by Jon Cleary
Judge Gilligan then adjourned the court for lunch. On resumption he took his place on the Bench, nodded to the court officials and Justine was brought up into the dock from the cells beneath. On her counsel’s advice she had dressed as sombrely as possible; she was wearing the black dress she had worn to Walter’s funeral. Its price would have bought dresses for all the women in the jury, but only one or two of them recognized that. In the dock the dress only accentuated her pallor.
Malone, sitting in the police box, glanced at her, then looked directly towards the back of the court where Venetia sat between Alice Magee and Michael Broad. Venetia put her hand to her mouth and shut her eyes for just a moment. Edwin and Ruth Springfellow were not exactly conspicuous by their absence, but Malone wondered why they were not here to lend support to their only niece, at least on this first day.
With the trial about to begin, Justine’s bail had been revoked yesterday. The Mosman police had taken her out to the remand centre at Mulawa Women’s Prison at Silverwater, an industrial suburb in the city’s near west. Malone knew what a shock it would have been to her; nothing would have prepared her for it. The prison was being enlarged and rebuilt; at the moment it was overcrowded. She would have been stripped of the expensive clothes she was wearing and put into a green smock that might have fitted her if she were lucky; most of her personal items would have been taken from her and she would have been handed back the bare essentials. She then would have been taken to one of the temporary dormitories and assigned to a cubicle with one or two other women prisoners. The top half of the cubicle walls was glass and privacy was a dormitory joke. Being on remand she might have been fortunate enough not to be quartered with any of the hard cases, but Malone knew that, because of the overcrowding, there was no guarantee of that. From the pale strained look on Justine’s face he guessed she had been subjected to the taunts and stand-over attitudes of some of the hard cases, the butch lesbians, the bank robbers and the drug dealers. He suddenly felt glad that John Leeds was not here to see her.
The judge’s associate, seated just below the judge, stood up. She was a good-looking woman with a voice that could be heard all over the court, though she didn’t shout. She read out the indictment.
“How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”
For a moment it seemed that Justine didn’t realize the question had been addressed to her. The policewoman beside her tapped her on the arm and she straightened up. Her voice was just a whisper: “Not guilty.”
The judge looked down at Crown Prosecutor Wellbeck. “Would you care to begin, Mr. Crown?”
Wellbeck got to his feet, pulling his shiny, unpressed gown about him; sitting at the Bar table with Albemarle, he looked like an advocate for St. Vincent de Paul. He opened with his usual staccato delivery; he sounded as if he wanted everything over and done with by the time the court rose at four o’clock this afternoon. Malone glanced at the jury in the box alongside him and guessed that at least half of them were not getting what Wellbeck was saying. Malone, over numerous cases, had remarked the almost universal habit of local barristers of not raising their voices; they adopted the theatrical trappings of their British models, sometimes went in for dramatic gestures and pauses, but neglected any attempt at voice projection. Wellbeck, one of the worst offenders, rattled on through his teeth, every word shot out like a flattened bullet.
Then Wellbeck finished reading the facts of the case and the first witness was called. It had been agreed that though Malone was the senior officer, Russ Clements would be the one to present the police evidence. Malone knew it was a sort of cowardice on his part: he was trying to remain as distant as possible for as long as possible. Clements didn’t mind that it looked like his case.
He came in from the back of the court. He had to push his way through spectators standing in the aisle between the public gallery pews. Malone could not remember when he had last seen a courtroom so crowded. A quarter of those in the public gallery, he guessed, were Justine’s family and friends; there were a lot of well-dressed young people, Clements’s hated yuppies. Half the spectators would have been drawn by the promise of seeing one of the country’s richest heiresses on trial for murder. The other quarter, those in the best seats, would be the habitual court watchers, those who turned up every day like audiences to TV shows. They were the ones who knew what real drama was and where it was to be found.
Clements passed Malone, winked and went on up into the witness box. He was sworn in and then, led by Wellbeck, began to give his evidence in his flat drawl. Wellbeck was the sort of prosecutor who believed in the “water on a stone” technique, the slow deliberate accretion of evidence against the accused; jurors, and even one judge, had been known to fall asleep while the Crown Prosecutor was on his feet. Clements was patient, never once looking irritated by Wellbeck’s constant interruptions. He’s enjoying this, thought Malone, he’s nailing Justine to the wall.
At last Wellbeck sat down and Albemarle rose to his feet like a whale coming up to blow water over the court. He took his time before asking the first question; at four thousand dollars a day he was not interested in quickening the pace. “Sergeant Clements—” He had a voice, thin and reedy, that didn’t suit his build; though he aspired to be theatrical, he was Othello with his balls cut off. “Sergeant Clements, I understand you are a gambling man. Is that correct?”
Clements frowned. “What’s that got to do with this case, sir?”
“Just answer the question, Sergeant.” Albemarle had the usual barrister’s talent for looking patiently pained: they learn it at their law professor’s skirt.
“That’s correct. Yes, I gamble on the horses.”
“SP or with registered bookmakers?”
Clements, still puzzled, grinned. “The police never have anything to do with SP bookies. It’s a well-known fact.”
There was a snigger of laughter in the court, which the judge allowed. At that very moment, in another State, policemen and illegal bookies were following each other into the witness box at a Royal Commission like blood brothers gathering for a family reunion.
“Do you also gamble on the stock market?”
Clements stopped grinning. “Occasionally. I don’t make a habit of it.”
The Crown Prosecutor had been as surprised as Clements at Albemarle’s fishing; it took him a minute or two before he grabbed at the line, “Objection, Your Honour. My learned friend’s questions are irrelevant.”
“Indeed they seem to be, Mr. Albemarle. This is not an SP bookie’s trial.” There was a murmur of mirth and the barristers sat back; this was going to be one of Gilligan J.’s good days. “Where are you leading us?”
“That’s it exactly, Your Honour. I am leading to a point—”
“Well, get on with it, Mr. Albemarle. I’ll over-rule the objection for the moment, Mr. Crown.”
The defence counsel turned back to Clements. “Sergeant, is it not a fact that you resent those who made more than you out of the recent stock market boom?”
Holy Jesus, thought Malone, where did he get that from? He saw Clements shoot him a hard stare; he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, denying the charge. Then he looked at Venetia and saw the chain: she had given that rumour to Albemarle and she had got it from John Leeds. Malone tried to remember what he had told the Commissioner about Clements; he had obviously said more than he should have. In trying to be loyal to Leeds he had somehow been disloyal to Russ Clements.
“Did you not approach this case with prejudice already built up against my client?”
“No, sir.” Clements was splitting hairs; he had had no prejudices against Justine when first called to the case. Albemarle, keen to score an early point, had rushed things. “We had been on the case some time before we saw the evidence was pointing towards the accused.”
Albemarle saw his mistake. “We’ll come to that evidence in time. But you do admit to subsequent prejudice against my client?”
“Objection!” Wellbeck spat it out through
his teeth.
“Sustained,” said the judge. “I think you have said enough on that subject, Mr. Albemarle.”
“As Your Honour wishes.” But the defence counsel had glanced at the jury and seen he had made his point with at least two or three of them.
They were a mixed bunch, eight of them native-born, four of them foreign-born. The forewoman was a dark-haired woman in her forties, well dressed, with an air of command: she might run a charity committee or a ship’s company of women sailors on a round-Australia voyage. She would run a tight jury, everything shipshape and no leaky timbers. She was already taking notes and would continue to do so for the rest of the trial. Albemarle gave her a smile, but she froze him with a look: she knew who was at the wheel in this courtroom.
“No more questions at the moment, Your Honour. I may have to seek Your Honour’s leave to recall Sergeant Clements at a later date.” Albemarle sat down, tilting his wig like a gambler tipping his hat after picking up some of the cards he wanted.
The government medical officer was then called by Wellbeck. The Crown Prosecutor seemed impatient to get this witness off the stand; this was routine stuff that only established that the victim was indeed dead. Wellbeck kept flicking the tails of his wig, like a schoolgirl annoyed by her pigtails. The doctor finished his evidence and was excused.
Then there was a commotion in the jury box. One of the jurors, a grey-haired Yugoslav woman, had fainted, overcome by a delayed reaction to the photos of the dead Emma Springfellow that had been passed around after the doctor had described the wounds. Malone sat back in his chair, accustomed to such an occasional happening, and instead looked across at Justine.
In the dock she was no more than four or five metres from him. She had been looking at the jury box, but she became aware of his stare and turned and looked directly at him. There was no expression on her beautiful face; her eyes were dark and dull. He felt pity for her, but there was nothing he could do. He hoped John Leeds would not call him tonight for a personal report on today’s proceedings.
The woman juror had been carried out. Judge Gilligan looked down at the Bar table. “Gentlemen, I think we should adjourn for the day. I’m afraid the lady won’t feel like giving her full attention when she returns, not this afternoon. Will you take care of her, madame, and let us hope she is well enough to resume in the morning.”
Madame Forewoman gave him a smile that she would repeat at the following sessions: she and he would wrap up this case between them, the captain and the admiral. Justice needs a full fleet if it is to be won; it isn’t won by lone sailors in leaky rowing boats. Malone waited for her to salute, but she restrained herself.
Malone lingered in the police box, watching Venetia and Alice Magee say a few soft words to Justine just before she went down through the trapdoor to the cells below and the waiting van that would take her back to Mulawa for yet another depressing, perhaps even frightening night. When she had disappeared, the two older women stood while the rest of the spectators filed out past them. Michael Broad had left just after the lunch adjournment; evidently his had been only a token appearance. Both women looked across at Malone, but he turned away, avoiding their gaze. They would be here every day and he would have to wear their accusing stares. For some reason, neither the prosecution nor the defence were calling them as witnesses; so every day, he expected, they would take their places amongst the watchers. It would not be the first time that he would be made to feel that he, and not the accused in the dock, should be on trial. But he had noticed, before turning away, that Alice Magee’s stare was harder than her daughter’s.
Clements was waiting for him outside. He came straight to the point: “Where the bloody hell did Albemarle get that bit about me being prejudiced against the rich?”
Malone hedged. “Russ, you haven’t made any secret of it. I don’t know where he got it . . . Anyway, the judge put a stopper on it.”
“Too late.” Clements was sour and angry. “I saw the jury, especially those two dark-haired blokes, the one with the beard and the guy behind him. They’re on Justine’s side.”
“They don’t look like rich yuppies. They’re both in sweaters with no ties. Unless they’re cashmere sweaters. I’ll try and brush up against them tomorrow, let you know.”
Clements grinned, but it was an effort. “I have the feeling you’re still holding out on me.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you when it’s all over. Just hang in there till then.”
“If Albemarle keeps at me along the lines he’s gone today, you’re gunna have to go in the box. He can’t accuse you of prejudice.”
He would, if he only knew.
VII
Venetia and Alice, having run the gauntlet of the media outside the courthouse, were driven home to Mosman by Leyden in the Bentley. Both women were unnaturally quiet, though Alice looked calmer and more composed that her daughter. She had had no more emotional crises in her life than had Venetia, but she had had them earlier. She was the original flint from which Venetia had been chipped.
“I thought Joe Albemarle did a good job today,” she said after ten minutes of silence.
Venetia had been looking out of the window at the early peak-hour traffic. Crowds stood on street corners waiting impatiently for the lights to change; a young couple stood with their arms round each other, looking sad, absolutely alone in the crowded city. She was not selfish enough to think that none of those out there on the pavements or in the other slowly-moving cars had any problems; but even if they had all worn signs with the nature of their problems round their necks, it would have done nothing to lessen her anguish. One of her secretaries had once put a small sign on her desk in the outer office: it had said, I complained because I had no shoes till I met a man who had no feet. She had asked the secretary to remove the sign. One never knew when a footless man might come into the office.
“Joe will do his best. It’s the jury I’m worried about. Four of them have already made up their minds, I think. They’ll convict Justine.”
“Which four?”
Venetia identified them: two men and two women. “They’re the ones who are making no notes. They’ll just go on emotion.”
“I think I might do the same,” said Alice. “That’s why I’d hate jury duty. Can we go and visit Justine out at Mulawa?”
“Only at the weekend.” She looked out of the window again, but this time could see nothing for tears. “God Almighty, who did kill Emma? Why don’t they confess?”
Alice said nothing, just reached for her hand, something she couldn’t remember doing in years. They were still mother and daughter, still able to confide in each other up to a point, but the time had long gone when Venetia had needed Alice’s support and comfort. Now the need had come back again and Alice recognized it. But she offered no guess as to who had murdered Emma.
The Bentley turned in the big gates, the security guard touching his cap in an unconscious parody of a salute as they went past him. They pulled up in the driveway behind the green Porsche. “What’s Michael doing here?”
“I hope he hasn’t come to be sympathetic,” said Venetia. “He tried to hold my hand in court this morning.”
“He’s a smarmy bastard,” said Alice. “I’ll leave you alone with him.”
They went into the house and she went straight upstairs to her bedroom. Venetia paused to speak to Mrs. Leyden, who had come into the hallway. The housekeeper looked as if she had spent part of the day crying.
“How did it go?”
Venetia shook her head. “There’s a long way to go yet, Liz. But Justine didn’t look well.”
“How could she, out there at that place? I’ve been reading about it. It’s full of—”
“Don’t tell me. Is Mr. Broad out in the sun-room? Bring us some tea, please.”
She went through to the sun-room. It was far from the biggest and certainly not the grandest room in the house, but it was her favourite, even more so than her bedroom. It was called the sun-room, but it actually d
id not get the sun till late afternoon. Its view of her own garden and of the harbour beyond gave it its appeal. Here, she always felt relaxed, able to collect her thoughts. She had decided, in one morose moment, that this was where she would like to be when she died.
Broad was standing at the big window looking out at the garden, a glass of Scotch in his hand. “I helped myself. I needed it. You want one, too?”
“I’m having tea. Why are you here, Michael? I really want to be on my own.”
“I can understand that. But I had to bring some papers you have to sign. Things haven’t come to a standstill because Justine is in court.” She looked hard at him at that, a look that slashed his throat. “I’m sorry, that was too blunt. I’m as upset as you are.”
She sat down, not forgiving him. “All right, what are the papers?”
He opened his briefcase, a Louis Vuitton item: certain appearances were still being kept up. “I’ve taken over Justine’s Department for the time being. Those girls she collected around her aren’t competent enough to run things on their own. They’re nothing more than jumped-up secretaries.”
“I always knew you were a male chauvinist. You’ve managed to hide it up till now.”
“That was out of deference to you.” He tried a tentative smile, but got none in return. “Anyhow, things have to be tidied up. Justine has let too many things slide.”
“She’s had a lot on her mind these past months. A murder charge, for instance. How would you keep your mind on things if you’d been facing the same charge?”
He put down the papers on the coffee-table. “I would never have got myself into that situation.”
She should have been angry at that remark, but all of a sudden she was too tired for real anger. “You’re probably right. You’re too cold-blooded. You’d never murder anyone, Michael. You’d help them commit suicide.”
