MURDER BRIEF Read online

  Silvia looked shocked and her hand twitched. A plug of cigarette ash skittered across her desk and napalmed the ragged carpet. "Wow. Congrats. That’ll be a blockbuster. Who’s your leader?"

  The question she’d feared. "Umm, Brian Davis."

  A sardonic smile danced across Silvia’s lips and ignited her cheeks. "Oh, really? You’ve been his junior before, haven’t you?"

  "Yeah, a few weeks ago."

  "So how’d you get this guernsey?"

  "Well, it seems Brian recommended me to his solicitor."

  Silvia elevated heavy eyebrows. "Really? That was very nice of him."

  "It was, wasn’t it?"

  Silvia leered. "Goodness, he must think you’re an able barrister - very, very able indeed."

  Robyn put her hands on her hips. "What are you suggesting, you evil woman? I didn’t fuck him, if that’s what you think."

  Silvia sucked on her cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke, like a femme fatale in a 40s movie. "Oh, no, I’m not suggesting that at all. But it’s quite possible, of course, that you got the brief because he wants to fuck you."

  Robyn crossed her arms. "You mean, you don’t think I deserve the brief on merit?"

  "I’m sure you do. But let’s face it, he’s a known womaniser. In fact, I’ve heard he’s a one-man bonking team. And you are not unattractive, even if you could dress better."

  "Thank you, I think. But I’m not responsible for his behaviour. All I can say is that I haven’t bonked him and won’t bonk him. In fact, about a week ago, he asked me out to dinner and I turned him down flat."

  "Yet he still wants you as his junior in the Markham case?"

  "Yeah. So maybe he thinks I’m the best person for the job."

  Silvia giggled. "Or he’s completely smitten and won’t take ‘no’ for an answer."

  Robyn shrugged. "If he is, that’s his problem. I’m not interested - not at all."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Definitely."

  "He’s quite good-looking and bloody successful."

  "So what? He’s not my type."

  "Why not?"

  "Too self-satisfied, for a start. He could only ever love himself."

  Silvia’s eyebrows danced merrily. "My goodness, what an unusual barrister."

  Robyn sighed. "You know, on reflection, maybe I should have refused the brief."

  "Why?"

  "Because a lot of people will probably think I’m shagging him."

  "No they won’t."

  "You did."

  "True. But I’ve got a dirty mind. You’d be insane to give it up. Keep it and do a good job."

  Robyn nodded. "Don’t worry, I will."

  "Good. Let’s celebrate your good fortune." Silvia opened a drawer and fished out a whiskey bottle and a couple of glasses, which she puts on the desk.

  Robyn frowned. "It’s a bit early."

  "Rubbish. It’s already past five."

  "Actually, it’s only four-thirty".

  "Close enough. Come on, one glass won’t hurt you."

  "OK. Just one."

  Silvia filled the two glasses and handed one over.

  Silvia took a gulp and smirked. "You know, Brian Davis isn’t your only admirer. You’ve got one on this floor."

  Robyn mentally surveyed the male barristers who belonged to Fisher Chambers. None had caught her fancy. Indeed, she’d rarely seen so many sub-standard specimens. Their drawbacks ranged from alcoholism to slothful manners, gayness, obesity and excessive use of cologne. Most would look better with their wigs on backwards. She couldn’t pick her admirer and was reluctant to be told.

  Morbid curiosity triumphed. "Really? Who?"

  "Gary Monaghan’s been asking me about you."

  Christ. She hadn’t thought of him. This explained why he popped into her room for a chat.

  Robyn said: "You’re kidding, right?"

  "No. I think he likes you."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because he asked me about your background and wanted to know if you’re married or seeing anyone."

  "You’re joking?"

  "No."

  "Why’d he want that information?"

  Silvia drained her glass and started rolling another cigarette. "Don’t play dumb, dearie. I’m sure he wants to drag you into bed."

  "And what did you tell him?"

  "I said you’re fertile, single and desperate."

  Robyn looked horrified. "You didn’t?"

  "No. I only told him you were single."

  "He’s quite nice, but he’s very, very dull." She pretended to yawn.

  "You sure? I think he’s just shy, which is a pretty rare commodity these days, particularly around here."

  Robyn was a little surprised that Silvia, who usually savaged the men on the floor, had spoken up for Gary. But it didn’t matter. He lacked panache.

  "Sorry, there's no chemistry, I’m afraid."

  Silvia blew out another plume of smoke and held up the whiskey bottle. "Your call, dearie. Now, finish that glass and have another drop."

  Robyn drained her glass and praying that Gary Monaghan left her alone. Fortunately, he seemed to shy to make trouble.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Robyn rented a small terrace in Glebe with a friend, Veronica Schubert, who worked as a corporate solicitor at a huge legal fee factory called Douglas, Martin & Ross, better known as Double-Cross. Whenever Robyn worried she was too ambitious and driven, she consoled herself that Veronica was much worse. Double-Cross was basically a vertical gulag, except that inmates were allowed to wear suits and sleep at home. Only the strong survived. But Veronica loved it. She worked ridiculously long hours to meet outrageous billing targets. After five years at the firm she was already a senior associate and, in a few more, would become an equity partner with an office overlooking the harbour and no life outside work.

  In her miniscule spare time, she exercised, shopped, read self-improvement books and chased men with demented energy. She was rarely home before eight o’clock. So that evening, when Robyn opened the front door, she was surprised to find the lights on.

  "Veronica, you home?"

  Veronica yelled back: "Yoo-hoo, in the kitchen."

  Robyn dropped her briefcase at the bottom of the stairs and wandered out to the kitchen. Veronica’s spidery frame was hunched over the bench, chopping zucchinis while humming to herself and bouncing around as if at a nightclub.

  Robyn said: "How was life in the salt mine today?"

  "Frantic. A big client wants us to sue a competitor. Now we’re working like crazy."

  "Who’s the client?"

  "Can’t say: market-sensitive information."

  "Who’s the competitor?"

  "Can’t tell you that either."

  "What’s the case about?"

  "Ditto."

  Robyn didn’t want the details anyway. She’d never been interested in commercial litigation because there was little human drama: just big corporations slugging it out over sums that meant nothing to any of them.

  Veronica tossed some zucchini slices into a pot. "How was your day?"

  "Not bad. Got a fantastic new brief."

  "Really? Who for?"

  Robyn grinned. "Would you believe, Rex Markham?"

  Veronica turned and stared. "Shit. You’re kidding?"

  "No. I’ll be junior counsel at his trial in about three weeks."

  Veronica smiled. "That’s great. Fantastic. How’d you snag that one?"

  "You know that silk I worked with a couple of weeks ago?"

  "Brian Davis - the one who asked you out to dinner?"

  "Yes. He put in a good word for me."

  Veronica frowned. "I don’t understand. You said ‘no’ to dinner, but he got you this brief. Mmm. What’s going on?"

  Robyn shrugged. "Don’t know. Don’t care. All I know is that when someone offers you a brief in a big murder trial, for a client who’s paying top dollar, you take it, no questions asked."

  "Of course. Bu
t it sounds like he’s interested in you. So, if I was you, I’d hump him without delay."

  Robyn frowned. "You’ve never even met the guy."

  "True. But he’s a silk and has no major disfigurements. That’s all I need to know."

  "He’s also jumped into bed with almost every woman at the Bar."

  "Then why miss out?"

  "You’re incorrigible. Why’re you home so early?"

  "Steve’s dropping over."

  Veronica had been carrying on an affair with a married partner at her firm called "Steve" for several months. Robyn had met him several times when he dropped over for a quick shag, but still didn’t know his surname.

  "You mean, Steve from your firm?"

  "Yeah. His wife’s visiting her parents for a few days. She’s taken the kids. So he’s riding his bike over. I hope you don’t mind."

  Actually, Robyn did mind - minded a lot - because she was starting to feel like a co-conspirator. But there was nothing she could do short of move out.

  She shrugged. "It’s up to you."

  "Thanks."

  Robyn looked at the food on the bench. "What’re you making?"

  Veronica finished chopping the zucchini. "A vegetable risotto. You’re welcome to join us if you want."

  "Oh, no, you don’t want me."

  "Don’t be stupid. There’s heaps of food."

  She didn’t want to seem rude or judgmental and was hungry. "OK then. I’ll get changed."

  Robyn went upstairs, had a quick shower and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. Back downstairs, she found Steve sitting on a kitchen stool. He was in great shape for a man in his late thirties, wearing bicycle shorts and a Lycra singlet that barely contained his ropey muscles. His curly blond hair was damp and face flushed. Hard to believe his job was to advise on major finance transactions. Robyn would have found him quite attractive if he wasn’t a cheating bastard.

  Robyn said: "Hi Steve."

  "Hello."

  She hesitated, not sure which topics were safe. "How’s work?"

  "Fine, fine. Busy, of course."

  Fortunately, Veronica said the food was ready and started serving the risotto.

  While they ate, Veronica and Steve gossiped about their firm: which factions were ascending and descending; who was sleeping with whom; who would soon make partner and who would soon get the boot.

  Everything about the conversation was depressing: the smallness of the topics, the meanness of the attacks and the helplessness of the targets. Neither worried about the big questions in life or clocking down towards death. They would spend the rest of their lives hiding in suits and finding meaning in timesheets; they would divide their lives into billable units and hand their self-images to performance review committees. Their conversation convinced Robyn that she would never, ever work in a big law firm again, no matter what.

  Afterwards, she cleaned up while Veronica and Steve slipped upstairs. Soon they were whimpering like torture victims. She turned on the dishwasher to drown them out.

  In desperation, she went into the living room and tried to watch an American court-room drama, but kept wanting to object to the stupid fucking questions the hero kept asking witnesses. The judge was also a moron who knew nothing about the laws of evidence. They should have put the scriptwriters in the dock.

  The rodeo was still underway in Veronica’s room when she slipped up to bed. For a while, she’d been considering moving out and living on her own. Maybe it was time to act.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next morning, Robyn strolled several blocks to the District Court Building for the sentencing hearing of a client called Felix Basten.

  Felix was once a senior executive at a plastics factory. The cause of his downfall was an addiction to gambling and almost uncanny ability to lose money on horses, poker machines, greyhounds, cards, stock options and foreign-currency swaps. After losing all of his own money, he stole from his employer. That was easy because Felix was responsible for paying the firm’s building insurance premiums. Instead, he gambled that money away, losing almost $1.1 million in three years.

  Then he lost his biggest bet. He arrived at work one morning and found the main factory engulfed in flames. He cruised past the assembled fire engines and drove straight home, where he scoffed half-dozen Valium, climbed into bed and pulled the blankets over his head.

  However, the world would not leave him alone. The company soon discovered it had no building insurance and, within a month, Felix was charged with eleven counts of embezzlement, to which he pleaded guilty.

  Robyn made her plea in mitigation to Judge Tony Tuck while her client sat in the dock with waxy skin, cherry-red eyes and several days of stubble. His shirt collar gaped away from his scrawny neck. His distressed wife sat in the back of the court.

  Robyn spent half-an-hour pleading for the judge to be lenient because Felix was an honest and loving family man battling the demon of addiction.

  "Hard Luck" Tuck listened impassively, then turned to Felix and accused him of abusing his position of trust and causing enormous loss to his employer. Indeed, the loss of its main factory without insurance cover almost put it out of business.

  The judge sentenced him to six years in prison, with four years non-parole. Fortunately, he recommended that the sentence be served in a minimum-security facility.

  Felix was led away and Robyn and her instructing solicitor, Bob Gilbert, consoled Felix’s wife, who asked if there were grounds for appeal. Robyn shook her head and said the sentence was "within the range". Eventually, she extricated herself and trudged back along Elizabeth Street to her chambers.

  Her bad mood got even worse when she saw Helen Muldoon sitting in the reception area, wearing a battered straw hat and enormous floral frock. The old woman had a square face, furry upper lip and snaggly teeth. But her most arresting features were eyes which glowed like volcano vents.

  Almost two years ago she was charged under the Dog Act because her pet schnauzer allegedly attacked a postman. The heaviest punishment she faced was a fine; the dog faced being put to sleep.

  Mrs Muldoon claimed her dog was in her back yard when the postal worker lost a big chunk of his arm. The real perpetrator was another schnauzer that lived nearby.

  She couldn’t afford to pay for legal representation. Nor was she entitled to Legal Aid. However, a local solicitor generously agreed to act pro bono. He then asked Robyn to take the case on the same basis.

  Back then, Robyn was a newly-minted barrister with high ideals and an empty diary. She was desperate to gain experience, even if it meant representing a crazy woman and her vicious dog. So she said yes.

  However, she soon regretted that decision. Mrs Muldoon had a persecution complex, chronic narcissism and possibly schizophrenia. Conspiracies lurked everywhere. The dark forces arrayed against her included the police, her neighbours and the RSPCA. She had no doubt that, when the public finally understood the horrific persecution that she and her dog had endured, the legal system would crash to the ground. Robyn herself had to continually demonstrate her undying loyalty to both of them.

  Further, despite paying nothing, Mrs Muldoon was unbelievably demanding. She telephoned Robyn almost weekly to rehash her numerous allegations and proclaim every small development a major crisis.

  She also frequently turned up without an appointment. So Robyn wasn’t surprised to see her in the reception area clutching the ubiquitous plastic shopping bag that held the key documents in her case.

  Robyn managed a stiff smile. "Hello Mrs Muldoon. I didn’t realize we’d arranged a conference?"

  "We didn’t, but I was in the city, so I thought I’d drop in for a chat."

  "I’m very busy right now."

  "Oh, don’t worry. I won’t be long. I’ve brought you some fudge."

  Robyn would have preferred some money rather than risk losing a tooth on rock-hard fudge. "Oh, alright. I can only give you ten minutes, understand?"

  Mrs Muldoon smiled indulgently. "Of course, dear, don�
��t worry."

  Robyn led the old woman into her room, where they sat facing each other across the desk.

  Robyn couldn’t help staring at Mrs Muldoon’s moustache. Had it grown? It seemed bigger. "What do you want to talk about?"

  Mrs Muldoon’s eyes flitted around the room to make sure they were alone. "I was watching one of those American police dramas on TV last night. You know, the one with the lesbian forensic examiner who looks after two disabled orphans. Anyway, do you know they can do a forensic examination of bite marks?"

  "I’m sure they can."

  "We should do that, to prove Vinnie didn’t bite the postman."

  "I’m afraid we can’t."

  "Why not?"

  "Because the bite marks have healed."

  "You mean, they’ve destroyed the evidence?"

  "No, the marks have healed. It’s a natural process."

  "They could have examined them before they healed?"

  "Yes, I suppose so. But that would have cost thousands of dollars."

  "That’s no excuse."

  Not for the first time, Robyn wanted to scream that the whole universe didn’t revolve around her fucking dog. She resisted the urge. Instead, she glanced at the clock and wondered what she’d done to deserve Mrs Muldoon as a client. At least, for enduring this hell, she would appreciate all her other clients, no matter how horrible they might be.

  Mrs Muldoon leaned forward. "So dear, you ready for the trial?"

  "Of course."

  Robyn vaguely recalled the trial was in a month or so. But she usually kept Mrs Muldoon in the back of her mind and couldn’t recall the exact date.

  Oh, hell, she’d better check. She picked up her diary and turned over the pages. Ah, yes, it was due to start in three weeks time, on 16 June.

  The penny dropped. Jesus. The Markham trial was scheduled to start a few days before that and run for at least a week. The trial dates clashed. Damn. What should she do?

  The Bar Rules included the cab-rank principle: that a barrister - like a taxi driver - can’t dump a client because a better fare comes along. She was ethically bound to retain the Muldoon brief and return the Markham one.

  But there was no goddamn way she’d do that. She wasn’t going to dump the greatest brief she’d ever received so that she could represent Mrs Muldoon and her vicious schnauzer in the Local Court for nothing.