by Mark Dryden
I dropped back into my chair. "How?"
"Threw his weight around. Told them they couldn't charge a Supreme Court judge with drink driving; said they'd destroy their careers; told them to forget the whole thing."
"And they agreed?"
"Yes, eventually."
"But Terry kept the charge sheet - why?"
The judge shrugged. "I don't know. He made the police hand over all their records, including the charge sheet and the breathalyser reading. Later, he told me he'd destroyed them. He obviously lied."
"Then, despite knowing your dirty little secret, he kept appearing before you, didn't he?"
The judge looked surprised. "Umm, yes, a few times."
"No, more than that. I looked on the internet: he appeared before you at least seven times."
A shrug. "Maybe."
"And won all seven, didn't he?"
The judge hunched over and looked at a spot between his shoes, like a battered boxer between rounds. "Maybe. But, umm, I can assure you he never asked for any favours; never asked me to decide a case one way or the other - never."
"Funnily enough, I believe you, because he didn't have to ask, did he? I mean, he had so much dirt on you he knew you'd play ball. However, your biggest worry isn't how you decided those cases."
"What do you mean?"
I leaned forward and took a deep breath. "What I mean is, you obviously had a strong motive to kill Terry."
To my surprise, the judge looked shocked rather than afraid. "You're being ridiculous."
"No I'm not. Terry was desperate for money. If he didn't pay the tax office, he'd go bankrupt and lose his practising certificate. He couldn't cope with that. So he tried to blackmail you, didn't he? He said that if you didn't pay his tax debt, he'd use the charge sheet to destroy you: if he went down the toilet, he'd take you with him."
A blank stare.
I said: "That's what you two argued about at the Bench & Bar dinner isn't it? He wanted you to give him some money - otherwise, he'd blow the whistle."
A long pause and a croaky tone. "Yes, he did. But I just didn't have the sort of money he needed."
"So you decided to kill him?"
The judge's face regained its colour and animation. He half-rose and yelled: "That's a lie. Totally untrue. I didn't kill him. Yes, he tried to blackmail me. But I had nothing to do with his death."
"Really? Then where were you on the Sunday afternoon he died?"
A tight smile. "That's easy. I went to a legal conference in Coffs Harbour. Was there the whole day. In fact, I gave a speech at about three o'clock. You can check, if you want. It won't be hard. There were about 60 barristers and solicitors in the room. So, you see, I have a perfect alibi." An odd note of triumph crept into his voice.
I was so certain he killed Terry that his blunt denial left me stunned. "An alibi?"
"Yes and, like I said, it's easy to check: speak to one of the lawyers at the conference. You're barking up the wrong tree."
I regained some composure. "Maybe. Or maybe you got someone else to do your dirty work."
"Don't be ridiculous." He leaned forward imploringly. "So please, please, give me the charge sheet and forget about this."
I was strongly tempted to do what he wanted and put this nightmare behind me. However, Sloan didn't deserve to remain a judge: he killed his wife while drink-driving and favoured Terry's clients. Further, I still wasn't sure if he killed Terry or not. And finally, if I buried the charge sheet while still appearing before him, I'd be as corrupt as he was.
I said: "Sorry, but I've got no choice. I'm going to tell the police about the charge sheet. They can work out what happened at the police station and whether you murdered Terry."
His whole face vibrated with fear as he contemplated his bejewelled career plunging into an abyss. "No, please don't do that."
He'd sat on the bench for many years, wielding absolute authority in his courtroom, and loved the status. The barristers who appeared before him were paid to pamper his ego. Yet now he'd tumbled from heaven and looked embarrassingly small. I shook my head. "Sorry. I've got no choice."
He half-rose from his armchair, eyes bulging and roared, "But you can't do that - you can't. I'll be ruined - ruined. I've had a great career; I've been a judge for almost ten years. You can't just destroy all that. You can't. I made a mistake and my wife died, and I've got to live with that. But I didn't kill Terry, I promise you. I had nothing to do with that. I don't deserve to be destroyed."
His sense of entitlement was rather impressive, in a way. I even felt some sympathy, but wouldn't be bullied. "Sorry, but I've got no choice. I've got to turn this information over to the police."
His eyes gleamed and he licked his lips. "But you're still appearing before me."
A shiver barrelled down my spine. "So what?"
He leaned forward, conspiratorially. "If you go to the police, I'll have to stop hearing the case."
True. In fact, he'd have to stop hearing any cases.
I said: "What're you saying?"
"You're doing well. Your cross-examination's been very effective. Why ruin things when you're so close to winning?"
Now he was trying to bribe me. Christ. I'd walked into a minefield. I shouldn't have agreed to see him in chambers. Incredibly foolish.
My tone was sharp. "You're trying to corrupt me."
He shook his head nervously. "No, I'm just telling you what I'll probably decide if I keep hearing the case - nothing more."
"Forget it."
His scowled. "You ruin me, you'll ruin yourself."
Another shiver chased the first. "What do you mean?"
"You can give up any hope of taking silk or getting a judicial appointment. I know a lot of people in this game - important people - and they won't forgive you. I'll make sure of that. But, if you play ball, I'll do everything I can to help you."
Our conversation was careering out of control. Definitely time to go. The room seemed drained of oxygen. I rose unsteadily, shaking my head. "We've talked enough. I don't want any special favours, understand. See you in court tomorrow morning."
I strode towards the door.
He raised his hand. "Wait."
I shook my head and yelled, "No, no."
I pulled open the door and strode past a surprised looking Associate. Out in the hallway, I realised I'd almost stopped breathing and desperately sucked in air. My trembling hand pushed the lift button.
A minute later, I spilled out onto Phillip Street. The fresh ocean breeze funnelling through it failed to cool me down. I'd just confirmed the judge was drunk when he crashed his car and killed his wife, and had a fantastic motive to kill Terry. True, the judge sounded very confident about his alibi, which would be easy to check. But it wasn't my job to do that. My top priority was to contact Detective Sergeant Malloy and dump this scandal in his lap. And maybe, for added protection, I'd put a senior silk in the loop. The President of Bar Association, Derek Tucker, asked me to keep him informed if there were any developments concerning Terry. I'd make him wish he hadn't made that request.
If I continued to appear before the judge I might be accused - wrongly - of using the dirt in my possession for leverage. So when the hearing resumed tomorrow morning, I would have to ask him to abort it. I wasn't sure what pretext I would give. I certainly didn't want to reveal his dirty secrets in open court. Maybe I would accuse him of bias or something like that. Hopefully, he would jump at the chance to terminate the hearing.
Of course, I wouldn't need to make that application if the case settled before the hearing resumed. Fortunately, it looked like Wild Bill and my client were both anxious to compromise. Indeed, I was strongly tempted to call Wild Bill that evening and try to bridge the gap between us. No, I'd look desperate, and that could make it harder to settle. I had to hold my nerve and wait for his counter-offer.
I used a mill key to get back into my building. When I got out of the lifts, Thomas Erskine Chambers was semi-dark and deserted. I pushed o
pen my door, mentally rehearsing what I'd tell Malloy on the phone and immediately saw my room was a shambles. Dozens of books and the contents of my desk drawers were strewn across the floor. What the fuck ...
Then I noticed Bob Meredith, standing in the far corner, arms akimbo, as if waiting for me, unperturbed about the mess. Did he create it? And, if so, why?
My voice rattled. "Bob, what the hell's going on? Did you make this mess?"
He shrugged. "Some of it. But my friend behind you made the most."
Shit. I turned and saw a huge bald brute, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. His heavily indented skull sat on huge sloping shoulders; a savage scar bisected his right cheek and mangled part of his lip. A swastika tattoo pulsed on his neck. In short, a monstrosity.
My heart went into overdrive. Why the hell had my instructing solicitor and this one-man horror show turned over my room? And was I in great danger? I was pretty sure I wouldn't like the answer to either question.
The monster growled. "Don't fuckin' move."
"Jesus Christ. Who're you?"
As I turned to dash from the room, he took a few long strides and blocked my path. "You're fuckin' going nowhere." His grammar terrified me.
I turned back to Meredith, my face trembling and voice white. "Bob, what's happening here? Who is this guy?"
Meredith sounded chilly. "His name's Gary Schwartz. I've defended him several times when he was charged with armed robbery or GBH. In fact, he's just finished four years inside for assaulting and robbing a guy in Kings Cross."
A cold hand stroked the back of my neck. "Yes, and what the hell's he doing here?"
"He's here to help me recover the charge sheet."
Shit. I'd been right to suspect that Meredith knew about the charge sheet. "W-what charge sheet?"
"Don't play dumb. Ten minutes ago, you discussed it with the judge. In fact, he just called me: said you wouldn't hand it over." Meredith frowned. "So give it to me."
"Why do you want it?"
Meredith crossed his arms and smirked. "Isn't it obvious?"
"No, it doesn't involve you."
"Not directly. But Terry wasn't the only old pal the judge called when he got arrested. He also asked me to go to the police station. Shit, he was desperate - paralysed with fear."
The judge didn't tell me that Meredith also attended the police station, but had no reason to.
I said: "And when you got there, you and Terry persuade the cops to drop the charge against the judge?"
"Yes."
"How'd you manage that?"
"It wasn't hard. We made a big scene. Said they couldn't charge a Supreme Court judge; that if they did, they'd end up playing the triangle in the police band."
"And it worked?"
"Of course. When it finally dawned on them who they'd pinged, they pissed themselves. Agreed to forget the whole thing."
"How did Terry end up with the charge sheet?"
"Don't know. Sneaky bastard must have trousered it."
"And after that, Terry kept appearing before the judge, with you instructing him?"
"Yeah."
"And you won every case."
A smug look. "Our record was good."
Now everything made sense: Meredith wanted to recover the charge sheet because, if it became public, he'd be accused of using it to blackmail the judge and might even get gaol time.
I said: "Everything was going swimmingly, wasn't it, until Terry got into financial trouble?"
"Yes. He was terrified of being struck off. Shit scared. So he tried to gouge money out of Dick and me. Threatened to destroy us if we didn't help. He said he had nothing to lose - that if he blew the whistle, he wouldn't suffer, because he was going down the tube anyway."
I could easily imagine the usually affable Terry, threatened with professional disgrace, getting feral. His ego feasted on being a barrister.
I said: "You could have helped him pay his tax debt. You're very wealthy."
Meredith frowned. "Yes, I am, because I don't pay other people's debts or let them stand over me, understand?"
I did. Meredith was a tough cookie. Nobody blackmailed him. Indeed, anyone who did could easily end up, well, dead.
I said: "And that's why you murdered Terry, isn't it - to protect yourself and the judge?"
Meredith looked shocked. "You're joking, right? I didn't murder him."
"Bullshit. You and the judge are the obvious candidates."
A grim smile. "Maybe, but I didn't. I mean, I'd love to meet the bastard who did and buy him a beer. Terry was an old mate. But after the way he behaved - trying to gouge money out of us - he deserved what he got. Despite that, I didn't kill him. Nor did the judge." Meredith laughed. "In fact, on the afternoon Terry got murdered, I played in a four-ball tournament at the Royal Australian. Two playing partners were barristers and the other was a dentist. I shot an 82. You're barking up the wrong fucking tree."
I bet he sent Gary Schwartz to do his dirty work. However, I finally realised that accusing them of murder could be a very unhealthy activity, particularly with Schwartz in the room. "Then why do you want the charge sheet back?"
"Because I don't want to be accused of helping the judge cover up his drink-driving or corruption. The pissants in the Law Society will strike me off for that. I won't let that happen, understand?"
"But I don't have the charge sheet."
Meredith snarled. "Crap. You've got it. I know because you told Metcalfe and the judge that you do."
I hid the charge sheet in Volume 1 of my New South Wales Law Reports. If Meredith and his goon kept pulling down books, they'd soon find it. Still, why help them? "Yeah, but it's not here."
"Where is it?"
"I won't tell you."
A shrug. "Then we'll have to continue with our search."
"No you won't."
"Really? Who's going to stop us?"
"I am."
"Don't make me laugh." He stepped over to the bookshelves, pulled another law report off the shelves and flipped through it before dropping it onto the floor.
I couldn't let this nasty little solicitor push me around in my own chambers. I briefly forgot the brute behind me, took a couple of steps forward and grabbed his arm as it reached for another book. "Stop."
Meredith looked surprised and tried to snatch his arm away.
I heard Schultz take a couple of steps behind me. A thick arm with a massive tattooed bicep and network of ropey veins wrapped itself around my neck like a python and squeezed my wind-pipe. Fuck. Schultz was twice as strong as me, or more. If he flexed the bicep, he'd snap my neck.
Schultz grunted. "Leave him alone."
I squealed with pain and released Meredith's arm. My vision narrowed and motes swirled in front of my eyes. Soon I wouldn't be able to talk, or even breath. "Let me go," I gasped.
Meredith looked up at the thug. "Don't choke him to death - but don't let him go either."
The thug relaxed his grip, slightly. I sucked in air and tried to regularise my breathing. Oxygen restored some basic brain functions.
A female voice behind us yelled. "Let him go."
The thug looked over his shoulder. "Fuck off."
I heard a couple of quick steps. The thug yelped, let go of me and grabbed his thigh. "Bitch."
I lurched against a bookshelf, gasping for breath and saw that the intruder was Barbara Carmichael, big-eyed and flushed. She must have kicked Schultz in the thigh.
"Get out of here," I croaked.
As Schultz took a couple of steps towards her, she yelped and retreated. He was reaching out to grab her when Meredith yelled. "Stop, stop - don't touch her."
Schultz turned and looked puzzled. "You sure?"
For the first time, Meredith looked uncomfortable. His tweed trilby sat on the window-ledge. He picked it up. "Yes, it's time for us to go. Come on." He edged around me towards the door.
Jesus. After trashing my room and sooling his thug onto me, he was about to slip away scot-free. I barke
d: "You're not going anywhere. Stay here."
He kept sliding away, hand crushing his trilby. "No, I think we've finished our, umm, chat."
"You're kidding? You got this thug to attack me."
Meredith shook his head vehemently. "You're exaggerating. Gary never intended to hurt you - and he didn't, right? Anyway, goodbye." He glanced at Schultz, who looked ready to beat someone - anyone - to death. "Come on Gary, time to go."
Meredith disappeared out the door and Schultz reluctantly followed.
When they'd disappeared, I turned to Barbara. "You OK?"
Her eyes were bright and she trembled slightly. She nodded dumbly and took several deep breaths. "Yes, think so."
"Thanks for your help. You kicked him, right?"
"Yes, hard as I could. What the hell's going on?"
"That's a long story."
"Tell me."
"I will. First though, I've got to make a phone call."
I should have dumped this mess into Detective Sergeant Malloy's lap long ago; I took out his business card and dialled his mobile phone number.
He answered: "Malloy here." In the background, a television murmured and a child yelled happily.
I sighed with relief. "Detective, Ben Kennedy, the barrister."
A guarded tone. "How can I help?"
"Umm, I just caught two guys searching my chambers."
"Really? You mean, without permission?"
"Yes."
"Why did they do that?"
"They were looking for a police charge sheet. I think, it's the reason Terry Riley got killed."
A long pause. "You're serious?"
"Yes, though it's a long story."
"Who were the guys searching your room?"
"A solicitor called Meredith and a big thug called Schultz."
"You think they killed Terry Riley?"
"I think the thug did." Why mention there was also a Supreme Court judge involved.
A pause. "You're still at your chambers?"
"Yes."
"And they've gone?"
"Yes."
"Alright. Stay there. I'm on my way. Be there in fifteen minutes, or less."
