The Milic trial was held in a refurbished department store called the Downing Court Complex at the southern end of the city centre. My set of chambers was a kilometre away. I could have caught a taxi. But to clear my head and maybe do penance, I slung my bar bag over my shoulder and yomped through Hyde Park. I went down its main path, between huge Morton Bay Fig trees, and cross-examined myself about the trial. Did I ask Hanrahan the right questions? Were there others I should have asked? Was there a crucial submission I should have made to the jury and didn't? Hanrahan was an excellent liar. But it was my job to expose his lies and I failed miserably.
I left Hyde Park and strolled across Queens Square, past the tough-looking 23-storey tower that housed the Supreme Court of New South Wales. The tower was only saved from neo-brutalism by a whimsical brown-pebbledash coating. Inside, a massive legal factory pumped out judgments of varying size and quality.
Sydney's legal community was clustered around the tower. I belonged to Thomas Erskine Chambers, which occupied the fifth floor of a green-tiled building opposite it. The thirty barristers on the Floor did a mixture of commercial, personal injuries and criminal work. Everyone was self-employed. But we congregated together to share expenses, and bitch and moan about each other. The Floor had a good, rather than great, reputation.
I stepped out of a lift into a reception area with heavy leather couches sitting on a marble chessboard floor. Two corridors ran off it. They had mahogany panelling and portraits of notable Floor members. The décor emphasised permanence and stability.
Our receptionist, Tania Carmichael, was an attractive woman in her early thirties with an all-season tan. She always sounded cheerful, despite dealing with lawyers all day. "Hello, Mr Norton. Trial finished?"
"Done and dusted."
"How did you go?"
"Came second, I'm afraid."
"Oh." She gave me a small bundle. "Here's your mail."
"Thanks. Is Bert in?"
"He's in his room."
I strolled down a corridor to my room, overlooking Phillip Street. I bought it three years ago, for $300,000, off a guy who needed money to fund a divorce settlement. He furnished it with honey-coloured panelling and modular furniture that looked airy and functional. I would not have been so tasteful.
I dropped my bar bag and the mail on my desk and strolled around to see Bert Tolsen. There are many downsides to being on a floor of barristers. The gossiping, backstabbing and boasting can be tiresome. But you can always stroll into the room of an experienced barrister for advice or sympathy.
I took most of my troubles to Bert, who had been a criminal defence barrister for more than 40 years, most of them as a silk. During his heyday, he appeared in most of the major criminal trials in the state and won many big acquittals. But he was the first to admit that he also lost a lot of trials and his clients were handed sentences totalling several thousand years.
He had spent his whole career in the same room with the same furniture. A battered managing partner desk sat on a threadbare fleur-de-lis carpet. Cracked calfskin law reports climbed three walls. Dust smudged the long window overlooking Philip Street. An empty revolving bookcase took up a big chunk of space for no apparent reason.
I found him leaning back in his swivel chair, thumbing through a wine magazine. His wrinkled face, cherry nose and large belly were as old fashioned as his room. He rarely appeared in big trials anymore, because his most loyal solicitors were retired or dead and he'd lost his lust for battle. It takes a lot of energy to digest the facts before a major trial. He frankly admitted he no longer had the strength and refused to turn in a second-rate performance. He once told me: "In this game, I've seen too many bastards go on for too long, and I don't intend to join them." Now, he mostly attended Chambers to stay out of his wife's way.
I said: "Doing some legal research?"
He looked up and saw his younger, more impudent self. "No, checking whether to buy a box of this year's Margaret River Shiraz. Do you know much about wine?"
"Only that $10 a bottle is too much."
"Barbarian." He tossed the magazine onto his desk. "What's happening? How's the trial going?"
"Badly. My client's sitting in gaol right now, wishing Legal Aid briefed another barrister."
"What happened?"
I described my duel with Hanrahan and Bert shrugged. "You can't win 'em all. I crossed-examined him a few years ago and got nowhere. The jury lapped up every word he said. Looks and acts like Dick Tracy, but slippery as an eel."
"Your client was convicted?"
"Of course."
"I bet he was guilty. Mine wasn't."
"How do you know?"
"It was obvious - to me anyway."
"You could be wrong."
"I doubt it."
"You're hardly objective. But, even if you're right, so what? You didn't convict him, the jury did."
"I should have stopped them."
Bert laughed at my callowness. "Hah, barristers love to think they control what happens in a courtroom - they win and lose cases - but we're usually bystanders. There are bigger forces at play. So don't be hard on yourself. You can't pull all of your clients into the lifeboat. Some will drown, no matter what you do. Let it go."
I sensed he was right, but had an iron grip on self-pity. "That's not easy."
"I know. The problem with our job is that losing is worse than winning is good. When you win, you pat yourself on the back and dive into your next brief; when you lose, your client goes to the slammer and you wonder what you did wrong. But, if it's any consolation, as you get older, losing gets easier. You get scars on scars."
"I can't wait."
"I bet you can't. But, until then, all you've got is booze. Go and have a few drinks. That always helped me."