CHAPTER EIGHT
On Monday morning, I stepped out of a lift into the reception area of Thomas Erskine Chambers. Derek Hoogland, elbows on the counter, was talking to our receptionist, Tania Carmichael. That was not unusual. He was responsible for Floor administration and often had to talk to her. However, he disparaged her on Friday evening and now spoke to her in a low Afrikaans growl. "…You do that and you will regret it…"
She looked upset and Hoogland sensed my presence. He spun around and gave me a hawkish stare, tinged with guilt. "Ah, umm, good morning Ben." He glanced back at Tania. "I'll speak to you later."
He dashed off and I saw Tania was close to tears. "You alright?"
She stiffened her features. "Yes, yes, I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes, of course."
"What was that about?"
"Oh, nothing - nothing."
It was obvious from Hoogland's comments on Friday evening and his behaviour just then that he was gunning for Tania. Maybe he had good reason and maybe, if I interfered, I would make the situation worse. Anyway, I couldn't roast Tania over a fire until she told me why Hoogland had upset her. That was how I rationalized my decision to do nothing.
I said: "OK, well, if you want to talk, come and see me."
"I'm fine."
I slunk off to my room and slung my backpack on a chair. Then I stood at the window, staring down at Phillip Street, watching lawyers and their clients hurry back and forth through the legal canyon. The local madman was wandering up and down in front of the Supreme Court tower, wearing a sandwich board that accused judges of corruption and various abominable crimes often levelled at Catholic priests. Every so often, he screamed something incoherent. Only the expletives stood out and hung in the air.
I wondered why Hoogland was upset with Tania. Was she incompetent as he claimed? Or did the nasty bastard have another agenda? Well, the whole affair wasn't my problem. I wasn't responsible for the administration of the Floor and I had plenty of other problems to deal with.
I'd just sat at my desk when the Floor clerk, Jeff Holland, stuck his head through the doorway, with several red folders under his arm. "Ben, have you got a moment?"
"Sure."
Jeff was a tall, thin man who inhabited a glass-walled cubby-hole near the lifts. He kept 30 massive egos happy with smooth diplomacy. Everyone thought he was Jeff's favourite. "It's about the Floor renovations."
Hoogland and the Floor committee he ruled with an iron fist wanted to renovate the Floor during the Christmas break. However, a majority of the Floor had to vote in favour before the renovations could go ahead. No vote had been held.
I said: "What about them?"
"I'm giving everyone a folder with the plans and some quotes from builders. Mr Hoogland wants to hold a Floor meeting this Friday evening to vote on them."
He handed me a red folder and my heart sank. I had hoped the idea would fizzle out. I should have known better. "OK, thanks."
"Alright. Any questions let me know."
As he turned to leave, I said: "Before you go, is our receptionist in trouble over something?"
He looked surprised and maybe suspicious. "Tania? No, why?"
Mentioning that I saw Hoogland bawl her out might get her into even more trouble. "Oh, nothing: just got my wires crossed."
"OK."
He disappeared and I wondered if his ignorance was an act. Hard to tell. To survive in his job, he needed more guile than Machiavelli. In any event, I had more pressing concerns, like the renovations. I nervously opened the red folder. Inside were artist's impressions of the proposed fit-out and quotes from three builders. The present dark-wood panelling, heavy furniture and overbearing bookshelves would disappear, and light walnut panelling and Scandinavian furniture would replace them. The bathrooms would be decked in marble. I already knew the quotes for the work would be ugly, and they were. They were all around the $1 million mark, as if the builders had coordinated their bids, which they probably had. My share of the cost would be about $30,000. My eyes swam. I almost cried.
Hoogland and the other commercial barristers on the Floor could easily afford to pay that much because their clients were much better at stealing money than mine. Hoogland probably raked in more than $3 million a year. The personal injuries barristers, particularly those doing medical negligence work, would also find it easy. But the criminal defence barristers like me often represented the sick, crazy and poor on the government's meagre dime. Further, I was still paying off the $300,000 loan I took out to buy my room. I did not need this hit to my finances.
I strolled around to Wayne's room and found him sitting at his desk, perusing the contents of his red folder. "What do you think?"
Wayne looked up. He had long hated Hoogland with a voluptuous passion. "I think I want to murder Hoogland."
"If you do, I'll represent you. Want a cup of coffee?"
"Sure, let's go."
We strolled around the corner to our usual café on Macquarie Street and sat at our usual outside table. A cool breeze was whistling down the street. Office workers slouched past holding paper coffee cups at chest level, as if carrying sacred objects.
I said: "I hoped the whole renovation issue would disappear, at least for a while. I can't afford $30,000."
"Join the club. But that's chump change to Hoogland. He probably spends more on hubcaps for his German car."
"What's wrong with the present fit-out? It's only about ten years old."
"Hoogland thinks it's dated. He wants to make sure that, when partners of big law firms and captains of industry step out of a lift, they feel right at home. Did you see he wants to spend $200,000 refurbishing the bathrooms - $200,000 for God's sake - to make sure his clients can take a dump in the finest surroundings."
"Jesus, my clients are just happy to have toilet paper."
He laughed. "Mine too. I bet Hoogland has renovated his own home half-a-dozen times. Now he's bored and wants something else to spend his - our - money on. The guy is a maniac."
A majority of the Floor had to vote in favour of the renovations before they could go ahead. "Will he get the numbers?"
"Probably. I mean, Team Hoogland will vote in favour. That's five or six. He just needs the support of another ten idiots, and there are plenty of them."
I said: "What are you going to do?"
"Vote against it, of course."
"You going to speak against it?"
A long pause and even longer sigh. "I'm not sure. Probably not. I'll probably keep my head down, for once."
"That's not like you."
"I'm getting too old to fight over this sort of shit. It's going to happen anyway. You know, I was involved in civil wars on both of my previous floors. Boy, did they get nasty, and I was on the losing side both times."
"What caused them?"
He scratched an ear. "Can't remember, though the issues seemed important at the time. But I do remember that, on both occasions, everyone on my side suddenly retreated and left me fighting alone."
It was easy to imagine Wayne as a dead-ender. "I bet you loved that."
A frown. "It wasn't as funny as you think."
I remembered Hoogland's confrontation with our receptionist, Tania, that morning and described it to Wayne. "Any idea what that was about?"
"Nope."
"He also complained about her at drinks on Friday evening, so maybe she's on the way out."
"I wouldn't be surprised. He's hard on staff - very hard. I get on well with Tania. I'll ask her what's going on."
"OK. While I was at drinks, I also ran into our new reader."
"You mean, the lovely Helen Lawson?"
"Yep. She said she wanted to do her criminal reading with you, and you told her to speak to me."
A smirk. "Yes, I did. Frankly, I'm getting tired of young barristers, particularly female ones. They see me as an old fossil rather than a red-blooded male. It's so disheartening. So I thought of you."
"I assumed you objected to he
r lineage."
"You mean, the fact she's Dick Lawson's daughter? Nope. I don't like him, of course. He's a dickhead. But I don't hold that against her. I'm not that petty, yet. Did you agree to be her tutor?"
"Of course. It would be petty to refuse."
A sarcastic smile. "What a good man you are."