The Reasons I Won't Be Coming, Page 7

  The first witness was a doctor, the forensic pathologist who had conducted the autopsy. He wore gray pleated trousers, a white shirt and a green tie with small yellow cats on it. The jury began to learn about the deceased, a man of one hundred and seventy centimeters and eighty-two kilograms. The plumpish woman wondered how many of the jurors would know that this meant five foot seven and twelve stone twelve in the old scale. She knew what it meant. The pathologist described the various injuries and said that they were all consistent with injuries caused by a shotgun. In the skull he had found shotgun pellets. Death was due to head and neck injuries caused by these pellets. It would have been instantaneous. The deceased had a blood alcohol reading of 0.24 percent. There was no evidence of any defensive-type injuries on the hands of the deceased. The injury to the head due to the pellets went upward from below the jaw toward the right ear at an angle of forty-five degrees to the vertical.

  Senior counsel for the defense cross-examined him. The pathologist agreed that no gunpowder residue was found on the skin of the deceased. The lack of any residue on the body could be explained by the gun having been wrapped in the car seat cover that was shown in the police photographs, the pathologist further agreed. But this was not the only possibility, he continued. If the barrel was right up against the neck, it was also possible that all the residue had been expelled into the wound site or out through the exit areas. He conceded that, nevertheless, it was possible that the gun was still totally wrapped at the time it discharged. The juror with the bra strap and the wandering eyes tore dead skin from her index finger with her teeth.

  It’s warm here too. No, not as warm as Melbourne. Because you told me. And anyway, we get your weather on the TV news. Because you’re there, of course. Why else would I care about Melbourne’s weather?

  A Senior Constable, taller than necessary for a firearm examiner with the Forensic Science Laboratory, took the oath and held the Bible high in his right hand as though wanting to slam-dunk it into the mouth of God. He had attended the postmortem and described the shot found in the skull to be consistent with that from a Number Four shotgun cartridge, specifically a brand of French cartridge used in twelve-gauge shotguns. It was difficult for the Senior Constable to say precisely where the man with the gun would have been standing, but he believed the muzzle was in contact with the body of the deceased when the gun was fired. His colleague, a forensic scientist whose area of expertise was bloodstaining, was more subdued taking the oath. Based on an examination of the bloodstaining on the partition wall, he concluded that the deceased was standing at the time he was shot and was no more than thirty to thirty-five centimeters from the partition wall. The foreman of the jury had thought he had been paying perfect attention but now wondered whether he had missed the significance of the partition wall. Perhaps it would become apparent. The Judge might mention it. Already he was behind. He felt a fraud.

  In cross-examination, the bloodstain expert admitted he had not examined the car seat cover. Referring to one of the police photographs, he said it was not unusual for a victim to have blood on his mouth or nose as a result of being shot. It was not unusual at all. It’s not unusual. The juror in the yellow T-shirt swivelled uncomfortably on his seat and, smiling, tried not to think of Tom Jones. It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone.

  No one had thought to ask the plump woman to leave the Court after the Prosecution opening when, on the Judge’s instruction, the Tipstaff had announced that all witnesses were commanded to leave the Court. She had heard the order but had not thought it applied to her and no one had said anything to her about it. When she was called to give evidence, the Associate stood, turned and murmured something to the Judge. After a brief whispered exchange the Judge decided to let it go and the plump woman slowly ascended the stairs to the witness box and took the oath. She was the wife of the deceased.

  She had met Yadwiga Quinlan in mid-1990. They became friends, close friends. The woman spoke slowly. Yadwiga had separated from her husband, Ricky Quinlan, in January 1993 and Ricky subsequently went to Tasmania. The witness and her husband, Geoff, the man everyone else now referred to as “the deceased,” and their children continued to visit Yadwiga and her children. She and Geoff visited at least once a week, usually on Saturday when their daughter, Amy, and Yadwiga’s daughter, Carly, went horse riding. Geoff would take them there and pick them up several hours later. Before he left for Tasmania, Ricky Quinlan had given Geoff permission to use their garage to work on his MG. Yadwiga had seen no reason to revoke this permission after Ricky had gone, and Geoff was frequently at Yadwiga’s house, talking with her, playing with the kids and working interminably on the MG. Occasionally the witness and Geoff would join Yadwiga in a few drinks, “making up a party.” Because he was there more often than she was, Geoff and Yadwiga drank together more frequently.

  The dumpy woman was careful to emphasize that her husband rarely drank excessively. He was a moderate drinker. He had always been only a moderate drinker. He would perhaps drink two or three times a week at the Criterion Hotel but not to excess, and he rarely drank at home, unless they had guests. Her husband did not own a firearm. She volunteered this.

  On Wednesday the second of March she had been at home. She had been sharing a car with her husband and had had the use of it for the day. Their son was home from school with a chest infection. The dumpy woman jumped backwards and forwards in time. The Prosecutor let her go. About six months after Ricky had left, Yadwiga formed an association with Ray Islington, the accused man. The witness and her husband, Geoff, subsequently met Ray on several occasions. She understood that Ray and Ricky used to work at the same place. On the previous Boxing Day, Ray had dropped Carly Quinlan and her brother off at their house to play. What did they play? Different games. The boys and girls played separately, she remembers. It probably doesn’t matter, does it? She was sorry for wasting the Court’s time.

  Yadwiga would call her at home sometimes on the telephone. After Ricky left she had called more frequently, usually distressed. Geoff was good at calming Yadwiga, settling her down. He was better at it than she was. When Yadwiga was on edge or particularly upset, she would ask Geoff to come over. They would have a couple of drinks and he would be home within an hour or two. Of course, she could have accompanied Geoff to Yadwiga’s home, which was only around the corner, but someone had to stay with the children, and since Geoff could help Yadwiga more than she could, it made sense for him to go. The plump woman asked for a glass of water.

  Geoff usually came home from work at around seven o’clock unless he was having a few drinks at the Criterion, in which case he might get home some time between eleven and twelve. He worked as a technician with an electronics company, in their R&D section. They had been working on some big project for a while that would often keep him back late. It had something to do with telephones. He had mentioned it often but it was really all a bit beyond her. It was something about a mobile terminal. He might well have mentioned it to Yadwiga; she wouldn’t know. He probably had. They all saw each other quite frequently. She herself had been to Yadwiga’s many times, just knocking and entering. Their friendship was on that kind of basis. The woman wanted to know if the Prosecutor understood this. If no one was in the lounge room, she would walk through to the kitchen.

  The dumpy woman and the reluctant juror caught each other’s eye. The juror instinctively wanted to help her. They had pitched in together at weekend working bees at the local primary school. They had gone for their driver’s licenses together and both had failed twice; they had waited up as young girls for their parents to come home from anniversary dinners; they had kept busy at home when their contemporaries were out on dates with boys; they had tried out different recipes for orange cake and prune muffins. They had tried all the diets. They had each married the first man to ask them; they had given birth soon enough to avoid the embarrassment of annual holidays and nothing to talk about, and they had made many of their own clothes from material that had been greatly reduc
ed from a price no one had ever paid. The reluctant juror could picture the large woman’s home, always tidy, and so quiet whenever her husband worked back late on a mobile terminal or something or other, for better or for worse. In an instant they recognized each other even though they had never met.

  The reluctant juror had never been cross-examined. Neither had the dumpy woman before this, which was another thing they had in common. But the juror had a husband and the dumpy woman was a widow now. On the day of her husband’s death, her son, who would normally have gone to school, was at home ill. Geoff had said that he would call her during the day to see how their son was feeling. He did not make that call.

  He had said in the morning that he would try to get home earlier than his usual seven p.m. She prepared the evening meal for him but he did not come home. With one car between them, they had discussed the possibility that her husband might have to come home early to take their son to a doctor. He would have known if their son’s health had deteriorated during the day because she could have called him at work. She would have interrupted him if it was important.

  He didn’t like to drink at home. Some people are like that. Her husband was like that. He would have a few drinks at home only if they had company. If a person left the Criterion to go to their place, they would reach the Quinlan home first. The Quinlan home was on the way. It was convenient. You might say that. The woman left the witness box disappointed. She was starting to understand a few things about the workings of this room and the people in it. There were so many things they should have asked her. Her husband would not be defended here, either. They were going to kill him again.

  Yes, of course you can. You know you can stay here anytime. You know there’s room, plenty of room. Don’t ask stupid questions. Yes, anytime. No. Not now. Of course, you can’t come now. Not till it’s over. No, not just your bit, all of it. Yes, the whole thing. It’s important you stay together. Till it’s over. Then you can come. I promise. Yes. No matter what happens to him. I promise. Of course I love you.

  She resumed her seat in the body of the Court and sat, smoothing the flanks of her blazer, just as quietly as she had before she had given her evidence. She had never met Albert Bird, nor had she heard of him, and as he took the oath she wondered how this man came to be talking about her husband. He was the manager of the Criterion Hotel. He had seen the deceased on the night he was killed drinking pots of full-strength beer. “Five or six pots of heavy, maybe more. Drinking alone. He generally drank on his own. That night he came in sometime between seven and eight. He stayed for a couple of hours. Asked him if he’d just finished work. The man said he had. Would have left by nine thirty.”

  Otto Milosz was a technical colleague of the deceased. The dumpy woman had heard mention of him from time to time over the last three years. The day Geoff died was also a memorable day for Mr. Milosz. They had just solved the problem they had been working on for almost two years. Geoff had left saying he was in a bit of a hurry. He had to pick up his son. Mr. Milosz had told him that this was all right and the deceased left at about seven thirty p.m.

  In cross-examination Mr. Milosz explained that the project they had been working on for so long was very important to the firm. It was going to have export ramifications. There had been a problem with it that, according to preliminary tests, had only been solved that day. But they still had some further confirmatory tests to undertake.

  “Geoff came in with his briefcase and just said he was leaving. I was about to set up the tests but he said he was in a hurry and had to go. I had expected Geoff to do the tests with me. It was about ten past seven.”

  The woman pictured the briefcase, maroon, wearing thin. How many times had he had the clasps repaired? “Cheaper to buy a new one,” she had told him. “Perhaps,” he had said. She had planned to replace it for him for Christmas, birthday, whatever.

  Tomorrow? Are you sure? There’s nothing to worry about. I have, actually. I’ve given evidence on a few occasions. Before your time, my girl. Before your time. Well, you never asked. Good to hear you laugh. It’ll all be over soon. I’ll call you tomorrow night. Try to remember everything that happens. No, so you can tell me. I’ll call you tomorrow night. Be strong for her.

  The next witness was Yadwiga Quinlan. An insurance assessor, she had married Ricky Quinlan in 1971 and had lived with him at their present address till their separation in January 1993. They had two children, Brian, thirteen at the time of the night in question, and Carly, then eleven. She had met the wife of the deceased when they were enrolled in the same adult education course. They became friends, and when their children met, they, too, became friends. The deceased and his wife often visited the Quinlans with their children. Sometimes Geoff would come on his own to tinker with the MG Ricky had allowed him to garage there. After the separation, Yadwiga saw no reason to revoke the permission.

  Geoff usually came over on a Saturday afternoon and they would take it in turns to drive the girls to horse riding. Sometimes he and his wife would call past after they had been to the market on a Saturday. Alone or with his wife, it was normally on a Saturday that he came. Shortly after Ricky and she had separated, Ricky came back to Melbourne for a brief visit. It had been an upsetting visit for her and particularly for the children. She was under the impression that Ricky had contacted Geoff, the deceased. She had phoned and asked Geoff’s wife if Geoff could come over so that they could discuss Ricky and whatever it was Ricky might have said to him. Geoff came and they chatted for about an hour or so, drinking coffee. It was about eight p.m., sometime in February or March.

  On another occasion Geoff dropped by at about ten p.m. one night, just to say hello. She had been on her way to bed. They had a cup of coffee and a cigarette and then she said that she would have to go to bed. He had said that was fine and left. She had smelled beer on him but he was not drunk. Yadwiga said that she remembered the night because it had been a Scout night and her son was late to bed. She could also recall Geoff dropping by a few months later and being a little upset. He had been drinking. Yadwiga paused for several moments. She looked down. The foreman took the opportunity to clear his throat. He thought it all a terrible business.

  Geoff had said that although he appeared to be a good husband and father, he felt he was living a lie. They talked for possibly two hours, at least two she thought. It was sometime before October. They drank some Southern Comfort and coffee. He just talked.

  On another occasion—it was a Sunday afternoon—Geoff came over after she had telephoned him to tell him that she had flooded the car, the engine. It wouldn’t start. Geoff knew about cars. There was another time a few weeks before Geoff died. It was a Saturday and she and Geoff had taken the girls riding. Afterwards Geoff stayed for a while at the house. They had a few glasses of wine and she had put on some reggae music. They had danced, “not close,” she said. It was only later that Geoff got too close. She told him to back off and he became upset. The children were running in and out of the house. The telephone kept ringing so they went outside to talk. Geoff said that he wanted to hold her close. She told him that this made her uncomfortable. He laughed, a kind of laugh, when she told him this. “Don’t be stupid,” she had said. They had both had five or six glasses of wine by this time but they were not drunk. They stayed outside for a while and he told her that he felt a lot more for her than he should. When he asked her whether she felt the same way about him, she said that she did not. Yadwiga had told Ray about Geoff getting “too close” the day after it had happened.

  By the middle of the year before his death, Geoff was coming over to the house two or three times a week. Ray, the accused, met Geoff for the first time at Easter that year. Geoff was in the garage one evening—it was not Good Friday—when Ray visited. Her relationship with Ray was warming but he had not yet started staying over. After Ray arrived, Geoff stayed no more than five minutes before leaving. They did not see each other again until Boxing Day that year at a gathering Yadwiga had arranged. Sometime in
January or February of the year Geoff died, she and the accused went around to Geoff’s home to collect her children. This was about two or three weeks before he died. The juror with the bra strap was asleep.

  That’s it? There was nothing else? About anything? Nothing, say, about the gun? Yes, of course, when it’s over. And I love you. Call you tomorrow night.

  On the night of Geoff’s death, Yadwiga was at home with the children and expecting Ray for dinner. He called at about eight thirty from his mobile telephone to say he was on his way and would pick up some takeaway chicken for the two of them and the children. She assumed he was calling from the car. He arrived at nine bringing the chicken, baked potatoes, coleslaw and a bottle of red wine. The four of them ate the meal and talked. It took about half an hour. She doesn’t remember what they talked about. The children went to bed a little after ten. They opened the wine after that. Ricky had phoned earlier that evening sometime between eight and nine and she and he had fought. The children, particularly her son, Brian, had been upset by the call. Yadwiga had gone to comfort him after he went to bed. The plump woman knew Brian, his voice, his laugh, how much he missed his father. He was her son’s friend. She sat alone in the second back row holding hands with herself. The courtroom was inadequately ventilated. She didn’t notice.