The associate led us out to the judge’s entrance to the courtroom, down a back corridor, and into the chambers that had been allocated to Acting Judge Holland.
I poked my head into the room. ‘Check your Scorpion at the door,’ His Honour barked. I was followed closely by Humphries, his junior, the President of the Bar Association and his junior. Somehow or other, the IT expert from the very illustrious law firm thought that he’d been invited, and trailed us all into the room.
‘Who are you?’ Holland snapped at IT.
‘Oh . . . I’m the . . . the IT . . . I thought . . .’
‘Get out!’ Holland shouted.
He did.
It was hard to see Merv Holland at first. The upper levels of the eastern side of the Supreme Court building have sweeping views over Sydney Harbour, and Holland was sitting at his desk as we walked in, his back to the panorama of the glittering water stretching out to the Heads. The sun was starting to get low, and Holland was a silhouette, a shadow against blue sky and blue water. Only when I got close to him could I see how pissed off he was.
‘Would somebody please tell me,’ he began, ‘in simple language that even an old man can understand, what the fucking hell is going on here.’
I looked to the President of the Bar Association to take the lead. He looked at me. We both looked at Humphries. He started. ‘Your Honour, I really must –’
‘Shut up,’ Holland screamed. ‘Not you.’ He looked up at me, almost despairingly. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Slowly. All of it.’
I took a deep breath and began. Almost everything I knew, from the beginning. Brian Humphries tried to interrupt twice. The second time Holland AJ threw a book at him. MacGregor on Damages. Possibly the heaviest legal textbook in history. It nearly splattered one of the Equity Bar’s greatest stars against the wall.
When I was finished, there was silence. For at least twenty seconds. Even Humphries kept his mouth shut. Then again, he had just had thirty kilograms of jurisprudence tossed at him. Finally I decided to break the silence.
‘Your Honour?’
‘Yes.’
‘My tender?’
‘Let’s mark it for identification for now,’ the judge said, almost sadly, looking at his desk. Then he looked up at me again. ‘The police?’ he said.
‘Detective Dixon from Eastern Suburbs Local Area Command is in court now,’ I said. ‘He’s being brought up to speed as we speak. I think Homicide might –’
‘And these people, from the DVD, are where now?’
‘In custody. Citizen’s arrest. Being guarded by a highly respected Vietnam veteran.’
‘Oh,’ Merv Holland said. ‘That’s good.’ There was another lengthy pause before he said: ‘Go. We’ll adjourn until ten tomorrow. Detective Dixon can deal with it till then. Out.’ We started to turn and leave. ‘Not you,’ he said, pointing at me.
He sat quietly in front of me while the others filed out.
‘Do you know how many years in jail you could get for all this?’
‘I’ll seek a pardon,’ I said. ‘I think the public will be on my side. I’m providing a community service.’
Holland appeared shattered. He looked up at me and shook his head. ‘What the hell has happened to this country?’ he asked. ‘What the hell has happened to this town?’ I shrugged. ‘Years ago,’ he continued, ‘in the seventies . . . we were moving forward.’
An illusion, I thought to myself. A confidence trick. ‘Over four million people in this city,’ Merv Holland said to me, ‘over four million. And what have we got?’ I shook my head. ‘Nothing but four million fucking home renovators, that’s what. What happened to justice? Equality? What the hell happened? Doesn’t anyone believe in causes anymore?’
I sympathised with Merv Holland. Causes were out. It was the taking care of me era. The era of the aspirationals and home renovators. The poor, the starving, the oppressed, those behind bars without trial – forget them. Forget the billions of people the corporate giants who run the world force to subsist on a dollar a day. Who cares how often we are lied to, or who’s on the take? Causes are for losers. They are the domain of the misfit elitist minority. And, in Sydney, several million proud homosexuals.
‘I’m sick of it,’ he continued. ‘This case is the last straw. I’m retiring somewhere civilised. Like Auckland. Or Havana. I’ve had it.’
I didn’t have the heart to tell Merv Holland that the Cuban revolution hadn’t really involved the working class. Corrupt capitalists got the chop, sure, but it wasn’t really what Karl or Fred or Leon had in mind. I decided not to recommend Beijing, on the same basis. Still, New Zealand is nice.
I left Merv Holland and his dream of retirement smoking cigars with Fidel. I knew where he was coming from, but I was still young, and I wasn’t ready to give up on Sydney, or Australia. Well, Bankruptcy Man wasn’t, anyway. The place has potential. Once we get rid of the convicts. I still believe one day we can live in a just and fair land where we can all have an equal say as to what extreme right-wing bastards are sent from this country, and the means by which they are sent. By leaky boat, if it’s up to me. Yes, Bankruptcy Man has duties. Obligations. Scores to settle.
I handed out copies of the DVD when I went back to the courtroom. Every member of the Fourth Estate got one. Some members of the public. They were being sold on eBay within hours. Dixon got two. I even had one left for my very learned friend.
‘Here, Brian, this is for you,’ I said, giving him the last copy.
He told me to piss off. I told him to drop dead. The F word got a run. Perhaps three or four runs. He used the C word. Other cordial Latin pleasantries were exchanged.
Which made it nice. It was nice to be back at the Bar. Friendly exchanges between professional colleagues sworn to uphold the law and whose highest duty was to the courts. It reminded me of that special thing about being a lawyer. It’s a game like politics. A game in which, even if all your friends are transitory, you can take comfort in knowing that your enemies are forever.
Getus Fuctiae, Brian.