by Mark Dryden
A female waiter took our orders. Yvonne leaned forward. "I'm glad we're having dinner together, I really am."
"Why?"
"Because, in your annoying way, you're still the most interesting man I know."
"Then why'd you leave me?"
She shrugged. "I was young and restless. For some crazy reason, I thought Rex would make me happier."
She also thought Rex would help her career. And once he'd done that, he became surplus to requirements. Long-dormant resentment bubbled up. "So what went wrong with him?"
"When I first met him, I thought he was a decisive, take-charge kind of guy. Eventually, I found he was a cold, manipulative control freak."
"So, right now, you're not seeing anyone?"
A sigh. "How could I meet someone? I'm too busy working and looking after Robert. About the only adults I meet are other judges, and they're all married."
The food arrived. We reminisced about the good times in our marriage and laughed a lot. She obviously had something on her mind, and I waited patiently for it to land on the table.
She said: "How's your practice going?"
I shrugged. "I'm keeping the wolf from the door."
"And that's enough?"
"Of course."
A slight frown. "You've never been serious about your career, have you?"
"Yes, I have. I've just never been serious about the Bar."
"Well, it's time you got serious about both."
I pushed away my plate. "How?"
"For a start, you should apply for silk this year."
Now I knew why she organised this dinner. I shrugged. "That's an option."
"Don't be obtuse. You should apply."
I raised my eyebrows. "Really? You know, I had coffee with Derek Tucker this morning and he said the same thing. In fact, he said he'll support my application."
A nervous smile. "Wow, that's great news. With him in your corner, you're a certainty."
I crossed my arms and grinned. "You've talked to him, haven't you?"
She glanced away. "Of course not."
I leaned forward. "Yes you have. In fact, you put the idea in his head?"
"I didn't."
"Don't lie."
She blushed. "OK, OK, I did. I bumped into him last week and put in a good word. What's wrong with that?"
Why was she now showing such a big interest in my career? Trying to expunge her guilt over leaving me? Trying to make me a more attractive companion? Wanting to ensure that Robert's father was a silk? However deeply I dug into her mind, I'd probably never find the secret chamber. Only one thing was certain: her intervention increased my resistance, as she should have expected.
I said: "Nothing, I suppose."
"Good. So you'll apply?"
I smiled. "I'll think about it."
A frown. "What's the problem?"
"I don't like having prizes slipped to me under the table."
She shook her head and grimaced. "God, you're a difficult bastard, you really are. I hate to disappoint you, but this is how the world works. You deserve silk. We both know that. You should apply."
I rather enjoyed annoying her. "If I honestly deserve silk, I should get it honestly."
"Unless you're prodded, you'll never apply."
I shrugged. "So be it."
She leaned forward and stared hard. "This is about your father, isn't it? You don't want to please him. You two still haven't sorted out the shit between you."
That insight struck hard. "I'm not that complex."
"Yes you are." She grimaced. "God you piss me off. You really do. So does your father, come to think of it. And what about Robert: you want him to be proud of you, don't you?"
"You mean, he isn't right now?"
"Of course he is. But he'll be impressed."
She obviously thought that, if I took silk, it would encourage Robert to become a barrister. Poor kid didn't have a chance.
I said: "The only way I can impress him is by giving him a new smart phone. Anyway, he wants to be an engineer."
"He's still not sure about that."
"I wonder why."
She saw I'd tumbled to her game and frowned. "You're bloody incorrigible."
For the rest of the meal she was polite, though obviously annoyed with me. It felt like old times. Afterwards, we strolled around to her car, and she said: "You'll pick up Robert on Saturday morning?"
"Of course. I'll take him up to Bowral, to see Dad."
"Good. He'll enjoy that. I think he's the only person in this family who isn't scared of your father."
"Give him time. Should I pick him up at nine?"
"He won't even be awake. Make it ten."
"OK."
She showed me her cheek. I kissed it and headed for my car with a lot on my mind. A week ago, I was cruising through placid waters with a full sail. Now Terry was dead, and I had to decide what sort of relationships I wanted with my father and my ex-wife, and whether I wanted silk. Too bad I'd got out of the habit of making tough personal decisions.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I sat in my room with a solicitor, Geoff O'Brien, and his client, Olga Mackay. Geoff was in his mid-sixties, thin and bald. Olga was in her mid-forties and slightly overweight. Her most notable features were a Chinese ideogram tattooed on her bare shoulder - I dared not ask what it meant - and a heavy orthopaedic neck brace that explained her permanent frown.
I put my elbows on my desk. "Alright, Olga, tell me how you broke your neck."
She grimaced. "I belong to the Church of the Risen Lord. I bet you haven't heard of it. It's a revivalist church, in Lidcombe. Anyway, at the Sunday service, Reverend Teague offers to heal the sick and lame."
"How?"
"He touches them on the forehead and tells the Devil to leave. Then they fall back into the arms of a helper."
"OK. And how did you break your neck?"
"I wanted him to cure my shingles. But, when he touched me on the forehead and I fell backwards, nobody caught me. I hit the ground with a big thump. That's how I broke my neck. Now I can't work, can't sleep, can't look after my kids and I can't have sex, though I've got a horny husband who still wants sex all the time."
"And you've still got shingles?"
"Big time."
"You have my sympathy. How did Reverend Teague react when you got hurt?"
"He told everyone it was the Devil's work."
I turned to my instructing solicitor. "Does the church have personal injury insurance?"
"Yes."
I turned back to Olga. "Then leave this to us. If the good Reverend gets in a witness box and blames the Devil, I'll send him straight to hell."
A tense smiled. "Good."
We all shook hands and I escorted them to the lifts. Back at my desk, I was about to open a new brief when I sensed a presence. Barbara stood a metre from my desk, looking excited as usual. Was that a chronic condition? Why didn't I hear her enter?
"Hi," I said.
"I've spoken to her."
"Who?"
"Rosemary," she said, obviously referring to Terry's secretary, Rosemary Clarke. "Don't you remember - you told me to ask her about the argument between Terry and Philip, just before Terry died?"
"Yes, of course. What did she say?"
"Said she knew nothing about it: must have been away from her desk at the time."
"You believe her?"
"Yeah. We get on well: she wouldn't lie to me, I don't think."
I sighed. "Oh well, too bad. Did she know why they might have been yelling at each other?"
"Nope. She sounded surprised - said Philip always sucked up to Terry."
"Mmm. Despite that, I'd love to know what Philip was doing on Sunday afternoon, when Terry was murdered?"
She bit her lip. "I've chatted to Phillip's wife a few times, when she drops in. If I get a chance, I'll ask her."
"OK, but be discreet."
"Of course." She hesitated. "But I did get one good snippet of gossip from Ro
semary."
"What?"
"She said Terry was having an affair."
"Christ. You're kidding?"
"No."
"Who with?"
Denise crossed her arms and smiled triumphantly. "If I tell you, you won't believe me."
Exasperating woman. "Just tell me, OK."
Denise's smile broadened. "Sure, Joan Mantel."
My goodness, Joan, the masculine half of the floor's 'power couple'. "You're joking?"
"No. Rosemary's sure they were bonking."
"Why?"
"Because one afternoon she walked into Terry's room and found them shagging on the carpet, umm, doggie style."
I giggled. "She sure about that? Maybe Joan lost an earring."
"She's sure."
"Who was behind?"
She laughed. "I didn't ask."
"Jesus. Terry, on the floor, on his knees, pumping away - I thought he was more debonair than that."
She cackled. "Obviously not."
Though Terry was once a notorious womaniser, I'd assumed that age and marriage had slowed him down. Doris certainly thought he'd lost interest in sex. However, he obviously only lost interest in her.
Joan's interlude with Terry on the carpet was no surprise. Despite her wedding ring, she flirted with every silk who crossed her path to boost her career. In fact, on reflection, she'd been Terry's junior several times during the last six months. It seemed his clients had unknowingly subsidised his sex life.
I said: "Why did Rosemary tell you this?"
"Why not? Terry's dead. She doesn't have to be discreet."
"I guess so. You know, I thought Terry was a faithful husband."
"Hah. You should have asked me. I could have set you straight."
"What do you mean?"
"He once tried to grope me."
"You're joking?"
"No. About six months ago, I was in the kitchen making tea when he came in. Told me I looked very beautiful and brushed up again me."
"Yuk. What did you do?"
"Elbowed him aside and left."
"You should have told me."
She shrugged. "What would you have done? Given him a good thrashing?"
"Umm, probably not."
"If I told you about all the barristers who've hit on me, I'd be here all day."
"You serious?"
"Yes. Most of you are sleazy, sleazy bastards."
"I'm not."
She crossed her arms and smiled wryly. "You? The jury's still out on you."
Better than a guilty verdict, I suppose. "Thanks, I think. I suppose Geoff doesn't know about his wife's affair?"
A contemptuous look. "That little weasel? Head too far up people's arses to know what day it is. And even if he knew, he couldn't complain."
"Why not?"
"He's no better. Haven't you noticed the cute little junior solicitors who troop into his room for conferences and always leave smiling? Silly little poppets think that, because he's a barrister, he's some sort of knight in shining armour."
"Jesus. This place is a cesspit."
"What did you expect with so many barristers around?"
I shrugged. "See your point. Geoff and Joan got any kids?"
"No. She wants some, but he's hung out a 'not ready' sign, which is good, because they really shouldn't breed."
"Ouch. Bitchy."
She smiled. "You should see me on a bad day."
Barbara left and I pondering her revelations. On the morning after Terry was murdered, I caught Geoff Mantel rummaging through Terry's desk. When challenged, he lamely claimed to be looking for a book. Soon afterwards, Joan strolled into my room and pumped me for information about the police investigation. And now I'd just found out Joan was bonking Terry.
Were all of those events connected? No idea. But I was very curious to find out.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For almost a decade, I'd had a boozy lunch once a month with about a dozen other personal injuries barristers. The next morning, I saw in my diary that we'd arranged to congregate at a restaurant in the Botanical Gardens. My mood improved and I steadily worked my way through a couple of neglected briefs. Then, just after noon, I strolled out to Denise, flipping through a fashion magazine and nibbling on a celery stick.
I said: "Busy?"
Raised eyebrow. "Frantic."
"Good. If anyone calls, I've gone to a seminar."
"You mean, you're lunching with the boys?"
"Yeah."
She rolled her eyes. "So you're finished for the day?"
"No, it's just lunch."
"Maybe. But you always come back pissed and sit in your room listening to loud music."
I tried to look affronted. "Perhaps, but not this time."
"Rubbish. What do you lot talk about anyway?"
I smiled. "We form small groups and discuss important issues in jurisprudence."
She snorted. "Hah. Like what?"
"Like when does the word 'judgment' have an extra 'e'?"
She laughed. "Bullshit. You just gossip and bitch, don't you? Gossip and bitch."
She'd nailed us good. I frowned. "Why do I pay for this abuse?"
"You don't pay much. And go easy on the dessert, huh?" She returned to her magazine.
Surely, she should reserve that sort of comment for her husband. I was obviously too indulgent a boss. Still, I sucked in my gut as I strolled off.
I headed down Macquarie Street and through the Botanical Gardens to the restaurant, nestled amid giant fig trees. Most of my colleagues were already present, drinking hard. I sat and immediately became the centre of attention because Terry belonged to my chambers.
Dave Smythe, sitting next to me, was a veteran silk with a mottled nose spread across his face. "Bad news about Terry, Ben - bad, bad. I couldn't believe it. Any idea who dun' it?"
No point revealing the threads of coincidence, slivers of fact and half-baked theories I'd assembled. This table was the equivalent of a parish pump. In no time, mangled versions of what I said would reach all four corners of the Bar.
"Afraid not."
Dave raised his glass. "I must admit, he wasn't the greatest lawyer I ever met. But he was always pleasant, and I can't say that about many opponents."
Others raised their glasses. "Here, here."
The ensuing speculation about who killed Terry fluctuated between a burglar, a mistress, a disgruntled client and home-invaders. The scarcity of facts gave wing to inspiration.
As food started to arrive, Terry was forgotten and there was a competition to find out who'd had the craziest client. Greg Hilderbrand led for a while. He once had a client who demanded an expedited hearing of his claim because he believed that a "galactic re-alignment" would occur in a few weeks during which the earth would disappear into a black hole. However, Dexter Austin trumped him with a client who claimed that, after hitting her head in a car accident, she lost her paranormal powers. She wanted compensation because she couldn't read other peoples' minds any more. Dexter told us: "I couldn't make her understand that she really shouldn't have been doing that in the first place."
However, Barry Guevara won the competition with a client who claimed he was abducted by aliens and taken to the far side of the galaxy. The client wanted to sue them for false imprisonment. However, when Barry asked for their names and addresses, his client said: "I can't tell you, because I didn't understand their language - it was sorta squeaky - and planets all look alike to me. But it had oxygen - must have, because I could breath."
Next, there was a competition to name the worst High Court judge. The debate got quite heated, because there were so many strong contenders.
Just after three o'clock, I realised that if I didn't leave soon I'd still be there when the most indomitable lunchers ordered dinner. I rose unsteadily and said I had to see a client.
Greg Hilderbrand said he'd stroll back with me.
We both left money on the table and lurched back up through the Botanical Gardens. The sti
ff sea-breeze was heavily scented with manure and mulch.
Greg had chubby features, wild grey hair and wild blue eyes. He was a happy warrior inside court and a trouble-maker outside it. After years of womanising, he'd recently married his secretary, a step he now regretted because she kept her job and watched him like a hawk. "I'm now under 24-hour surveillance," he complained. "I'm frightened to tell myself that another woman is attractive."
He said: "You know, I appeared against Terry a couple of times."
"What did you think of him?"
"Both times he button-holed me before the hearing and said my clients had absolutely no case and were wasting everybody's time. And both times I tore him a new arsehole, because his clients had no case. But you know the worst thing?"
"What?"
"I really think he believed he was going to crush me."
"That sounds like Terry."
"And, in court, he kept forgetting the names of his clients and spouted total bullshit."
"That's because he wasn't very good at thinking and talking at the same time."
"So, you don't know who dun him in?"
"Nope, but I've gleaned some interesting information."
"Like what?"
Like most barristers, Greg was a chronic gossip. Confiding in him was not smart. But I was full of booze and wanted to unburden myself. "For a start, when he died, he was flat broke."
"You're kidding?"
"Nope." I told him about Terry's enormous tax debt and how the Bar Association was about to tear up his practising certificate.
"I bet they'd have torn it up. If those sanctimonious bastards could get away with it, they'd have stuck his head on a pike and paraded it around Phillip Street. How'd the silly bastard get into that much trouble?"
"Thought he was a canny businessman when he wasn't. His wife and ex-wife also had expensive tastes."
"Hah. Show me a chick who doesn't. Did his death have anything to do with his money trouble?"
"No idea. But that's not the only gossip I've heard."
Raised eyebrows. "Pray tell."
I described how Terry argued with Justice Sloan at the Bench & Bar Dinner.
Greg's eyes widened. "Shit. What was it about?"
"Dunno."
"Why not?"
"They kept their voices down."
"Are you sure they were arguing?"
