by Mark Dryden
Sleazy judges and barristers also prowled around looking for women to accost. Though some got lucky, their prey usually scampered off to the toilets or huddled together for mutual protection.
All evening, I'd been eyeing Yvonne Lorade at a nearby table. She was in her early forties, with curly chestnut hair and handsome features. Hard to believe she was on the Supreme Court bench. Even harder to believe she was once my wife.
We met when we were baby barristers. She was good-looking, smart and ambitious. However, after seven years - and one child - she left me for a senior silk called Rex Marston. What went wrong? We were young and selfish, of course, and under a lot of pressure to establish our careers and bring up a child. There was a lot of friction. I found her bossy and she found me unsupportive.
Maybe, with time, we'd have sorted out our differences and calmed down. However, we didn't get a chance because Yvonne was briefed to be Marston's junior in a long-running commercial case. They quickly started an affair and she left me soon afterwards.
Until then, I'd always thought Marston an unpleasant egomaniac with few social skills. Afterwards, he did nothing to change my mind. Certainly, I always suspected that, to Yvonne, a big part of his appeal was his ability to help her career. She was a talented commercial barrister. But he took her under his wing and pushed her career along much faster than it would have otherwise gone. She took silk after only twelve years at the Bar and, a few years later, became a judge.
The collapse of our marriage left me depressed for a while. Then I started enjoying my freedom and felt no desire to remarry. Indeed, my most stable relationship was with Doris Riley, the wife of another man. While my career didn't sky-rocket like Yvonne's, I always had plenty of work which, for a barrister, is an significant achievement.
After our divorce, we kept in close touch because she had custody of our son, Robert. Then, six months ago, she announced she was divorcing Rex and got a lot friendlier. She even confided that she should never have left me.
What to make of that statement? Did she want me back? Or was I just a convenient bridge to her new life, because she could flirt with me without fearing the consequences? And did I really want to be her once-and-future husband? She was still an exciting and interesting woman. But our marriage crashed and burned for a reason. True, we'd both matured, somewhat, but surely not enough.
I dropped into the chair beside her. "Hello, your Honour. You look very sexy tonight."
She smiled. "Thank you. And you're definitely one of the handsomest barristers here."
"Is that a compliment?"
She glanced around and giggled. "I guess not."
"Thanks anyway. How's my favourite ex-wife? Enjoying yourself?"
"Hardly. I'm sitting here wondering what's on TV."
"That bored?"
"Yes. I want to get out of here before it turns into a zoo."
Though the night was still young, red-faced barristers were tottering around on unsteady legs.
I said: "Too late, I'm afraid. Don't worry. I'll protect you."
She smiled. "Thanks. I can fend for myself. You know, at my first Bench & Bar, a colleague tried to stick his tongue down my throat?"
"Uninvited?"
She frowned. "Of course. I had to dump wine in his lap."
"Who was he?"
"I'd rather not say. He's appeared before me a couple of times recently. Silly bastard's obviously forgotten what he tried. Can't work out why I give him such a hard time."
I laughed. "How's work?"
"Busy. Nine reserved judgments to write. On Saturday and Sunday afternoons, when you're out enjoying yourself, I'm grinding them out."
"That's why, if they ever offered me a judicial appointment, I'd refuse."
Don't blame you." She sighed. "It's also lonely on the bench. I miss the camaraderie of the Bar."
I scanned the room. "You mean the brown-nosing and backstabbing?"
A smile. "Yep, even that. What're you doing here? You claim to dislike Bench & Bar dinners."
"I do. But they're a good place to pick up judges."
She laughed. "Then you're out of luck tonight." She leaned forward. "Why are you really here?"
"Why? Because I'm trying to be sociable. I mean, this mob does give me the shits. But, at the end of the day, they are my tribe."
"I'm glad you've finally realise that. How's work?"
"Fairly busy. Appearing before Dick Sloan at the moment, with Terry as my leader."
"For a plaintiff?"
"Yes."
"Good luck. Dick's a tough draw." She sipped her wine. "How's your dad? Seen him recently?"
"Not for a few weeks. But he's fine."
"You know, I used to find him rather scary."
"I still do. How's young Roberto?"
"Good, good."
"I can take him out next weekend?"
"Sure." I started to rise and she touched my arm. "But I'd like to see you before then." She licked her lips. "Let's have dinner one night."
"With Robert?"
"No, just us."
We hadn't dined alone since she left me. My heart fluttered. "Why?"
She shrugged. "Why not? At least I can chat with you. There aren't many people - particularly men - I can say that about."
"Sure. When?"
"Wednesday?"
"OK."
We agreed on a time and restaurant in Milson's Point.
I said goodbye and headed back to my table where, to my surprise, Terry was talking quietly with Justice Sloan. There was nothing ethically wrong with them having a chat, if they didn't discuss the hearing. But many judges and barristers would have kept their distance while the hearing was going on.
As I got closer, Terry angrily jabbed a finger at Sloan and spat out a few words. Sloan recoiled slightly, glanced around nervously and muttered a reply.
My goodness. They were supposed to be buddies. Why the sudden rift? Surely, not because of the Arnold case.
Terry frowned and opened his mouth to riposte. Then he saw me and looked stunned.
The judge followed his gaze and shared his expression. He quickly turned back to Terry and muttered: "I'll talk to you later." He rose and strode away, avoiding my gaze.
I sat next to Terry, who still looked upset. "What was that about? Did you offer him a bribe?"
Terry produced a tight smile and strained laugh. "Of course not."
"Then what were you arguing about?"
Terry looked uncertain. "Arguing? We weren't arguing."
"Looked like it to me."
A shrug. "Oh, I suppose we were, a bit - just a small tiff between friends."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Don't worry. It was nothing."
"It won't affect the case?"
Terry had regained his composure, if not sobriety. "Of course not."
Their altercation looked serious. But if it turned the judge against our client, so what? Mick Arnold's claim had already gone over a cliff, taking our fees with it. I said: "You and Sloan have been mates for a long time, haven't you?"
"Yes, we were in the same class at Riverview, and even prefects together."
That figured. The Bar was infested with private school boys who spoke a private language their whole lives.
Terry reached for a bottle of wine and topped up both our glasses. "I'll tell you this: in life, your friends eventually let you down - that's guaranteed."
Because I was sleeping with his wife, I felt a tremor of fear. But I obviously wasn't the target. "You mean, Sloan let you down?"
He frowned. "Look, forget all this, OK? I'm pissed and talking crap. It doesn't matter. In fact, nothing matters." He held up his glass. "All that matters is your next drink."
Though Terry often made no sense, this was unnerving.
I raised my glass. "I'll drink to that."
He gulped some wine and looked around wistfully. "God I love this game - I love it."
I drank hard while a few more speakers mumbled away in the background.
Then I slid between tables, dropping in and out of conversations, trying not to look friendless. For a few precious minutes, all of the bitchiness and envy at the Bar dissolved in a vat of booze, and we really were brothers.
The only conversation I can now remember was with Judge Paul Skidmore of the District Court. He was half-pissed and kept whining about the Court of Appeal. "You know, Ben, I accept it when they overturn my judgments - I really do. Shit happens, huh? But I object to their fucking rude and condescending tone. I mean, just last week, one of them wrote that it was hard to understand how a competent judge could have arrived at my decision, because it was so manifestly wrong. Prick. I've got feelings you know. I don't like being insulted. Yet, that's what they do. "
For once, I sided with the Court of Appeal, because he wasn't called "Skidmark" for nothing. On the bench, he was so rude that, during a recent hearing, both counsel accused him of bias. He also took forever to write judgments and usually got them wrong. It was if he needed time to truly stuff them up. Court of Appeal judges kept a mental list of dud judges and his name was near the top of every one, with an asterisk. They waited for his judgments with baseball bats. So it was not usually a blessing to have him find in favour of your client.
I was strongly tempted to grab the lapels of his cheap dinner suit and yell: "If you want them off your back, stop writing shit judgments." However, that would complicate my next appearance before him.
Skidmark leaned forward and I had to stop him falling off his chair. But the torrent of words continued. "They don't realise that it's a sausage factory down there. Nobody cares about justice anymore. It's all about statistics - cases heard. Those dickheads in the Court of Appeal get time to reflect on their judgments. I don't. I waste my weekends pumping them out, and they piss on them."
To escape his spittle, I pretended someone had beckoned me and slunk off.
Just before midnight, I staggered through the lobby, dense with inebriated lawyers. A very senior silk danced with a potted palm while Skidmark tried to drag a female barrister into a taxi. She pushed him away and tottered off.
At some stage during the evening, Terry disappeared into an alcohol-induced mental fog. I never saw him again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Doris Riley was an attractive and boisterous fan of male company who, when she worked as a solicitor, often briefed counsel at Thomas Erskine Chambers, including Terry and me. For a while, after my divorce, we carried on a relationship. But she wanted to settle down and I didn't. Though I liked her and we had fun together, she was a bit too outgoing for my taste. I don't want many quiet moments in a relationship, but I like a few. So she bewitched Terry and dragged him off into captivity.
Though she obviously enjoyed sharing his status and wealth - which let her to stop working - he was 20 years older and had no secret compartments worth unlocking. So after about six months we started an affair.
I felt guilty about cuckolding Terry. But at least I didn't want to steal her away. From his perspective, it was probably best if I was her lover. That's what I told myself, anyway.
My spacious art-deco apartment in Milson's Point had ten-foot ceilings, wonderful harbour views and no garden to vex me on weekends. On Sunday afternoon, I lay on the couch and read a novel while waiting for Doris. She arrived just after two o'clock. I opened the front door and she immediately glued her lips to mine.
Finally, I broke the clinch. "Missed me, have you?"
"Fucking-A."
I led her down the hallway towards the living room. "Terry got seriously plastered on Friday night - did he get home alright?"
She sighed. "Yes, at some godforsaken hour, stinking of booze. Threw his clothes all around the room and tried to grope me."
I looked indignant. "Your own husband wanted sex? How disgusting."
She giggled. "I know. Fortunately, he fell asleep and snored loudly enough to wake the dead."
"So you're sex-starved?"
She smiled. "Of course. Let's go to the bedroom."
"Don't you want a cup of tea first? I'm happy to have a chat."
She shook her head. "No way, not on my time."
I smiled. "Fair enough."
She led me into the main bedroom and rattled my bones for half an hour. She went to gym classes thrice a week, so her fitness was never in doubt, though mine was. Just before we finished, my left leg started to cramp. Afterwards, we lay on our backs, perspiring.
I said: "If you hadn't stopped, I'd have called the police."
"I was a bit rough?"
"Ferocious. Next time we shag, I want an ambulance on standby. Where do you get your energy from?"
"Abstinence. I'm not getting at home. Getting drunk and having a grope is as far as Terry gets these days."
I never liked talking about her marriage, because there seemed so little there, but couldn't think of another topic. "He's lost interest in sex?"
"Yes, or he's rooting someone else."
She didn't sound concerned that Terry might be cheating on her: she had many faults, but hypocrisy was not one.
"If he is, he's a fool."
"Thanks. He's also been a bit stressed recently. Something's worrying him."
"What?"
"Don't know."
"Have you asked?"
"Yes, and he said I was just imagining things."
"If he did have a problem, would he tell you?"
"Probably not. Our marriage isn't built on good communication. In fact, we hardly talk at all."
"Maybe nothing's wrong - you are imagining things?"
She shook her head. "No, something's definitely out of place. I can tell."
I reflected on that. "You may be right. On Friday night he got very pissed and morose: talked like he'd soon be leaving the Bar."
"Did he? Yes, he's talked like that to me. Weird."
A tremor of apprehension. "Maybe he's upset because he's found out about our affair?"
She looked worried before smiling broadly. "Hah, I doubt it."
"Why?"
"Because Terry only focuses on two things: golf and his wine collection. Everything else just passes him by. In fact, if I told him I was having an affair, he probably wouldn't hear me. He'd say: 'Yes darling, as long as it doesn't cost too much'."
"Don't test that theory."
"I won't." She laughed and rolled on top of me. "Though I could be wrong. He may be standing across the road right now, looking up at the window. Want me to show him my tits?"
The bed turned chilly. I was tempted to slip across to the window and check. "Not funny."
"Oh, don't worry. I'm just kidding."
"I know. But be careful."
"Fear not, I'm very discreet. Terry drives me nuts, but he's been good to me: I don't want to hurt him." She sat up, boobs swinging about, fumbling for her bra. "Anyway, I'd better make him dinner. He's useless on his own."
As she scrambled around on the floor, looking for her shoes, I reflected that, though I was lucky to get sex without commitment, our affair wasn't good for my soul. I was hiding from responsibilities that would help me grow and develop. I needed to break out of my cocoon and have more to worry about than Terry catching me sleeping with his wife.
She left and I stopped taking stock of my life. Instead, I turned on the TV and watched a game of rugby league.
CHAPTER FIVE
For dinner, I scoffed a bacon and egg sandwich over the drying rack in the kitchen. I'd just finished when the telephone rang in the living-room. I scooped up the receiver. "Hello."
"Ben, that you?" a terrified woman screamed. Doris. Why so upset? I squeezed the receiver. "Yes, it's Ben. What's wrong?"
She sobbed loudly. "Ben, something terrible's happened - terrible. Oh, my God."
Dry mouth. "What?"
"It's Terry. He's … he's … dead."
My brain overloaded. "Dead?"
"Yes."
"Christ. You're kidding, right?"
A piercing wail. "No, he's dead, definitely dead." She resu
med sobbing.
A bizarre joke? Doris had a spooky sense of humour. But her voice was too raw.
I said: "How? What happened?"
Doris gulped several times. "When I got home, I found him … found him on the floor … in the kitchen, blood everywhere."
"Blood?"
"Yes. Someone stabbed him."
My legs felt weak. "That's crazy."
"There was blood all over his back."
"You mean … you mean … he was murdered?"
"Yes, murdered."
"My God. Who did it? Why?"
Doris sobbed a few more times. "Don't know, don't know. Someone stabbed him."
"My God. Where are you right now?"
Her voice dropped, as if worried about being overhead. "At home, in the bedroom. The police are here: detectives from the Homicide Squad. They're everywhere, all over the house."
My legal instincts took over. "Have you talked to them?"
She gulped several more times and still sounded shaky. "Yeah, sort of. I mean, I spoke to the detective in charge, when he got here."
"What did you tell him?"
"Just that I got home and found Terry on the floor - that's all. He said he wants to talk to me later, to get a full statement. Should I? What should I do?"
Did Doris kill Terry? Maybe, when she got home, they argued and she grabbed a knife? Highly unlikely and it didn't sound like the police were about to arrest her. But, until I knew the full story, I didn't want her talking to the cops.
I made an immense effort to slow my throbbing heart. "Look Doris, it's best if you don't talk to the cops right now. Tell them you're tired and upset; you'll talk to them tomorrow."
"Alright."
"Good. Where are you going to stay tonight? Do you want to come over here?"
"No. Umm, I'll stay at my sister's house."
"How'll you get there?"
"I've already called Beth. She's coming here right now."
I considered going to Doris' house to help. But she'd probably be gone before I arrived and, because I spent the afternoon with her, I might become a key figure in the murder investigation. So I wanted to speak to her before I spoke to the police.
