Torn Silk Read online

"The invoice means I've got your balls in my pocket. Wanna see them?"

  "Bullshit." His neck went scarlet and he double-grunted. "Bloody outrageous."

  "Deal with it. That's our offer."

  He snorted like a wounded bull and strode over to his solicitor. They conferred for a couple of minutes. Then the solicitor pulled out his mobile phone and talked to someone: probably the insurance company's claims manager. After nodding his head a few times, the solicitor turned off his phone and again conferred with Wild Bill.

  Wild Bill strode back and gruffly said his clients were prepared to pay $500,000 inclusive of costs.

  We spent the next hour haggling, slowly bridging the gap until we finally settled the case for $780,000 inclusive of costs.

  The temptation to gloat in front of Wild Bill was almost irresistible. I'd taken Mick's claim from death's door to a very handsome settlement. Further, unbeknownst to Wild Bill, I struck the bargain just before I had to ask for the hearing to be aborted. Mick would get paid; I would get paid; even that scumbag Bob Meredith would get paid - when he resurfaced - for doing nothing.

  However, professional decorum stopped me doing fist-pumps. When the deal was done, I shrugged and said: "I guess we can both live with that."

  Wild Bill frowned slightly. "Guess so."

  When I told Mick the final settlement amount, he smiled broadly and slapped my arm. "Fuckin' unreal. Thanks mate. Thanks a fuckin' lot."

  I smiled. "Just doing my job."

  "Yeah, and doing it bloody good." He hesitated slightly. "In fact, you know, it's lucky how things turned out."

  "What do you mean?"

  "How the other guy got murdered and you took over. I reckon you're a lot better than him."

  He was clearly becoming a sophisticated consumer of legal services. But he didn't know that Terry would have won the case anyway, because Terry knew the judge's dirty secrets. I shrugged. "I'm sure he'd have got a good result."

  Mick shook his ratty features. "No way. He was full of shit - I could tell," he said with uncanny insight. "You know, I can't wait to tell Mr Meredith what's happened. Funny he's not here."

  "He's a busy man: got a lot on his plate."

  "I'm sure he'll be bloody impressed with what you've done."

  I smiled because Bob Meredith would definitely never ever brief me again. "We'll see."

  I pulled out my foolscap pad and quickly drafted some terms of settlement which required that the defendants pay $780,000 into the trust account of the plaintiff's solicitor within 14 days, after which the defendants would be released from all further claims. I was sure the money would be paid to Meredith & Co, because an insurance company would cut the cheque, and that Meredith & Co would pay me, because, if it didn't, the Law Society would kick Meredith's arse all over town.

  I showed the terms to Wild Bill, who nodded. "They'll do."

  We both signed them and I said: "Alright, let's see the judge."

  Everybody strolled back into the courtroom, except for the defendants, who had disappeared.

  The Judge's Associate sat below the bench nattering with a court reporter. I told her we'd settled.

  She phoned the judge and relayed that information. After listening briefly, she hung up and said the judge would resume the hearing in five minutes.

  While we sat at the Bar table, Wild Bill reminisced about some of his courtroom jousts with Terry Riley. "You know, we had some pretty nasty clashes - I'll admit that - but there was always an underlying respect."

  I almost laughed. In court, Wild Bill persistently tried to humiliate and embarrass Terry, who now must be spinning in his grave. He further threatened my composure when he described how upset he was at Terry's funeral. "But it was a wonderful send-off," he intoned, "just wonderful." I preferred him mean and nasty to hypocritical. Then I didn't have to choke back laughter.

  In the back of my mind, I wondered how the judge would behave when he came onto the bench. Angry or timid? The Judge's Associate rapped three times on the side door and the Court Officer ordered that everyone rise. Sloan shuffled out with hunched shoulders and avoided my gaze, a shell of the arrogant brute I'd always known. Fortunately, because he only had to accept the terms of settlement, I wouldn't have to ask him to disqualify himself.

  When everyone was seated, the judge looked at Wild Bill with bloodshot eyes and spoke thinly. "Mr Anderson, you've settled?"

  Wild Bill stood up. "Yes, your Honour."

  He handed the terms of settlement to the Court Officer, who passed them up to the judge. At one point, while the judge read them - probably when he saw how much the defendants had agreed to pay - he arched an eyebrow. Then he sighed. "Alright, I make orders in accordance with the terms of settlement, which I have initialled and placed with the court papers."

  Judges usually congratulate parties for settling. However, Sloan just mumbled "I adjourn" and shuffled out the door, still ignoring my presence. I wondered if that cameo was his swansong on the bench. Only time would tell.

  When he'd gone, Wild Bill leaned towards me. "Gee, he looked like shit, didn't he? Probably got the flu. A lot going around."

  "Yes, there's a bad strain."

  "Well, I'm off." He turned to Mild Bill. "See you back at chambers."

  He carefully arranged the drape of his gown and strode off to prepare for his next battle, leaving Mild Bill and his instructing solicitor to load several folders back onto a trolley.

  Mick Arnold waited in the back of the court while I loaded mine. I'd almost finished when Mild Bill approached, looking nervous.

  "Sorry about that."

  I straightened up. "What?"

  "The invoice. Dad should have produced it yesterday morning. I told him he should."

  My blood pressure jacked up. "So he did have it?"

  Mild Bill flushed. "Yes, but he wanted to settle before handing it over."

  "You mean, he lied to the court and me?"

  Mild Bill shifted on his feet and looked down. "I suppose so, in a way."

  A deep anger welled up inside me. I didn't expect much from my colleagues - particularly those like Wild Bill who often pontificated about professional ethics - but I expected better than that. "Thanks for telling me, though you should have stopped him."

  Mild Bill looked downcast. "I know."

  The Bar is often like a guild into which parents introduce their offspring. After sending them to the "right" private school, they help them join the "right" set of chambers, in the "right" building and introduce them to the "right" connections. That is how their children inherit the "family firm". I knew that better than most, because my father ushered me into the profession.

  Mild Bill had more talent than most such epigone. However, while he operated in his father's shadow, he wouldn't grow as a barrister. I crossed my arms. "My advice isn't worth much, but maybe you should get away from your dad."

  "I know. In fact, I'm about to move to a different floor."

  "You've told him that?"

  "Not yet."

  "You're doing the right thing, seriously."

  "I know. Thanks."

  After loading the trolley, I phoned my Floor Clerk, Philip Milliken, and asked him to send a junior clerk to collect it. Then I took Mick up to the cafeteria on the fourteenth floor.

  In the lift, I wondered what really happened at the Royal George Hotel. Did the defendants throw Mick down the stairs? Was he hurt as badly as he claimed? The defendants removed the surveillance camera in suspicious circumstances. But that didn't necessarily mean it filmed something incriminating. Maybe the film got erased and they feared being accused of a cover-up; or maybe the removal of the camera was just a co-incidence. Cock-ups are more common than conspiracies. And even if Mick got thrown down the stairs, he might have exaggerated his injuries. However, it wasn't my job to sit in judgment on him. If he managed to cheat the casino, good luck to him.

  We drank coffee at a table overlooking the Garden Island Naval Base and chatted idly about rugby league, cars and wo
men. He had surprisingly interesting things to say about all of them. Then I gave him some useless advice. "Look, I'm not your father, priest or financial advisor. But you're about to get a large sum of money. Maybe you should buy something useful, like a house."

  "Yeah, I will, though first I've gotta take Mum and Dad on an overseas trip."

  "Where?"

  "Disneyland and Vegas. We've never been. And then, maybe, I'll buy a speedboat and a chopper. A few things like that."

  "That's up to you. Just remember, you're only getting about $600,000 in the hand. Though that sounds like a lot, you spray it around and it'll disappear fast."

  "Don't worry. I won't be stupid."

  I seriously doubted that, but had already said more than I should have.

  We finished our coffees and left the building. On the pavement outside, we shook hands and he thanked me again. As he strolled off, I studied his gait. He was still limping.

  I crossed the road, caught the lift up to Thomas Erskine Chambers and stepped into Barbara's room. She was at her desk, reading a law report.

  I said: "Hi. I thought I'd better make sure you're OK after last night."

  She looked up and smiled. "Yeah, I'm fine."

  "No damage to your foot?"

  "None. It's ready to kick someone else. What happened in court?"

  I described how I'd settled the case.

  She smiled. "You must be ecstatic."

  "Over the moon. You know, I owe you lunch at an expensive restaurant of your choice."

  "No you don't."

  "Yes I do. If you hadn't turned up, that thug might have garrotted me."

  She smiled. "I'm sure you could have dealt with him yourself."

  "We both know that is, with respect, bullshit. So come on, let me buy you lunch."

  A shrug. "OK, if you want to waste your money."

  "I do. When?"

  "I'm pretty busy at the moment. Early next week?"

  "Done."

  Denise was in her cubicle, on the phone, talking to one of her gossip-pals. The moment she saw me, she hung up. "What on earth happened to your room?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Lots of the books are out of order and there are some on the floor."

  "Umm, there were some trespassers, last night, trying to steal something."

  "Who? What?"

  I sighed. "It's a long story - a very long story. I'll tell you when I get a chance."

  She frowned. "You mean, you've got good gossip?"

  "The mother lode."

  "Then tell me now."

  "No, I don't have time."

  She grimaced. "Alright then, I'll re-sort the books when I get a chance."

  "Take your time."

  "Anyway, you're back early. What happened?"

  "We settled for $780,000."

  She smiled. "Good work. So you're pretty pleased with yourself right now?"

  "Yes, and with good reason."

  "You want me to prepare a bill for Meredith & Co?"

  "Of course."

  That night I climbed into bed feeling tired and doused in self-regard: I'd discovered who killed Terry Riley and settled the Arnold case. All my problems were now behind me. I'd even resolved my misgivings about applying for silk. I would apply and wait for it to be conferred, as promised. Life was good and could only get better.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  "You must be joking?" I yelled down the phone the next morning at Detective Sergeant Malloy. I'd solved the case for the idiot, and now he was trying to unsolved it. I'd thought he was a smart cop. Maybe there was no such thing.

  He said: "I'm not. None of your suspects - the judge, Meredith or Schwartz - murdered Terry Riley: they're all in the clear."

  "You sure?"

  "Yes," he said confidently.

  I was so certain that one of them killed Terry that my mind refused to validate that information. "You must be wrong."

  "I'm not."

  "Why are you so sure?"

  "Because I spoke to them all and checked their alibis. They're cast-iron: the judge was at a law conference in Newcastle, Meredith was playing golf and Schwartz was, funnily enough, in prison. He only got out a week ago."

  "You sure he wasn't on day release or something like that?"

  "I am. When Riley was murdered, he was snug in his cell."

  "And you're sure about the other alibis?"

  "Yes, they're legit. None of them murdered Terry Riley."

  Jesus, I'd been barking up the wrong tree. "If they didn't kill him, who the hell did?"

  "I don't know. I'll have to explore other lines of inquiry."

  "Like what?"

  He paused ominously. "That's something I'd like to discuss with you, when the time is right."

  Hell, I was about to win back the mantle of prime suspect. Maybe, after a brief glimpse of sunshine, my life was heading back into the toilet. I blurted out, "Well, it wasn't me."

  His voice remained neutral. "Don't worry, I haven't drawn any conclusions."

  In other words, he hadn't concluded I was innocent. Damn. I tried to control my rising panic and gather my thoughts. "OK. But what about Schwartz assaulting me? What're you going to do about that?"

  "You'll have to decide if you want us to press charges," he said without enthusiasm. "If you do, I'll consider it?"

  He obviously disliked me. Why? He hated all barristers? Or he had a special grievance against me? Still, I could understand his reluctance to charge Schwartz. I suffered no harm. So, even if the big thug was convicted, he'd only get a slap on the wrist. But I didn't want to wave a white flag just yet. "I'll think about it and let you know."

  "Good."

  "And what about the death of the judge's wife - you going to charge him with vehicular manslaughter?"

  A pause. "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I've spoken to two police officers who were at the station when the judge was brought in. They deny he was charged with drink driving; the judge says the same thing."

  "You've got the charge sheet."

  "They claim they've never seen it before - it's a forgery."

  Unless someone authenticated the charge sheet, it was worthless. "They're all lying - you know that."

  "No I don't."

  "So the judge won't be punished for anything?"

  "Correct. I've got no evidence that would stand up in a court of law." He sighed. "So think about whether you want us to press charges against Schwartz, then give me a call." He hung up.

  I put down the phone with a trembling hand and leaned back in my chair, still not able to believe my three murder suspects were all in the clear. Maybe Malloy was crooked and covering up for them. His solid and methodical manner belied that, but I might as well check their alibis myself. After some hesitation, I rang a solicitor mate in Newcastle and asked if he attended the legal conference.

  "Yeah, why do you want to know?"

  "I understand Justice Sloan gave a talk. I'm trying to lay my hands on a copy of his paper."

  "Can't help you, I'm afraid. He spoke but he didn't provide anything in writing."

  "OK, thanks."

  Next, I called a friend at the Department of Correctional Services to inquire when Gary Schwartz was released. He confirmed Schwartz was released from prison a week after the murder.

  Though I couldn't check Meredith's alibi, because he hadn't named his alleged golf partners, I was now convinced he'd told the truth. He had much less reason to kill Terry than Sloan and was unlikely to kill someone face-to-face. Of course, he could have hired someone besides Schwartz to do the job. But professional killers were a lot harder to find than other tradesmen, and even less reliable.

  So if they didn't murder Terry, who did? I was anxious to find out because Homicide cops like making quick arrests. If they don't, they get twitchy and charge the nearest patsy which, in this case, was me. Suddenly, all the dumb judges and sleepy jurors I'd seen during my career lined up in my brain and yelled that I was guilty and going
straight to gaol. Oh God. I'd always thought the legal system was lousy and unfair. Those drawbacks seemed rather comical, until now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  About an hour after I spoke to Detective Sergeant Malloy, I got a call from my ex-wife, the judge, sounding a touch excited. "Ben, how are you?"

  "Fine. Why do you ask?"

  "I've been hearing things about you."

  "What?"

  "You found a document which is rather, umm, sensitive."

  Word travels fast in the nose-bleed reaches of the legal system, where she resided. "Yes, I did."

  "'Then let's have lunch today, and you can tell me everything."

  "You're not in court?"

  "Today's hearing settled."

  "OK. Where do you want to go?"

  We arranged to meet at noon at The Twenty-Fifth Floor, an upmarket restaurant high above Martin Place on the eponymous floor.

  When I got there, a touch early, Yvonne, who was chronically tardy, was already seated, obviously keen to chat. This lunch would be interesting.

  Our table overlooked the flat expanse of western Sydney. Wispy clouds crawled across a hard blue sky. Heat haze smudged the horizon. I reflected that there were millions of people out there who rarely encountered the legal system, and were untouched by the law, and much happier for that.

  I said: "You're early."

  She leaned forward, conspiratorially. "I hear you've had a very exciting time."

  I instinctively leaned towards her. "Why?"

  "You thought a certain judge murdered Terry Riley."

  Well informed, as usual. "I had some suspicions."

  "But you were wrong?"

  "Seems so."

  "You suspected him because you found a document - a police charge sheet - that showed he was drunk when he crashed his car and killed his wife."

  "That's right."

  "I've also heard you had an altercation with a solicitor and a thug who tried to relieve you of that document."

  "Goodness, your spies are everywhere. Who gave you this information?"

  A wry smile. "Can't say, I'm afraid."

  Detective Sergeant Malloy must have been the original source of the information. He told the Police Commissioner, who told the Chief Justice, who told my ex-wife to pull me into line.