DAVE
‘It could be worse,’ Dave tried to console Vanessa as they parked around the corner from Marcus’s chambers. ‘Anyone who’s ever met you knows that you’re not delusional.’
She pulled a funny face. ‘Yeah, but the problem is, there are so many more people who haven’t met me.’
Dave laughed more loudly than her little jest warranted, but he liked how she made fun of herself. Vanessa was awesome. She must have faults, obviously, but he hadn’t spotted any yet. He wondered what they might be. Was she messy? That was okay, so was he. Was she inconsiderate? Lazy? Selfish? They all seemed very unlikely. He climbed from the Volvo, allowing himself a moment of smugness at finding a park in a city street that was congested with cars and buses and courier vans. Well-dressed pedestrians were weaving their way along the footpath as Important People in business suits (trousers and skirts), strode past en route to Somewhere Important. It made High Street, Preston, seem like a country town, and he quickly felt his smugness shrivel.
‘Dave?’ Vanessa brought him back to earth. ‘What happens next? I mean, now that we have to go to court.’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ She looked alarmed and he said hastily, ‘Just kidding. Now I have to prepare a defence to their counterclaim and lodge it with the court, apparently. But this stuff is Stafford’s bread and butter. I’m sure he’ll help me out.’
Her smile brightened then. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Marcus will look after everything.’
Her face suddenly went bright pink. Must be nerves, Dave thought. Or was she having a hot flush? But wasn’t that supposed to be menopause? Vanessa was way too young for menopause. Just looking at her, you could see how fecund she was, how ripe and—
‘We’d better hurry,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to be late.’
‘Yeah,’ said Dave, thanking God that she wasn’t telepathic.
‘Marcus’s time is valuable.’
Yeah, extremely valuable, thought Dave. Valuable to the tune of a thousand bucks an hour. It made his own fees seem puny and inconsequential; but, let’s face it, so were his cases—a fact that couldn’t have escaped Stafford’s attention. Dave felt intimidation clutch at his guts. Get a grip, Rendall. Who was Marcus Stafford anyway? Just a better-looking bloke with a better degree and a better job and a better bank account who commanded more respect in a day than Dave would likely accumulate in a lifetime. Apart from that he had nothing going for him! Dave chuckled inside, but his grip still tightened on his battered briefcase.
‘Dave. G’day.’
He turned to see Chris Tatarka, the head solicitor at NorMel Community Legal Centre, where Dave volunteered one night a week. Chris was a big bear of a bloke with a mop of grey curly hair and a rebellious disposition, and just seeing him somehow made Dave feel better.
‘Chris, g’day! Vanessa, this is Chris Tatarka. Chris, this is my client, Vanessa Rooney.’ He felt irrationally proud, as if he was introducing his fiancée. Settle down, Dave.
Chris grinned. ‘G’day.’ He turned back to Dave. ‘I’ve got a DUI in the Mag. What about you?’
‘Meeting with Marcus Stafford on an IP matter.’
Chris whistled through his teeth, mock impressed. ‘Well, excuse-fucking-me.’
Dave laughed. Chris sprinkled ‘fucks’ around like salt and pepper and, as far as legal advocates went, it was hard to believe that he and Stafford occupied the same universe. Chris was a social justice warrior who’d somehow kept the flame alive well into his fifties. He kept threatening to leave NorMel and move into corporate law so he could finally make some dough, but everyone knew he’d never go through with it.
‘What can I tell you?’ Dave joked. ‘I’m hanging with the big boys now.’
Chris laughed and fell into step with them, and Dave felt himself relax. He didn’t know much about criminal matters when he started volunteering on Chris’s advice line, but he’d quickly caught on. Why shouldn’t it be the same with IP litigation? He felt a new spring in his step as they turned into the epicentre of Melbourne’s legal precinct, William Street.
‘Holy fuck!’ Chris exclaimed.
A phalanx of photographers and TV crews were waiting outside Stafford’s chambers, and someone had already spotted them. They were swarming towards Vanessa en masse.
‘There she is!’
‘That’s her, over there!’
‘Look, it’s Vanessa Rooney!’
‘Fucking hell—I’ll catch you later,’ said Chris as the vultures pushed past him, thrusting cameras and microphones at their prey.
‘Vanessa, Charlotte Lancaster claims that you have mental health issues!’
‘Is it true that you’re mentally ill?’
‘Are you a fantasist?’
‘Give us a smile!’
Vanessa blanched in terror and stared at the ground as they jostled around her. Dave was splenetic. What a pack of mongrels! And now passers-by were stopping to stare and film. What was this, feeding time at the zoo? Dave leaped in front of Vanessa with his arms outstretched.
‘Hey, that’s enough!’
They ignored him, pushing and shoving to get closer.
‘Do you have a comment, Vanessa?’
‘Have you sought help for your mental health issues?’
‘No comment!’ Dave yelled into the fray. ‘Leave her alone!’
But a photographer thrust past him, knocking Dave backwards into an overflowing garbage bin.
‘Hey!’ he yelled again, but no one was listening. The media beast had engulfed Vanessa, and Dave could only see the top of her head. As he scrambled out of the bin and tried to push his way back to her, an authoritative voice cut through the chaos.
‘That’s enough!’
Dave turned. It was Stafford in his full court get-up.
‘I’ll thank you to back off and give my client some space.’
The vultures miraculously quietened. As Stafford headed for Vanessa they parted like the Red Sea. Dave blinked in astonishment. The bloke was a media whisperer.
Marcus put his arm around Vanessa, and from what Dave could see from the back of the scrum, she looked incredibly relieved.
‘Mr Stafford, does your client have mental health issues?’
‘What do you say to your ex-wife’s claims that—’
‘I said enough.’ Stafford silenced them with a raised hand. Dave peered over a passer-by’s head to see the barrister looking straight down the barrel of a TV camera while Vanessa blinked up at him.
‘Vanessa Rooney is a writer of prodigious talent whose copyright has been shamelessly breached, and this desperate smear campaign insults the intelligence of the many people who know her for the talent she is.’
He paused for a second or two as cameras whirred and clicked and bystanders held up phones—but before anyone could bark more questions, he cut them off at the knees.
‘Thank you, but that’s it for today. I appreciate you’ve all got jobs to do, but so do we. So, if you don’t mind, we have a defence to prepare.’
With his arm still around Vanessa, Stafford started guiding her to his chambers. The journos threw out a few half-hearted questions but soon dispersed, and the passers-by moved on to something else. There was no doubt that Stafford was an impressive operator, and Dave felt his nerves come rushing back. Relax, he’s just a bloke in a silly wig. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Dave.
As he hurried after Stafford and Vanessa, a TV cameraman pushed past him and stomped heavily on his foot.
‘Ow, shit! Jesus, mate!’ said Dave, hopping up and down in pain, but the TV cameraman just kept going.
Arsehole, thought Dave. He turned to see Vanessa and Stafford disappearing into the building without a backwards glance.