13
Bristol Youth Court is a two-storey annexe in a dirty concrete building shared with the probation service and the family court. Through the vertical blinds I can see a double-decker bus rumbling past the window. The upper-deck passengers seem to float fifteen feet above the ground.
Sienna sits with a youth justice worker, whose name is Felicity and who looks like one of those solid, organised, capable girls who achieve everything with the minimum of fuss.
Normally so careful with her grooming, Sienna’s hair needs washing and her fingernails are bitten to the quick. Felicity whispers encouragement to her, but Sienna might not be listening. She toys with the hem of her denim skirt. I notice a scar on her knee.
‘How did that happen?’ I ask.
‘It was on my twelfth birthday. I fell out of a tree.’
‘Was it broken?’
‘In three places. I don’t remember the falling part. It was in the playground at school.’
‘At Shepparton Park?’
‘Yeah. A boy called Malcolm Hogbin dared me to climb a tree. Malcolm Hogbin spent most of year seven calling me names and scrawling graffiti on my locker.’
‘So you took the dare?’
‘Pretty stupid, huh?’
She picks at her fingernails.
Felicity leans closer and whispers. ‘So you understand what’s going to happen today? They’re going to read the charges and then your lawyer will ask for bail. The magistrates might ask you some questions. Speak clearly. Hold your head up.’
‘Then can I go home?’
‘They have to decide.’
‘But I want to go home.’
‘Mr D’Angelo will talk to them.’
‘I don’t want to go back to that other place.’
‘Wait and see.’
Sienna looks at me for support. Her whole body reacts with a start when a court usher calls her name. She holds her stomach, as though about to vomit. Taking her arm, I lead her into a room that looks more like an office than a court. The tables, benches and chairs are all on the same level and a large flat-screen TV dominates one wall, opposite a coat of arms.
Helen Hegarty is sitting in the front row next to Lance. Zoe’s wheelchair is partially blocking the central aisle. Sienna gives her a little wave and a smile.
Three magistrates sit side by side at a large oak table, dressed in layman’s clothes. Two women and a man, they look more like librarians than court officials.
Sienna takes a seat beside Mr D’Angelo, her solicitor, who seems to know everyone in the room, chatting to the prosecutor and the court clerk as though swapping stories about their plans for the weekend.
The charges are read aloud, mentioning Ray Hegarty’s full name and giving the time, date and place of his death. The word ‘murdered’ brings a sob from Helen, who is somewhere behind me. Sienna seems to be shrinking under the gaze of the magistrates. I keep thinking of Alice in Wonderland meeting the Queen of Hearts.
‘Is your name Sienna Jane Hegarty?’
She nods.
‘And your date of birth is twelfth September 1995?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you live at home with your mother?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you understand the charge?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can sit down now, Sienna.’
Then the lawyers start putting their arguments for and against bail. The prosecutor has bright red lipstick and monotone clothes. She wants Sienna kept in ‘secure accommodation’ because of her history of ‘self-abuse’. Mr D’Angelo argues that she should be allowed home because of her age and her previous good record. Sienna’s head swings from side to side as if she’s watching a ball hit back and forth across a net.
The middle magistrate - the only man - has skin the colour of putty and a wheezing voice.
‘Do you want to go back to school, Sienna?’ he asks.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What are your favourite subjects?’
‘English and drama.’
‘If you couldn’t go back to school, what would you do?’
Sienna shrugs. ‘Whatever I was told.’
The magistrates smile.
‘Do you help your mum around the house?’ asks the female magistrate on the right.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you do any of the cooking?’
‘Not really.’
The magistrate glances at a piece of paper in her hands. ‘You’ve been charged with a very serious offence, Sienna.’
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘That’s not what we’re here for today.’
‘But I didn’t—’
Mr D’Angelo puts his hand on Sienna’s shoulder and she flinches as though scalded. ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ he tells her.
‘But I want them to know.’
‘That happens another day.’
‘Why can’t it be now?’
The magistrates confer, speaking in whispers that are barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning.
The senior magistrate announces their decision. Because of Sienna’s history of self-harm she is to be remanded to a youth psychiatric care unit until a proper assessment can be made of her mental state.
Mr D’Angelo stands. ‘Professor Joseph O’Loughlin, a clinical psychologist, is in court today. He knows the accused. Perhaps he could be heard?’
The magistrates confer again briefly.
‘Professor O’Loughlin can prepare a psych report. How long does he need?’
Mr D’Angelo turns and leans on the back of his chair, whispering, ‘You willing to do this?’
‘I think I’ve just been volunteered.’
‘How long do you need?’
‘Three weeks.’
The magistrates agree and re-list Sienna’s case at the Crown Court. Sienna turns to me. ‘Can I go home?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why?’
‘They want to send you to a hospital.’
‘I’ve been to hospital.’
‘This one is different. They’re worried you might harm yourself.’
Sienna shakes her head.
‘So I can’t go home?’
‘Not yet.’
She grabs my wrist. ‘Don’t let them lock me up. You have to tell them. I didn’t do it.’
14
Julianne has her dinner tonight with Harry Veitch. I’m looking after the girls. I shower and shave and search for a clean shirt. Eventually I’m forced to settle on something Emma bought me for Father’s Day, which makes me look like Willy Wonka.
Julianne opens the door. ‘You really are having a mid-life crisis.’
‘I ran out of shirts.’
‘What about the washing machine?’
‘I forgot to turn it on.’
‘How you doing for underwear?’
‘My days-of-the-week boxers will last me till Monday.’
She steps back and checks herself in the hallway mirror. She’s wearing a mid-length skirt and boots with a white blouse and the earrings - black pearls on silver clasps. I bought them for her thirtieth birthday.
‘You don’t have to babysit.’
‘I know. I miss them.’
‘I thought you might want to spy on me.’
She gives the mirror her Mona Lisa smile, which annoys me.
‘Unless I’m cramping your style,’ I say. ‘You might want to bring Harry back. I could leave early . . .’
She’s not going to rise to the bait. Reapplying her lipstick in the mirror, she makes a popping sound. That’s one of the things I have always loved about Julianne - she abides by the philosophy that the important thing about lipstick is not the colour but to accept God’s final word on where your lips end.