Torn Silk

by Mark Dryden

  "Yeah, drunk as a skunk."

  "And loud and aggressive?"

  "That's right."

  "Indeed, he pushed and shoved the other patron, didn't he?"

  "Sure did."

  "And he swore at you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "After you arrived, he swore at you?"

  "Well, umm, yeah, he said some nasty things."

  "Like what?"

  "I think he called me a cocksucker." Taggart glanced at the judge. "Sorry, judge."

  The judge gave him a man-of-the-world shrug.

  I said: "How often did he call you that?"

  "Two or three times."

  "Because he was drunk and aggressive, correct?"

  The witness knitted his eyebrows. "Yeah."

  "And because he was drunk and aggressive you had trouble persuading him to leave, didn't you?"

  "Yeah, at first. But we eventually talked him around."

  "How?"

  Taggart's eyebrows joined again. His stupidity did not seem an act. "How what?"

  I raised my voice and leaned forward. "How did you talk him into leaving the pub? What did you say to him?"

  "I threatened to call the cops."

  "Really? And straight away, he agreed to leave?"

  "Umm, no, not straight away. I mean, I said some other things."

  "Like what?"

  Taggart squirmed and his heavy eyebrows formed a straight line. "You want me to know exactly what I said?"

  "Yes, exactly."

  "It was a long time ago, so I can't remember everything."

  I spoke sharply. "Tell me what you remember saying?"

  "I said we'd call the cops."

  I scowled. "You've already told us that. What else did you say, to make him leave?"

  "Oh, I told him to behave himself, and stuff like that."

  "Anything else?"

  "That's all I can remember."

  "And Mr Fuolau, what did he say?"

  "Not much. I mean, I did most of the talking."

  I put my elbows on the lectern. "Mr Taggart, the plaintiff never agreed to leave the pub, did he?"

  "He sure did."

  "That's a total fabrication, isn't it?"

  "Nah, it's true."

  "In fact, because he was drunk and aggressive, he wouldn't listen to you, would he?"

  "No, we persuaded him to go."

  "You mean, by threatening to call the police?"

  Taggart started to look anxious. "I also said other stuff, like I said."

  "But you've forgotten what you said?"

  "Yeah."

  "Mr Taggart, because Mr Arnold was drunk and aggressive, you had to physically force him to leave, didn't you?"

  "No way."

  "He wouldn't listen to you, so you and Mr Fuolau pushed him towards the stairs?"

  "No we didn't."

  "And when you got to the top of the stairs, he called you both 'fucking cunts', didn't he?'"

  "Nope - definitely not."

  "So you threw him down the stairs?"

  "Nah, no way - crap."

  To my surprise, Wild Bill sprung to his feet. "I object."

  The judge looked askance. "Why?"

  "My learned friend is badgering the witness."

  That was nonsense, particularly coming from a forensic thug like him. I turned towards him. "Badgering? Rubbish. You're the one who beats up witnesses, not me. Sit down. You've had your go."

  "How dare you."

  We must have sounded like two old tarts arguing over a bingo prize.

  Having spent most of the day looking either mildly or totally bored, the judge showed a flicker of interest, though he'd seen much better verbal stoushes. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please calm down." He glanced up at the clock. "It's almost four. I propose to adjourn. You can resume your combat tomorrow morning."

  We both nodded.

  The judge looked at the witness. "Mr Taggart, please return at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. I adjourn until then."

  The Court Officer called for everyone to rise and the judge scuttled from the courtroom, his associate close behind.

  Wild Bill stared hard. "I'll keep objecting tomorrow morning."

  "Go for your life."

  A scowl crossed his grumpy features and he headed for the door, Mild Bill trailing behind.

  For most of the day, I'd forgotten about the police charge sheet and huge question mark hanging over the judge. Now, as the court cleared, anxiety exploded inside my head and squeezed my chest. What the hell should I do?

  Mick Arnold said something. But I was too pre-occupied to understand. I turned to him. "What?"

  "He's lying - he's fucking lying?"

  "Who?"

  "Taggart."

  I focused on the case. "Yeah, he's pretty slippery."

  "But you kicked him around - you really did."

  "Thanks. I think I did some damage."

  "So, you think I'm gonna win?"

  "No."

  Mick scowled. "Why not?"

  "Because he's been dreadful, but you were worse - a lot worse."

  Mick looked annoyed. "Really? How?"

  "Don't get me started. But your previous tort claim and false tax return certainly didn't help the cause. You should have told us."

  I'm usually prepared to molly-coddle clients. But since he wasn't paying, he got the no-frills package. Indeed, I rather enjoyed dishing out the harsh facts of litigation. "Yeah, well, I didn't think they'd find out about them, did I? But you're doing good. I'm glad the other guy died. I mean, I know that sounds bad, but he wasn't much chop: lights on, but nobody home, if you know what I mean."

  A more discerning consumer of legal services than I thought. "Really?"

  "Yeah. Anyway, see you tomorrow morning, OK?"

  "Sure."

  He strolled off.

  For most of the day, Bob Meredith had alternated between looking tired and bored, and texting furiously. Now, he turned to me. "At least our client's satisfied."

  "Wait till he loses: then he'll send me a parcel bomb."

  "Client's prerogative. But he's right. You're making progress."

  "Not enough. Know what we need?"

  "What?"

  "A witness who saw what happened in the pub."

  Meredith frowned. "I tried to find one. I mean, I even sent someone to the pub to ask around."

  "Yeah? Who?"

  Meredith shifted on his feet. "Don't worry - someone I trust."

  Alarm bells tolled in my head. "Who?"

  "Oh, one of my paralegals."

  "A paralegal? You're kidding?"

  "No. But don't worry. The guy's no dummy: been with me for about three years, studying for a law degree. If there was a good witness at the pub, he'd have found him."

  Meredith's half-arsed preparation for the hearing didn't surprise me. He was a seat-of-the–pants litigator; the only thing he did with enthusiasm was overcharge.

  I said: "I bet he just got pissed at your expense."

  Meredith shrugged. "If he did, there's nothing we can do now."

  I don't mind losing a case if everything possible has been done to win it. But that hadn't happened here. I could ask Meredith to go to the pub and look for a witness. But in the unlikely event he agreed to, he'd do a flaky job. To ease my conscience, I'd have to go myself and make a forlorn effort.

  I said: "Maybe. But I think I'll drop into the pub tonight and have a look around. Who knows? I might find a witness."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "No. I won't stay long. Just a quick look around, then home to bed."

  "You want to waste your time, that's up to you. I've got a dinner engagement. If I don't make it, the missus will kill me."

  "Suit yourself."

  He glanced at his watch. "Anyway, gotta get back to the office. If you go to the pub, don't forget your trench-coat."

  As he strolled off, giggling to himself, I felt an intense wave of despair. I was appearing before a judge who might be a
murderer, in a case sinking fast and, as if that wasn't bad enough, I now had to do my solicitor's work.

  At least, at the pub, I could have a few beers, which I deserved.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Most pubs in Bondi are trendy establishments where yuppies drink boutique beers and chat about the price of real estate, the price of cars, the price of stocks, and what's wrong with their kids and whether they should send them to a new school. But the Royal George Hotel was a working-class bastion with a mahogany bar, tiled walls, dust-covered chandeliers and a ragged carpet. The lighting was poor and it reeked of spilt beer; the only food on sale was nuts and chips. Even the pokie machines looked worn out. Most patrons were blue-collar boozers still swimming against the tide of gentrification.

  I approached the pub cautiously in case the two defendants were on duty. But the only bouncer was a Maori as big as a two-door fridge. He wore dark glasses, despite the sun having disappeared.

  The downstairs bar was full of mullets, tatts, bushy beards, broken teeth, x-rated T-shirts and booze-fuelled "attitude". Heavy-set Pacific Islanders had commandeered the two pool tables. I would be very careful not to invade anyone's space.

  I climbed the wooden stairs to the first floor, noting the steps were very solid with good adhesion. The upstairs bar only had about a dozen patrons. Three old geezers sat at the counter, hunched over their beers like boundary riders at the end of a long day, faces exuding loneliness and despair. If one had dropped off his perch, stone dead, I wouldn't have been surprised. I sat next to a decrepit guy with cherry-red eyes and post-mortem whiskers.

  The barmaid was a handsome blonde in her early twenties wearing a tank-top and a lascivious navel stud. Sadly, I was too old and boring to attract a woman who was pierced in any place except her earlobes.

  She sauntered towards me and spoke in a Scandinavian back-packer accent. "Do you want a beer?"

  I struggled to stop the thoughts of a middle-aged pervert appear on my face. "A schooner of Coopers, please."

  "OK."

  As she pulled the beer, I essayed some small talk. "Not busy tonight?"

  "It's always like this on Monday."

  I made a crude leap. "I guess it's a lot busier on Saturday nights?"

  She put the glass in front of me, took my note and handed back some change. "Of course - we're usually flat out." Like most Nordic back-packers, she spoke better English than the locals.

  "Really? You know, a friend of mine was here on a Saturday night, about nine months ago. Fell down the stairs over there. They had to call an ambulance."

  She obviously thought I was a weirdo making a weird attempt to chat her up, but couldn't be bothered getting annoyed. "Well, a few guys have fallen down them - usually drunk."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah." She shrugged. "But I've only been here about three months; don't know what happened before that."

  As she sauntered away, I gloomily admired the wiggle of her arse and barely noticed a hand tugging my arm. Eventually, I turned and saw it was attached to a decrepit guy sitting next to me.

  A raspy voice. "You wanta know about the guy taken away in the ambo?"

  My nerves sizzled. "Yes."

  His teeth were well-spaced and rotten. "Yeah, remember that; huge commo."

  My heart slapped against my ribs. "You were here?"

  "Course. I'm here every night. This is my regular seat. Nobody takes it."

  "What did the guy look like, who fell?"

  "Skinny. Freckly. Carrot-topped. Fought with a guy over a girl. Then the bouncers arrived."

  His description matched Mick Arnold and the events in question. My throat tightened. Was a miracle unfolding? "Shit. Really? So what happened? Why'd he tumble down the stairs?"

  Blood-shot eyes stared out of a fissured face. "Why da ya wanta know?"

  "I'm his barrister. He's suing the bouncers and the pub."

  "No kidding?"

  "Definitely not. What happened? Was he thrown down the stairs?"

  The old guy shrugged. "Don't know."

  Christ. He said he was here when it happened. He must know. Anger trumped politeness. My tone was text-book querulous. "What the hell do you mean, you don't know?"

  "I was here that night. But I went off to the jake to take a piss. Bladder's a fucking mess these days: pissing all the time. My doc gives me pills - but then, that's another story, isn't it? Anyway, I went off to the pisser. And while I was there I heard this big hullabaloo. So I came out and carrot-top was already at the bottom of the stairs. A few minutes later, the ambulance pulled up."

  Fuck me dead. I demoted him from star witness to silly old coot who I wanted to throw down the stairs. "Did anyone talk about what happened? I mean, did the bouncers say anything?"

  He shrugged. "Not really. By the time I got out of the dunny they were all down the bottom of the stairs and the guy was moaning like a baby. I sat down and had another beer. Funny, huh. Nuthin' usually happens. And when it does, I'm having a slash."

  Funny as a fire in an orphanage. I frowned. "Why've you bothered telling me any of this?"

  A lonely look. "Just trying to be helpful."

  I scanned the other patrons and sighed. "Not your fault, I suppose. Were any of these other guys here when it happened?"

  The old guy looked around slowly. "Dunno. Didn't pay attention. You'll have to ask them."

  "Thanks."

  I spent an hour circulating around the bar, asking semi-inebriated patrons if they saw a carrot-top take a tumble nine months ago. Their answers were all as I anticipated.

  Eventually, I trudged down the stairs. Near the bottom, I casually noticed, just above the lintel, an unpainted patch with a couple of screw holes. At first, I assumed a light fitting was removed. My mind had almost travelled on when I noted the patch was off-centre. Strange place to position a light.

  I had already reached the bottom of the stairs, and was fumbling around for my car keys, when I realised the patch was the logical place for a surveillance camera. Hell.

  When I entered the pub, through the downstairs bar, I noticed a surveillance camera set high on a wall. I strolled over to it and studied the bracket. The configuration of screws was exactly the same as above the lintel.

  My God. It looked like a surveillance camera once monitored the stairs. When was it taken down? Before Mick was injured? Or afterwards to hide what was filmed?

  The defendants were obliged to discover to the plaintiffs any relevant film, but hadn't done so. Why not? Maybe the camera was taken down before Mick's tumble, so there was no film; maybe it was taken down afterwards, but the film had been automatically erased; or maybe the defendants still had the relevant film and were deliberately hiding it.

  In a blink, Mick's story had gone from preposterous to plausible. Indeed, he might still win his case. Certainly, when I continued cross-examining Taggart tomorrow morning, the patch above the stairs would receive scrupulous attention.

  However, my excitement faded fast. I only had a suspicion and no proof. Further, the main game in the hearing was no longer the case itself. I was appearing before a judge who was probably guilty of corruption, vehicular manslaughter and homicide. Somehow, I had to deal with those issues without betraying the interests of my client. That would not be easy.

  I'd started the day tired, had a shot of adrenalin, and was now utterly exhausted. I slouched outside, my heavy head craving a pillow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  To my surprise, I slept for a solid eight hours and woke reasonably fresh. At chambers, I even managed to concentrate on the previous day's transcript, checking for errors and trying to think up fresh questions to ask Taggart.

  At 9.40 a.m, I robed and headed for the Supreme Court Building, which looked even more forbidding than usual. Only the brown peddle-dash coating added a touch of whimsy.

  The doors of Court 13A were open. Wild Bill and Mild Bill sat at the bar table, their instructing solicitor and clients just behind them. Mick Arnold was also present,
sitting in the gallery, still wearing his Wallabies jersey, but Bob Meredith was nowhere to be seen.

  Mick was chewing his finger-nails, looking sour, as if he'd finally grasped the downward trajectory of his case.

  I said: "Morning. Where's Bob?"

  "Dunno."

  Meredith's firm usually had several hearings running at once, so he'd probably abandoned us for a more promising one. No point sitting around on his arse behind me, letting the meter ticked over, if he wouldn't eventually get paid for doing nothing. Better to do nothing at a hearing his client was going to win. Indeed, he might not even turn up today, a prospect which did not concern me at all.

  As I sat at the Bar table, Wild Bill said to his son. "Got my notepad?"

  Mild Bill looked like he'd just heard the first crack of an avalanche. "Umm, no."

  Wild Bill's tone sharpened. "I told you to bring it."

  "No you didn't."

  "Yes I damn well did." Though Wild Bill had always been grumpy, I was starting to wonder if he had frontal lobe disintegration.

  Mild Bill flushed with embarrassment, but stood his ground. "You didn't."

  "I did. Go back to chambers and get it."

  I usually don't let opponents get under my skin. But I was at the end of my tether with Wild Bill, and the rest of the world. I leaned over. "If you need a notepad, I'll lend you one."

  Wild Bill's head snapped around. "What'd you say?"

  "I said I'll lend you a notepad."

  "You stay out of this."

  "I can't stay out of it, because I have to listen to your bitching all the time like a whinny kid. It's fucking annoying."

  Wild Bill looked like he'd just been slapped. "Shut up."

  Mild Bill showed his palms. "Don't worry. I'll pop back and get it." He scuttled out of the court.

  I said: "Jesus, you're a class act."

  Wild Bill looked furious. "Bugger off."

  It was a relief to dispense with niceties and trade a few blows. That was a more honest reflection of our relationship. I started shuffling papers and ignored him. Five minutes later, Mild Bill returned with the notepad, which Wild Bill snatched.

  A minute later, a flushed Bob Meredith steamed into the courtroom and sat just behind me. He leaned forward and whispered: "Sorry I'm late. Had to put out a few brush fires at the office: price of being indispensible. Any luck last night at the pub?"