young man he didn’t recognize. Andrew Lawson and two of his union cronies parked themselves prominently in the middle row. Tim Farmer and Neil Widge sat together, gloating in anticipation. A second buzz went around the court as the diminutive, but charismatic, Fiona Jeczik strode into court and took a standing position against the rear wall. They’d all come to see him get his comeuppance − all with the exception of Jasmine, that was, who gave him a warm and encouraging smile, which he returned with a wink.
“All rise,” the clerk shouted, as magistrate Clifton Bond entered the court and took up his position at the bench, before gesturing with his hands for the court to be seated.
“Mr Bowden, to what do I owe the honour of your attendance in my humble court?” He smiled.
“Your worship is very generous,” Bowden responded, touching his forehead in a theatrical manner. “I appear for the defendant, Douglas Aspine.”
“And I appear for the crown, your honour,” Stuart Thistlewaite interrupted. He was fat, with three chins, pale white skin and a six strand comb-over that accentuated his hair loss.
“Mr Thistleweed.” Bond frowned, peering over the top of his thin framed Armani spectacles.
