Chapter Four

Henry Flanagan, a leading Queensland barrister, had an unusual rise to fame. The son of an Irish steel worker, he was raised and educated in Newcastle, New South Wales. It was never his aim to follow in his father into the steel mill, however the family’s economic circumstances determined he would. Henry had achieved high academic results during his years at school, nearly always topping the class, rarely out of the top two places in the entire form. The school’s principal was understandably outraged a student with such potential would be leaving full-time education after completing grade eight. Young Henry had no illusions and bore no grudge against his battling Catholic parents, even though he had yearned to take his education much, much further.

Leaving school and going to work was the norm for children from working-class families in Newcastle. If you were male and old enough, you joined the work-force in the steel mills. With a brood of hungry children to feed, Molly and Liam Flanagan had little alternative. They were well aware of their oldest son’s potential, and experienced a great deal of guilt over him leaving school at such an early age.

Henry entered BHP’s steel works as a fifteen year old, just a slip of a lad. By the time he’d reached eighteen, he stood five feet eleven inches in his stocking feet, and possessed heavily muscled arms and body. Feeding a blast furnace was no job for a weakling, his father once told him. Working in the scorching atmosphere around the furnace, Henry was grateful he’d inherited his mother’s dark, olive complexion. As fair as Henry was dark, his father, Liam, battled against the scalding heat of the white hot steel, his face beet-root red, his skin constantly blistered.

There were three things Henry’s Irish father hated most in life. First and foremost were the bloody English, no doubt about that. The second was the Liberal Party of Australia, which he considered to be anti-worker and anti-working class. Bob Menzies, party leader, was the third thing he detested. “Sold pig iron to the Japs and it came back to us as bombs,” he would often say.

A political science academic from the University of New South Wales left a lasting impression on the young idealist, Henry, after an enlightening lecture at his local Labor Party branch. “Political parties are the driving force behind government and the opposition,” he told them. “They are also essential for the effective operation of parliament and for democracy. Without parties, political debate would not be properly organised. Political parties set the agenda for differing points of view in parliament, where Labor and the Coalition constantly strive for supremacy over each other.” The academic smiled sardonically. “The Coalition accuses Labor of being a left-wing, union-dominated organisation, with socialist policies which restrict individual freedom. On the other side, the ALP criticises the Coalition for being a bosses organisation, full of right-wing reactionaries, and that it acts against the worker’s interests on behalf of the rich in the country. The truth, my friends, is somewhere between those extreme points of view.”

“What would happen without political parties?” Henry once asked his father.

“Probably nothing very much I suppose, son,” he said, shrugging. “Someone has to organise the political agenda and the debate in the country. It’s the Labor Party which organises electoral competition with the bloody Torys. But we don’t have the newspapers in our pockets like the Liberal Party does,” he growled. The politically biased Australian press was another of Liam Flanagan’s hates.

Nineteen seventy-two was a year of excitement for the Flanagan family. The long-serving local Labor member for South Newcastle announced his retirement from federal parliament, and Henry, at the tender age of twenty-two years, was surprisingly endorsed as the Labor candidate for the safe seat. Liam and Molly Flanagan were bursting with pride over their son’s unexpected selection. But there was more to be excited about. To win government after twenty-three years in the political wilderness, the ALP was favored in the up-coming federal election. Henry and his father sat sharing a drink with their work mates at the local hotel where the election was the popular topic of conversation with the steel workers.

“The friggin’ Torys are in bloody tatters, Henry,” old Ned Siddens opened. “‘Bout time we got rid of the bastards and got somethin’ done for us workers.” He then grinned. “That Billy McMahon couldn’t organise a root in a brothel with a fist full of fivers.” Everyone laughed.

“Gough is all over them. They have no answer to him”. Liam Flanagan went on to boast. “Henry’s met him, haven’t you mate?”

“What’s he like?” Young Jimmy Elder’s eyes glistened.

“He’s bloody big, I can tell you that. I’m five eleven and I get a crick in the neck just looking up at him,” Henry said admiringly. “But he has a good sense of humor and he really wants to change things.”

Larry Elder, Jimmy’s older brother, looked up from his beer, sourly eying his companions. “You all know my son died fighting as a Tory nasho in Vietnam. Their stupid policies killed him,” he spat. “I hope Gough brings all our young diggers home.” His tone brought a serious turn to the conversation.

“Should never have been there in the first bloody place.” Henry placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“The Torys and the Yanks say that the Vietnam War is the result of Communist expansion in Asia. What a loada bullshit.” Liam Flanagan took a swig from his schooner of Tooth’s old. “Vietnam’s just a nationalist struggle, an attempt by the Vietnamese people to oust foreigners from their country.”

“But isn’t Ho just a puppet of the Chinese Commos?” Jimmy Elder was keen to air his knowledge.

The others all laughed at the naïve statement.

“You’ve been reading that crap the bloody newspapers serve up,’ his brother replied. “Look, mate, the Vietnamese and the Chinks hate each other. The Yanks went to Vietnam because of the stupid bloody Cold War. Any uprising that happens in the world is blamed on the Commos. We just tagged along as we always do and in the process, hundreds of young Aussies are now dead. Poor bastards. I should know, my son was one of them,” he added bitterly.

A well groomed man turned toward the group. “You lot are traitors for not supporting your country in this war,” he accused.

Henry’s father’s eyes narrowed at the accusation. He spun around to confront the speaker. “Listen shithead, no one asked you to butt in.” He paused to contemptuously examine the man’s three piece suit. “First of all, no one has attacked us, and there’s no declared war. Secondly, people from all over the world are against our involvement in this stupid bloody war. It’s got nothing to do with our country, Australia.”

“The Northern Communists invaded the democratic South, everyone knows that.” The man indignantly stood his ground.

Every person within earshot burst out laughing at the illinformed assertion, even Liam. “Have you ever read anything about this war?”

“I read the papers, my friend,” the well-dressed man said stiffly.

“Well, that explains it,” Liam replied sarcastically, “Fuck off and come back when you know what you’re talkin’ about, you ignorant prick.”

“What more can you expect from rabble?” The well-dressed man tossed his head and turned away to leave.

“Tory supporter for sure.” Ned Siddens nodded.

Liam Flanagan shrugged. “Look, I like the Yanks and I’m grateful we’ve got the ANZUS Treaty with them. I’m just sayin’ they got t’ings terribly wrong in Vietnam, that’s all.”

“He’s just a wanker.” Larry screwed up his nose.

“He’s entitled to his opinion.” Henry finally entered the conversation.

“Spoken like a real politician, son.” Liam smiled broadly. They all laughed.

The new Labor member for Newcastle South was elected with a record majority of twelve thousand, five hundred and seventy two votes.

***

The fall of the Whitlam Government in November, nineteen seventy-five, found Henry out of a job. Many within the Labor Party urged him to wait for the next election and stand again. However, the events leading up to the Whitlam dismissal had disillusioned Henry who was more than aware that politics in Australia could be a mean and tough business. Henry thought the political situation had reached a stage where it had become tarnished and dirty. A number of incidents had left a certain bitterness in his mouth, none more so than he Queen’s unelected representative in Australia, the Governor General, ignoring the will of the people. The Queensland Premier’s unwillingness to adhere to political convention in the selection of a Senate replacement added to that bitterness. In spite of the adversity, there was one bright light. For the first time in his life, Henry found himself in a position to decide his own future. The law had always interested him, so at the age of twenty-five, he enrolled for a degree course at the University of New South Wales.

***

Henry settled into legal life in Brisbane as if he’d been born into it, the firm’s partners delighted with the new addition to the team. He had the ability to pounce on the smallest flaw in a legal argument, and quickly counter it. His reputation became so renown, the more experienced barristers in chambers often ran arguments by him, requesting his assistance in finding perceived deficiencies. At the age of thirty-two, former politician, Henry Flanagan became a contender for the Bar.

As the junior barrister in chambers, Henry was usually allocated the unimportant briefs, small fry when compared to the more complex cases his more experienced colleagues handled. In spite of the banal nature of his work, he treated every case as if his life depended upon the result and was never bettered in court. As his reputation grew in Brisbane’s legal fraternity, so did the importance of his briefs, until he personally handled the most complex in the practice. Henry had a head of thick brown hair, prematurely greying at the temples, and large brown eyes that conveyed a friendly demeanor. Jurors couldn’t help warming to him. His demeanor, however, could change quickly if he was crossed.

During the early stages of his legal career, he courted society debutante, Fiona McKindly, the second eldest daughter of his head of chambers. After a brief courtship, they married in a social event covered by Brisbane’s leading newspapers. While their relationship could never be described as a passionate one, it was nevertheless convenient and suited them. Henry liked the feeling of security and Fiona adored the trappings of being the wife of the city’s leading barrister. In the following three years they had two daughters, Lisa and Michelle, who proved to be an added bonus to their practical relationship.

Up until he accepted the Malone brief ten years later, everything appeared rosy in the Flanagan household. The Malone case involved major embezzling of government funds. Henry won through with an astute use of a legal technicality. The state premier, Paul Lawson, was livid. In the daily newspapers the following morning he made the mistake of accusing Henry of being legally corrupt.

Henry was outraged, and through his own legal counsel, he demanded a retraction of the comment. None forthcoming, he took the matter to the District Court where a jury of his peers found in his favor. Using the resources of the people of Queensland, the Premier appealed the verdict, the appeal to be presided over by two Supreme Court justices and the acting Chief Justice of the state.

***

In a meeting with the State Attorney General, Philip Marshall, Premier Lawson laid down the law. “You tell those three bastards on the bench that I want them to rule in my favor,” he snapped, thumping the palm of his hand on the desk.

The Attorney General looked unsettled by the proposal. “But you did say those things about Flanagan, Paul. I witnessed the outburst myself.” He’d grown to detest Lawson, just as everyone else did. “All those present heard your description of Flanagan. Why not just accept the verdict of the jury? The whole matter would soon be forgotten.”

Lawson had no intention of backing down. “Because I don’t like to lose.” His lips twisted into a snarl. “Especially to a shyster bastard like Flanagan.”