‘They didn’t put me in a bed. I was in casualty all day, but I went home after.’
‘So you say, on your oath, that you never had surgery at RPA for anything — a disc problem, or any back problem at all? That the only time you were treated there was for this accident?’
‘Nothing. Just this time.’
‘Madam, are you sure of that?’
‘Sure. Just when they hit me with the ball, or whatever. I’m suing for that, not my back.’
‘Because you’ve never had a problem with your back?’
‘Of course.’
‘I am bound to put to you, Mrs Papadopoulos, that your evidence that you’ve never had a back problem is false.’
‘Why would I lie? It’s true.’
‘And knowingly false.’ It was Arabella’s duty, as she knew, to put the issue unequivocally. But it gave her no joy.
‘Didn’t I tell you already?’
Another two questions instead of answers, noted Arabella.
Judge Gosling spoke. ‘That’s about as far as you can take it for the moment, isn’t it, Ms Engineer? In view of the absolute denials?’
‘Well, your Honour, no. I can tender the hospital file produced on subpoena.’
‘Not yet, you can’t. Mr Buchanan’s still in his case. You’re going to have to wait and move it into evidence when the plaintiff closes her case.’
‘As your Honour pleases. May I have the file produced by the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital marked for identification, and I’ll tender it in the defendant’s case?’
‘Certainly. MFI A.’ The sheriff’s officer carried the folder back to the bench, where Beryl stapled an identifying slip to the cover and wrote A on it.
‘Re-examination, Mr Buchanan?’ the judge asked.
The plaintiff’s counsel remained in his seat and shook his head. The judge sent Mrs Papadopoulos to sit behind her lawyers and Buchanan then stood to ask a question of the bench. ‘Might I have a short adjournment to speak to my next witness before I call him?’
‘That’d be the plaintiff’s husband, would it?’
‘It would, may it please you.’
‘In which case, no adjournment.’ The judge turned to the officer. ‘Call Mr Papadopoulos. You’ll find him sitting outside, I think.’
Narelle leaned over Arabella’s shoulder and whispered, ‘That’s a bit tough, isn’t it?’
Arabella didn’t think so. Mrs Papadopoulos watched closely as her husband was brought into the court in his black suit, white shirt and narrow black tie. Small and neat and slight and fifteen years older than his wife, with a comb-over and a pencil-thin moustache. He took an oath on the Bible.
‘Does this witness require the interpreter, Mr Buchanan?’
‘No, your Honour. Mr Papadopoulos worked for Nock & Kirby’s for twenty years before he retired, selling hardware.’
‘In which case, I’m sure his English is excellent. I’ll ask the interpreter to sit with the plaintiff and translate the evidence for her as it’s given.’ He paused. ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Buchanan.’
‘Are you Adonis Papadopoulos?’
‘Yes.’
‘You live with the plaintiff, who has been your wife for forty years, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, Mr Papadopoulos, I want only to ask you about your observation of your wife and her ability to perform household tasks. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because you can’t give evidence of the accident at the school.’
‘I can, but. I know about that.’
The judge intervened, gently enough. ‘But because you weren’t there when it happened, sir, you can’t assist the court to know what occurred. The rules of court restrict the giving of that evidence to eyewitnesses. Do you follow?’
‘Okay.’
‘You’d only be telling me what your wife told you, you see?’
‘She didn’t lie about it, mate.’
Gosling didn’t respond to that. ‘Let’s see how you get on, Mr Buchanan.’
‘Having observed your wife perform her home duties for almost forty years, sir, can you tell the court whether you noticed any difference in her capacity since the day she told you she was hurt at work?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s start with cleaning. Did she, up till that day, do all the vacuuming and dusting, and washing windows? That is, before the incident we’re concerned with?’
‘Yes, all that. And she cleaned the bath and the toilet and the basin. The sink. Everything. The house was always very good, very clean. Nice.’
‘And what about washing the clothes and the linen?’ Buchanan ticked off questions on the pad in front of him.
‘Yes, first in the copper before we bought the washing machine. And she hung it on the Hills hoist. We got a dryer, but she didn’t use it all the time.’
‘The supermarket shopping?’
‘No, we went together on Saturday morning at Earlwood. We both carried the bags.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Cooking, of course. My wife did some of the gardening, but that is mostly for me to do. My hobby, really.’
‘Can I assume you have a lemon tree, Mr Papadopoulos?’
The witness smiled. ‘All the Greeks have lemon trees.’
The judge didn’t want folksy stuff. ‘Don’t ask him if he ties a goat to it at Easter, thanks, Mr Buchanan. Or a lamb.’
‘No, your Honour. Sir, since the accident, has your wife been able to perform all the household tasks she previously did?’
‘No, she can’t.’
Arabella rose from her chair. ‘I object.’
‘Quite so. That’s rejected, Mr Buchanan. It’ll be struck out.’
Buchanan was highly displeased. ‘Will your Honour hear me?’
‘Can I avoid it?’
‘I submit that the husband can give first-hand observation of his wife’s domestic work.’
‘Yes, he can, Mr Buchanan. What he can’t give evidence of, and this is Ms Engineer’s objection, I’m quite sure, is whether she can do the work. All he can say is whether she actually does the work, not whether she’s capable or incapable of doing it. Do you understand?’
‘May it please you.’ Buchanan took his medicine like a man, and sat down. His solicitor tugged his gown and whispered to him. Buchanan rose again.
‘One matter I forgot, your Honour, if I may have leave to raise it.’ The judge inclined his head.
‘Mr Papadopoulos — what about marital relations?’
‘My wife’s family, you mean?’
The judge smiled. ‘No, Mr Papadopoulos, he means sex. Has your sex life changed since your wife’s accident at work?’
‘She can’t.’
‘You mean,’ the judge wanted to put it, ‘she doesn’t?’
‘She won’t, mate. Put it that way.’
‘I see. Do you have anything to ask this witness, Ms Engineer? I would have thought not.’
Arabella rose. ‘Just a few questions, your Honour, if you please.’
The Goose looked testy. ‘You don’t need my leave to cross-examine — as long as it goes to matters in issue.’
‘Quite so, your Honour.’ She faced the hapless husband. ‘Mr Papadopoulos, do you love your wife?’
The witness looked baffled, and took a couple of beats to answer. ‘Of course.’
‘And you look after her when she’s ill?’
‘Like any husband would.’
‘Of course. And do you visit her if she has to go to hospital, drive her there and back and so on?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘Have you ever visited her when she was an inpatient at the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital at Camperdown?’
‘I did.’
‘Was that when she was in for her back operation?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Her doctor was Dr Cousins, wasn’t he? The surgeon for her disc problem?’
‘I think so. Yes.’
T
here was a loud scream from Mrs Papadopoulos, and a stream of rapid Greek.
Gosling DCJ suppressed a grin and Arabella felt sick. Harry might enjoy this stuff, but she hated it. ‘Madam interpreter,’ the judge asked, ‘can you translate what the plaintiff just called out to the witness?’
‘Yes, your Honour.’
‘Well, then?’
‘She said, “You fool, you were not to mention that, you have killed me.”’ The translation was entirely uninflected, the words all run together.
The judge addressed the plaintiff’s solicitor, who had gone white. ‘You don’t wish to dispute that translation, do you, Mr Karefilakis?’
The lawyer shook his head, and remained seated.
His Honour looked mightily satisfied. ‘We’ll take the luncheon adjournment, in which period your client will have ample time to consider her position, Mr Buchanan. So will your solicitor. I’ll give her an hour and a half to do so. Two-thirty.’
At Arabella’s insistence, she and Narelle walked up Elizabeth Street and had toasted sandwiches (Harry would have called them panini) and coffee at the same tiny café as the day before. Both women lawyers were upset, for their own reasons.
‘If the Crown enforces a costs order against the Papadopouloses, they’ll lose their house,’ Arabella said, staring at the facade of the criminal court building across the street and hating the law.
Narelle nodded. ‘And the Goose’ll refer the papers to the A-G to have her charged with perjury. I wouldn’t put it past him. He enjoyed every minute of that. He loves you.’
‘Well, he’s on his own there. I despise myself. I thought I’d escaped the blood and guts when I stopped doing crime.’
Narelle put her hand on top of Arabella’s. ‘You’re the barrister. It goes with the territory.’ After a moment’s silent forbearance, Arabella made a show of freeing her clasped hand to lift her empty coffee cup.
‘And a V for the D isn’t going to do my standing any good,’ Narelle lamented. In lawyer-speak, she meant a verdict for the defendant. ‘Makes me look an idiot.’
‘So you still believe it’ll harm your career to win the case and save the government a quarter of a million dollars?’ Arabella folded her hands on her knee.
‘Yes it will.’
‘And they say cricket’s a funny game.’ Arabella was watching the solicitor closely.
‘What?’
‘Just something my father says.’
Narelle looked at the bill and counted out her half. ‘Do you miss your family? They’re a long way away, aren’t they?’
‘We Skype. Still, yes I do. But my mother’s coming out at the end of term.’
‘Some occasion?’
‘To help with the birth.’
Narelle looked as if her face had been slapped, hard. ‘The birth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Harry Curry?’
‘Yes.’ She said it gently, but she was imagining what Harry would have said: ‘No, a bloody turkey baster.’
‘Narelle, let’s get back to the case. We have to decide how to handle this. For all we know, Buchanan will move the court as soon as we go back for a verdict in our favour — he has to, to limit the court costs they’ll have to pay and reduce the risk of his client being put up for perjury.’
‘Which,’ said the solicitor, ‘would take it all out of our hands. There’d be nothing we could do about it. Disaster for everyone.’
Everyone except me, Arabella thought. Me and Gosling DCJ. ‘I don’t see any alternative.’
‘You really don’t? I bloody well do.’
‘Please explain?’ It was a catchphrase of Arabella’s clerk. That and ‘Me too, neither.’
‘So far as the Crown’s concerned, our offer’s still open: $75,000 plus costs to be agreed or assessed.’
‘But they rejected it!’
‘Did they? Not sure I remember that. There isn’t anything in writing.’ Narelle seemed to be daring Arabella to contradict her. Arabella had never heard anything like it: they had, for all purposes, won the case. Finishing it off was a mere formality and, if a verdict was entered, not only would Mrs Papadopoulos get no compensation for the superball incident — but she would also certainly suffer an order to pay the defendant’s legal costs, which would ruin her and her family. It would be a disaster, as Narelle said, but every case has at least one loser. Obviously, Narelle didn’t want to be the loser — and had no particular scruples on that front.
‘If you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do, madam solicitor, you’re on your own. You can ring Karefilakis and do the dirty deal, but you’re going to leave me out of it. I mean it.’
Arabella was dealing with a different woman, and one she didn’t like at all. Narelle plainly didn’t care. She opened her phone, and pressed a number. ‘Suit yourself, counsel,’ she said as she waited for it to be answered.
‘It’s Narelle, Vassiliou. Listen, my client isn’t an unmitigated bastard. You do know our offer hasn’t been withdrawn, don’t you?’
Arabella could only hear one end of the conversation.
‘No, I don’t think that’s right. I haven’t got a file note of you rejecting the offer, and you didn’t reject it in writing, did you?’
A very short pause for the response.
‘Well, do you want to take the offer or not?’
Arabella didn’t need much imagination to fill in the other end of the conversation.
‘Okay. We’ll draw up the deed of settlement, both of us can sign it, and I’ll instruct Ms Engineer to tell the judge it’s settled when we go back. You happy with that?’ Again, no imagination necessary.
The solicitor closed her phone with a complacent look. ‘Welcome to the real world of litigation, counsel.’
‘The real world, be buggered.’ Arabella almost spat it out.
‘He’s a bad influence, Arabella. But it’s too late now, isn’t it?’
Arabella didn’t care if the Women Lawyers never sent her another brief. ‘You should take care, Narelle, lest you give unscrupulous lesbians a bad name.’
From there, the relationship became very formal. They returned, briefly, to court and Buchanan asked Gosling to stand the matter over to Monday, saying that the parties were in negotiations and he expected ‘a certain course’ would be taken. The judge looked intensely at Arabella, or so it seemed to her, and she looked levelly back. The adjournment was granted.
When Arabella related the day’s events to Harry on the phone — making the call as soon as she returned to chambers — he couldn’t stop laughing. ‘The real world of litigation? Give that bitch a year and she’ll be running a B&B in Port Kembla. And they wonder why people hate lawyers …’
‘Thank God you agree with me, Harry. She made me feel as if I were a legal yokel.’
‘Better a yokel than a knave. What’s the female version of a knave? Not that she’s female, I know.’
Arabella chuckled. ‘No idea. There probably isn’t one.’
‘Did you really tell her she gave nasty lesbians a bad name — or was that something you thought of in the cab uptown? A pensée d’escalier?’
‘No, I’m afraid I really did articulate my very thoughts, then and there. As she said, you’re a bad influence.’
Harry hooted in delight. ‘We’ll make an advocate of you yet.’
‘Slow down, Harry. You’re working at making me a mother right now.’
Arabella’s case having fallen over, she had her clerk book a flight to Merimbula for Friday night, without telling Harry (she might have to cancel, after all, if a big case came up for next week), and set herself the task of finishing all her outstanding chamber work before then — pleadings, polishing up witness statements for her next debt-collecting civil trial, advising on commercial causes and the prospects of success for her instructing solicitors’ insurer clients in unmeritorious disputes with impecunious citizens. Sending out fee notes and accounts rendered. Doing her overdue Business Activity Statement for the Tax Office, an
d paying bills. There was also a draft to complete for a Bar Council committee report on gender-neutral language in judgments. One particular judge, with whom Harry heartily agreed when Arabella showed him the judicial objector’s letter to her committee, flatly refused to use the preferred formulation — ‘an individual is entitled to their day in court’ and suchlike — whatever the Bar might resolve. ‘If it’s a person, singular, you can’t say “their”, which is plural,’ he’d thundered (the judge, not Harry). ‘You might not like saying “he or she”,’ the letter continued, ‘but there is no alternative. In any event, it’s perfectly proper to simply say “he” — the Acts Interpretation Act has always deemed “he” to mean “he or she”. You’re lawyers, need I point out, not kindergarten teachers.’ Harry agreed with that sentiment, too. ‘You can see what we’re up against,’ Arabella had said, but Harry’s reply was, ‘To the contrary, Bella. I can see what he’s up against.’
In the end, nothing did come up — no new brief for a civil cause was brought in from the clerk’s office by close of business on Thursday — and Arabella rang Harry on Friday morning to ask him to pick her up at the airport that evening. She wanted nothing further to do with the Papadopoulos debacle, and unilaterally excused herself from appearing in front of Judge Gosling on Monday, when the case was finally to be put to death. Let Narelle do her own dirty work — and maybe the judge would understand from Arabella’s absence that she’d washed her hands of it. When she announced she was on her way south for the entire weekend, Harry didn’t attempt to conceal his delight.
‘But I’ll have to spend some time on David’s summary trials for next week, Bella.’
‘Of course. Maybe I can help a bit. Do you want me to bring anything? Cheese? Wine?’
‘Cast no aspersions at our local alimentari, young woman. Just wear those tight jeans.’
She giggled. ‘I can’t get into them, Mr Curry. You’ll just have to use your imagination.’
‘I can do that. But don’t wash.’
A big laugh. ‘You dirty devil. Take a cold shower.’
All the same, Arabella phoned Dr Rose before leaving for the airport and made relevant enquiries. She was pleased to hear that, whatever her mother’s unsolicited and unwelcome advice may have been in their last Skyped conversation, there was no medical reason for celibacy at any stage of pregnancy.
Harry Curry: Rats and Mice Page 5
