The Second Cure

by Margaret Morgan

  She could hear shouting and crashing from within, and then a junior agent, no more than twenty, approached her car window. She opened it, and he told her, nervously, that they were ready for her. He was intimidated by her, she realised, and the thought was both alluring and repellent. She couldn’t remember the last time someone was nervous of her.

  She followed him into the parlour waiting room. The walls were covered in drawings and photos of tattoos. The front desk had been overturned, along with the register. The room smelt of fear. Three people, two men and a woman, sat on the floor, their hands on their heads. They did not look up at her, not wanting to make things worse.

  This was her moment. She took a deep breath, summoning God’s strength before she spoke. ‘Are any of these the owner?’ she asked, gesturing.

  The sergeant pointed at the woman. Tricia regarded her with distaste. Her arms were covered in tattoos, from her wrist to where the skin was covered by her T-shirt sleeve. It would take a lot to remove them.

  ‘Ye shall not make any cuttings in your flesh for the dead, nor print any marks upon you,’ Tricia proclaimed. ‘By the authority vested in me by the Daughters of the Song of Light, I designate these premises as a place of sin, and order that they be closed and all assets be seized.’ She had rehearsed the lines all morning and they came out perfectly.

  She pointed to the woman on the floor. ‘Arrest her for questioning.’

  As the officers moved to detain her, the man next to her, his skin equally defiled, leapt up and threw his body in front of hers.

  ‘No, take me, leave her!’ he cried. The sergeant Tasered him and he collapsed squirming at Tricia’s feet. The woman was now crying, silently. Tricia felt her hands tremble. She had caused this. She had caused this misery. She felt cold and numb. How could this be right? But then she thought of Marion and how pleased she’d be. She had succeeded, she’d represented the Mother, she’d done the Lord’s work. She had pushed Satan back into the shadows, just a little, but she had done it.

  She nodded to the sergeant and walked back outside. The sun fell on her face. Its warmth spread within her, and she felt the pride and certainty that had eluded her buoy her spirit. The media had arrived. She would make her statement to them and reassure the nation that purity was prevailing.

  Tricia was a worthy Daughter.

  In her early years as a journalist, Brigid had done a stint as a crime reporter, so she’d spent plenty of time in courthouses watching the justice system play out its arcana. She’d learnt how the processes worked, which judges and magistrates were pro-prosecution and which few were pro-defence. She’d got to know which cops were bent and who could be relied upon for a good tip. And she’d learnt that justice was far too often uncoupled from fairness, despite the best efforts of most of the participants.

  But that was back in Queensland, pre-Effenberg. She hadn’t set foot in a courtroom since the Republic of Capricornia came into existence and was prepared for a contrast. She’d watched Queensland’s civil liberties vanish under Effenberg’s brief reign, before they’d been reinstated. She’d seen Capricornia, when it was a state, push the limits of the Australian Constitution by its contempt for the international treaties to which the Commonwealth had signed up. Capricornia the sovereign nation, of course, had no such constraints to trouble it: the only treaties it entertained related to trade with like-minded countries, the sort of places that scorned boycotts and sanctions for civil rights violations. She’d also watched cronies of Effenberg appointed to the bench: once, elevation to a judgeship required a lengthy and well-regarded stint at the Bar; now, all it needed was a law degree and being a mate of Jack’s. The Chief Justice’s appointment galled many in the legal profession, particularly when it became clear he was the inspiration for Effenberg’s targets in the systematic purging of the bench of moderates and, not coincidentally, of the Chief Justice’s own ancient enemies.

  This courtroom, Number Three in the Cairns District Court Complex, was a lie in itself, Brigid knew. The building had been constructed a mere seven years earlier, but was fashioned in the style of the mid-nineteenth century, emulating as that era did the more distant past by employing Greek Revivalism in its exterior. Mock-Victorian-mock-Classical: Doric columns, porticoes, pedimented gables, all in imported sandstone. Inside, dark wooden panelling, desks and pews, and faux-antique carpets lay heavily below ornate cream-painted moulded walls and architraves. The judge’s chair was raised up on high, fit for a king. It was the Effenberg School of Judicial Architecture, so different from the chrome-and-glass minimalism of his government and worship buildings. It contrasted even more spectacularly with his complete disregard for the British jurisprudence on which his justice system was ostensibly based. The right to remain silent, the presumption of innocence, various onuses of proof: all had been gradually whittled away so as to become meaningless. But the decor was stunning.

  Less stunning were the thugs in CSSA uniform who had replaced the old sheriff’s officers and court attendants. They strutted about the courtroom, eyeing lawyers and defendants and journalists with equal measures of suspicious contempt, their power so palpable you could feel it raising the hairs on the back of your neck.

  Shadrack Zinn’s case was second in the morning’s listings, all of which, Brigid had gleaned, were mentions and bail applications. The judge, one Ellis Brown, was unknown to Brigid. She had no idea how Shadrack would fare. She did, however, know what he’d been charged with. One count of blasphemy and one count of sedition. She subvocced to have the relevant sections of the Capricornian Criminal Code read to her.

  S. 62 (3) One who publicly and maliciously and by any means blasphemes God shall be punished by imprisonment for not more than twenty years and not less than two years.

  Blasphemy includes:

  (i) malicious prevention, disruption or public mockery of an act of worship;

  (ii) unlawfully, intentionally and publicly acting contemptuously towards God; and

  (iii) public actions, clearly defying the society and committed with express purpose of insulting Christian religious beliefs.

  Her computer was careful to point out that ‘God’ in this context was exclusively defined as the Christian god. Effenberg’s initial invitation to the faithful of other persuasions had been as hollow as any other gesture he’d made towards inclusion, despite his carefully maintained international relationships with non-Christian zealots and despots.

  The other charge, of sedition, was equally brutal.

  S. 68 (2) One who opposes or resists any law of the Republic of Capricornia or writes or publishes false, scandalous and malicious writing about the President or the Legislature shall be punished by imprisonment for not more than fifteen years and not less than eighteen months.

  So, with these two charges, Shadrack could potentially be banged up for thirty-five years. Sentences were rarely served concurrently in Capricornia. Given the political tenor of the country, and Shadrack’s infamy, two consecutive maximums was more than a possibility. The authorities had been sniffing about his activities for years, both his promotion of secularism and atheism, and his scientific research suggesting that both conservative religious and political beliefs were the result of unevolved brains. That was her layperson’s take on his thesis, anyway, and she suspected it wasn’t far from the prosecution’s. What made his case extraordinary, something that Australia – and much of the world beyond – was watching keenly, was that the publication leading to his arrest and charging was an academic paper published in The Neuroanthropologist. His research, building upon decades of work, argued that particular malfunctions of various brain bits (okay, Brigid was no geek, and was doing her best to keep up) led to politicians like Effenberg focussing particularly on the suppression of individualistic expression, creative innovation and social change, and that a process of voluntary migration meant that certain traits, positive and negative, tended to build up in particular communities, forming cultures. He had used a metaphor of evolution and gene flow to i
llustrate the concept, but Brigid gathered he was suggesting that actual genetic changes were the consequence.

  Perhaps a little rashly, Shadrack had mentioned Jack Effenberg by name. The president could, presumably, have sued for defamation, but why go to all that effort and expense when you have the criminal justice system, in all its majesty, there to do the job for you? Shadrack should have seen this coming. Staying in Capricornia was always going to be risky, but apparently his research interests into the brain of the conservative religious zealot kept him there. ‘So many enlarged amygdalae in his country,’ he’d said in one piece. ‘What’s an obsessed researcher to do?’

  Brigid had met him quite a few times since initially encountering him on television, back when she’d first made the link between him and Charlie. Over the years, she’d found herself bumping up against him through similar social circles, online connections, the occasional interview. It struck her as odd that he and Charlie were once married. They seemed so unlike. He was larger than life, abrasive, immodest, and frankly not easy to like, while amiable Charlie was the opposite. Nice enough, smart and sweet, but ultimately a bit of a lightweight. But maybe it was sex that had cleaved them together. Sexual desire was so unpredictable, she thought, and her mind lurched towards Juliette. Again. Oh god. Despite her intention to take her time, Brigid had rationalised messaging her the night she’d returned from Greenvale. A silly memey thing, which Juliette had responded to with something even sillier. Juliette had got a little flirty, so she’d had to remind her, obliquely, that digital communications weren’t necessarily private. So back to the silly memes. She was loving them.

  There was a solemn knocking on a panelled door at the front of the courtroom, a voice called out, ‘All rise,’ and the public and the journalists and the lawyers stood, the latter nudging their clients to do likewise. His Honour Ellis Brown walked across to his throne, attended by the judge’s associate. He nodded to the assembly as he sat and they bowed in return, retaking their seats. He was pallid beneath his horsehair wig, his face weary. The deep, vertical furrow in the flesh of his forehead suggested a man of little humour or compassion. His demeanour didn’t instil much hope for Shadrack.

  ‘Good morning,’ he intoned in a deep bass. ‘First matter?’

  ‘Capricornia and John Michael Haddrill,’ advised a clerk. The defendant’s lawyer gestured and Haddrill stood up. A scrawny man scarcely out of his teens, he wore an ill-fitting suit and handcuffs.

  ‘John Michael Haddrill, you are charged that on the third day of this month, you did wilfully publicly display artworks at an exhibition entitled “Entartete Kunst”, knowing that the artworks were in breach of section 83 (1) of the Capricornian Criminal Code.’

  Brigid knew what that meant. Illegal art. Thete art. Even if it wasn’t painted by a thete, if it looked sufficiently abstract and colourful, that’d be enough for the aesthetic sophisticates of the Capricornian plod. Anything beyond a country landscape raised suspicions.

  The lawyer indicated that Haddrill intended to plead not guilty and that he sought bail. The prosecutor told the court he opposed bail on the grounds that the defendant was likely to reoffend, having previously been convicted of a similar crime and having displayed no remorse.

  ‘Indeed, Your Honour, the prosecution will contend that the very name of this exhibition, “Entartete Kunst”, was a calculated comment on his previous conviction.’

  What’s ‘Entartete Kunst’? subvocced Brigid.

  ‘Degenerate art,’ the computer told her. It was what the Nazis called artwork they thought too modern … or too Jewish.

  Gotcha, she subbed back. Brave lad, this John Haddrill. She wondered if her brother knew him. If anyone was into degenerate art, it was dear Richard.

  Judge Brown refused bail, the case was set down for plea or mention, the young curator was led downstairs, and the clerk called the next matter.

  ‘Capricornia and Shadrack Joseph Zinn.’

  Shadrack was brought up from the cells. He was unshaven, his suit crumpled. He, too, was in handcuffs. Overkill, obviously, but all part of the theatre of intimidation. No one at the bar table claimed him, and Judge Brown asked, ‘Do you have representation, Mr Zinn?’

  ‘It’s Doctor. Or Professor, if you prefer. And, no, I gather she hasn’t turned up.’

  Oh, Shadrack, just swallow the ‘Mr’, thought Brigid. As if you’re not already in enough trouble.

  ‘Have we had any messages?’ the judge asked the clerk.

  ‘No, Your Honour.’

  ‘Do you wish to proceed, Mr Zinn?’ the judge asked of him. Button it, Shadders, thought Brigid. Be polite to the nice judge.

  ‘Well, I do want bail, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  The judge told the clerk to read the charges, Shadrack announced he was ‘not guilty’, and then the prosecutor outlined the police facts. He told the judge that not only did the prosecution oppose bail, but helpfully added that sedition and blasphemy were offences for which there was no presumption of it being granted. It was one of the ways that governments demonstrated that they were ‘tough on crime’, while also ensuring that the privatised prisons were stuffed to the rafters with people who hadn’t been convicted of a thing. A nice little earner, and it was well known around the traps that some judges took kickbacks. The allure of cash in brown paper bags encouraged another, more personal presumption against bail. Shadrack would be pushing it uphill to be released, even if he’d had a lawyer and wasn’t being an antagonistic goose.

  Turning to Shadrack, the judge asked, ‘Do you have anything to say on your own behalf?’

  ‘I most certainly do, Your Honour. Time was when academic freedom was valued, when the free dissemination of ideas was –’

  ‘This isn’t one of your public lectures, Mr Zinn. Please confine yourself to matters relevant to the Capricornian Bail Act.’

  As if Shadrack knew the Capricornian Bail Act from a hole in the ground, thought Brigid. He was stuffed.

  Shadrack began to speak again, but the judge raised a hand to silence him. A clerk had scurried in, handing a note to the judge’s associate, who had handed it to the judge. He read it, peered across to the prosecutor, then cleared his throat.

  ‘I must adjourn this matter, briefly, to deal with an issue of importance. Ten minutes.’ With that, he stood and strode back out the side door.

  The journalists and lawyers present immediately fell into discussion, musing on the judge’s urgent departure. Shadrack sat alone in the dock, the security staff who’d been flanking him having taken the unexpected break as an opportunity for a chat. Brigid caught his eye and decided to risk going over to him.

  ‘Hi, Brigid. Don’t suppose you happen to have a spare toothbrush on you, do you?’

  There was no point in pretending he’d be anywhere near his own bathroom sink anytime soon. ‘What happened to your lawyer?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea. But it wouldn’t be the first time defence lawyers have been scared off, would it?’

  ‘Do you want me to contact them for you?’

  ‘That’d be great, thanks.’ He gave her the details, which she repeated, subvoccing, to record for later.

  ‘I told Charlie what happened. She told me to wish you luck.’

  ‘That’s about all I’ve got going for me right now,’ he said, ruefully.

  The great door thumped again and at the words ‘All rise,’ everyone scattered back to their positions in the courtroom. One of Shadrack’s guards glared at Brigid for breaching the rules, so she smiled back, sweetly.

  Once seated, the judge was silent for a moment, frowning deeply. Then he turned to the prosecutor. Did Shadrack have any prior convictions? No. Was he established in the community, with property, a business? Yes.

  ‘Deorum injuriae diis curae,’ murmured the judge.

  Latin. How very old school, thought Brigid, and then prompted her vocomm for another translation. ‘Offences to the gods are dealt with by the gods,’ it told her.

  Brig
id was digesting that when the judge continued. ‘It seems to me, then, that the professor is not a flight risk and appears to be of good character, so I am disposed to grant bail.’

  There was evident surprise among the lawyers present, and clear anger from the CSSA agents. The prosecutor had leapt back to his feet. ‘Your Honour, the presumption against bail –’

  ‘– I find to be overturned by the circumstances.’

  ‘This is most inappropriate, if I might say so, Your Honour. These charges are serious and carry a weighty prison term.’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of the penalties. Would you care to address me on bail terms?’

  But the prosecutor wasn’t giving up yet. ‘Your Honour, I seek an adjournment of this application, so that I can take steps in a higher place.’ Appeal to a higher court, Brigid assumed that meant. Get an injunction to stop Judge Brown’s crazed fantasy of justice.

  ‘Application denied.’

  ‘Then I request that Your Honour recuse yourself.’ Declare himself biased, in other words. Brigid wondered if anyone ever considered themselves biased. Surely the moment you realised you were, you weren’t any longer?

  ‘Application denied,’ His Honour told the prosecutor, who was now ruddy with fury.

  And so Shadrack was released on bail. The prosecution managed to extract a few safeguards from the judge. Shadrack had to put up thirty thousand dollars in surety, was to wear an ankle monitor, which he had to pay for, and needed to report daily to the CSSA. ‘Ankle monitor’ sounded so benign, so passive, and indeed, once it had been. The model in use in Capricornia, Brigid knew, was anything but. It possessed the traditional functions of such a gizmo, tracking the movements of the wearer and alerting authorities if it moved out of a particular range or if an attempt to remove it severed its internal circuit. This version, however, had a few extra features. The alert summoned a drone, which homed in on the device. The offender, even if he’d removed the monitor, was unlikely to be far away because breaking the circuit triggered the instant administration of a Taser-like shock that incapacitated him for a good hour. The drone itself would shoot the offender with either a tranquilliser dart or with something more conclusive. All in all, there was plenty of reason for a recipient of a monitor to accept that absconding wasn’t a life-enhancing move. Brigid didn’t know what the prosecutor was so upset about; Shadrack wasn’t going anywhere.