by Mark Dryden
"Not really. Found no eye-witnesses."
His eyes shone. "Told you that you were wasting your time, didn't I?"
If he'd done a proper investigation six months ago, we might have found an eyewitness. But telling him that would be like punching mist. "Yeah, you did."
He sat back, looking satisfied.
A few minutes later, Justice Sloan entered with his small retinue. Once again, I looked for some hint he knew I had the police charge sheet and saw none. But he caught me staring and gave me a curious look. I quickly sat and re-shuffled my papers.
The judge cleared his throat. "Now gentlemen, any transcript corrections?"
We both identified some errors in the previous day's transcript, argued over what was really said and noted his rulings.
The judge looked at Wild Bill. "Now, Mr Anderson, you'd better put your client back in the witness box."
Wild Bill waved Taggart towards the witness box. The bouncer strutted across the courtroom and sat in the witness box, wondering why he ever thought giving evidence might be difficult. He had this covered.
I feigned boredom. "Now, Mr Taggart, you said yesterday that you're the Head of Security at the Royal George Hotel?"
Big smile. "Correct."
"What duties does that involve?"
"I'm responsible for, umm, employing the other bouncers, rostering them and making sure they do a good job - stuff like that."
"I suppose that, like most pubs, the Royal George has surveillance cameras?"
No flicker of concern. "Yeah, three or four."
"You're responsible for them?"
"Well, there's a techie guy who looks after them."
"But, as Head of Security, you've got to know where the cameras are?"
He was too full of himself to admit he was clueless about the cameras. "Yeah, of course."
"And the technician reports to you?"
"Yeah."
Time for a frontal assault. I grabbed both sides of the lectern, leaned forward and barked. "So you know that, on the night my client was injured on the stairs, there was a surveillance camera filming those stairs, don't you?"
Taggart's startled look said I was on the right track. "Umm, ah, no."
"Come off it Mr Taggart, there was once a surveillance camera at the bottom of the stairs, wasn't there, pointing upwards?"
Time for a cheap trick. I picked up a piece of paper laying on the bar table and put it on the lectern. Hopefully, he'd worry I had a document that proved the existence of the camera.
His eyes followed the piece of paper. "Who told you that?"
"Mr Taggart, it may not seem fair, but you don't ask questions, I do. So answer this one: there was once a surveillance camera at the bottom of the stairs, wasn't there?"
Too many thoughts moved slowly through his brain, causing peak-hour congestion. His eyes glowed like a maze rat. He opened and closed his mouth several times.
"Answer my question Mr Taggart."
He shifted in his seat. "Well, umm, yeah, maybe."
"Not 'maybe' - there was one, wasn't there?" I picked up the piece of paper - a blank page I'd doodled on - and squinted at it with a wolfish grin.
Taggart glanced nervously at the piece of paper and nodded reluctantly. "Well, ah, yeah, there was."
"And that camera pointed up the stairs, didn't it?"
"Umm, ah, yeah."
"And it was removed, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Yes, why was it removed?"
Taggart's eyes danced nervously. "You know, I'm not sure."
"Why not?"
A shrug. "I'm just not, OK?"
"But you're responsible for the surveillance cameras, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I suppose so - sorta."
I leaned forward and barked. "Mr Taggart, you previously told this court you're responsible for the surveillance cameras, didn't you?"
Taggart's big frame shrank and his eyes widened. "I guess so."
"So you know why that surveillance camera was taken down, don't you?"
"It was a long time ago. I forget. I guess we just didn't need it there."
"Really? Why didn't you need it there?"
"Umm, hard to say. You don't need cameras everywhere, do ya?"
"Then tell me: when was the surveillance camera removed?"
The judge leaned forward and showed some interest.
Taggart rubbed his chin, buying time. "You said when?"
"Yes, Mr Taggart, when? It's a simple question."
"Umm, can't remember?"
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah, can't remember."
"Would you say that you have a bad memory?"
He saw that trap. "Nah. Sometimes it's good, and sometimes it's bad."
"Then tell me this: was the camera taken down before or after Mr Arnold was injured on the stairs?"
That was a no-brainer. "Oh, umm, I'm pretty sure it was taken down before he fell."
"You're sure about that?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
"OK. So who took the camera down?"
"What do you mean?" he said to give his brain time to catch up.
I barked. "Come on Mr Taggart, you understand English. I said: who took the camera down?"
Taggart waved his fists around, clearly wishing he could use them. "Not sure. I think the pub got some sort of electrician to come in and take it down."
"Who was the electrician?"
"His name?"
"Yes."
"Dunno."
I looked up at the judge. "Your Honour, I call for the defendants to produce all documents - including any bills from an electrician - which refer to the removal of the surveillance camera on the stairs."
Wild Bill got to his feet. "Your Honour, I object: my learned friend is calling for irrelevant documents. The witness has already said the camera was taken down before the event in question."
I said: "Your Honour, I want to test that evidence."
The judge gave Wild Bill a flat stare. "Mr Anderson, he is entitled to test the evidence. I mean, that's why we're here, isn't it? Your clients should answer the call."
Wild Bill looked like a bull-dog minus the slobber. "I maintain my objection."
"On what basis?"
"This is just a distraction."
A lizard smile. "Really? Well, just to amuse me, please answer the call."
A loud grunt. "As your Honour pleases."
A stony expression. "Good."
I didn't think much of Justice Sloan, particularly after recent events. But, to his credit, he didn't take any rubbish from Wild Bill who, for once, knew he was outgunned.
"But, umm, we obviously don't have any documents here."
"Then get your instructing solicitor to search for them overnight."
"I will." Wild Bill dropped into his chair.
I said: "Your Honour, I also call upon the defendants to produce all surveillance film taken on the night the plaintiff was injured."
Wild Bill bounced back up and with his customary scowl. "Your Honour, I object again. This request is most improper."
If I leaned over and punched him I'd probably be struck off. But if I drew blood it would be almost worth it. "Your Honour, I won't even ask my friend to withdraw that slur. I want it to stay on the record so people see how he conducts himself in court."
The judge frowned at Wild Bill. "Mr Kennedy has made a simple request. I expect it to be answered. Please get your instructing solicitor look for any film as well."
"The witness has said there is no film."
"Then what are you worried about? Get your solicitor to check."
Wild Bill frowned. "Yes your Honour."
Having exhausted my cross-examination about the surveillance camera, I asked Taggart whether he had been trained to deal with inebriated patrons. He wasn't. Then I returned to what happened on the night Mick Arnold tumbled down the stairs, hoping he'd contradict his earlier evidence. He stuck
to his script.
Just before one o'clock, the judge interrupted my cross-examination. "Mr Kennedy. It's almost time for lunch. I should have mentioned earlier that, this afternoon, I have to hear an application for an urgent injunction. So I'll adjourn this hearing until tomorrow morning. I hope you gentlemen don't mind."
Such interruptions were common. No point complaining.
Wild Bill said: "I don't mind, your Honour."
"Nor do I. Indeed, the interruption will give the defendants' solicitor even more time to look for the documents and film I've requested."
A wisp of a smile flickered on the judge's hard features. "I'm sure he'll give it his full attention. I adjourn until 10 a.m. tomorrow morning." He rose and left the bench.
My cross-examination of Taggart was going well. Mick would probably still lose. But at least he would go down with guns blazing, if that mattered.
Someone slapped my back. I turned and saw Mick Arnold.
"Bloody good stuff, mate - bloody good."
Meredith also popped up. "How did you know about the surveillance camera?"
"Got a whiff of it in the pub last night."
He nodded as if he'd been there holding my hand. "Smart work. Smart work."
Mick said: "Now I'm gonna win, right?"
I shook my head. "Don't get your hopes up. The judge could easily treat the surveillance camera as a red herring."
"You're kidding?"
"Nope. When he writes his judgment, he can arrange the facts any way he likes. You've got to understand that."
"But he's got to do what's right, right?"
"Says who?"
"Shit." Mick wandered off and I put folders back onto the court trolley.
Meredith said: "Well, I think we're going to win."
He'd always been confident the judge - despite being anti-plaintiff - would find for our client. It was as if he had a hold over the judge.
The penny dropped. Maybe Meredith, a close mate of Terry, had known Terry had the police charge sheet for a long time, and entered Terry's room on the morning after Terry was murdered to recover it. If so, he must at least suspect Terry tried to blackmail the judge and got murdered as a consequence.
I opened my mouth to mention the charge sheet, but the words cowered on my tongue. Meredith was not to be trifled with. Proceed cautiously.
I shrugged. "We'll find out soon enough, won't we?"
He wandered off and I pushed the trolley back to my chambers, wondering if Meredith suspected I thought the judge was a murderer. I soon found myself chasing my tail, and gave up.
To distract myself, I tried to work on some other briefs, but kept thinking about Detective Sergeant Metcalfe, back on duty that evening. Should I call him about the charge sheet? Or strangle my scruples and let the whole thing slide?
I should have let it slide. However, like most know-it-all, I am painfully curious. I also wanted to give the Homicide detectives another target besides me.
Just after six o'clock, my hand reached for the phone receiver several times without picking it up. Finally, I nervously telephoned Croydon Police Station and asked for Detective Sergeant Metcalfe.
A receptionist said: "Please hold while I put you through."
Next, I heard a gruff voice. "Metcalfe here."
"Umm, Detective, my name's Benjamin Kennedy. I'm a barrister."
A pause. "What do you want?"
"I'm inquiring about a drink driving charge you laid."
"When?"
"About four years ago."
"Really? Who got charged?"
"Umm, you charged a man called Richard Allan Sloan after a car crash in which his wife died."
After a long pause, Metcalfe's voice cracked. "Richard Sloan?"
"Yes."
Another long pause and a hard tone. "You said your name is Kennedy - you're a barrister?"
"Umm, yes".
The line went dead.
Christ. I put down the receiver with a trembling hand. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Panic grabbed my throat. I paced about. It looked like the charge sheet was authentic. So what would the cop do now? Call the judge? Try to silence me? Was I in real danger?
Bloody hell.
No point hanging around in chambers, because I was too frightened to work. I headed for home, knowing I would spend a long night pondering my mortality.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After four hours of broken sleep, I got out of bed before dawn and stumbled through my morning rituals. Then I slouched in to chambers, arriving as the sun started painting the sky, still worrying about the cop's abrupt reaction. Had he already told the judge I knew about the charge sheet? If so, the judge must know I suspected him of manslaughter and murder. My God. I'd already had plenty of set-backs in the Arnold hearing. But they would seem like golden triumphs if the cop had blabbed and the hearing turned into a screaming ride through hell.
I started reading the previous day's transcript. It took my frazzled mind half-an-hour to read five pages. Eventually, I gave up and tried to read the sports pages of the Sydney Morning Herald, and couldn't even absorb them. I kept wondering if the cop contacted the judge and how the judge would behave when he got onto the bench.
To calm my nerves, I exited the building and strolled around the block, weaving between pedestrians. That tired my legs without slowing my brain.
When I returned, I quickly robed and headed for court, arriving twenty minutes early. Neither my client nor instructing solicitor was there. However, Wild Bill stood outside the locked courtroom talking to Mild Bill. I'd almost forgotten about the material the defendants had to search for and produce.
He glanced at me. "Morning Ben."
"Morning. Got the documents I called for?"
He shifted slightly. "No, but we haven't finished looking."
A prickle of suspicion. Wild Bill was the sort of barrister who fastidiously observed all his ethical duties when it didn't matter, and threw them out the window when it did. I said: "Really? When will you finish?"
"Soon - today."
"Good. Let me know when you find something."
I strolled away with an uneasy feeling they'd already found prejudicial documents and were holding them back. But there was no way I could be sure, because physically torturing opponents to extract information is regarded as unprofessional.
Most of my brain was still focused on how the judge would behave when he came onto the bench. I strolled up and down the hallway for about five minutes, trying to calm my nerves without success, until Bob Meredith and Mick Arnold arrived together.
While we chit-chatted about the case, Meredith looked amiable enough, though a couple of times, he seemed to give me a deep stare. Why? Did he know I'd talked to the cop? Was he in on the joke? Or had tiredness stripped me of reason and locked me in a cellar of paranoia.
At ten o'clock, I sat at the Bar table with a thudding heart, praying the cop hadn't talked to the judge.
At least Sloan was, as usual, on time. An unseen hand rapped three times on the door behind the bench. I felt like a parachutist with a tangled chute. We all rose and the judge entered quickly, wig askew, stony features flushed and eyes down. He sat clumsily and gave me an edgy stare.
My stomach flip-flopped and the hairs of my wig stood up. Jesus, he knows. He fucking well knows I've got the charge sheet. The cop must have told him. Hell. I'd been a barrister for so long that courtrooms seemed as comfortable and familiar as my lounge room. My main fear was not feeling nervous. Yet this one had suddenly become dark and frightening. Judges were usually distant figures, embedded in their roles. But now a dark secret had roped me and Sloan together. I could dance around at the end of that rope, but couldn't break it.
We all sat, and I almost missed my chair.
The judge's voice quivered and he looked at a point above my head. "Mr Kennedy."
I stumbled aloft. "Yes, your Honour."
"Umm, do want to resume your cross-examination of the first defendant?"
I had half
-expected him to accuse me of harbouring false suspicions about him. So his mundane question took me aback. Whatever was happening behind the scenes, the show must go on. Somehow, I had to pull myself together. I avoided his gaze and spoke with a burr. "I do your Honour. Umm, but first I renew my call for the documents and film I sought yesterday."
Wild Bill got to his feet and seemed to catch the outbreak of nerves. "Ah, your Honour, the defendants have nothing to produce at this stage. However, my instructing solicitor is still making inquiries."
"I understand."
Wild Bill's rare tentativeness heightened my suspicion. But I couldn't accuse him of lying - not yet, anyway. I'd await developments and, when an opening appeared, I'd show he had no monopoly on character assassination.
Though the judge had recovered some composure, he still didn't look me in the eye. "Mr Kennedy, you have your answer. Are you ready to resume your cross-examination?"
"Yes, your Honour."
The judge tersely recalled Taggart to the witness box and reminded him he was still on oath.
My cross-examination of Taggart was scratchy, to say the least. While the judge's eyes bored into me, angry and apprehensive, my mind kept wandering back to the dark information I had about him, and how it could destroy my career or even my life. Several times I couldn't think of my next question and had to shuffle papers on the bar table, pretending to look for something, while I scoured my brain. Often I didn't comprehend the witness's answer and had to ask him to repeat it. Somehow, though, I managed to question him about the removal of the surveillance camera. For half-an-hour he stuck doggedly to his previous evidence and refused to acknowledge its gaps and inconsistencies. Tiredness and pressure made me narky: a couple of times I half-shouted.
It's always dangerous to cross-examine for too long, and give the witness a chance to patch up his mistakes. I turned to the judge: "Your Honour, I cannot complete my cross-examination until the defendants answer my call for film and documents. However, subject to that, I have no further questions."
"Alright." He turned to Taggart. "You may leave the witness box, though you are not excused: you may need to be recalled."
Taggart scampered to the back of the courtroom and Wild Bill called the second defendant to give evidence.
