“You surely didn’t get away with that,” Carlo exclaimed.
“Very nearly,” she replied, smiling.
“Tiffy was smart,” said Sigrid, eager to join the conversation again. “The judge say she must not call Tommo that misogi name in court. So she tells the Judge he is like this since they marry, but in respect for His Honour she will not say the misogi word out loud.”
“What happened?”
“Everybody laughed,” Sigrid answered triumphantly.
“Even the Judge?” asked Carlo.
“He smiled,” said Tiffany, “but I felt he was on my side and still admiring my knockers. He allowed me to explain how Tommo swindled my father and left me penniless, and how he lied to me about fixing financial matters if I married him. All the time the barrister was trying to protest, doing his best to shut me up until the judge was finally sick of him.”
“What about the core question? Did his barrister ask if you knew what was happening in the vineyard?”
“He certainly did. He was obviously saving that question for a big finish! I said I’d felt something odd was going on because he offered Sigrid marijuana after the attempted rape. I told him the drug could’ve come from anywhere but I was scared to question Tommo about it. He had already proved his attitude towards women, I told the Judge, slipping in a reminder I wasn’t allowed to use that word again in court, but he knew what I meant. Besides, as I explained, it was not my land. The POW camp and the vineyard were both owned by my husband because he’d deceived my father and swindled him. I said he’d broken promises, lied to me and treated me so badly that I’d already consulted my solicitor about divorcing him.”
“Did you say that in court?” asked Carlo, surprised the judge allowed it.
“Yes. After that the silk from Melbourne decided he had no more questions. I think he got the feeling his fat fee might be in jeopardy.”
“How did Tommo react to the statement about divorce?”
“With sheer hatred. A look that really scared me,” she said.
Carlo had a lot to contemplate following that dinner with Tiffany and Sigrid. In bed later she’d talked a great deal about the future. It was clear she trusted him, almost more than he really wanted to be trusted.
“When he’s convicted, my solicitor believes we can prove he swindled my father and unduly influenced him into changing the will.”
“So you’ll be Tiffany with deep pockets again?”
“Don’t you think that’s fair, Carlo?”
“Of course it is,” he answered.
Considering it later, when she was blissfully asleep alongside him, there was no way that he or anyone else could think otherwise. Her husband would go inside and the Griffith district would be a better place without him. Tommo Thompson was an evil bully who would still be ill-treating Italian prisoners were it not for Tiffany’s plan.
And that was the discomforting element that had begun to trouble him. It was becoming clear that’s what this had been. A plan, an adroit and skilfully connived scheme and Carlo had the uneasy suspicion it had begun from the day of his arrival. Hearing about his portraits on board the British ship, Tiffany had seized the opportunity to propose he paint a portrait of her. Knowing her husband’s jealousy and ferocious temper, she needed an idea he could be persuaded to accept. He would agree provided it was something she wanted enough, some harmless whim to keep her happy and in line. A portrait to hang on their wall—why not?
And Carlo had been an unknowing participant with his careless reply to “think about it.” That had surely been the trigger, the moment when Tiffany had sided with him and persuaded Tommo, despite his disapproval, to let them discuss it.
From then he’d remained oblivious to the undercurrents, delighted she’d been able to overcome her husband’s dissent. Carlo had seized on the offering her proposal afforded. Who’d reject the prospect of days painting an attractive young woman, freed from living in the grim Spartan barracks and having to obey rules laid down by Thompson, who’d already singled him out as a target for abuse. She had cleverly set up the studio and the bedroom in their homestead, knowing how this would enrage him, and at the right moment she and Sigrid would produce their pepper sprays. It explained the growing tension of that crucial afternoon, as the time of his arrival at the house grew closer. And there were other connecting elements. While he was held on charges of assault, Sigrid had told one of the police constables how she’d been offered marijuana to keep silent about the attempted rape.
None of this had occurred to Carlo until days afterward. Then the sequence of events and the scraps of evidence accrued against Thompson had started to fit a pattern like pieces of a puzzle; the appearance of the sprays, the readily available chain and padlock to secure him, and the swift arrival of the police fitted too neatly.
“Lucky for us you turned up when you did,” Carlo had said in a grateful moment with the sergeant. It was no more than a casual remark after the police had safely removed Thompson, and they were both recovering from some of the heavy punches they’d received.
“We were on standby,” the sergeant said. “Had a warning there might be trouble. It’s a fifty minute drive. We were primed and did it in less than thirty.”
“Glad someone had foresight,” Carlo replied.
“It was Tiffany,” was his answer. “She must have known Tommo would turn on one of his blues. I reckon she’d expect it, living with that bastard.”
Carlo agreed. No one could predict the violent and unstable moods of the accused better than Tiffany, but it was then he began to realise there could be more to it. As other details started to emerge, he formed the view it was a clever conspiracy stemming from the day of his own arrival. Anyone could have provoked Tommo to jealous rage by having close contact with his wife; it might easily have been Gianni given his keen appraisal, it just happened to be Carlo. All set up to paint her and about to enjoy a cosy berth in their house. No wonder it had driven a possessive and controlling husband to a fit of maniacal rage.
Knowing all this, Carlo had to hope there’d be no awkward questions for him in the witness box on what was expected to be the final day of evidence. He was mindful he knew too much, more than anyone except her co-conspirator Sigrid, and the angry man in the dock. Carlo wished he didn’t know all he’d been told or surmised; he was uncomfortably aware a wrong answer could demolish everything.
Thompson stared at him across the courtroom with that same venomous gaze Carlo had first seen at the Griffith train station. He’d had no idea standing in a witness box facing a crowded court would be quite so alarming. He could turn away from Thompson but not from all the other eyes fixed on him, in particular the row of interrogators. He was uneasy and wondered if it showed. The previous day Tiffany had relayed an instruction from her lawyer about his appearance that still puzzled him.
“The defence team prefer you be introduced as an artist, currently living at my address. They feel it will avoid any sentiment about prisoners of war from having an influence on the case.”
Carlo felt this subterfuge was pointless as the prison camp was conjoined in the case. He abided by the instruction, wearing the pick of her cousin’s civilian clothes, but was not looking forward to facing the row of wigged advocates who in minutes would be trying to trap him.
Before he’d even had a chance to swear he’d tell the truth, and hope he could do so, Carlo was facing flashbulbs. The elderly district court judge was busy trying to adjust his ill-fitting wig and made a growling protest, but by then cameras had the pictures needed for the next day’s papers. ‘Mystery Witness’ or ‘Tiffany’s secret guest’ could be the headlines Carlo imagined as the bailiff ejected the paparazzi. It was the last day of evidence and his first experience of swearing a solemn oath to a God about whose existence he was uncertain.
After a sequence of safe questions from Tiffany’s counsel, the Crown Prosecutor rose to cross-examine. This was when he knew he must be careful with his answers. For someone unused to this
kind of public grilling it was alarmingly difficult. Courts did not allow much time to ponder over answers; a long pause could suggest insecurity or doubt, even fabrication. And a hasty incorrect reply could not be changed or modified by an amendment. All of these nervous thoughts swirled in Carlo’s mind as he waited to hear the first question, aware chaos could result from a wrong or indiscreet answer.
“Why were you so abruptly asked to paint Miss Watson’s portrait?” It was an acerbic first question that left Carlo puzzled about what sort of answer was required.
“Why was I?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“That was the question,” stated the Crown Prosecutor, sensing a new and nervous witness. “It was your first day there and while all the others were sent to begin the normal prisoner-of-war jobs, you were offered a rather cosy task.”
“Well…” Carlo glanced at Tiffany, who was looking thunderous. Hadn’t she said he would not be identified as a POW? So much for that!
“Just a straight answer, please,” the barrister was looking impatient. “And, let us hope, an honest one.”
“Why assume my answer might be dishonest?” Carlo asked with sudden heat. The remark annoyed him and freed his nervous anxiety. “In reply to your question, I was asked because Miss Watson’s husband had seen paintings I’d done of the crew on board the ship coming to Australia. That was why. But I’ve never considered painting—to quote your description—as a ‘cosy’ task.”
“I didn’t ask for comments, Mr Minnelli. Just answers, thank you. You did not think it strange to be offered this indoor chore, instead of what you might’ve expected from being an enemy prisoner-of-war?”
“I had no idea what to expect. I was new here. Things were different—and strange.”
“But I daresay you were grateful to spend time with an attractive woman instead of chasing cows around a paddock?”
“I think most men would prefer that. Perhaps even you would enjoy it more than asking me questions.”
This brought laughter and a stare from the Judge, who appeared about to issue a rebuke. But the Prosecutor, already irritated by the comments, was ahead of the protest.
“Why did you prefer it, Signor? We’re not asking what anyone else might think. Just a plain answer, unless you’re having some difficulty with our language.”
Tiffany’s barrister was already on his feet. “Your Honour…”
“Quite so,” the judge said. “I think the witness is a great deal better with the English language than some of us might be with Italian. Please avoid such personal and unnecessary remarks. And the witness will kindly answer without comment.”
“I’m obliged to Your Honour,” the Crown Prosecutor murmured stiffly. “Why did you prefer it?” he asked Carlo again.
“Any artist in his right mind would prefer to paint her instead of working with cattle. And Miss Watson has a face that is no hardship to paint.”
“I see. Was there a personal attachment between you and her?”
“The only attachment was between my brush and the canvas.”
There was another quiet chuckle in the court which made the prosecutor pause this time to stare hopefully at the judge.
“The witness will refrain from these glib answers,” the judge ordered.
“I apologise, Your Honour,” said Carlo, waiting for the barrister’s reprise on the question. He knew this was tricky territory.
“Was there a personal rapport with Tiffany Watson?”
Carlo thought quickly. Whatever happened between them had been after Thompson’s arrest. He could reply without fear of contention. “No.”
“You seem very sure about that?”
“No more ‘rapport’ than for anyone else whose portrait I’ve painted.”
“Then why did the accused become so enraged that he assaulted you, after having suggested you paint his wife’s portrait?”
“He didn’t only assault me,” Carlo said carefully. “He also assaulted his wife and the young German girl who lives there.”
“I’m concerned with why he assaulted you, Mr Minnelli. Isn’t it well known that Italians are passionate people, rather fond of making love?”
Tiffany’s barrister instantly rose to protest. The Judge was prepared for it and sighed while raising a reproachful hand. “We will kindly have no editorial comments like that, thank you, Mr Wilson-Carmichael.”
“I’m obliged, Your Honour,” the Crown Prosecutor muttered, turning to Carlo again. “Then perhaps you’ll tell us why the accused assaulted all of you with such violence, after agreeing to the suggestion you paint her portrait?”
“I’ve no idea why he did it. He is obviously a man of disturbing moods and a very unpredictable temper.”
“Did you ever visit the vineyard?” the Crown abruptly switched direction.
“No. I didn’t even know it existed.” The moment he said this Carlo knew he’d rushed the answer in haste, making a silly mistake.
“You didn’t know it existed?” was the sceptical retort. “I find that hard to believe. Didn’t Miss Watson discuss it with you?”
“How could she, since I didn’t know about it?”
“Yet everyone else knew.”
“Surely it depends,” Carlo hurriedly replied, trying to extricate himself from this. He felt a few words away from disaster.
“Depends on what, Signore?”
“Well…I don’t know…I suppose it depends on whether your main interest in life is about wine or women.”
This brought a burst of laughter in the court and a sharp admonishment by the judge about unnecessary flippant replies.
“One more and I’ll hold the witness in contempt,” he ordered, and told the Crown Prosecutor to proceed. Carlo held his breath and waited with some trepidation for what might come next.
“So you knew nothing? Didn’t discuss it? Didn’t know it existed?”
“If you put it like that, I suppose one of my friends did mention about a vineyard and hoped he wouldn’t be sent to work there. But it meant nothing to me. I never saw it, didn’t have the faintest idea where it was, or know anything about it.”
Again he waited anxiously but after a pause to consult his associate and his notes, the Prosecutor stared hard at Carlo then shrugged and sat down.
The Crown had clearly decided there was nothing of much importance to be gained from this rather mindless and awkward witness. Carlo was told there were no further questions, and left the witness box with a feeling of intense relief, hoping the sweat running down his back was not visible on his face.
Tiffany had been shocked by the interrogation and relieved to learn there were no journalists present. At the recess she expressed annoyance to her solicitor.
“We went to a lot of trouble to conceal his identity as a POW. So how the hell did the prosecutor know it, and use it in his questions, Edward?”
“It could only have come from your husband,” replied Edward Frost, who liked to be called Ned, “and I did tell you it would be difficult. Just why it was thought necessary still escapes me, but at least there were no journalists in sight.”
“If there weren’t any then perhaps no harm was done, Ned. I only hoped to spare him embarrassment. He’s a gifted artist and I wanted people to think of him that way, not as an enemy soldier.”
Frost nodded, noting this time she’d used his preferred name, although he did not believe a word of what she’d just said. He was secretly jealous, suspecting what had been going on since Thompson’s arrest, but knowing on which side his bread was buttered. Tommo was going inside and Tiffany was about to become his biggest client. If she was fucking the Italian painter, that could not last. He’d be expected to join the other POWs, in fact, it was very surprising he’d been allowed this extended leniency unless…the concept that had just occurred to him made him smile. Unless his client, the Madonna of the district, had done something that was truly illegal!
“So it was lucky and no harm done,” Tiffany was saying. “What are you smiling about,
Ned?”
“That no harm was done,” Ned agreed. “I can understand what you mean. Far more pleasant to be considered a fine artist than a captured enemy soldier.”
She looked carefully at him, then smiled. “I’m glad you agree with me.”
On the morning of the final day the counsel made their closing submissions, and the judge summed up for the jury. Barely an hour later they returned with a verdict of guilty on all charges.
Thompson was sentenced to prison for seven years. Before being asked if he had anything to say, he took his police guards by surprise and barged free of them, leaping from the box reserved for the accused with the clear intention of reaching his wife. After a moment of pandemonium he was wrestled to the ground by police and court orderlies. He was immensely strong and furious; in the end it took four of them to finally subdue and handcuff him.
“You lousy lying fucken bitch,” he yelled at Tiffany, before they could drag him away, “the day I leave that fucken jail…you’re as good as dead.”
TWENTY
It was long after midnight when Carlo woke to find he was alone in bed and the house was in darkness. It had happened the previous night as well, no doubt a reaction to the ferocious threats that echoed until the court was cleared and the final glimpse of Thompson’s furious face as he was taken to a waiting prison van. Then taken where? To a prison far away Carlo hoped, for the menace of his threat must have left her feeling intimidated. He switched on the bedside light, put on a gown owned by her cousin as it was surprisingly cool for November, and went to look for her.
She was like a shadow sitting on the dark balcony, wrapped in a dressing gown and just visible in the soft light of a new moon. He saw her head turn as she watched him emerge and held out a hand to take his as he sat beside her.
The Last Double Sunrise Page 19
