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  Another option was to turn over the charge sheet to Detective Sergeant Malloy and let him sort out the truth. However, I wanted to be on very sure ground before throwing a truck-load of mud at a Supreme Court judge. Nobody would thank me, even if I was right. I'd also developed a serious aversion to Malloy, who didn't have my best interests at heart.

  It seemed my least-worst option was to contact the cop who signed the charge sheet. Of course, he might be part of any cover-up. Yet, I had little choice. I would proceed cautiously and, if the temperature got too hot, bail out.

  I called the main police switchboard and asked a female operator for Senior Constable Brian Metcalfe. My heart throbbed so hard I feared a heart attack. I breathed deeply and struggled to relax. After a long pause, she said the only "Brian Metcalfe" on the force was a detective sergeant at Croydon Police Station.

  Metcalfe must have been promoted; hopefully, not for his dazzling contribution to a cover-up. "That's him. Will you put me through?"

  "OK". She connected me with the desk sergeant at the Croydon Police Station. I asked to speak to Detective Sergeant Brian Metcalfe.

  A clipped male voice said: "Not on duty right now."

  "When's he back?"

  "His next shift is on Tuesday night."

  "You mean I can't contact him until then?"

  "Correct. You'll have to call back."

  "Will you give me his mobile number?"

  "Of course not. Call back."

  "OK."

  I put down the phone, rather relieved the cop wasn't available. What should I do now? Doing nothing until Tuesday night was easily the most attractive option.

  I left my chambers knowing I had a hard week ahead of me, and the best preparation would be a good night's sleep.

  I didn't get it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I woke in the middle of the night, sweating slightly, and wondered if Terry had verbally black-mailed Justice Sloan to win his seven hearings before the judge. Or did he rely upon a tacit understanding between them? Probably the latter. Whatever the truth, now that Terry was dead, Sloan had a free hand to do whatever he wanted in the present hearing. That wasn't good news for Mick, because Sloan was usually tough on plaintiffs and Mick's case was already on its knees.

  The next morning, I arrived at Court 13A with a jittery, sleep-starved brain, and hid trembling hands in the folds of my gown. To my surprise, my team was already there: Bob Meredith stood chatting to the defendants' solicitor and Mick Arnold sat on a foam bench, again wearing his Wallabies jersey. Considering the Wallabies' losing streak, that seemed like bad karma to me.

  I said: "How're you feeling?"

  He shrugged. "OK, I guess. How much longer am I gonna be cross-examined?"

  Witnesses always ask that. "No idea."

  "Can you tell him to hurry up?"

  "I can, but he won't listen."

  Meredith wandered over. "Morning Ben. Ready?"

  "Yes."

  He studied me closely, saw my tiredness, and said nothing. I briefly considered telling him about the charge sheet I'd discovered, but quashed that idea. He was a good friend of the judge and, until I knew the full story, I'd better keep quiet. "Let's go inside."

  As we strolled into court, I realized I'd soon be face-to-face with Justice Sloan, who I believed: killed his wife while drink-driving; repeatedly betrayed his judicial oath, and murdered Terry. I wasn't this nervous before my first hearing. Sweat pooled under my wig and my bar jacket chaffed like a hair shirt.

  I sat at the Bar table, next to the two Bills. The wild one was berating the mild one about something, but I shut that out. I had enough to worry about.

  Five minutes later, Justice Sloan strolled onto the bench and bowed to the court. Everyone returned his bow and sat down, except me.

  I studied the judge's frozen features for some sign he was diabolically evil, and realised I'd lived too sheltered a life to tell.

  Sloan gave me a hard stare. I panicked. Was he reading my thoughts? Did he know I had the charge sheet? Impossible. Calm down.

  The judge spoke in his usual grey tone. "Mr Kennedy, what's happening? Do you have a new leader?"

  My nerves subsided. Back on familiar ground, discussing procedural matters with a judge. My voice was surprisingly steady. "No, your Honour. I'll be appearing for the plaintiff on my own."

  To my relief, Sloan looked bored. "Alright. I'm sure the plaintiff's case is in safe hands."

  "Thank you."

  The judge turned to Wild Bill. "Mr Anderson, I assume you want to continue your cross-examination of the plaintiff?"

  Wild Bill stood and adeptly rearranged his gown. "Yes, your Honour."

  The judge stared at my client, sitting just behind me. "Mr Arnold, please return to the witness box?"

  Mick limped ostentatiously to the witness box and gingerly sat down.

  The judge looked like a zoologist trying to identify a new species. "Mr Arnold, you're still on oath, understand?"

  "Yes, your Honour."

  The resumption of battle made me forgot about the charge sheet.

  Wild Bill wanted to remind the judge of Mick's damning testimony ten days ago. So he cross-examined again about Mick's previous personal injuries action.

  Eventually, Wild Bill reached a crescendo: "And the judge found your whole claim was a pack of lies, didn't he?"

  Mick's Adam's apple was now an independent life form. "He didn't believe me? Yeah, that's right."

  "Because you were lying, correct?"

  "No, I told the truth. A lot of people call me a dickhead - and maybe I am - but I always tell the truth."

  Neat work: taking a punch to give a punch. Part of me liked the little dickhead.

  Wild Bill's stare could have stopped a clock. He bellowed: "No, you were lying then and you're lying now?"

  He was entitled to revisit old ground. But now he was re-ploughing it.

  "Objection".

  The judge gave me a flat stare. "On what basis?"

  "My learned friend has already cross-examined about this issue. If he doesn't move on, we'll still be here at Christmas."

  The judge turned his acidic gaze on Wild Bill. "Mr Kennedy has a point, Mr Anderson. Maybe you should move on."

  Wild Bill loved arguing with judges, but even he wasn't game to clash with Sloan. "Yes, your Honour."

  The judge raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps Mr Anderson, you should deal with the plaintiff's claim for economic loss?"

  "I was just coming to that, your Honour." Wild Bill tugged dramatically at his gown, and stared at the witness as if he wanted them to step outside and settle their differences the old-fashioned way. "You've already told the Court, haven't you, that before the incident at the pub you were earning about a thousand dollars a week as an electrician?"

  "Yes, about a grand."

  Wild Bill rocked forward menacingly. "That was another lie, wasn't it?"

  Mick reddened slightly. "No it weren't."

  "Yes it was. You earned nothing like that sum, did you?"

  Appeal courts frequently warn judges against relying too much on the demeanour of witnesses because honest witnesses can look like scoundrels, and vice versa. But it didn't help that whenever Mick got a tough question his hands shook, his Adam's apple wobbled and he licked his lips. It was as if he was worried the judge would miss his first "tell" and threw in some back-ups.

  He croaked, "Yes I did."

  Wild Bill picked up a document and waved it in the air. "You lodged a tax return last year, didn't you?"

  Mick smoothly displayed his usual tells. "Ah, yes, I did."

  "And it showed you only earned about $600 a week, didn't it?"

  Oh fuck, another piece of damaging information Mick withheld from his lawyers. He obviously feared that, if he told us all the problems with his case, we wouldn't represent him. In that, he was entirely right.

  Mick's tongue slithered over his lips. "Oh, ah, yeah, I remember that. But, umm, that weren't all the money I earned."
r />   "Really?"

  Mick looked defiant. "Yes, I did earn some cash."

  Wild Bill looked like Pele in front of an open goal. "Are you saying you didn't declare those cash payments in your tax return?"

  Mick stared angrily at me, for some reason, as if this was my fault. "I suppose I forgot."

  "You mean, you tried to cheat the tax commissioner?"

  I rose to my feet and said the witness didn't have to give evidence that might incriminate him. However, the judge, now looking mildly interested, wouldn't be denied some sport. He granted Mick immunity under the Evidence Act and insisted Mick answer the question.

  Mick hunched his shoulders, as if expecting a lash. "What's the question?"

  Wild Bill smiled and repeated it.

  Mick went through his tell routine and added a collar-tug. "No, ah, that's not true. I weren't cheating nobody."

  "You signed this tax return, didn't you?"

  "Yes."

  "And it contains a solemn declaration that it's true, doesn't it?"

  "I guess so."

  "So, when you signed it, you lied on oath, didn't you?"

  Mick's earlobes twitched violently. "No, I just forgot, didn't I, about the cash. I mean, I'm not as bright as you, am I?"

  I slid down in my chair and tuned out while Wild Bill spent ten minutes accusing Mick of deliberately lying on oath.

  The worst witnesses are those who, when caught lying, try to hide behind more lies. Mick was a paid-up and practicing member of the club. He kept insisting he forgot about the cash payments. Nobody in the court - including the Court Officer dozing in the corner - believed him. I wanted to jump up and tell Mick to take the hit and let us all move on.

  Eventually, even Wild Bill got tired of pulling the wings off a helpless bug. He grunted loudly and looked at the judge. "No further questions, your Honour."

  Mick looked like he'd just received a gallows reprieve. "Shit, that it?"

  The judge looked at me, faintly amused. "Any re-examination, Mr Kennedy?"

  Re-examining a witness to clarify vague answers is probably the most dangerous of all forensic tasks because it gives the witness one last golden opportunity to stuff up their case even further. I wanted Mick out of the witness box as soon as possible. "No, your Honour."

  The judge looked at Mick. "Mr Arnold, you can leave the witness box."

  Mick grinned, tugged his earring and sprang to his feet, before suddenly realizing that was out of character and grimacing. He limped to a chair just behind me and whispered into my ear. "How did I go?"

  He had successfully lied to me and unsuccessfully lied to the court and, as a consequence, I'd done my dough on this case. I had no desire to protect his feelings. "Badly, very badly."

  Mick frowned. "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "Shit."

  The judge looked at me. "Your next witness, Mr Kennedy?"

  Our medical expert was Professor David McKenzie, an orthopaedic specialist at Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. He was a fussy-looking man in his early forties whose lank hair was cut with geometric precision. Expert witnesses are supposed to be independent and unbiased. But most fight hard for whoever pays their fee. Certainly, McKenzie rode for the brand. I liked using him because he had just the right combination of fake candour and rat cunning that his role demanded.

  The Professor had already prepared a medical report which concluded that pinched nerves in Mick's back had severely impaired his mobility and caused him intense pain, and there was only a slim chance of recovery.

  As the Professor strolled to the witness box, I tendered the report. Wild Bill, who'd received a copy many months ago, didn't object.

  The report was very comprehensive and didn't need to be supplemented with oral evidence. I looked at the judge: "No questions in chief, your Honour."

  The judge asked Wild Bill if he wanted to cross-examine.

  Wild Bill jumped up. "Of course, your Honour."

  The defendants' medical expert, Associate Professor Mahmood Khan from the Prince of Wales Hospital, had also examined Mick and, not surprisingly, written a report that said he was in tip-top shape.

  Wild Bill took Professor McKenzie through each of Khan's main conclusions and pressed him to concede they were correct. That approach got him nowhere.

  Wild Bill said: "But it's true, isn't it, Professor, that none of the X-rays or CAT scans show any pinched nerves?"

  "Correct."

  "Which demonstrates, doesn't it, that he's just malingering?"

  The Professor looked slightly bemused. "Not at all. Diagnostic tests have little value when determining the existence of pinched nerves. Instead, one has to look at the patient's symptoms. In this case, Mr Arnold has reported reduced mobility and chronic pain, which is entirely consistent with pinched nerves in the spinal area."

  "In other words, you think he's sick because he's told you he's sick?"

  The professor stepped back so that he had room to throw a punch. "True, though everything I have seen suggests he's telling the truth."

  Wild Bill kept battering away, with little success. The professor was playing in his own backyard and tough as teak. Looking detached and sounding matter-of-fact, he tigerishly defended his position.

  About mid-afternoon, Wild Bill gave up and sat down, annoyed, and turned his anger on Mild Bill, snarling: "Where's my bloody pen?"

  Mild Bill had obviously taken the sensible course of tuning out while his father berated the witness. Now he had to tune back in. "What?"

  "My pen."

  "You don't have it?"

  "No. It's on the table somewhere. Find it."

  Mild Bill nervously fossicked through a midden-heap of folders and papers before producing a gold-plated fountain-pen. "Here it is."

  Wild Bill snatched it from him.

  Professor McKenzie had performed well: if the judge wanted to, he could easily find Mick was badly injured when he tumbled down the stairs. However, Mick's appalling performance in the witness box made it highly unlikely the judge would find the defendants pushed him.

  As Professor McKenzie disappeared from the court I informed the judge that the plaintiff would call no further witnesses.

  "That's your case?"

  "Yes your Honour."

  The judge looked at Wild Bill. "Mr Anderson, are you ready to open the defendants' case?"

  Wild Bill climbed to his feet to make his opening submission. "Yes, your Honour. I will be very brief, because the defendants' case is very simple: they did not assault the plaintiff; rather, they asked him to leave the pub and he agreed to go. However, because he was drunk, he fell down the stairs. Further, even if your Honour concludes - contrary to the evidence - that he was assaulted, the medical evidence clearly shows he's fully recovered. That's all I need to say for the moment."

  When Wild Bill was that economical with words, you knew you were in trouble.

  Sloan said: "Alright then, any witnesses?"

  "Yes. I call the first defendant, Vincent Taggart."

  Taggart rose from the public gallery and walked pigeon-toed to the witness box. Tall and pony-tailed, he wore a shiny black suit and collarless white shirt draped over heavy muscles. He looked stupid and nasty, yet still more loveable than my client. However, I did feel the grudging respect that someone who works with words feels for someone who works with his fists.

  The Court Officer administered the oath and Wild Bill asked his name and occupation.

  "Vincent Taggart. I'm a crowd-controller at the Royal George Hotel in Bondi". I bet nobody had ever told him he had a squeaky little voice.

  "You're the first defendant in these proceedings?"

  "Yeah."

  "Who's in charge of the crowd-controllers at the pub?"

  "Me. I'm the Head of Security - that's my title."

  "And you were at the hotel on the night the plaintiff was injured?"

  "Yeah. Me and Des was on duty."

  "You're referring to Mr Desmond Fuolau, the second defendant?"
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  "Yeah, Des over there." He pointed at a hulking Pacific Islander who shrank the courtroom.

  "OK. Please describe what happened that night."

  Taggart described how he and Fuolau were in the ground-floor bar when he heard on his two-way radio about a disturbance upstairs. "So Des and me went up there."

  "What did you find?"

  He pointed at Mick Arnold. "That guy over there was arguing another guy who wanted him to leave his girlfriend alone."

  "Was there any physical contact between them?"

  "Just a bit of pushing and shoving."

  "Then what happened?"

  "I saw that guy over there was totally pissed, so I asked him to leave the premises."

  "Did he?"

  "Yeah. I mean, at first he refused. But Des and me told him he had to go, so he headed for the stairs."

  "Did you follow him?"

  "Nah. We kept talking to the other patron, trying to calm him down."

  "Then what happened?"

  "We heard this loud scream as that guy went down the stairs, arse over tit."

  "Did you push him in any way?"

  Eyes widened dramatically. "Nah, course not."

  "How far from him were you when he fell?"

  "About ten metres."

  "And Mr Fuolau?"

  "He was standing right next to me."

  "Thank you." Wild Bill looked at the judge. "That's my examination in chief."

  The judge looked at me. "Mr Kennedy, any questions?"

  "Yes." I rose, dropped my notepad on the lectern and turned to the witness. "Mr Taggart, you've called yourself a crowd-controller. That means you're a 'bouncer' doesn't it?"

  "I prefer to call me-self a crowd-controller, because that's what me licence says."

  "But many would call you a 'bouncer'?"

  "Yeah, I suppose so."

  "How long have you worked at the Royal George in that capacity?"

  "About three years."

  I asked what training he'd received before becoming a bouncer. He said he received none.

  I said: "So nobody taught you how to control drunk and angry patrons?"

  Taggart looked surprised. "I don't need training for that - it's obvious."

  "Now, you say that when you reached the upstairs bar the plaintiff was drunk?"