Courtrooms always reminded Paul Harrigan of those miniature mazes into which scientific researchers drove rats against their will. The squared layout with the judge staring directly at the dock and the accused. The witness stand located beside the judge’s high seat, trapping the witness in a vice between the judge and both sets of lawyers. And then the jury side-on in their box, supposedly disinterested assessors instead of disparate individuals who might be confused, bored, or ruled by prejudice. Whatever a courtroom’s vintage, it gave him a sense of claustrophobia to be inside one. Today he was seated in the public gallery at Darlinghurst Court House, where the age of the courtroom gave it a sense of harsh ritual that some modern ones didn’t immediately have. At least, not until the verdict was read out and the sentence handed down, with the usual outcome of leaving everyone involved feeling cheated.
There were too few people in the public gallery for Harrigan to go unnoticed. His tall figure with its dark-fair hair was too easy to spot. Already a journalist had waylaid him to ask what he was doing there, then dropped the snippet into the gossip column on the back page of the Sydney Morning Herald. As sharp-minded as she was, the journalist hadn’t guessed that Harrigan was there for Grace.
Grace had never told him the full story of how she’d got her scar, but she’d said enough for him to put the facts together. Ever since she’d told him about Newell stalking her and throwing petrol over her, he’d made sure he always knew exactly where the man was and what he was doing. Called in favours so that Newell’s request for parole was kept at the back of the queue. Grace would have said she could protect herself. True or not, there was no way he could have sat back and left her to worry about it alone. He had lost too much in his past life to let anything like this remain out of his control, not for someone he cared for as much as he did her. His life had become a gift, made up of a happiness he had never expected to achieve. No one was going to wreck it. What he wanted was for Newell to get the maximum, preferably to spend the rest of his life in gaol. But that was up to the lawyers and the judge and finally the jury, not him.
The prosecution had noticed him in the public gallery as well; he had seen them comment to each other. Whether the defence lawyer, Joel Griffin, knew he was watching, Harrigan couldn’t tell. He hoped not. Chris Newell’s barrister was the last person he wanted to talk to. As to whether Newell knew who he was, he didn’t care about that either. All Harrigan wanted was for him to go down, but the way his barrister was defending him, maybe he wouldn’t.
Once a factotum for organised crime boss Sam Nguyen, Newell had been a useful if minor player in the drug distribution business, until he’d been gaoled for armed robbery five years ago. When he was charged with murder, it had been implied in the tabloids that he’d beaten his cell mate to death on the orders of his former boss, innuendo Nguyen had stridently rejected, going so far as to threaten to sue, and earning himself a few more headlines into the bargain. Harrigan had dismissed the story from the start. According to his intelligence, Nguyen had cut his ties with Newell way back when he was gaoled for robbery.
Harrigan had heard of Joel Griffin before this trial but didn’t know much about him. He seemed to be a middling Sydney criminal lawyer with no flamboyant habits and who did nothing to attract attention to himself. His practice was irregular at best. There were years when he hadn’t worked at all. When his name did appear in the court records, it was on low-key cases where he represented the foot soldiers or lower-level lieutenants of various criminal organisations. Most of the time, he won these cases. When he’d taken on Newell’s defence, people had said he had no chance; the prosecution’s case was unassailable; he and his client would get eaten alive.
Harrigan had soon decided the opposite. Griffin was giving a performance many other more highly paid and better-known barristers would have envied. He dealt with the prosecution witnesses clinically, pitilessly destroying their credibility and chipping away at the crown’s supposedly rock-solid case. He represented the victim for what he was: a man with a history as violent as Newell’s. More than once, he had outmanoeuvred the prosecution on points of law. Griffin was well on his way to constructing a convincing argument that Newell had acted in self-defence, that the victim’s death had been the consequence of a series of wild punches thrown in desperation instead of a sustained and brutal beating. Best of all, he had the right judge. Justice Marian O’Connor was scrupulously fair, concerned with the niceties of the law and always leaned towards the benefit of the doubt.
Harrigan would have been worried if there hadn’t been one other person in the courtroom determined to convict the accused—Newell himself. His fair curled hair and good-looking face made him appear less dangerous and damaged than he was, but Harrigan had dealt with men like Newell throughout his years on the job. Their violence was always waiting on a hair trigger. Violence like the kind that was erupting now, with Newell beginning to shout at the prosecution witness, another prisoner who looked like he wanted to be almost anywhere else.
‘You fucking liar. Who paid you to get up there and talk that fucking shit? I’ll get you, you cunt!’
He exploded in the dock, fists flying, wrestling with the guards who pounced on him.
‘Take him down,’ the judge ordered. ‘Mr Griffin, you can tell your client he is looking at charges of contempt of court at the least. I have to say, his behaviour today is of a piece with his behaviour throughout. As his counsel, you should advise him that treating these proceedings with this degree of contempt does his case no good at all. Court is adjourned until tomorrow.’
The judge’s advice said it all. Griffin might not win the case, but he was skilled enough to get his client a reduced sentence for manslaughter. Newell, on the other hand, was inviting the jury to convict him for cold-blooded murder.
Griffin took the lecture in his stride. He got to his feet with a slight bow. ‘I thank Your Honour for her advice and I will convey it to my client at the first opportunity,’ he said coolly before gathering up his papers.
Harrigan was on his way out of the building when an attendant stopped him and handed him Griffin’s card. Please wait for me at the main entrance, Griffin had written on the back. I want to talk to you.
He’d been noticed after all. Harrigan felt an unpleasant spark of dread. Newell was connected to matters too private and sensitive for him to meet his defence counsel without wondering what might be in the man’s mind. Who knew what had passed between them as client and barrister? If any of Grace’s past history with Newell was ever made public, she would find it devastating. Supposedly Griffin would be bound by client confidentiality, but if so, why ask to see him?
Shortly afterwards, Griffin appeared in the foyer.
‘Joel Griffin,’ he said. ‘We haven’t met before but I’ve heard about you. Hi.’
‘Paul Harrigan. What can I do for you?’
They shook hands as they introduced themselves. Griffin had a disconcertingly weak grip; as if the touch of someone else’s hand was distasteful to him. His clothes were of good quality and had a tailored look, appearing more pricey than a part-time, cut-rate barrister should have been able to afford. A small badge was pinned to his lapel: Gromit, the dog from the Aardman Wallace and Gromit animations, who reads Engineering for Dogs while saving his accident-prone owner from disaster. Griffin saw Harrigan looking at it.
‘I’m a fan,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘Yeah, they make me laugh.’
Face to face, Griffin was more impressive than in the courtroom. In his early forties, he was solidly built and his colouring was unusual: very pale skin, black hair and blue eyes. He was tall enough to look Harrigan in the eye and did so almost unblinkingly.
‘Would you mind walking out with me while we talk?’ he said. ‘I need to get a taxi on Oxford Street.’
‘Not a problem. I was going that way myself,’ Harrigan replied.
‘You’re a consultant these days,’ Griffin said.
‘That’s right. I advise individuals and companies how to manage their security and also how to control their legal affairs. It’s all on my website.’
It would have been more accurate for Harrigan to say he advised people on how to protect themselves from both the law and the police. This was a definition he kept to himself.
‘I’ve checked your website.’ Griffin spoke without sociability. ‘You’ve done work for any number of people. State and federal governments, private companies. Important companies, some very large ones. You’re a solicitor. It even says you’re proficient in Indonesian. You must make a lot of money.’
Harrigan ignored the jibe. Bizarrely, there seemed to be almost a touch of envy in Griffin’s tone. ‘I spent some time in Indonesia a number of years ago when I was on secondment with the Australian Federal Police. I learned the language while I was there. Why?’
‘That’s a lot of firepower for someone who’s interested in this trial,’ Griffin said. ‘You’ve been here every day so far. Is there someone you’re advising who’s asked you to watch this case so closely?’
‘Let me ask you a question first. You must know who your client is and the kind of people this case is connecting you to. Are you representing Newell on your own or are your services being paid for by someone else? And do those people want to know why I’m here?’
Griffin laughed. ‘No, Sam Nguyen’s not paying me. In fact, everyone from Chris’s past is running for cover as fast as they can. I don’t think he realises how alone he is. But you’ve got connections of your own, to the police obviously. Maybe they’re at work here.’
You have done your homework, Harrigan thought.
‘Does this mean you’re doing this case pro bono?’ he asked.
Griffin hesitated before replying. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Then you can ignore the fact that I’m here. It’s got nothing to do with anyone.’
Griffin didn’t like the rebuff. There was a slight flush in his face when he spoke again.
‘There’s another side to you that’s not on your website,’ he said. ‘There’s any number of newspaper articles out there. Years of dealing with Sydney’s crime bosses while people asked what your connections to those bosses really were.’
‘Exactly what they should have been. Straight as a ruler. Is that something you want to discuss in court?’
‘You’re the man who didn’t want to be Police Commissioner. That’s not something everyone can boast about. And then there’s your partner as well.’
‘She’s got nothing to do with this. You’d be a fool to think she did.’
‘One thing I’m not is a fool,’ Griffin said.
‘Then don’t talk like one, mate,’ Harrigan replied calmly.
Griffin looked at him, his expression as if the shutters had come down. There might have been nothing in his mind. They had reached Oxford Street and were standing just outside the court house’s dark-honey sandstone gateway. Harrigan again asked himself how much this man might know. If Griffin thought he had a case for blackmail, he would tell him soon enough. Maybe it was time to take the offensive.
‘I’ve checked you out too,’ he said. ‘You don’t have a high profile. No one knows much about you at all. There are times in the past when you might as well have been living in Greenland. Why did you take Newell on, particularly pro bono? Did you think there was something in this for you?’
‘I thought he needed good representation. There’s a lot of interesting information in Chris’s head. Some of it’s pretty scrambled but you can usually sort out what’s true and what’s not.’
‘You’d want to be very careful with anything he told you,’ Harrigan replied, a man offering friendly advice. ‘Given the people he mixes with, you’d probably end up putting your head in a noose. The best thing you could do is keep it to yourself.’
‘I’ve seen pictures of your partner online,’ Griffin said. ‘You and her together. She’s a very attractive woman. But she’s got a scar. You can just see it in the pictures. It runs from here to here.’ He touched his chin and then the top of his breastbone. ‘It must have been a nasty cut.’
Harrigan took a step forward, close enough to Griffin to have taken hold of him by the collar if he’d wanted to. He pointed a finger in his face. ‘You involve yourself in my affairs and you’ll be picking up the pieces for a long time afterwards. You remember that and you mind your own business as of now. Because I’ve got nothing for you. Not now, not ever.’
‘You care about her, don’t you? Why else would you be here? Even if you haven’t married her. And there’s your daughter. You’d care about her too, wouldn’t you?’
Harrigan dropped his voice. ‘You’re one step away, mate. Say another word…’
Griffin moved back. He smiled and put on a pair of wrap-around sunglasses. Now Harrigan was looking at his own reflection.
‘You want to know what’s in it for me? Chris is my client and I’m defending him. Simple as that. It’s a pity he won’t cooperate with me. If he did, he might be out of gaol before the end of the year. But there he is right now. On his way back to Long Bay.’
Harrigan turned. Two unmarked police cars had appeared in convoy at the intersection of Oxford Street and Darlinghurst Road. The first was an escort car; the second carried Newell sitting between two plain-clothes officers. They were waiting to turn left onto Oxford.
‘What are they doing here? Why didn’t they ask for a van to take Newell back?’ Harrigan said.
Griffin made no reply.
As the cars made the turn, two motorbikes came roaring alongside them. The riders shot first into the cars’ tyres then into the cars themselves before slaloming out of the way. The cars slewed dangerously. A heavy four-wheel-drive broke through the lights and rammed into the car carrying Newell, smashing it halfway onto the pavement, causing the passers-by to run. The escort car had skewed to a stop at a dangerous angle across the road, blocking both lanes.
One motorbike rider had shot into the escort car while the second fired at people around the scene, keeping them at bay. Pedestrians hit the footpath. Harrigan dragged Griffin to the ground. Bullets echoed around them.
The driver of the four-wheel-drive got out and shot into the prisoner’s car, smashing the glass. He was wearing a balaclava. ‘Open it!’ he yelled at the driver. The back door on the intact side was opened and the gunman shot the driver at point-blank range. One of the guards, clearly wounded, was pushed out onto the road, Newell tumbling after him. Dragging some kind of cutter out of his pocket, the gunman cut the handcuffs that joined the two men together.
Then it was all over. The driver of the four-wheel-drive and Newell were on the back of the two motorbikes, roaring out of sight.
Harrigan and Griffin got to their feet. Griffin’s sunglasses had been knocked off in the fall and had landed some distance away on the footpath. He went and got them before brushing himself down. He touched his lapel. ‘I’ve lost my badge.’ His face and voice were calm. ‘Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!’ he said, sounding almost like a schoolboy. ‘Trigger-happy people. They really like using their guns.’ He matched his words with the feigned action of shooting at the people lying on the road.
‘Are you okay, mate?’ Harrigan asked, wondering if the reaction might be shock.
‘I’m fine. There’s my badge.’ He bent down and picked it up. ‘The pin’s broken.’
‘Wait here for the police,’ Harrigan said. ‘They’ll want your statement.’
Griffin looked at Harrigan. His eyes showed no emotion. ‘Don’t call me mate,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you worried about your client?’
‘Why should I be? You’d have to say his troubles are over.’
Harrigan would have said they were just starting but he didn’t have time to talk to Griffin any longer. He ran to the scene through the chaos of stopped traffic. Passers-by were getting shakily to their feet. When he reached the prisoner’s car, he saw the driver clearly dead, one guard lying seriously wounded on the road and the other bleeding and unconscious in the back. There was another dead man at the wheel of the escort car, while his partner was sprawled on the road, wounded and bleeding, unable to move.
A man shouted over the ruckus. ‘I’m from St Vincent’s, we’ve got help coming. Stay calm.’
‘I’m a doctor,’ a woman called and hurried to the wounded man lying on the road by the escort car.
Harrigan returned to the prisoner’s car to help the two wounded men there. ‘We need another doctor over here and quickly,’ he yelled back. Around him, car horns rose to a blaring cacophony. On what should have been a quiet autumn day in Sydney, all hell had broken loose.