‘What?’ demanded Parnell.
The man hesitated. ‘Don’t want to build up false hopes.’ There was another pause. ‘We’ve got the preliminary autopsy report. Rebecca’s neck was broken and there were extensive crush injuries to the chest. And there was no finding of excessive alcohol.’
Parnell winced, coughing, at the listed injuries. ‘They said, the officers, she wasn’t wearing a seat belt. That can’t be. She always wore a seat belt.’
‘You told me last night,’ remembered Jackson. ‘She wasn’t in the car when she was found. She’d been thrown clear.’
‘What about crawling out… releasing herself and crawling out?’
The lawyer shook his head. ‘Not with those injuries.’
‘It’s not right,’ insisted Parnell. ‘Something’s definitely not right.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ cautioned Jackson. ‘You’re the immediate priority. They got an argument for a custodial remand, hit and run, leaving the scene of a fatal accident. I’m going to have to call you. Now don’t get mad but I’m going to ask you one more time. Did you pursue Rebecca Lang into Rock Creek Park?’
‘No.’
‘Crash into her car and force her off the road?’
‘No.’
‘So how do you account for your car’s paint being on Rebecca’s vehicle?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You ever been in a court before? Under cross-examination?’
‘No.’
‘The prosecution is going to roll all over you,’ warned the lawyer. ‘They’ve already guaranteed the publicity. Headlines. It’s the sort of stuff they go for.’
‘You think it was the prosecution who got all the stuff in the papers?’
‘Yes. They think it’s a big case from which they’re going to emerge looking good.’
‘I guess it is,’ accepted Parnell.
‘No you don’t,’ contradicted Jackson. ‘You can’t guess what it’s like until it happens to you. Don’t lose your temper, no matter how much they try to make you. Don’t rush an answer until you’ve thought about it. Don’t volunteer anything you’re not asked. You think you can remember all that?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Don’t hope so. Know so. Baldwin and Fletcher are going to be in court, by the way.’
‘I said I didn’t want them! Fired Fletcher.’
‘They’re not representing you. After all today’s publicity, they applied for – and got – a watching brief on behalf of Dubette.’
‘How are Dubette involved?’
‘You work for them. Rebecca worked for them. It’s an obvious precaution for Dubette. For their reputation.’
‘Against what?’
‘Against whatever.’
Rebecca hadn’t been the only child-speaker, Parnell thought. ‘I don’t think I’ve properly understood things yet.’
‘I know you haven’t properly understood things yet. I don’t think I have, either. Until I do, we go with the flow. There’s something else you should understand. If there’s a conviction on any of what they’ve already charged you with or charge you with later – most certainly if there’s a prison term – it’s virtually inevitable your preferential work visa will be revoked. You’ll be deported, after serving whatever sentence is imposed.’
‘I’m frightened,’ blurted Parnell, wishing at once that he hadn’t spoken. He couldn’t remember ever admitting that before: not meaning it, as he meant it now. But then he’d never been caught up in such a nightmare before.
‘Do the best you can. And try to remember what I said about what to do and what not to do in court.’
‘I’ll…’ started Parnell, but quickly corrected himself. ‘I will. I promised I will.’
‘One more time,’ insisted Jackson. ‘A flight number, AF209, means nothing to you?’
‘Absolutely not! Why’s it so important?’
‘I wish to Christ I knew. Knew, too, whether I was doing the right thing.’
The prosecuting attorney, Vernon Hanson, was a man whose thinness at once reminded Parnell of Dwight Newton, although the prosecutor was dressed better to conceal it, the suit tailored and waistcoated, the spectacles rimless and minimal. He had, too, the demeanour of belonging, of being sure of himself in familiar surroundings. Baldwin and Fletcher were in the row behind. Both had yellow legal pads before them. Baldwin smiled and nodded. Fletcher remained expressionless. To their right the press gallery was crowded, several reporters overflowing on to the extra seats provided. Everyone stood, to the usher’s order, at the entry of the white-haired, jowl-wobbling Judge David Wilson, who pointedly remained standing for several moments, peering accusingly at Parnell over half-rimmed spectacles before taking his seat. At Jackson’s halting hand, Parnell remained standing with the lawyer, formally to be charged, after everyone else sat. It was Jackson, just as formally, who entered the not-guilty plea to each charge on Parnell’s behalf.
Hanson came up from his bench like a toy from a sprung box, his voice surprisingly resonant from such a slightly statured man. The charges were sample accusations, the prosecutor said at once. Others, more serious, might subsequently be proffered. The allegations were that the accused had knowingly pursued a terrified woman, with whom there had been an existing relationship, through a darkened park area at illegal speeds and forced her off the road into a 40' canyon, causing her death. There was already substantial and irrefutable forensic evidence of contact between the two vehicles. He was applying for Parnell to be remanded to a place of detention to enable the investigation to proceed and for further, possibly more serious, charges to be considered.
Peter Bellamy was the first officer to be called by the prosecution for formal evidence of arrest. Parnell was surprised by the close-to-verbatim accuracy of the man’s account of the encounter in Showcross’s office, curious what there could be for Jackson to contest when his lawyer was given the right to question.
‘When did you come into possession of Ms Lang’s purse?’ began Jackson.
‘At the station house,’ replied the officer.
‘Who had recovered it?’
‘I understood it to have been found in the car, by the engineers who raised it from the gorge in Rock Creek Park.’
‘Had it been opened, prior to being handed to you?’
‘There had been a preliminary examination. That’s how the Dubette ID had been discovered. It was closed again when it was given to us. The ID was inside.’
‘To whom was it given, exactly? Yourself? Or officer Montgomery?’
‘Officer Montgomery personally accepted it.’
‘What happened then…?’
‘Are we working towards something here, Mr Jackson?’ intruded the judge.
‘I very much believe that we are,’ assured Jackson.
‘I hope we reach it soon,’ said the raven-gowned man.
‘I am sure we will,’ said Jackson. To Bellamy he said: ‘You were about to tell the court the procedure for an item such as Ms Lang’s purse.’
‘Its contents were examined. Listed.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Jackson, as if it were an important revelation. ‘Could you read every item of that list to the court.’
‘I must protest…’ started Hanson, rising with hands outstretched.
‘You promised we would reach the point of this questioning very soon,’ came in the judge, supportively.
‘A promise I intend to keep,’ said Jackson. ‘The list, please, officer Bellamy.’
The man went through a litany of cosmetics, a pen, credit cards, the Dubette ID, a tampon, a First City Bank cheque book and cash card, $52.23 in cash and
finally a piece of paper upon which was written AF209.
‘What significance did you draw from that piece of paper, with AF209 written on it?’
‘I didn’t,’ said the man. ‘We haven’t begun a proper enquiry yet. It will probably be taken from us – go over to detectives.’