It would have been a long trial, though, if I’d sued for all that. I’d sure as hell have needed the right judge. I had the evidence, but limited resources. My list of grievances could have filled a book. I had to stick with my top thirteen first. There were serial killers to take care of. The rest could wait.
One day.
Forty-One
Kava was my process-server. I sent him up to level 17 of the South Pacific building, told him to ask for Angelo De Luca. When De Luca saw him, Kava gave him a copy of my pleadings, told him that I’d be up in court at two.
I stayed in Jack’s car in the Domain carpark until one forty-five. Then it was time. Along the underground people-mover first, then up the steps below St Mary’s Cathedral, out towards the brilliant blue sky on an Indian summer’s day. Across the road to the Land Titles Office, over Macquarie Street into Queens Square, then into the Supreme Court foyer.
The courtroom was overflowing by one fifty-five. Not just the press, either. Colin Dixon was there, and Gabrielle. Two other lawyers from the Randwick South Legal Centre had made their way into town, on standby in case I fainted. Jack had rung some of his mates, and half the Randwick–Coogee RSL was in attendance. Jack winked at me when I walked in, slapped me on the back, marking me as the one needing moral support.
Which marked the joker in the wig and gown next to me as the villain.
De Luca had done two things. He had called a top-tier law firm, and he had briefed Brian Humphries of Queens Counsel to appear for South Pacific. Humphries QC was already sitting at the Bar table when I walked into court. Behind him were his instructing solicitors from an illustrious law firm. A partner, senior associate, associate, two solicitors, and a paralegal to push the trolley.
The trolley of the illustrious law firm held eleven volumes of documents, several volumes of the Commonwealth and New South Wales Law Reports, the Supreme Court Rules, half a dozen volumes of the United States Supreme Court Reporter, three volumes of the English Appeal Cases, the 1922 Reports of the Chancery Division and a tattered document that may or may not have been the original Magna Carta.
I had served an eight-page Statement of Claim and a two-paragraph affidavit.
Next to Humphries was his junior. On his right shoulder was, I think, an IT expert from the illustrious law firm wondering if a real-time transcript would be needed. Next to him was the President of the New South Wales Bar Association. I had also arranged for Toffee to serve him. I hadn’t worried about any of the other defendants yet, and South Pacific had not arranged legal representation for Metro-Goon and Cement Voice.
Brian Humphries QC was an Equity Silk. A legal counsel from the highest shelf. He sat on the Professional Conduct Committee that was the first stage of my removal from the Roll of Legal Practitioners. He was adamant I should go. There was no excuse. He even rang to tell me. I should have voluntarily handed my practising certificate in, he said. I was a blight on them all. He was blunt, calm, cold. I was an embarrassment.
I was too gutted at the time he made this call to respond. Too shocked. His words simply blew through me. They barely registered. Funnily enough, when I sat down next to him in Court 13A, they were registering loud and clear.
‘What the fuck is this all about?’
Not a very court-like word. Not in equity, anyway. Or is it Latin? ‘Brian, how are you?’ I never let anyone make me lose my cool or become rude. Unless they’ve held my head under water for two minutes.
‘What kind of insane, ludicrous stunt are you trying to pull?’
I smiled at him. ‘You want to talk, speak to my solicitor.’
I pointed behind me, to the seven-foot, 200 kilogram Samoan. Humphries attempted to look at Toffee with detachment, but, unusually for him, failed miserably. Perhaps it was the snarl Toffee gave him, the way he pointed his finger, eyes wide like a Maori doing a haka, before running that finger across his throat. My idea. A childish stunt. I admit it. Still, I didn’t have a junior.
Not long after, the door sounded thrice, and Acting Judge Mervyn Holland strolled amiably to the Bench. Merv Holland was nearly eighty. Retired for about ten years, he had originally received his Supreme Court commission nearly three decades before. A plaintiffs’ man as a barrister, no insurance brief had ever passed the lintel of his chamber’s door. Yet another grand servant of the cab-rank rule. And a grand servant of community legal centres, legal aid, Aboriginal legal rights centres, migrant legal rights centres, all of which he had helped found and support. It was probably fair to say that he fell into that group of judges that plaintiffs’ counsel whimsically refer to as ‘not a bad draw’.
Acting Judge Holland looked mildly amused when he sat down. Jovial. Friendly. ‘We have a crowd,’ he observed happily. ‘Let’s have some appearances. Call the matter.’
I announced my appearance, handed up my pleadings, sought leave to file them in court.
‘Mr Humphries. You appear for someone? You want to say something?’
‘I do, Your Honour.’ Here we go. ‘I appear for South Pacific Group Insurance Limited, South Pacific Finance Ltd, South Pacific Cinema Consolidated International Ltd, South Pacific Banking Corporation Ltd, South Pacific Grand Cayman plc, Mr Barry Hardcastle and Mr James Jarrett.’
Fuck! I thought I’d only sued the one company. And Hardcastle and Jarrett? I considered challenging his retainer. Something like, ‘Hey, Judge, I know for a fact that those two are currently tied up in a room full of bovine body parts, being guarded by a Vietnam veteran with a chainsaw. They couldn’t possibly have instructed him!’ I held my tongue.
‘My clients oppose leave, Your Honour. Although it would take some little time to digest fully the matters raised here, one thing that is abundantly clear even from a cursory perusal is that these proceedings are specious, vexatious, an abuse of process and, frankly, utterly ludicrous. I shouldn’t really have to appear for my clients. In fact, unless leave is granted, I don’t even know that I technically do.’
Make up your fucking mind, pal.
‘Perhaps I’m just Amicus curiae at the moment.’
Amicus curiae. Bloody equity barristers and their French! Getus fuctiae. Which was something I said. Loudly.
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘Quiet, Mr Blake.’
‘Sorry, Your Honour.’
Getus fuctiae. Not my finest moment in court.
Close.
‘Your Honour, the plaintiff Mr Blake – who incidentally was disbarred last year as Your Honour might have read – is a bankrupt. One asks what possible locus standi Mr Blake has to bring the claims that –’
‘What, a bankrupt can be drowned and used as fish food now in this country, is that what we’ve come to? This is a personal injury matter, Bozo. I’ve got as much locus as the next guy who’s nearly been murdered by your clients. And as for –’ The common law adversarial system of justice has never promoted the use of the term Bozo as a means of description for senior counsel by more junior counsel. It is simply not allowed, and generally would be considered either unprofessional conduct or perhaps even professional misconduct. If anyone can get their head around the difference. Disbarred lawyers, though, have the luxury of being able to call their senior ex-colleague opponents Bozo if they like, and little can be done apart from the expression of outrage.
‘Your Honour,’ Humphries continued, cutting me off, ‘this very poor reflection on our profession should take a close look at the Bankruptcy Act. He might find that under section 60(4) he only has power to continue a personal injury matter commenced prior to his bankruptcy, not to commence proceedings after bankruptcy. Only his trustee can do that.’
Shit. Rule 2 of the Australian Bar Rules. If you are going to call your opponent Bozo, make sure you are on safe legal ground. Oh well, there’s always Rule 3. If you’re not on safe legal ground, start talking loudly, and bullshit hard and often.
‘I’m challenging the constitutional validity of section 60(4), Your Honour. I seek leave to amend my pleading. It’s aga
inst the UN Convention of Civil and Political Rights. I know we’ve recently abandoned human rights, but I’m here to reassert them. And permission to commence these proceedings is currently being sought from my trustee.’ By an angry feminist lesbian holding a lawn clipper over his groin.
‘Hold on, hold on!’ Holland AJ shouted. ‘Both of you hold on. Now, let’s just –’
‘Your Honour, I really –’
‘Just a moment, Mr Humphries!’ Holland shouted again. Rule 1 of the Australian Bar Rules. Know your judge. This is an abbreviated way of saying that some judges are modern, sympathetic, intelligent, empathetic, liberal humanists. Usually called Santa Claus judges by right-wing politicians. And some members of the Bench view any judgment or legislation not squarely based on ancient black letter law as a monstrous attempt at social engineering. An example would be the United States’ Supreme Court’s view about the rights of the citizens of Florida. What’s this right-to-vote crap and how did that get in under our noses? Humphries QC was displaying a giant gap in his advocacy skills, the cause of which was almost certainly a failure to spend sufficient time in the Common Law Division of the court. ‘Let me hear quickly from Mr Blake,’ Holland continued, turning his gaze to me. ‘Mr Blake. I’ve read what you faxed me, and –’
‘That should not have happened, Your Honour. We strenuously –’
There is objecting in court. Then there is strenuous objecting. You get into a lot of trouble for strenuously objecting, unless you are very senior. Merv Holland had always hated strenuous objectors. Know your judge.
‘Mr Humphries, resume your seat,’ he cried again. ‘Mr Blake, I’ve read this. Are you . . . are you okay?’
‘No, Your Honour, I’m not,’ I said.
‘I see.’
‘One of the defendants tried to bury my head in Lachlan Swamp in Centennial Park this morning on the orders of one, or perhaps all five, of the companies my very learned friend says he represents. But I am sober, and sane. Relatively.’
Rule 5 of the Australian Bar Rules. You call the advocate acting for the other party in a case your ‘friend’. Mark of respect for them and the court. If you call them your ‘learned friend’, which is Rule 5(a), you are either taking the piss, brownnosing, or calling him or (rarely) her a complete imbecile. My ‘very learned friend’, though, is capable of only one interpretation: the fuck-knuckle for the other side.
‘Right.’
‘And not yet a pompous arsehole.’
‘Your Honour!’
‘That’ll do!’
‘Sorry. Delayed shock. I meant very learned friend. Can we strike a deal, Your Honour?’
‘What?’
‘I’ll temporarily hold off my leave application for filing the pleadings if you just look at a document I want to tender in support of leave being granted.’
‘What document?’
‘A DVD.’
‘That’s a . . . ?’
‘You know CDs?’
‘Yes.’
‘With pictures.’
‘Oh. You have one here?’
‘My solicitor does.’ I pointed to Toffee.
‘Your solicitor?’
‘He’s Samoan. His suit’s still coming.’
Toffee had a DVD player too. And the sheriff’s officer had already arranged for a television to be brought in as I had asked.
‘Well . . . Mr Humphries?’
‘Your Honour, I strenuously object to any –’
‘Yes, yes. Mr Clayton?’
‘I don’t know that the DVD involves me, Your Honour, but the Bar Association’s position is also –’
‘I’m not seeking any orders against the Bar today, Your Honour,’ I said. ‘I’ll mediate with them.’
Holland AJ shrugged. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I’ll allow this to be played. I might stop it at any time, but I’ll allow it to be played provisionally, not tendered yet.’
Humphries tried to stop it again. Merv sat him on his bum again. The lights were lowered. The show got underway.
Metro-G and Cement Voice worked for the Baldarnos, Sydney’s biggest drug importers and dealers outside of Chinatown. The Baldarnos ran brothels, strip clubs, illegal casinos, Asian betting shops, and had just taken ownership of a people-smuggling business that had tentacles in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran and throughout Indonesia. All four Baldarno brothers had at one time been presidents of various right-wing controlled branches of the Australian Labor Party. Before they turned to a life of crime, of course. They alleged that they still did some unofficial organising from time to time. If a branch needed stacking. If a member of the left faction needed his legs broken. They were versatile.
MG and CV simply did what they were told. Drugs. Bouncing. Brothels. Picking up laundry. Settling accounts with bookmakers. Bumping off the odd plaintiff or five. They had taken care of Simon Broun, and the Dobsons. They claimed innocence on the others, but named the guilty associates.
They had been given the Jonathon Bartlett gig. A two-person hit, they were told. Bartlett, a young man in a wheelchair, and possibly a carer, would need to be rubbed out. The MO was left to CV, and he had come up with the accidental drowning in the park scenario. Something that Metro-G was, not without cause, mightily pissed off about. ‘We should’ve just fucken run youse over,’ he kept lamenting into the camera. ‘We shoulda just fucken run youse over.’
Ah, the benefits of hindsight.
Hardcastle and Jarrett completed the story. Jarrett knew a thing or two about the insurance market, he knew insurers like FAI and HIH were struggling towards the end of the last millennium, no matter what their accounts and financials said. The rumours had been around for years. Only the regulatory authorities hadn’t heard them. He and Hardcastle hatched the scam together with the ex-politicians on the Board of Directors. Insurance is easy, really. Make sure more premium dollars come in than claims dollars go out. Invest wisely. And hedge. Reinsure.
Simon Broun was a hedge. So were the Dobsons, the Fadwells, all the others they had killed.
There were enormous opportunities for South Pacific, especially after HIH, the country’s biggest insurer, bit the dust. If they could grab some market share, post unexpected profits, pay unexpected dividends, curry unlikely favour with the financial markets, pressure the government for more anti-plaintiff reform – sorry, more personal responsibility – then the sky was the limit. They would make a fortune.
The Baldarno brothers were a necessary subsidiary. Some money laundering for them on bogus claims served their business, made them grateful. They had the resources, the expertise, in making unwanted people, aggravating people, costly people . . . disappear.
The huge payouts to the bogus plaintiffs was just laundering for the Baldarnos’ drug money. They paid huge premiums with their drug cash, got most of it back nice and clean via South Pacific. A bit of hit-man action was the quid pro quo.
‘No one was really getting hurt,’ Barry Hardcastle blubbered during his confessional. ‘These people . . . what quality of life do they have?’ I couldn’t help reminding him that the Dobsons and the Fadwells weren’t injury claims. And even if they had been . . . well, Jack Bartlett argued it better than I did. Hardcastle got a haircut courtesy of the Scorp.
As for Jarrett, his defence was straight out of the corrupt businessman’s book of clichés. ‘We were just doing what was in the best interests of shareholders.’ This time Bill revved up his chainsaw, and I had to intervene to prevent a beheading. Reluctantly.
Companies must grow to survive. They have to make profits relentlessly. And ruthlessly. It’s called capitalism. Like most weapons of mass destruction, it’s man-made and has devastating and deadly consequences. Anything that gets in the way of its growth must be crushed. Decent wages. Union representation. Humane benefits. Job security. Human rights. Freedom of speech. Ethical considerations. Culture. Justice. The natural environment. Or a group of irritants with some really big claims.
The Dobsons, the Fadwells, Simon Broun, even t
he fictitious Jonathon Bartlett, all stood in the way of growth. So they had to be gotten rid of. By any means necessary. Moral imperatives like not killing people don’t stand a chance if they’re in the way of a profit. They never have, they don’t now, and they sure as hell didn’t at South Pacific Group Insurance Limited.
The goal was for South Pacific to become huge, drop the kill the plaintiffs angle, or to be bought out and make a different sort of killing. In the end the only merger South Pacific was able to achieve was with the underworld. Some synergy.
There was more, but those were the essentials. Then the picture went fuzzy, and the lights went up.
You get a lot of information using the chainsaw–lawn clipper technique. I would recommend it for all future royal commissions and judicial inquiries into large corporate collapses. It saves time. It saves a hell of a lot in legal costs. And you get the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. All you need is some gardening tools, and a good butcher.
‘I tender that,’ were the first words I said when the lights went up.
Merv Holland raised an eyebrow and lowered a jaw at Humphries.
‘Your Honour . . . I . . . I . . .’
‘And I want the injunction, Your Honour,’ I continued. ‘I strenuously want it.’
Another eyebrow. ‘Your Honour, this evidence . . . it’s clearly illegal, illegally obtained . . . inadmissible . . . we don’t know how . . .’
‘I have to say, Mr Humphries,’ Acting Justice Holland said, looking shaken, ‘I’m considering at least an interim injunction at this stage.’
The Ambulance Chaser Page 34
