CHAPTER ELEVEN
On Monday morning, calm returned to Thomas Erskine Chambers. Barristers are good at having verbal stoushes and forgetting them the next day. So everyone was polite and well-mannered, including the main combatants - Wayne and Hoogland - who steered clear of each other.
The only person who seemed upset was our receptionist, Tania Carmichael. She had lost her chirp and I wondered if that was due to Hoogland's behaviour. I made a mental note to find out why she was off-colour, but got distracted. Then I arrived at Chambers on Wednesday morning and found a new receptionist behind the front desk. She was in her early twenties, with a blonde bob and pert features. To her credit, she already looked bored.
I said: "Hello, I'm Brad Norton."
"Hi, I'm Jenny."
"Where's Tania?"
"You mean, the woman before me? Don't know. The agency sent me over here this morning."
"Is she coming back?"
"No idea, I'm afraid."
"OK. Well, any messages for me?"
"You said you're Mr Norton?"
"Yes."
"No."
I did not have a personal secretary because the Floor receptionist answered my phone and I was a dab hand at typing. But many barristers regarded typing as a dark art and even had to dictate their e-mails. Three of them shared a secretary called Margaret Hagar, who sat in a cubicle just outside my room. She was a chubby woman in her early forties, with sparkling eyes and a loud laugh.
I caught her reading the Sydney Morning Herald and nibbling a piece of toast. "You look flat out."
A cold eye. "I'm having a well-deserved break."
"You just got to work."
"Yesterday was a tough day."
"Of course." I leaned over her cubicle. "There's been a personnel change at the front counter."
A penetrating stare. "Oh, you noticed?"
"Yes. Our Dear Leader didn't seem to like Tania. Did he give her the boot?"
"Yes."
"Why? She seemed OK."
A roll of the eyes. "You don't know much, do you?"
"I'm a bit slow. But it hasn't held me back, yet. What happened?"
She glared. "You really want to know?"
Maybe I didn't. But I didn't want to look like a coward either. "Umm, yes, I suppose so."
"Hoogland tried to grope her and she said 'no' - that's what happened."
I was shocked, but not surprised. All I knew about Hoogland's personal life was that he was married with a couple of grown-up kids. But anyone as intense and sanctimonious as him obviously had a lot of dark juices bubbling around inside.
"So he sacked her?"
"He told the clerk to sack her. Complained she was incompetent. But that was just a smokescreen."
"You think he groped her?"
Margaret scowled. "Of course he did. Tania's a good girl and he's got form, you know? He's done that before and gotten away with it. He's a sick puppy."
"Shit, I didn't know that."
She stared like a sniper. "He keeps doing it because nobody stops him. It's time someone did."
She was obviously inviting me to act. Thanks, but no thanks. I was a junior member of the Floor, trying to make a living. I couldn't prove that Hoogland groped Tania or anyone else. But, even if I could, nobody would listen to my complaints. That's what I told myself, anyway. "I'm sure your right."
"You mean, you're going to sit on your hands too?"
"All you've got is hearsay and rumour - not evidence."
"Hah, thought you'd duck the issue. You know, you're even more useless than my husband."
Margaret liked to say her husband was useless as a burst appendix. I slunk off to my room, knowing that I would not see her jolly side for quite a while. I would miss that.
I had arranged to have a conference that morning with a solicitor called Bill "Tex" Russell and his client, Thomas Clarke. A few months ago, police raided Clarke's home in far-western Sydney looking for stolen property and found 80 hydroponic cannabis plants in the rear shed. In his report, a police horticulturist described them as "well-formed, well-nourished and thriving". The police charged Clarke with cultivating cannabis for sale.
Tex Russell had briefed me to advise Clarke on his chances of successfully beating the charge. After reading the prosecution brief, I quickly decided he had none. Now, I had to deliver the bad tidings.
At 9.30 a.m., the new receptionist phoned to say the pair had arrived. I went out to the reception area and greeted them. Tex Russell was mousey bloke wearing a pure synthetic suit. Whoever bestowed his nickname was being ironic. However, I had a soft spot for him, because he paid my bills promptly. That made him a prince among men.
As a mark of respect, Clarke wore a rumpled business shirt and anaemic blue tie. A rat tattooed on his neck peeked over the frayed collar. For him, life was a transaction during in which very little money changed hands.
As I escorted them to my room, I smelt a heavy aroma of weed. It was possible, but unlikely, that Tex was the source.
They sat in chairs facing my desk. I sat behind it and looked at Clarke. "I've read the brief that Tex sent me. The prosecution claims you cultivated the 80 plants for sale."
"Nah, not true. I grew 'em for personal consumption." His slow speech, foggy eyes and droopy eyelids gave some credence to that assertion.
I raised an eyebrow. "Eighty plants?"
"Yeah, what's wrong with that? Lots turned out to be male plants, which are useless. You can only smoke the females."
"But, according to the police, you grew about $100,000 worth of dope every month."
"Yeah, but I didn't sell it to anyone, right? The cops can't prove that. Who's gonna come along and say they bought dope from me? Nobody, right?"
"They don't have to prove you sold any. Because you had so many plants, the Crimes Act puts the onus on you to show they were for personal consumption."
A droopy eyelid popped up. "What anus? What's my anus gotta do with this?"
"No, o-nus. It means, the burden of proof."
His eyes shone with semi-intelligence. "Yeah, I get it. People say I'm stupid, but I got a brain somewhere. Well, put me in the witness box and I'll tell the jury I love a good bong: smoke 'em day and night."
Eighty plants. He sounded crazy; he was crazy. I shrugged. "Well, that's up to you. But you should seriously consider pleading guilty."
"Nah. Put me in the box; I'll explain everything. The jury'll believe me."
Only if they're also stoned. "That's up to you. But your prospects of acquittal are very, very slim."
"But the cops was lookin' for stolen property. They can't turn up for one reason, and charge me for another."
"I'm afraid they can."
"That's not fair. I thought me home was me castle."
Did he really think the cops could ignore 80 dope plants? "Maybe, but that's the law. You don't like it, you should take it up with your Member of Parliament."
Clients never like hearing that their barrister cannot abracadabra charges away. A flash of anger. "You mean you can't win this for me?"
"I don't think anyone can win it, honestly."
"Tex told me you was good."
I obviously wasn't going to be his barrister much longer. "I think I am good. But I can't climb into the jury box and deliver the verdict. It's my job to tell you the truth and that is what I'm doing."
Tex stopped staring out the window and looked apprehensive. "Thomas, I can assure you that Brad is good - very good."
I was tired of humouring our idiot client. If I lost the brief, so be it. "Maybe, but I can't work miracles."
Clarke said: "That's your job."
Who was he to talk? If he'd done his job better, he wouldn't be sitting in my room. I stifled a sigh, got to my feet and stuck out my hand. "I can only promise to do my best, which I will do. We'll speak again."
He disconsolately shook my hand and followed Tex out the door. I sensed I wouldn't see him again. He'd find a barrister who filled him with confidence, to
ok his money and said goodbye when he was sentenced to gaol for a long stretch.
I didn't have to wait long to get the boot. Half-an-hour later, while reading through another brief, I got a call from Tex Russell, sounding a little embarrassed. "Ah, Brad, I've got some bad news."
I braced for the bullet. "Really?"
"Yes, well, umm, the client's decided that, well, he wants a second opinion."
"You mean, someone who'll tell him what he wants to hear?"
"Well, yes, I suppose."
"Have you advised him to plead guilty?"
"Umm, not exactly. I mean, you've already given him that advice. I don't want to go over old ground and he won't listen anyway. He's clearly sucked far too many bongs."
Tex was obviously racking his brain for the name of a barrister who would give his client optimistic advice. A tough chore.
I said: "Well, it's up to your client."
"Don't worry, I'll make up for this with another brief."
In other words, I wouldn't hear from Tex again.