Torn Silk, Page 2

  His Tipstaff followed him into court. She was a young woman in her early twenties who probably topped her law school in looks. She would spend a year escorting him into court and helping around his chambers before fluttering off to a big law firm. Last to enter was his Associate, a matronly woman in her mid-forties, who always sat just below him, like a guard dog, mimicking his smiles and scowls. When he died, she'd probably throw herself into his grave.

  The judge sat and gave Terry a gothic smile. "Mr Riley, good to see you."

  Terry rose. His grin said he had no shame and would accept any form of defilement. "Thank you, your Honour."

  "You're for the plaintiff?"

  "Yes, I appear with my learned friend, Mr Kennedy."

  "Good. I look forward to your assistance."

  Terry's wig prevented him tugging his forelock. "Your Honour is too kind."

  Wild Bill gruffly announced his appearance and that of his son. The judge's lips tightened into what could have been a smile, but probably wasn't. "Thank you, Mr Anderson."

  He looked back at Terry. "Mr Riley, I haven't had a chance to read the pleadings. Perhaps you'll tell me what this case is about."

  I'd drafted a five-page opening address for Terry to read out. It would, hopefully, educate both the judge and him, and stop him wandering off message. Certainly, he was always at his best when he only had to focus on delivery.

  Sounding like he was describing the first moon landing, Terry outlined our client's version of events at the Royal George. Then he listed his injuries and explained why they rendered him unfit for work. Finally, he identified how much money was sought for economic loss and pain-and-suffering. When the judge realised this was just a garden-variety personal injuries claim - he wouldn't have to answer any tricky legal questions and his judgment would not grace a law report - his interest slackened. Maybe he had already decided against us.

  Terry finished reading and the judge stifled a yawn. "Thank you Mr Riley. Call your first witness."

  Terry said: "I call the plaintiff, Michael Charles Arnold."

  Our client hobbled slowly to the witness box, brow furrowed with pain. I hoped he wouldn't get too theatrical. Nobody likes a ham plaintiff.

  The judge looked disdainfully at his football jersey, overlooking that it had been washed and ironed for the occasion.

  The Court Officer handed Mick a bible and administered the oath.

  Terry stood up, and put one hand on the lectern and the other on his hip. He looked every inch a barrister, from the highest tuft on his wig down to the cuffs of his pinstriped bar trousers. The entire body of Australian Law coursed through his veins and pulse in his forehead. For a few brief moments, he even fooled me.

  Terry slowly questioned Mick about how he got injured. Mick was nervous at first, licking his lips, but loosened up as he described his argument with the defendants and being thrown down the stairs.

  Terry said: "An ambulance came?"

  "Yeah, and took me to a hospital. I was hurt real bad."

  "Please describe your injuries."

  "You mean, how I feel now?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, me back still hurts like buggery, so I can't sleep proper. Also, me left leg feels kinda numb all the time and so do the fingers of me right hand."

  Mick held up the offending fingers and stared at them with disdain.

  Terry said: "Does the numbness cause you any trouble?"

  "I can't walk good and can't lift nothing."

  Looking satisfied, Terry whispered to me. "Have I covered everything?"

  Of course, Terry being Terry, he hadn't elicited a key piece of evidence. I whispered: "No, what about his eco loss?"

  "Ah, yes, of course."

  He turned back to Mick. "Now, Mr Arnold, I want to ask you a few questions about the economic loss you've suffered as a result of your injuries. What was your occupation before you fell down the stairs?"

  "I was an electrician."

  "Qualified?"

  "Yeah, I'd just got me qualies."

  "Right, and what was your salary?"

  "About a thousand bucks a week."

  "Before tax?"

  "Yeah."

  "Have you worked since you were injured at the pub?"

  "Nah, course not. I'm too crook: can't work in me profession; can't do nothing - I'm useless." Mick peeked at the judge to see how he was reacting, and just saw indifference.

  Terry glanced at me for confirmation he'd covered all the evidentiary bases. I nodded.

  He turned to the judge. "No more questions."

  "Good." The judge looked over at Wild Bill. "Mr Anderson, any questions?"

  Wild Bill reared up and grinned wolfishly. "One or two, your Honour."

  The judge glanced up at the wall-clock. "Alright. I see it's almost one o'clock. You can start after lunch."

  On resumption, Wild Bill immediately glared at Mick in the witness box as if he wanted them to step outside and settle matters the old fashioned way. Then he accused Mick of falling down the stairs because he was drunk.

  When Mick denied that, Wild Bill accused him of being so drunk he couldn't remember what happened.

  Mick said: "Nah. I mean, I know I had a lot to drink. But I remember getting thrown down the stairs. You don't forget something like that."

  Wild Bill grabbed both sides of the lectern and leaned forward. "Mr Arnold, I'll put it to your straight: you're a liar and a malingerer, aren't you?"

  Many barristers are willing to wound, but afraid to strike. Not Wild Bill. To his credit, when he had a serious accusation to make, he chased the witness with a machete.

  Mick knitted his eyebrows. "A what?"

  "A malingerer."

  "What's that?"

  Everybody - including the judge - giggled, except for Wild Bill, who scowled. "Someone who fakes an injury."

  "I ain't faking nuthing."

  A wolfish grin. "This isn't the first time you've been the plaintiff in a personal injuries action, is it?"

  I felt a big jolt of anxiety. Mick hadn't mentioned a previous claim. But Wild Bill wouldn't have pushed out this boat unless it was seaworthy. This sounded bad - very bad.

  I moved to tug Terry's gown, but for once he was on the ball. "I object".

  The judge turned towards him. "On what basis?"

  "If the plaintiff had a previous common law action, it's not relevant to this case."

  The judge said: "That depends, doesn't it, on what happened in that case. I'll let Mr Anderson continue with this line of cross-examination, at least for now."

  Wild Bill smiled malevolently and looked back at the witness. "You've had a previous personal injuries action, haven't you?"

  Mick's self-satisfaction vanished and his Adam's apple took centre stage. "Ah, yes."

  "What was that about?"

  Mick licked his lips. "Oh, I, ah, slipped in a shopping centre."

  "Really? Slipped on what?"

  "Someone dropped some chips and I hurt me knee."

  A surprisingly large slice of the population claim to have slipped on chips in shopping centres, which is why judges treat their claims with some suspicion.

  "So you sued the shopping centre, didn't you?"

  "Umm, yes."

  "And what happened to that claim?"

  Mick looked like a cornered rat. He'd just discovered the witness box can be a very lonely place. "Whaddaya mean?"

  "Did you win it?"

  Mick's croaked, "No, I, umm, lost it."

  "You lost because the judge thought you were a liar, did he?"

  Mick squirmed about. "Well, he didn't like me."

  Almost without effort, Wild Bill's tone turned thunderous. "You lost because the judge found you faked the fall and faked your injuries, didn't he?"

  "Umm, he said something like that - but he was wrong."

  Mick looked at Terry and me, desperate for help. But we could only watch, with concealed horror as the case hurtled towards a cliff. I'd been worried Mick was secretly fi
lmed looking healthy. Instead, Wild Bill had proof that previously he lied on oath. It wasn't a mortal blow to Mick's claim. Terry could still argue that one lie didn't prove another. But that submission was unlikely to tickle the judge's fancy.

  Mick obviously didn't tell us about his previous chip-slip claim because he feared we'd refuse to represent him. He got that right. But now we were stuck with the little bastard. We'd done our dough in this case.

  To twist the knife, Wild Bill started delving into the detail of the previous case. But Terry had had enough. He reared up and objected again on the basis of relevance.

  Wild Bill's neck bulged and he roared at Terry: "Of course this is relevant. It goes to his credit."

  Terry said: "Your Honour, my friend had already made his point. He should just hand you the judgment in the previous case and save us all a lot of time and trouble."

  Wild Bill said: "This is an important line of questioning."

  While Dick Sloan was always happy to see a witness get tortured, he didn't want this case to take a second longer than necessary. "Mr Anderson, you're wasting time. Just hand up the judgment."

  Wild Bill saw the cold glint in the judge's eyes and handed the judgment to the Court Officer.

  The judge took it and said: "Thank you, Mr Anderson. I'll read it when I get a chance."

  While the judge sat like an eagle on his perch, Wild Bill went back to querying what happened at the pub, but Mick stuck to his story. Eventually, the judge glanced up at the wall clock. Almost four o'clock. "I note the time, Mr Anderson. Will you be much longer?"

  "I'll be a while."

  The judge stifled a sigh. "Then I'll adjourn now."

  "As your Honour pleases."

  The judge told Mick to return on Monday morning for further cross-examination. "Between now and then don't talk about this case to anyone, understand?"

  "What about me lawyers, your Honour?"

  "Not even them."

  Mick shrugged. "OK."

  "Good."

  The judge adjourned the hearing and strode off the bench.

  Wild Bill turned to Terry and said: "About the settlement offer I made this morning…"

  Terry looked hopeful. "Yes?"

  A big smirk. "It's no longer on the table, on the floor or anywhere in the room: it's gone. I gave your client a chance to escape without penalty and he said 'no'. Big mistake. Now, even if he abandons his claim, he's got to pay our costs, understand?"

  Gloating is one of the worst sins a barrister can commit. But Wild Bill - the despicable bastard - was a chronic offender. I just prayed that one day I could repay him in kind.

  Terry's mask of amiability cracked and peevishness shone through. "He's not abandoning anything."

  "Good, because that means I can belt him around some more. See you on Monday morning."

  Wild Bill strode from the courtroom, Mild Bill at his heels.

  Terry rolled his eyes. "Absolutely no class."

  Mick limped over to us, looking sheepish. "How'd I go?"

  Terry showed his palms. "You heard the judge: until you've finished giving evidence, we can't talk to you about the case, OK?"

  "Can't I ask a few questions?"

  "No."

  Mick looked annoyed. "That sucks. But you're the boss."

  "Correct. We'll see you back here on Monday, just before ten."

  "OK."

  As Mick and his parents strolled from the courtroom, Terry whispered: "Little arsehole. Should have told us about his previous case."

  "His claim's definitely heading for the main sewer."

  To my surprise, Terry smiled. "Don't get too disheartened. I know a High Court decision that might tip this case in his favour."

  "What decision?"

  "Portland v Egan."

  Portland was about a property owner's liability to a trespasser who gets injured. It couldn't apply to the present case. But I wasn't surprised Terry thought it might because, like I said, he wasn't much of a lawyer.

  Meredith approached us. "I can't hang about. Anything you want me to do between now and Monday morning?"

  Terry glanced at me. "Anything Bob should do?"

  "No."

  Meredith looked relieved. "Good, then I'm off."

  As he strolled off, I phoned my floor clerk, Philip Milliken, and asked him to send a junior clerk over to collect our trolley.

  Terry and I ambled out to the lifts. As we entered one, he said: "You going to the Bench & Bar Dinner tonight?"

  My secretary had bought me a ticket a couple of weeks ago, but I'd forgotten about it. "Yes, I'll be there."

  "Good. We can get sloshed together. Let me know when you're leaving. I'll stroll over with you."

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Bench & Bar Dinner was the biggest night of the year for barristers in New South Wales. It was a great in-gathering of the tribe at which everyone ate, drank, listened to dull speeches, networked and gave themselves a huge collective hug. Self-satisfaction strolled around like an invited guest.

  That year it was held in the Hilton Hotel ballroom. Senior judges and office-holders of the Bar Association sat a long table on the dais. Below them, at 40 round tables, almost a thousand barristers and a sprinkling of judges killed their brain cells and expanded their girths. Everyone discarded their solemn professional masks and revelled in their power and privilege.

  Thomas Erskine Chambers had booked a table for its members. About twenty attended. I sat next to Terry, who played food hockey and drank hard. For most of the day, he'd been in a good mood. But, as usual, when he drank a darker, more despairing man peeked out.

  He looked around and furrowed his brow. "You know, when I started at the Bar, 30 years ago, I knew almost everyone: we were a little community, a band of brothers. No more. I hardly know any of these people. Who are they? Where do they come from? What do they do? Who let them in?" He gulped some wine.

  He'd gone from being a pompous ass to grimly human, which was out of character. Where was he heading?

  I shrugged: "I don't know."

  "You know, being a silk once really meant something. I was like a little god: junior barristers looked up to me, carried my brief to court and hung on my words. Not anymore. These days, they show no respect at all. Just the other day, one of the little shits called me 'mate'. Can you believe that?"

  No, mate.

  It was no wonder junior barristers showed him no respect, if he subjected them to these sorts of tirades. He was, at least, maintaining one long-standing tradition of the Bar: pomposity.

  "Time are changing."

  "Not for the better. When I came to the Bar, being a barrister was a vocation. We were officers of the court. We cared about our clients. Now-days, we're just another money-grubbing profession."

  The Bar had always been money-hungry, but now made less effort to hide that fact. Still, why poke holes in his little fantasy? "You're right."

  He stared poignantly into space and his tone darkened further. "I've enjoyed the last 30 years, I really have. They've been great years. God I love this game - I really love it."

  Terry had downed almost a bottle of red, but that didn't explain his lip-of-the-grave gloom. What was wrong? Was he ill? "You OK?"

  He looked surprised. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

  "You sound like you're about to retire." Or drop dead.

  A forced smile and dismissive wave. "Do I? Don't worry, I'm OK. Got a few more good years left."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes, don't worry about me: I've drunk too much."

  I fumbled around for another topic. "I haven't seen Doris for a while. How is she?"

  Terry grimaced. "OK. She's a good woman - treats me well. But I sometimes wonder if she's too young for me."

  "Why?"

  "She always wants to go out and do things. Restaurants. Movies. Plays. Exhibitions. That sort of stuff. I just want to stay home and watch TV, or play golf. I think she finds me a bit boring."

  I knew she did, because she'd told me
herself, while laying in my bed. "Too bad she's not a golfer."

  "Yeah." He fingered his now-empty wine glass. "You know, we were talking about you the other night."

  A prick of concern. "Really?"

  "Yeah. She wants to invite you over for dinner one night."

  I wasn't keen to forming a love-triangle at their dinner table. Terry wasn't very observant. But one false move could be disastrous. "That'd be nice. But I've got no-one to bring."

  "You're not seeing anyone at all?"

  "Nope. Living at the end of Lonely Street."

  A sharp laugh. "Well, don't worry: Doris said she's got a girlfriend you should meet."

  A shiver of anxiety. Doris had a wicked sense of humour. But this time she'd gone a bit far. "OK. When you've organised dinner, let me know."

  "Good. I'll speak to Doris."

  For once I was glad when the speeches started. At Bench & Bar Dinners, the first speaker is usually a silk referred to as "Mr Senior" who is supposed to welcome the guest speaker with a witty roast. Instead, Mr Senior delivered a fawning tribute to the Chief Justice of New South Wales.

  The CJ's speech was even drearier. He pontificated for half-an-hour about the need for barristers to reduce their fees and help the poor, apparently forgetting that, at the Bar, he only worked for corporations and charged ginormous sums. Everyone present wanted to bask in their success, not question it. His remarks were way out of line.

  While the Chief Justice droned on, most diners chatted quietly or stared off into space. Alcohol consumption spiked dramatically. I'd just vowed to never attend another Bench & Bar Dinner when the Chief Justice ended his sermon amid a smattering of polite applause.

  The Bar, like the rest of the economy, was in the grip of a serious recession, and had lots of under-employed barristers. So diners circulated around the ballroom, networking hard. Their strategies varied: some sucked up to everyone; others, like cold-eyed snipers, picked their targets. Many smiled at people they wouldn't have noticed if they had more work. Ancient friendships, forged in the dormitories and muddy rugby fields of exclusive private schools, counted for naught when a potential source of work or preferment hove into view.