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  Singh refused to let the case go to the jury and directed that Fowler should be discharged. ‘You are free to go,’ he said to Fowler sitting in the dock.

  Sasha heard a shout of, ‘Outrageous. It won’t end here, you curry muncher’, followed by the loud banging of the courtroom door.

  The voice was unmistakably that of Trevor Thomas. 

  Chapter 8

  It was late in the day when Sasha walked through Ben Tyler’s back door and heard him call from his bedroom, ‘What kept you?’

  ‘Chatting to Mac,’ she replied.

  Wearing nothing but a towel and a furrowed brow, Ben said, ‘Nat okay?’

  She kissed him firmly on the lips. ‘She’s fine.’ She stood back and looked at his waist. ‘But what’s with the modesty? I can’t remember the last time I saw you in a towel. Anyway, I might be a bit late but you’re not ready to go out looking like that.’

  ‘How did the Fowler trial go? Was that photo of any use to you?’ Tyler had provided an archived photo of Trevor Thomas talking to Sean O’Leary outside the historic Warner’s Hotel in Cathedral Square.

  Sasha dropped her skirt where she stood, threw her clothing on his bed and headed for the shower. ‘It was great. Helped us get the case tossed. I got the old man to deny he knew or had even heard of Sean O’Leary, then whacked him with your photo.’

  Minutes later, when she reappeared naked in the bedroom, Ben felt his blood flow south. It had been several days now. ‘Don’t do this to me now, Sash. You know we need to get going.’

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking about that, just wondering what to wear.’

  With her back to him, she winced when she heard him say, ‘Consider yourself on a bonk check, Sash.’

  Theirs was a relationship about which she felt pride rather than the usual self-criticism. She’d been with Ben years longer than with any other man in her life. It felt like growth, it felt good, good enough to want that feeling in other elements of her life. But work had always come first. Both of them were career focused and both kept their independent accommodation. Ben had sounded Sasha out more than a year ago about living together but it never happened. Neither was disappointed.

  ‘Jeans and shirt or top and skirt?’ she asked, after quickly putting on underwear.

  ‘Indecision? Most unlike you. Doesn’t matter to me. Make your best choice.’

  ‘Charming,’ she said, feigning offence. ‘Just wanting what’s right for the night. You’re always on about me not consulting. What was the phrase? Acting unilaterally?’

  She caught his boyish grin. Ben Tyler was the same age and height as Sasha, which she enjoyed. She also approved of his blue eyes and prominent cheekbones. His curly brown hair had just begun a retreat but, to Sasha, this didn’t detract from his rugged good looks. Ben kept himself in shape. A brown belt in karate helped.

  He most relished his job when he was working in what he called the public interest. ‘Yanks have got the pressure on recirculation numbers. Damn Press has been here forever. We’re the new kid on the block and America thinks The Press will simply roll over. There might be some restructuring in the wind. Tell me,’ he said frustrated, ‘how does cutting costs increase circulation? We’ve only been going five bloody years.’

  In addition to being a ferreter out of stories, Ben was a member of the local gun club and collected firearms. He had a secure collection of rifles and small side arms, including a Second World War Luger, an FBI Smith and Wesson .38, and a Winchester rifle from the American West. All licensed. When he’d taken Sasha on a shoot she’d surprised herself with her accuracy. But guns were his thing, not hers.

  When he wasn’t wearing his investigative hat, he was on the crime and courts round. It was where the couple first met. Sasha was junior counsel to Mac when she’d confronted him just before court started on the second day of an armed robbery case. Ben told her later she was like a bulldog on steroids as she ripped into him about a lack of balance in his reporting. His explanations about how a paper was sub-edited were futile.

  In the end, he’d told her that he’d agree not to give her unsolicited advice about how to be junior counsel, if she reciprocated the deal. He got a set of raised eyebrows in response.

  After the not guilty verdict Ben caught up with the defence team leaving the court. ‘Congratulations. I hope you’ll find the paper tomorrow does the defence case justice.’

  It was meant as a conversation starter but Sasha smashed it. ‘Just a little behind the jury’s effort in that regard, wouldn’t you say, Mr Tyler?’

  Crimson faced, he looked as though he wanted the floor to swallow him up.

  Mac came to his rescue. He got Sasha to agree to the news hound buying them both a celebratory drink. She noticed Ben beam with enthusiasm.

  Now, in his kitchen, Sasha grabbed cold water from a glass jug in the fridge and drank as if quelling a thirst that might overpower her.

  Ben continued, ‘So with all the chat about costs, there’s uncertainty in the business. We can’t compete with The Press without quality news and features. Our circulation is a direct reflection of the quality of the paper and that’s what advertisers want. To be in front of readers.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the owners?’ asked Sasha, scratching her head.

  ‘Well, their only strategy is to drive cost out of the business. It’s a short-term fix to increase profits. Add to that there’s a change of GM in the wind. Neil Apsley suddenly resigned for health reasons. There’s speculation on what’s really wrong, all a bit of a distraction.’

  ‘How sudden?’

  ‘Here one day, gone the next.’

   

  Chapter 9

  Scarborough Road wasn’t the easiest to navigate. Reaching Ron Point’s house required dealing with hairpin bends and a steep slope from street to front door. Depending how many cars were up the drive, you might score a park. This time Ben was in luck.

  He and Sasha entered the kitchen on the fourth level – part of a large open-plan living area with floor to ceiling windows and a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree view. The pale colour on the walls took nothing away from the panorama of ocean, city and Southern Alps beyond.

  ‘Good to see you. Both of you,’ said Ron, taking his stepson’s hand in a firm grip. ‘You look great, Sasha.’ He gave her in a gentle hug.

  ‘Happy Birthday, Ron, you old bugger.’

  Ron grinned broadly, thanked them for the special bottle of wine and brought out rice crackers, brie, olives and sun-dried tomato. ‘Not my preferred tucker but I know you two like this sort of food.’

  Sasha was captivated by the endless sequence of half-circle waves rolling up to the beach hundreds of metres below, snaring wandering dogs and some of their owners.

  Ron was the shortest of the trio. His head was covered with grey hedgehog bristles and Sasha always thought his ear hair was out of control. She resisted making an offer of grooming. The lines around his mouth told of a former smoking habit and one running the width of his forehead looked like the work of a drain layer.

  Since Ben’s mother died two years ago Ron had lived on his own. He looked every minute of his sixty-four years.

  Ben said, ‘What do you think, Sash?’

  ‘Hhmm? Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘Ron was saying that the legal aid scheme was in major need of an overhaul. Reckons it’s a gravy train for overfed lawyers and does nothing but slow down the wheels of justice.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought it a lot worse than the prison system.’

  Ron, who had been grinning through Ben’s précis, quickly became serious when he heard Sasha’s response. ‘Oh come on, you know what I mean. All these people lining up to defend murderers, rapists, thieves, perverts and…’

  ‘To say nothing of fraudsters, criminal company directors and sundry others who ponce around in suits and ties helping themselves to people’s life savings,’ interrupted Ben.

  ‘Absolutely!’ yelled Ron.


  ‘Listen to you two,’ said Sasha. ‘Is winding me up part of the planned birthday celebrations or what?’ Her thoughts flicked to Albert Fraser-Clark. ‘Next you’ll be championing the return of capital punishment. Ron, just think for a minute. How would you feel if Ben was arrested for something he didn’t do? Wouldn’t you want him to have a defence?’

  ‘I’m not talking about the right to a defence when you’re innocent. I’m talking about all those scum who return time after time, who don’t give a rat’s arse, who offend and live off benefits that we pay taxes for, who terrorise the city, who organise crime even when they are serving time in my bloody prison. It goes on and on. They tie the courts up with trials, intimidate witnesses during trials, even juries for that matter.’

  Sasha remained impassive, hands in her lap. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard this argument.

  Ron turned up the volume some more. ‘And if that’s not bad enough, some of the country’s biggest welfare bludgers masquerading as lawyers plead not guilty on their behalf when they know the arsehole they’ve got on legal aid is as guilty as sin. Squandering our bloody taxes. The whole system’s an absolute disgrace!’

  Ben sat silent, eyes wide in preparedness for Sasha’s counter-attack.

  Sasha folded her arms. ‘Ron, you should seriously think about giving up your day job. Perhaps try the speaking circuit. I’m sure there’s a decent police state audience waiting to lap you up.’ Her tone became quizzical. ‘Isn’t there a close link between your pay and the so-called scum? You know, the rehabilitation of convicted criminals. How’s that going? Having much success helping them prepare to re-enter community life outside of prison?’

  Ron started to respond but she raised her hand, signalling she had more. ‘Hang on, hang on. I listened to you vomit your vitriol on the system I’m part of, so please, let me finish!’

  Ron sat back in his chair, copying her folded arms, his high on his barrel chest, while he shook his head. Ben was smiling.

  For Sasha, it was a familiar debate and although she fervently believed in the principles she espoused, she was tiring of the challenge to them. She sighed. ‘What’s the alternative, Ron? That there could be no legal aid for a person with any criminal conviction? No right to defend yourself because someone decided you were guilty without the need to prove it?’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Few people I know think the system is effective. Even my guests joke about the rorts. Let ten guilty go, rather than wrongly convict one? Not a statistical package that makes much sense to me, Sasha.’

  ‘And who’d willingly be the innocent one: falsely accused, denied a lawyer, wrongly imprisoned? Even those well represented can still be falsely imprisoned. Would you be that person, Ron? I sure as hell wouldn’t. And remember, our civilised society has judicially executed the innocent.’ She paused, noticing she’d worn him down. ‘I just think there’s a very thin line between the decent society we all want and the tyranny of a police state.’

  It was the last word on the subject. For the next two hours, the three of them enjoyed Ron’s slow-cooked lasagne and lively discussions about prison management, reducing budgets, drug searches and how various cavities in the human body were used for purposes other than those for which they were designed. Over coffee the talk turned to Ron’s retirement plans.

  ‘I’m lucky this place is mortgage free but I’ll have to work a while longer,’ said Ron. ‘We were slow to recover from the ’87 crash. Those bloody investment companies. Bastards in bed with each other, pretending they were independent. Overall, I’m down two hundred grand to bloody Thomas & Donaldson.’

  They sat in thoughtful silence for seconds. Ron continued, ‘Some have lost more than that. I knew the poor bastard who jumped off the top of the AMP building last week.’

  ‘What can be done?’ Sasha asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Ron, ‘short of cutting the balls off those financiers and bankers and feeding them to their mongrels, not a lot. Anyway, that’s why I’ll be working a while longer.’

  Each of them finished their coffee, letting more silence fill the room while Ron’s news sank in. Then Sasha spoke, grinning. ‘You won’t mind my colleagues sending you a few more clients then?’

  His smile was slow. ‘Touché.’

  ‘Hard to imagine how suicide is ever the solution, though,’ said Sasha.

  Ron shook his head. ‘Now it’s just me here on my own, I feel like I’m able to cope better than if Donna was still alive. I’d have had all her angst for me – well, for us – to cope with as well.’ He shrugged. ‘The way I look at it, it’s only money and the sun will come up tomorrow.’

  Ben asked, ‘Do you have anything to do with Thomas & Donaldson or Dench these days?’

  ‘No need. I’ve got a few grand on various fixed deposits and we’ll have to see what happens from here. It’s not enough to retire on.’

  The twinkling lights of the city, vibrant yellows and oranges and reds, belied the dark street life that they all frequently encountered.

  Ron added, ‘There’s an Aussie outfit chasing the old firm. They’re after stories like mine from people who’ve been burnt. There’s some talk of a class action.’

  ‘I feel for those near to retirement. There’s not the same time to recover,’ said Sasha.

  ‘Ain’t that the truth?’

  ****

  After Ben and Sasha left, Ron reread the letter he’d received that day from Financial Recovery Limited in Australia. It acknowledged Ron’s schedule of losses with Trevor Thomas and confirmed the company was pursuing recovery action on his behalf. After setting out details of investments, losses, misappropriations and their proposed fee of $40,000, he would recover $100,000.

  The letter concluded with an invitation to sign and return a copy as his authorisation to proceed with the next steps.

  Greedy bastards, he thought. Forty thousand for putting a charlatan’s balls in a vice. Still, a hundred thou is better than nothing. He signed the copy of the letter.

  They hadn’t asked for any of his bank account details or for any money up front. What could he lose? It was this or next to nothing. He was in no position to launch his own recovery actions. To that extent, this outfit would earn their money. Typical Aussies. Direct and up front about their cut.

  ****

  Sasha was first into bed and turned to face away from Ben. He snuggled in and within a minute draped his hand over her bare hip. She felt herself tense. He moved his hand up, caressing her stomach and then a breast. She held his hand and whispered, ‘Do you mind if we just cuddle?’

  A moment of silence, then, ‘You feeling okay?’

  ‘I will be. Just one too many rape cases, I think. Plus a fair bit on my mind with Ron and Mum.’

  ‘Sure.’ He kissed her smooth shoulder.

  It wasn’t long before she felt the draped arm starting to twitch and heard his heavy breathing. She felt the stinging in her nose, the harbinger of tears, and fought against it. The welling was quickly followed by a flow and she gently eased her arm from underneath Ben’s to wipe her eyes.

  How could you have got yourself in that position, especially with that man? You know what a lech he is.

  Look, no one would believe you led him on or wanted sex with him. He’s grotesque. Drug rape will be the only way he can get it.

  Some women go for power over looks. You were in a position to bank a quid pro quo.

  She recognised a familiar pattern from teenage years: an internal debate that replaced the heated argument her mother refused to engage in. Sometimes she’d win, mostly she’d lose. Always the harsh voice of her mother inside her head holding her to account, a constant reminder of her deficiencies, of not being the best.

  And then there was her career. Despite allowing herself to be considered for silk, she’d be criticised for turning prosecution. Even though it would be part time, there’d be those who’d say her defence of the criminal justice system was hollow. She could think of a couple of top crimin
al law barristers she admired and respected who were eminently capable of prosecuting. But they’d never do what she’d just agreed to do, believing the odds were already stacked against the defence.

  Yet the system needed barristers independent of the prosecutor’s office. It was inevitable that, over time, a permanent prosecutor’s view would be shaped by trusted police alliances. It was still more of an adversary system than it was a search for the truth. Short cuts were taken, defence witnesses overlooked, evidence supporting a police theory accepted, evidence to the contrary not seeing the light of day, challenges from within silenced.

  Her mother’s words in her mind. I didn’t come down in the last shower. I know you stole that money, young lady, and you will pay, mark my words, you will pay. There’ll be no more going off to the cinema until you admit it.

  She was thirteen. Her mother was right, but it was Sasha who saw to that. She loved the cinema but there would be no false confession under duress.

  She knew what it was like to be falsely accused. 

  Chapter 10

  Detective Barry Hart tapped on Black’s open door with his ballpoint pen, then slipped it back to its customary place behind his right ear.

  Black stood peering out of a small window that hadn’t been cleaned for months. ‘Ever wonder, Bazza, about giving up the wonderful life we have – hunting down perverts, killers, rapists and thieves and bringing them to court only for some smart arse to help put them back on the streets? Shouldn’t we do something more sensible?’

  Hart looked at his boss’s back. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I dunno – digging drains, shovelling shit, maybe.’

  ‘You said it yourself, we’ve got enough of the second choice in here. Wouldn’t mind a bit more lying on a bloody beach on days like this.’

  Black, pulling away a dampening shirt from his torso, turned to face his colleague. He waved an arm in the direction of his chaotic desk. ‘Shit in here simply mirrors what’s out there, mate.’