With time to kill, I wandered into Gleebooks’ secondhand store and bought a tourist guide to New Caledonia and a French phrase book. My high school French was a long way behind me and wasn’t too flash anyway. I remembered the eye doctor, Frank Harkness, who I’d once bodygaurded, saying you only needed to know two things in a foreign language-‘Take off all your clothes and lie down,’ and ‘My friend will pay.’ I doubted I could get by on that.
‘Going travelling, Cliff?’ Sam Ross, who works in the shop and puts books aside for me, asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘D’you know what things cost in New Caledonia?’
I shook my head.
‘You’ll get a shock. Checked the exchange rate?’
‘Fair go. I’ll only be eating and drinking, I’m not planning to buy a beach.’
‘You won’t be drinking much, I’ll tell you that.’
‘Good. You know me, Sam-occasional social. That’s what I put on life insurance forms.’
‘Have a good time.’
‘I’ll try.’ As I said it, I realised that I wasn’t approaching the case with a fully professional attitude. Did I really expect to sort out who’d planted heroin on Stewart Henry Master? No. But I didn’t think the Masters were playing straight with me either, so I’d go along and see what panned out. Or not.
For a fairly law-abiding type, I have extensive experience of lawyers. Fortunately, they get to employ me more than I have to employ them. As a species, I prefer lawyers to doctors and I rate them well above politicians, at least until a lawyer becomes a politician, which too many of them do. There was no danger of Bryce O’Connor becoming a politician. Nowadays the breed has to look reasonably good in a single breasted suit and O’Connor would never make it. Too many bulges in the wrong places. He looked like a front row forward gone to seed, and, as his teeth were obviously capped, maybe he had been. He was balding, bull-necked and red-faced but he had shrewd little green eyes. They fixed on me as soon as I was ushered into his handsome office and they didn’t like what they saw. We didn’t shake hands.
‘I don’t see the need for this meeting, Hardy.’
I sat down in a comfortable leather chair without being invited. ‘The thing is, what you don’t see don’t matter.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to be funny to get over all this mutual hostility so that we can talk some sense.’
His office had all the fixings-crammed bookshelves, filing cabinets, vast teak desk, computer, phone/fax and a medium-sized conference table. Degrees and other certificates on the walls. He glanced around as if to assure himself that he belonged here and then let go a smile with the too-perfect teeth.
‘I was told you were an arsehole, but a good arsehole to have on your side. I’m a bit the same.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I’m too much of an arsehole to tell you.’
‘You recommended me? I thought you held a low opinion of PEAs.’
‘I do.’ He pointed at the table where four sets of papers were laid out. ‘I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes. Talk.’
‘What are Stewart Master’s chances of getting his sentence reduced?’
‘Slim.’
‘Why isn’t he backing his wife’s attempt to find out who set him up?’
It was warm in the room and I was sweating inside my blazer. O’Connor’s suit was of some lightweight material that probably breathed, as the ads say. He shrugged and the suiting moved smoothly on his burly frame. ‘He’s not the sort of man to put any faith in women.’
‘In women generally, or in his wife in particular?’
Another shrug.
‘She says she’s prepared to spend a lot of money to clear her husband. A six figure amount.’
‘Your question?’
‘Is she good for it?’
‘She certainly is. She trebled her divorce settlement in a matter of months and has significant investments and a list of high-profile clients.’
‘Why didn’t you appeal, if money’s no object?’
‘Have you read the trial transcript?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You must. I’ve practised criminal law for twenty-five years and Master’s was the most remarkable trial I’ve ever been involved in.’
5
What he said made me wish I had read the transcript. I’d been saving it for flight reading. I looked at my watch. Time was short and O’Connor was the type and in the profession to mean what he said about it. ‘Please explain.’
‘Have you sat through many trials, Hardy?’
‘A few, yes.’
‘Raggedy affairs, aren’t they?’
A surprising thing for a QC to say but I was in agreement. ‘They can be.’
‘Not this one. I’ve never seen a better prepared, better marshalled, better argued case. The Crown had everything sewn up tight-witnesses word perfect, evidence spotlessly presented, technical stuff exactly right.’
I held up a hand. ‘Hold it. What does that mean?’
‘You’ll see when you read the transcript. Scrupulous chemical analysis of the heroin, precise evaluation of its quality and… financial potential. That was crucial. The anticipated returns were off the graph. Just for bringing in a couple of packets of powder. The jury… shit-’ he broke off as his composure sagged momentarily. ‘The jury couldn’t wait to convict this bastard who’d tried to book himself into paradise.’
He was good, very good. I felt sure then that Bryce O’Connor would have done all he could for Master and found it not enough. That answered one of my questions, although it threw up quite a lot of others. His statement had wrung him out a bit and left him unhappy, not in the best condition for his meeting. I eased up out of my chair and gave him a respectful nod.
‘Thanks for your time, Mr O’Connor.’
The pain and discomfiture were still working in him. ‘Get fucked,’ he said.
‘Last thing. Who was the prosecutor at Master’s trial?’
‘John L’Estrange.’
‘Might be worth having a chat to him.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’ll find him in Holland, at the Hague. He got some sort of job in the War Crimes Tribunal.’
‘When was this?’
‘Soon after he got ten to twelve for Stewart Master.’
Trying to be a good citizen, I’d taken a bus into the city. As I left the Martin Place building that housed O’Connor’s firm I felt in need of exercise and decided to walk home to Glebe. Sometimes I’ve found that walking, if I can strike a good rhythm, can help with thinking. Not always, sometimes I just get tired. I strolled down to Goulburn Street and bought take-away chicken and salty fish from the Super Bowl, my favourite Chinese restaurant. More Asian faces than Anglo-Celt but Australian accents all around. Up through Ultimo into Glebe. A few years ago all the streets were littered with overflowing skips as the terraces were renovated or pulled down for facsimiles to go up in their place. There’s less of that now as the area settles down into its gentrified state. There are still ungentrified patches though, like my house.
I had a quick beer in the Toxteth, bought a bottle of red and went home to watch the TV news, eat and study the trial transcript, maybe get my tongue around a few French phrases. ‘Good evening, are you alone?’ ‘May I join you?’ ‘Would you like to…?’
The news consisted of more posturing about Iraq and I turned it off before the program finished. I put the take-away in the microwave and went upstairs to fetch the transcript. I poured some wine and sat down at the kitchen bench. The door bell rang. Not again, I thought, but it was a courier with the card that would allow me to tap the hundred thou.
Trial transcripts make frustrating reading. There’s too much legal quibbling holding up the action, the same ground is gone over and over again and there’s a kind of sterility coming off the pages because you don’t get a sense of the audience. Throw in the spectators and bit players and you can get the sort of stuff that works so well in plays and films and novels. Without it, dullsville. The newspaper reports were still fresh in my memory and this helped to flesh things out a little. Now that I’d met O’Connor I could see him in the role and there had been artists’ sketches of John L’Estrange, whose name hadn’t stuck with me, and of the judge. And of course, although she didn’t participate, Lorraine Master was there in my imagination.