CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The next morning, a prison guard ushered Clint Andersen and me into a small interview room in the Remand Centre of Silverwater Prison. He left and we sat at a small white Formica table waiting for Tuan Ho. Five minutes later, the door opened and a different prison guard led in a small Vietnamese guy who almost disappeared inside his lumpy green jumpsuit. After telling us to push the buzzer on the wall when we finished, the guard left.
We all shook hands and introduced ourselves. Then we sat around the table and I asked Tuan Ho to give us some personal background. Without a hint of self-pity, he described how his single mother brought him up in serious poverty and he became a street-dealer at an early age. He shrugged. "I've been to prison three times. The cops should pick on someone else."
Like many Vietnamese I'd represented, he had an open face, flashing smile, soft voice and polite manner. He didn't look like a gunman - if there was a type - and treated his present predicament with a large slab of amused detachment. Buddhism was obviously a good religion for criminals. Maybe I should recommend it to all my clients.
I said: "OK, so tell me: how well did you know Vincent Lee?"
Though born in Australia, Tuan Ho had a faint sing-song accent. "I knew him pretty good. I worked at the Kam Fuk sometimes as a waiter. That was why I went to see him, to get a job."
I bet he was lying: he visited Vincent Lee because he sold smack for the guy. However, thankfully, he did not burden me with that information.
"Were you carrying a pistol?"
"Course not. I don't own one; I've never used one. Only crazy guys carry pistols. You carry one, you get shot, right?"
"So you parked in the car park and went into the restaurant?"
"Yep. The back door was unlocked and I went through the kitchen into Vincent's office."
"Was anybody in the kitchen?'
"Nope, it was still early."
"So, nobody saw you?"
"Correct."
"What did you see in the office?"
"Vincent was dead, of course. He was on the floor, covered in blood."
"Did you touch him?"
"Course not. Didn't need to. Just sorta waved my hand in front of his eyes. He was dead, dead, dead, poor bastard."
"And you didn't shoot him?"
"Course not. I done lots of bad shit in my life, including stuff I never got caught for - I admit that - but I've never shot anyone, never. My trouble on the street is that people push me around; I don't push them around. That's why I get ripped off sometimes. But they know I'm not packing, so they don't shoot me."
It's always hard to assess whether a client is telling the truth. I've represented liars who sounded like the Pope and honest guys who sounded like real estate agents. Further, we instinctively believe people would not lie to us. So, while I sensed Tuan Ho was telling the truth, I was not sold on the idea. But, in a larger sense, it didn't matter one way or the other. My job was to sell his story to a jury, not pass judgment on it.
"Why didn't you call the police?"
"I was going to. But cops are always throwing me in gaol. I was shit-scared they'd fit me up, and I was right, huh? So I ran away. I didn't know there was a camera outside."
"Where did you go?"
He laughed. "I went home and watched a lot of TV, thinking: 'Shit, I hope they don't find out I visited Vincent'."
I laughed. "Did they?"
A crinkly smile. "You bet. Next day, just after lunch, I was watching TV with a big bowl of chips on me lap when two cops busted down the door."
"Hanrahan and Mostyn?"
"Yes."
"Had you seen them before?"
"Nope, never."
"What happened after they broke in?"
"They waved their pistols around, of course, and told me not to move. I almost packed me dacks and the chips went everywhere. I asked who they were and one of them - Mostyn, I think - said they were detectives arresting me for murdering Vincent Lee."
"What did you say?"
"I said: 'You've gotta be fuckin' kidding."
"Fair enough. What happened then?"
"Mostyn handcuffed me and took me down to their car."
"What about the other detective?"
"The handsome one - Hanrahan - stayed behind in the apartment for maybe ten minutes. Then he came down to the car."
"When he reached the car, did the detectives say anything to each other?"
"Yeah, Mostyn said: 'You done it?' and Hanrahan said 'Yes'."
"Did you know what they were talking about?"
"Nope. I only found out later, when the Homicide guys said a pistol was found in my wardrobe."
"Then the detectives took you to the police station?"
"Not straight away. Hanrahan phoned someone and told him to send some cops over to guard the crime scene. About ten minutes later, some uniformed guys turned up. Then Hanrahan and Mostyn took me to Parramatta Police Station and handed me over to a couple of Homicide detectives."
"When did you find out about the pistol in the wardrobe?"
"When the Homicide detectives interviewed me at the station."
"So, you think Hanrahan planted the pistol?"
"Must have. That's why he hung around in the apartment after Mostyn took me down to the car."
"Why would he plant the pistol?"
"He obviously wanted to frame me to protect the real killer."
"And who was that?"
"Musta been him or Mostyn, right? I mean, that's the only way they could have got their hands on the pistol. They topped Vincent and then heard I was the main suspect. So they arrested me and planted the pistol in my apartment."
His thinking chimed with mine. "Maybe, but we've got absolutely no proof they had anything to do with the murder."
"I know. Can we get some?"
"I doubt it. Clint and I are not cops. We don't investigate crimes. We're just lawyers."
I was tempted to tell him that I knew, from experience, that Hanrahan liked planting evidence. But I could not reveal that at the trial, so there was no point doing so now. Tuan Ho would just get over-excited. We had to focus upon what we could prove.
He shrugged. "I guess so."
"So, right now, the case against you is very strong. You should seriously consider pleading guilty and asking the judge for leniency. If you're lucky, the prosecution might reduce the charge to manslaughter."
Tuan Ho shook his head. "No way. I didn't kill Vincent and I shouldn't go to prison for it."
Clint leaned forward in a fatherly manner. "Tuan, you know that, in court, innocence isn't always the winning card. If you're convicted of murder, the judge will put you away for at least twenty years, non-parole. Plead guilty and you'll serve a lot less."
A rare frown. "How much less? I'd still serve maybe fifteen years, non-parole, right?"
"Yes."
"Then what's the point? Anyway, I'd have to admit I shot Vincent, right?"
"Yes."
He shook his head. "I won't do that. I liked Vincent. He was a nice guy. This is all bullshit. They claim I shot a guy then, like a total dummy, went home and put the murder weapon in my wardrobe. I'm not that stupid."
Most criminals have strong moral principles. It's just that those principles are fewer in number and less organised than most people's. So, I wasn't surprised that, despite the mountain of evidence against him, Tuan wanted to take a stand. I didn't know whether to applaud or condemn him. He was certainly creating a lot of trouble for himself, and me.
"That's up to you." I glanced at Clint. "Any more questions?"
"Nope."
I look back at our client. "Alright then, we'll be on our way. We'll be in touch."
Tuan Ho shook my hand. "OK. You know, you seem smarter than the other barristers I've had."
"Thanks."
A smile. "Though some were pretty fucking dumb."
I was warming to him. "Thanks, anyway."
I pushed the buzzer on the wall. A new guard opened the door and took ou
r client away. Then he came back and escorted Clint and me out of the building to the front gate.
As we strolled into the car park, Clint said: "Told you he was a nice guy, didn't I?"
"You did. Is he too nice to be a murderer?"
Clint laughed. "Nobody's that nice. We're all murderers waiting for the right provocation. Still, the jury might like him."
"True. But it will like Hanrahan even more."
We got into my Honda Hatchback and I drove out of the car park. "When are we going out to the crime scene?"
He sighed. "Do we have to?"
Clint had instructed counsel in dozens of murder trials and probably lost most of them. This trial meant a lot more to me than him.
I said: "Yes. You briefed me because you thought I would be thorough. Well, that's what I'm being. Don't worry, I'll buy you lunch. I know a great Vietnamese restaurant in Cabramatta."
His face brightened. "OK. I'll be nice to get out of the office for a while; I'll arrange it."
"Sometime next week?"
"Fine. But it won't do any good. Tuan Ho is screwed."