Whenever I lost a criminal trial, I wanted to extract all lessons to be learnt as quickly as possible, then bury all memory of it in a deep hole in the back of my mind. Unfortunately, I often couldn't do that, because I still had to appear at the sentencing hearing.
The next morning, like a dog returning to its vomit, I went down to the Downing Court Complex for the sentencing hearing of Goran Milic before Judge Purcell. I met Clint Andersen inside the complex and we caught a lift down to the holding cells in the basement. A Sheriff's Officer showed us into a small interview room where our scowling client was waiting.
I had little to say to him. He had been sentenced several times before and knew the ropes. "We're ready for the hearing. Any questions?"
"Yeah. What do you think I'll get?"
"I reckon the judge will give you somewhere between six and nine years inside. So, if you behave yourself, you'll be out in five or six years."
He stood and strode around, looking agitated. "That's fuckin' bullshit. This time I'm innocent - fuckin' innocent."
I was tempted to agree. In fact, I wanted to apologise for losing the case. But that would just inflame the situation. "I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about that now."
"I've got ground for appeal, right?"
"I can't see any. The jury decided Hanrahan was telling the truth. The Court of Appeal won't second-guess that." It was definitely time to beat a retreat. "Anyway, we'll see you in court."
He shook his head as if he didn't hear me. "Fuckin' bullshit, that's what this is."
Clint and I slipped out of the interview room and asked a Sheriff's Officer to let us out of the holding area.
As we climbed the stairs, I said to Clint. "He's not a happy camper."
"That's his problem. We did our best. Don't kick yourself in the arse over this one."
We strolled into the courtroom and I saw the severe-looking Crown Prosecutor, Philip Drake, sitting at the Bar table. I sat beside him and tried to make conversation. That was not easy, because small-talk was not his forte. I bet he was hard work over lunch.
Then Judge Leon "Percy" Purcell came onto the bench. Percy was always pleasant and well-mannered on and off the bench. But his gentle demeanour hid a heart the size of a pea. He would do Milic no favours.
After Tony and I announced our appearances, the judge asked the Sheriff's Officer to bring the prisoner into court. A few minutes later, Milic emerged through a side door and sat in the dock, still scowling.
The prosecutor provided the judge with a printout of Milic's long criminal record and a pre-sentencing report that a correctional services officer, who interviewed Milic, had prepared. The report said Milic lacked contrition and his chances of rehabilitation were zero. As the judge read through the two documents, his face clouded over.
Prosecutors don't usually recommend that a judge imposes a particular sentence. Instead, they describe the sentences dished out for similar offences, to establish the appropriate range, and leave the final decision to the judge. That was what Philip Drake did. He spent 30 minutes referring to other sentences to establish the range, and sat down.
The judge gave me a crocodile smile. "Yes, Mr Norton."
My plea in mitigation lasted about 25 minutes. I argued that Milic's long and varied criminal record was not as bad as it looked and, despite the pre-sentencing report, he had good prospects of rehabilitation. The judge didn't buy any of that. His expression said that, while he understood I had a job to do, it was not much of one.
In a final flourish, I said that my client now accepted his guilt and was fully contrite. However, unfortunately, as I sat down, Milic yelled from the dock: "That's bullshit - I was fitted up. Hanrahan framed me."
The judge rolled his eyes and delivered his sentencing remarks. In a mild tone, he summarised the offence, the pre-sentencing report and Milic's previous convictions. "The evidence before me clearly shows the prisoner has no reasonable prospects of rehabilitation and is highly likely to reoffend. Further, he obviously has no remorse. That increases the need to punish the defendant.”
After citing sentences handed down for similar offences, the judge sentenced Milic to eight years behind bars, with a six-year non-parole period. I thought that was a little high. But it was well within the range. There was certainly no ground for appeal.
The judge looked at the three Sheriff's Officers. "Please remove the prisoner."
Before they did, I stepped over to Milic and shrugged. "It could have been worse."
"It shouldn't have been anything. Total bullshit."
On that note, the Sheriff's Officers hustled him through the door behind the dock.
The judge went off the bench and I stuffed my brief into my bar bag.
As I headed for the rear door, with Clint behind me, I saw Detective Inspector Carl Hanrahan sitting at the back of the courtroom, watching me. Shit. My heart missed several beats, and then another. When did he slip in? He was obviously there to gloat.
He was the last person I wanted to see. However, I could not avoid him. When I got close, he smiled. "Your client didn't look happy."
"Why should he? He was fitted up."
A casual shrug and a stifled yawn. "You know that's not true. But, if it is, it doesn't say much about you, does it? Anyway, better luck next time."
I tried to think of a cutting comment. But he won and I lost. I would just look a bigger fool. I pushed through the door and took a deep breath.