15

Nell

– at which time the barrister for the applicant made clear that his client would proceed with the application for a full intervention order as concerns remained about the threat posed by our client (OC) to the applicant and their two children, with particular regard to alleged past abusive behaviour. At this point OC proceeded to swear at the other party across the room and Magistrate Davidson demanded she restrain herself. OC took her seat once more but not before conveying to the magistrate

‘Fuck fuck fucking fuck.’

Nell had never seen DB properly angry but properly angry was what he had been, slamming his hand about the office walls and the desk until he’d hurt himself. Nell had looked around, embarrassed, but no one in the office seemed particularly bothered by this display. He hammered again, this time with his foot, the end of his tapered black derby pecking at the nearest desk leg like an outraged woodpecker. Eventually he had calmed himself, hurling his tall body into his office chair and slamming his elbows onto the desk in front of him. Nell sat tentatively opposite, her client notes half complete, waiting for him to speak. When he did, he looked like a combination of the bad cop in a good cop/bad cop pairing and a child who had just discovered the truth about Santa.

‘She lied to us. She fucking lied to us.’

Nell made sure her voice was measured.

‘We don’t know that for sure.’

‘Lied, withheld information, hid things – it’s all the same.’

‘I did tell you that –’

She’d stopped abruptly. Mr Williams was making his way across the office. Dressed smartly in a pressed off-white suit, he looked more like he was embarking on a picnic at his southern country manor than putting in a day’s work at a top-tier law firm. His eyes sparkled expectantly as he stopped by their desk, leaning against it for support.

‘Mr Arnolds. Helena. Successful day at the shop?’

Nell waited for DB’s response. He offered a confirmatory thumbs-up, his face beset with a vaudevillian grin.

‘Getting there. The ex is contesting the cross-application so we’ve got directions in a few weeks. Order is still in place but should all be sorted soon enough.’

Mr Williams nodded cautiously. He stroked his substantial girth as if it were a house pet.

‘Who did you draw?’

‘Davidson. I know.’ DB gave an elaborate not-in-my-hands gesture.

‘Unfortunate. Never met a magistrate so ill equipped to handle a lemonade stand, let alone a civil proceeding. Not much chop when it comes to family violence either from my understanding. Used to see him on the squash courts a bit. Terrible aim. Like playing against one of those inflatable things they have outside of car dealerships. All arms and no direction.’

Nell recalled the magistrate’s face as he’d listened to DB speak, barely attempting to cover his yawns. He’d sighed heavily at the end, as if the list of things he would rather be doing was both extensive and significantly more interesting.

‘Anyway, can’t be helped,’ Mr Williams continued. ‘You’ve got your game plan worked out? You know how important it is for the firm that we see a win here.’

It wasn’t a question. DB extended his thumbs again.

‘Absolutely. Putting the ducks in a row as we speak.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’ Mr Williams smiled, though it was a quarter less of a smile than the initial one.

There had been a moment outside the courtroom when Nell had found herself alone. He had approached her, Madeline’s husband, offering a tentative handshake.

‘We’ve not met properly. I’m Eric Murray. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry about all this bother. About Madeline. She’s . . . she’s not well. She needs help. Psychological help. I’ve tried, god knows, but it’s just been so difficult.’

He’d apologised again, his face racked with concern, then his lawyer had called him away. Nell had been too stunned to tell anyone but it had stayed with her, sitting uncomfortably in the pit of her already hesitant gut. In a place where things called for restraint.

Mr Williams offered a final encouraging thumbs-up. ‘You’ve both got my absolute confidence.’

DB’s eyes had followed Mr Williams as he made his way out of the office.

‘Fuck,’ he whispered, clutching his cheeks like a Renaissance painting, and then he went back to being angry.

*

When she came in for her next appointment, Madeline was angry too. She strode into the consulting room, hurling her handbag at the seat, showing no sign of her previous reserved self.

‘You told me I would be able to see my children that day,’ she growled. ‘It’s been two weeks and nothing has changed.’

DB folded his hands one on top of the other, his demeanour now calm and professional, the swagger all but gone.

‘That was based on the assumption that what you’d told us was the truth. That you weren’t omitting information, for instance, or lying.’

Madeline pushed her bag from the chair and sank heavily into it. The bag landed with a dull thud against the carpet, spilling its contents. She ignored this. How different she looked today, Nell thought, her eyes rimmed red and weary despite her careful makeup. Madeline crossed her arms and stared at DB sullenly.

‘Did you not think it would be pertinent to mention the time the police were called to your children’s primary school because you were drunk and/or high? And that this in turn resulted in a notification to Child Protection who paid your home a welfare visit? And that your husband spoke of your drinking but assured them it was under control? Did you not think your husband would include this in his application?’

Madeline shook her head with disgust.

‘That’s not how it happened.’

‘Isn’t it?’ DB challenged her, fishing for the application from the file in front of him.

‘Yes, but not like that.’

‘Like how then?’

Madeline fell silent. She uncrossed her arms, pulling them to her lap and tightening them in her peculiar vice-like grip. She closed her eyes, her breath audible as she inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly, forcing herself to calmness. DB watched, unblinking. Nell, awkwardly aware of herself, reached out to fill their water glasses.

‘So what happens now?’ Madeline asked, her register lower.

‘As both you and your ex are contesting the respective intervention orders raised against you, the magistrate has listed the case for directions in a few weeks. It’s really just a procedural thing, five, ten minutes tops.’

‘Like the last one, then,’ Madeline scoffed. ‘Getting my justice five minutes at a time.’

DB continued.

‘Basically, it’s pretty much a repeat of the first hearing and we get another chance to negotiate conditions. But if we can’t get an agreement they’ll give us a date for the contested hearing. That’s the big one. For that we need to put together further and better particulars; things like witness lists, evidence, and of course your affidavit.’

‘Like what I’ve already done?’

‘More than that. It needs to contain all the relevant information, not just for this incident, but for the history of your relationship. How you met, when the violence first started, if it progressed, as well as specific information about the altercation and anything that happened up and until the point of the hearing. We need details for this. We need you to be honest.’

Madeline looked at her hands, her mouth drawn.

‘So you need my story. Fine.’

‘For the contested hearing, yes. Presuming neither of you change your mind before directions, which I think we can safely assume isn’t going to happen.’

DB hesitated. His voice, when he spoke next, was delicate.

‘Not only is he contesting the cross-application, but he is claiming a history of abuse perpetrated by you against him. Additionally, his lawyers are threatening to include costs as well, which means that in the event you are not successful, you would have to cover his legal fees. This means that he will be doing the same thing in preparation for the contested hearing: pulling together his affidavit, compiling witnesses. He’ll be putting into writing all the same things: history of the relationship, past abuse and the like. Anything that provides evidence to his claims.’

‘I see,’ Madeline replied, her eyes downcast. ‘And my children?’

DB’s voice was gentler still.

‘The interim order is still in place at this point, and until you either start mediation or get a parenting order, there’s nothing much we can do.’

‘So we start mediation?’

‘You can start that process, but that’s not something we can do here. You have to go to the Family Relationship Centre for that, and if he doesn’t attend, you have to go through the Family Court to get the parenting order in place, and unfortunately all that takes time.’

‘What kind of time?’

DB’s face softened. ‘Time. Months, perhaps. Unfortunately there are a lot of other people in a similar position to you.’

Nell noticed Madeline’s hands trembling in their tangle. Madeline steadied them.

‘I understand. So you need me to write you an affidavit?’

DB nodded.

‘Yes. Well, not the actual affidavit, but the story. We can review it together in the next week or so then we will pull it into the proper format. Give ourselves time to make sure it’s ready. And as you’re going through, think of any witnesses who might be able to corroborate what you say. Any evidence. Things that will help the magistrate see that your story is the valid one. Unless of course you think you’ll change your mind before the directions hearing?’

He ended the statement on a raised hopeful note. Madeline glared at him and DB rose to his feet hastily.

‘I have a template somewhere with prompts for what to include. I’ll just be a moment.’

He hurried out of the consulting room, leaving Nell and Madeline alone. Madeline looked over to her as if noticing her for the first time. Her brow creased.

‘So what do you do?’

Nell considered this. Madeline’s question was not unkind but the asking had made Nell realise that she didn’t really know the answer.

‘Support, mostly. Research, preparing documents, arranging our meetings. Once you’ve written your affidavit I’ll be the one typing it up.’

Madeline surveyed her.

‘Good for you,’ she replied. ‘Did you get all the way through that law degree just to be someone’s secretary?’

It stung, and Nell could barely contain her reaction. She coughed, pulling herself taller.

‘Ben is the senior lawyer. He has more experience. My role is to assist him and find him information or offer my opinion if he asks.’

Madeline looked amused though nothing amusing had been said. She leant forward, her body filling the space between them.

‘And what opinion have you got on all this? Now that Ben isn’t here?’

Nell felt her warm breath, sharp and close. She shifted back slightly. ‘I would remind you that we can’t take any instructions from you if you’ve been drinking. You need to be of sound mind. I’m saying that to help you, because we do want to help you, really we do.’

Madeline stared at her for a long moment, one hand hovering in front of her mouth.

‘Fuck you,’ she replied, placing her hands firmly in her lap.

*

That night Nell arrived home to find Seymour sprawled on the couch, though the mess consuming the kitchen counter suggested he had at some point been engaged in some form of productivity. The television was on but he seemed more preoccupied with his mobile, hitting the home button repeatedly so that the screen lit up.

‘Terrarium,’ he said, not looking up. ‘Stupid idea. ’S’in the bin now.’

Nell surveyed the wreckage of foliage, dirt and pebbles. ‘Couldn’t be bothered cleaning up?’

Seymour pulled his eyes from his mobile, wounded. ‘Bad day?’

Nell ignored him, sweeping her arm across the counter to shepherd the mess into the sink. It was meant to be dramatic and decisive, but instead sent pebbles and soil dancing into the air and skittering about the floor.

‘What’s up your arse?’ Seymour turned down the volume of the television.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Nell said. She pulled a carafe of cold water from the fridge and poured herself a glass. She downed it aggressively, water sloshing out the sides of her mouth. She could sense Seymour watching her and brought her sleeve to her chin to mop up the spillage. Then she stood planted on the tiles, her arms rooted by her side, glaring tetchily at nothing in particular. Seymour waited, muting the television.

‘I don’t know what you’re doing. If you want to talk about something, please just talk. I don’t have the emotional insight to work out what is happening or why you are standing in the kitchen like an angry garden gnome.’

Nell took a breath. They were not, as a family, genetically predisposed to talk of their weaknesses. It was not something that came naturally to them, as if Darwinian theory had bled them of any ability to seek emotional solace or support.

‘Am I affable?’

Seymour looked at her as if she’d asked him to perform some spontaneous, off-the-cuff calculus.

‘You’re not un-affable,’ he said kindly.

‘Do people like me?’

He shifted uncomfortably.

‘They don’t not like you.’

He pulled himself upright, swivelling his feet onto the carpet.

‘Is there someone who . . . you want . . . to like you?’

His discomfort was obvious in the way it always became when the siblings were forced to discuss their romantic lives with one another.

‘No.’ Nell rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a client at work. I don’t think she likes me.’

Seymour looked confused. ‘Is she meant to?’

Nell shrugged offhandedly.

‘Maybe she’s put off by the desperate need to help everyone that you emit?’

Nell frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

Seymour considered his words. ‘Well, it’s just sometimes you seem so keen to help people that it becomes more about your needs then theirs. And it’s not about you, is it? Like the way you’re always telling me to go out because you think it will help me forget about Patrick.’

His voice sounded funny at the end, as if he’d caught himself saying something illicit.

‘It would help us all,’ Nell muttered, and Seymour raised his eyebrows to demonstrate his point.

She stood there a moment longer, unable to articulate the tension running up and down her nervous system, pulsing through her veins in a way that unsettled and unbalanced her. She turned on her heels and marched out of the room.

‘I am too fucking affable,’ she mumbled.

That night she slept poorly, the flailing dervish sleep of the discontented people pleaser.

*

They met with Madeline again the following week. She arrived clutching a single piece of paper secured inside a plastic pocket. She nodded a greeting to DB then withdrew the page carefully and handed it to him.

I met Eric during my first year at university. We became engaged just after graduation and married twelve months after he finished his Articles. We underwent a short separation a year later after an incident in which we fought and he broke something precious to me. He apologised and soon after I became pregnant with our first child. Josh was born in 2006 and Leo in 2008. I became pregnant again in 2012 but lost the baby after an incident during which I was injured while locked out of the house. In retrospect, the abuse has been there throughout our entire relationship. It has caused me stress and anxiety and my drinking has been a result of this. The most recent incident, during which Eric called the police, occurred following a fight where Eric accused me of being an alcoholic. We fought and then the police turned up and Eric lied to them as usual. I just want this all to be over and for my kids and myself to be safe.

Nell read the page over DB’s shoulder then awaited his reaction. He read through it a couple of times, turning the page over in case there was more, then placed it on the table. Nell knew what DB would say; that it was too brief, there were no details and, most importantly, that as a document it failed to incriminate anyone, really, except perhaps Madeline herself. She knew what DB would say but she waited now to see how DB would say it. He stared at Madeline’s paper for a while then steepled his fingers. He searched the air as if he might find more information there, then, failing, settled his eyes on Madeline. The swagger was gone, so too the anger, and instead in their place was something close to deflation.

‘Is there any more?’

Madeline crossed her arms. She reminded Nell of a child dragged before the school principal and asked to explain herself.

‘Okay then,’ DB said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. ‘Look, to be blunt, there’s just not enough here. I mean, for one thing, for the most part it reads like a normal relationship. You mention incidents, but what are they? You say there was violence, but where is it? There’s just not enough meat in this to be useful for you.’

Madeline pursed her lips, her brows raised in an unimpressed scowl.

‘It’s not sexy enough?’

‘It’s not anything enough,’ DB sighed. ‘You need to be . . . sympathetic. Imagine I’m the magistrate. I want to see the damage this has done to you. I want to see the impact on you. I mean, you’re the victim, right? As humans we’re full of all this pride and our immediate reaction is to hide our scars, but the court needs to see them. You need to show them your wounds.’

Madeline shifted in the chair, recrossing her legs and pulling her hands into their usual tight little nest.

‘I don’t remember all those things. Who would want to?’

‘You need to be reliable,’ DB pressed. ‘The drinking . . . it doesn’t suggest that. What about witnesses? Who did you come up with?’

Madeline threw her arms into the air in wordless frustration.

‘No one?’

‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ she cried out, thumping her hands back down to her thighs. ‘Who would I ask?’

Nell leant forward and pushed the tissue box towards Madeline, who batted it away like a softball player. The three of them watched it rocket off the table and crumple against the white wall.

‘He has witnesses,’ DB explained. ‘The police, the school principal. People in positions of authority and credibility who can vouch for his story.’

‘Of course he does.’ Madeline laughed bitterly. ‘He’ll have it all sorted. That’s what he does. Dots the i’s, crosses the t’s. He’s got a big house and impressive career to show for it.’

She paused for a moment then reached for her bag.

‘I have something.’

She fished about within it, pulling out her mobile phone. She fiddled with it for a moment, then held it up for them. An audio recording began, first crackly and incomprehensible before becoming clearer. A man was shouting, his voice distant and tinny as if coming through an intercom.

– What the fuck are you doing here?

‘That’s Eric,’ Madeline interrupted, her own voice coming in over the top.

– I just want to see the boys.

– You know you can’t. I’ve a bloody intervention order, you moron. And here you are lurking about the front of the house like a fucking stalker.

– I just want to see them. This is unfair. You know it is. This is all bullshit. I just want to see them. If this is about the house or the money, you can have it all. I just want to see my babies.

There was a pause and then the man began to laugh, cold and robotic through the intercom.

– You’re pathetic, Madeline. Is that all the fight you’ve got in you? You’re making this very easy for me. That’s not the woman I married. You used to be such a good fighter. And now look at you. You’re useless. A drunken wreck. You’re an embarrassment. Lucky for you I’m always up for a fight.

There was a sob, so primal and raw it hurtled down Nell’s throat and shattered the hesitancy of her doubting gut. She avoided Madeline’s gaze, but here in this room her eyes were fiery, her face determined.

– Please Eric. Please just stop all of this. Stop your lies.

– But you’re getting your day in court, darling. Isn’t that what you wanted? It’s only fair, after all. Isn’t that what you said? Or have you forgotten all about that law degree you’ve got gathering dust? It’ll be fun, won’t it? Just like university all over again. Let’s see who gets the better of the other this time.

There was some more crackling then footsteps then the recording ended with the sound of someone fumbling to press pause. Madeline’s whimpers were the last thing they heard. She looked up now, triumphant, the mobile raised before them like a trophy.

‘Where did you get that?’ DB asked softly.

‘On the weekend. Played right into it, didn’t he? He thought he was so clever installing that security system at the front gate.’

She stowed the mobile safely in her handbag. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve made copies.’

Nell’s stomach dropped. She glanced at DB.

‘That means you breached your intervention order,’ DB said gently. ‘We can’t use it. It’s inadmissible. Plus, you can’t record someone without their consent. We can’t use evidence that has been obtained in an illegal manner.’

Triumph fled from Madeline’s face. ‘But it shows that this is all a game for him. That he’s making it all up.’

‘You’ve breached your order. That’s a criminal offence. He could report you for it and that’s the last thing you need right now. You’re lucky client privilege exists or we’d have to tell the police.’

Madeline’s mouth tightened. ‘So I can’t use it?’

Nell felt the muscles tightening in her chest.

‘We could,’ she spoke up. ‘There is a precedent. It’s up to the magistrate, ultimately, but sometimes they grant an exemption and allow the evidence. It’s happened before. But equally, Davidson might not. Ben’s right. You may end up charged for the breach. It’s a risk you have to make a call on.’

Nell watched as the momentary fight in Madeline seemed to shrivel away. She withered back into her chair, eyes dull, refusing to look at either of them. DB looked torn, unable to decide what to do next, his right hand tapping his biro repeatedly onto the notepad before him. He sprang to his feet abruptly.

‘Nell, can we have a word outside?’

Nell rose, turning to Madeline.

‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?’

‘Merlot, if you’ve got it,’ Madeline replied. ‘That was a joke. I only drink white.’

She smiled to herself, a sad faraway smile. They huddled together outside the consulting room, voices low.

‘We need more,’ DB hissed. ‘That’s the worst attempt at an affidavit I’ve ever seen. It’s more like the Wikipedia synopsis of a very sad movie than an actual legal document. We’ll be eaten alive if that’s what we submit. She’s not doing herself any favours. And what if he reports the breach? Jesus . . .’

He fell back into the wall as if no longer able to support his six-foot frame.

‘Maybe she doesn’t remember?’ Nell offered hesitantly.

DB ran his hands through his hair. ‘Look, while I appreciate that, it’s not going to help her in the end. I’ve seen his. Came through this morning. It’s better. Way better. She comes off as a drunk and a risk to her children. And what she’s giving us in that room isn’t much of an improvement. She’s not a good witness. She can’t remember a bloody thing. And even if we didn’t put her on the witness stand, there’s nothing in that affidavit. She has no story.’

He stepped back, his hands on either side of his face like a panicking child.

‘We could lose this. Shit shit shit. Williams will not be impressed if we lose this. It’s meant to be our resounding pro bono victory. Redefining our whole goddamn social corporate responsibility ethos. They want to feature it in the bloody internal newsletter. And the annual report. I mean, it’s four-fifty an hour we’re not earning for this place. We need to make it count!’

He pulled his hands from his cheeks and started flexing them in front of him as if to tear a hole in the fabric of the space-time continuum through which to travel back to before. What happened to Ned Kelly? Nell thought.

‘It’s . . . stop that. It’s okay. We’ve still got time. Why don’t I speak to her? See if I can convince her to give us more detail?’

She had seen this, back when she was volunteering, the delicacy needed for a system that required its victims to speak the unspeakable. There was one woman, a victim of repeated and degrading sexual assault at the hands of her partner, who had wept openly for the full two hours it took to record her experience. Nell copied it all down because the woman herself refused to have it captured by her own hands in case it stayed there for good. She had done this, attended each session armed with her memories and a box of tissues, then once it was recorded she never returned, her court day coming and going without her.

DB agreed to Nell’s suggestion and fled to make himself an espresso from the pod machine in the kitchen.

‘Are you done whispering about me?’ Madeline asked as Nell took a seat opposite her.

‘Did you ever end up practicing law?’ Nell asked.

This, of all of it, had shaken her the most. That amid all this horror there was something they shared. The question threw Madeline, who gave a half-shrug.

‘No. I meant to, but I took a summer job working in the office of a local politician and then that turned into an actual job, and by the time I thought to go back and do my Articles or whatever it’s called now there didn’t seem much point. Eric seemed so far ahead of me by then it felt like I would be forever catching up, and then the kids came along and I ended up not going back to work at all.’

She raised her hands in mock triumph.

‘So I’m an ideal role model for smart young female lawyers like yourself, obviously.’

‘Do you remember much of it?’ Nell asked, and Madeline made a face.

‘Bits and pieces, I guess. But I’d assume it’s changed somewhat in the last fifteen years. You’d hope so, anyway. The Family Violence Protection Act, for one thing. That’s new. Didn’t think it would be used against me, though. I should have remembered all that rules of evidence stuff. Turning up like I was Sherlock fucking Holmes with my little recording. What an idiot.’

She slapped her palm to her forehead in pantomimic outrage.

‘Well,’ Nell continued. ‘One of the things that is still the same with civil proceedings is that at the end of the day they’re looking at the balance of probabilities that one of you did something wrong. It’s a lower bar than criminal law. In criminal you have to show beyond reasonable doubt that someone did something, but in civil they’re testing the evidence to see if the balance of probabilities is that something did or didn’t happen. Because it’s a cross-application, the magistrate will look at both your stories and evaluate each of them – did this happen and is there a risk of it happening again? So at the end of the day, it’s about who tells the story best; whose version is the most convincing and reliable. Details, evidence – this is what helps to do that.’

Madeline’s eyes were suddenly filled with tears. They tipped over her lids, pooling in the hollows under her eyes.

‘Fucking details. You know the thing about details is that when all is said and done, it’s the details you remember. I couldn’t tell you how many fights we had, how many times he punished me for all the various things I was apparently doing wrong. Hundreds? Thousands? Who knows? But you can bet I remember details. Particular phrases he used. Certain words that he knew were like bamboo under the fingernails. “Failure”, that was one. “Disappointment”. When the boys struggled at school it was because I was a terrible role model for them, sitting around on my fat arse all day doing nothing. Things like that. “I could wrap this car around a tree trunk and orphan our boys.” That one word for word, and I can name the exact point on the exact road where he said it. Mimic the exact fluctuations of his voice and tell you what song was on the radio too. Tina Turner. Ironic, right?’

Madeline raised her eyebrows at this part.

‘But the thing is, do I want all those details in court? Do I want to share them with a magistrate? With you? With that morose pup of a lawyer lurking about outside? It’s bad enough knowing I was stupid enough to put up with it for so long, but to have everyone else know that too?’

Nell swallowed. ‘I understand where you’re coming from. Of course I do. But we want you to win.’

Madeline stared at her, her eyes hard and hollow, until Nell looked away.

‘Do you really think any of us “win” from this situation?’

Nell changed tactics. ‘Tell me about your boys.’

Madeline smirked. ‘Good strategy. Get the woman talking about her kids then use that as leverage.’ She pulled out her phone again, her face set with bitter mirth. ‘Here.’

She flicked through some photos showing two young boys trapped in fits of hysterics. The older one had the same long face as his mother, while the younger one shared her smile. She ended with a photo of the three of them, lying together on a trampoline, their limbs tangled together.

‘The older one is such a serious little man. Very into mechatronics and coding and things like that. And the younger one is the sweetest little bugger. That smile could charm Stalin, and he gets everything he wants, too. So now that we’ve gone down this path, I guess you’re going to tell me that I have to do this for them?’

Nell met Madeline’s hard stare.

‘No. You have to do this for yourself. Write what you can and send it to me, and I promise you we will tell the best story on the day.’