MURDER BRIEF (5 page)

Robyn thought she was a lesbian
until she learnt she had a husband and three kids. She’d never met
the husband, but if only ten per cent of Silvia’s complaints were
true, he was a truly pathetic specimen.

That afternoon, Robyn wandered
into Silvia’s room and found her at her desk, reading a brief and
smoking a hand-made cigarette.

Silvia looked startled and
instinctively waved away the incriminating smoke. "Robyn. Fuck.
Thank God you’re not the building supervisor. He’s on the prowl
right now. What’s cooking in crime?"

Robyn was reluctant to mention
getting the Markham brief, because she’d have to reveal Brian Davis
was her benefactor. But Silvia would eventually find out. "Oh, I
just got a junior brief in a big case."

"Really? Who’s the punter?"

"Rex Markham."

Silvia looked shocked and her
hand twitched. A plug of cigarette ash skittered across her desk
and napalmed the ragged carpet. "Wow. Congrats. That’ll be a
blockbuster. Who’s your leader?"

The question she’d feared. "Umm,
Brian Davis."

A sardonic smile danced across
Silvia’s lips and ignited her cheeks. "Oh, really? You’ve been his
junior before, haven’t you?"

"Yeah, a few weeks ago."

"So how’d you get this
guernsey?"

"Well, it seems Brian
recommended me to his solicitor."

Silvia elevated heavy eyebrows.
"Really? That was very nice of him."

"It was, wasn’t it?"

Silvia leered. "Goodness, he
must think you’re an able barrister - very, very able indeed."

Robyn put her hands on her hips.
"What are you suggesting, you evil woman? I didn’t fuck him, if
that’s what you think."

Silvia sucked on her cigarette
and blew out a plume of smoke, like a femme fatale in a 40s movie.
"Oh, no, I’m not suggesting that at all. But it’s quite possible,
of course, that you got the brief because
he wants
to fuck
you."

Robyn crossed her arms. "You
mean, you don’t think I deserve the brief on merit?"

"I’m sure you do. But let’s face
it, he’s a known womaniser. In fact, I’ve heard he’s a one-man
bonking team. And you are not unattractive, even if you could dress
better."

"Thank you, I think. But I’m not
responsible for his behaviour. All I can say is that I haven’t
bonked him and won’t bonk him. In fact, about a week ago, he asked
me out to dinner and I turned him down flat."

"Yet he still wants you as his
junior in the Markham case?"

"Yeah. So maybe he thinks I’m
the best person for the job."

Silvia giggled. "Or he’s
completely smitten and won’t take ‘no’ for an answer."

Robyn shrugged. "If he is,
that’s his problem. I’m not interested - not at all."

"You sure about that?"

"Definitely."

"He’s quite good-looking and
bloody successful."

"So what? He’s not my type."

"Why not?"

"Too self-satisfied, for a
start. He could only ever love himself."

Silvia’s eyebrows danced
merrily. "My goodness, what an unusual barrister."

Robyn sighed. "You know, on
reflection, maybe I should have refused the brief."

"Why?"

"Because a lot of people will
probably think I’m shagging him."

"No they won’t."

"You did."

"True. But I’ve got a dirty
mind. You’d be insane to give it up. Keep it and do a good
job."

Robyn nodded. "Don’t worry, I
will."

"Good. Let’s celebrate your good
fortune." Silvia opened a drawer and fished out a whiskey bottle
and a couple of glasses, which she puts on the desk.

Robyn frowned. "It’s a bit
early."

"Rubbish. It’s already past
five."

"Actually, it’s only
four-thirty".

"Close enough. Come on, one
glass won’t hurt you."

"OK. Just one."

Silvia filled the two glasses
and handed one over.

Silvia took a gulp and smirked.
"You know, Brian Davis isn’t your only admirer. You’ve got one on
this floor."

Robyn mentally surveyed the male
barristers who belonged to Fisher Chambers. None had caught her
fancy. Indeed, she’d rarely seen so many sub-standard specimens.
Their drawbacks ranged from alcoholism to slothful manners,
gayness, obesity and excessive use of cologne. Most would look
better with their wigs on backwards. She couldn’t pick her admirer
and was reluctant to be told.

Morbid curiosity triumphed.
"Really? Who?"

"Gary Monaghan’s been asking me
about you."

Christ. She hadn’t thought of
him. This explained why he popped into her room for a chat.

Robyn said: "You’re kidding,
right?"

"No. I think he likes you."

"How do you know?"

"Because he asked me about your
background and wanted to know if you’re married or seeing
anyone."

"You’re joking?"

"No."

"Why’d he want that
information?"

Silvia drained her glass and
started rolling another cigarette. "Don’t play dumb, dearie. I’m
sure he wants to drag you into bed."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I said you’re fertile, single
and desperate."

Robyn looked horrified. "You
didn’t?"

"No. I only told him you were
single."

"He’s quite nice, but he’s very,
very dull." She pretended to yawn.

"You sure? I think he’s just
shy, which is a pretty rare commodity these days, particularly
around here."

Robyn was a little surprised
that Silvia, who usually savaged the men on the floor, had spoken
up for Gary. But it didn’t matter. He lacked panache.

"Sorry, there's no chemistry,
I’m afraid."

Silvia blew out another plume of
smoke and held up the whiskey bottle. "Your call, dearie. Now,
finish that glass and have another drop."

Robyn drained her glass and
praying that Gary Monaghan left her alone. Fortunately, he seemed
to shy to make trouble.

Robyn rented a small terrace in
Glebe with a friend, Veronica Schubert, who worked as a corporate
solicitor at a huge legal fee factory called
Douglas, Martin
& Ross
, better known as
Double-Cross
. Whenever Robyn
worried she was too ambitious and driven, she consoled herself that
Veronica was much worse.
Double-Cross
was basically a
vertical gulag, except that inmates were allowed to wear suits and
sleep at home. Only the strong survived. But Veronica loved it. She
worked ridiculously long hours to meet outrageous billing targets.
After five years at the firm she was already a senior associate
and, in a few more, would become an equity partner with an office
overlooking the harbour and no life outside work.

In her miniscule spare time, she
exercised, shopped, read self-improvement books and chased men with
demented energy. She was rarely home before eight o’clock. So that
evening, when Robyn opened the front door, she was surprised to
find the lights on.

"Veronica, you home?"

Veronica yelled back: "Yoo-hoo,
in the kitchen."

Robyn dropped her briefcase at
the bottom of the stairs and wandered out to the kitchen.
Veronica’s spidery frame was hunched over the bench, chopping
zucchinis while humming to herself and bouncing around as if at a
nightclub.

Robyn said: "How was life in the
salt mine today?"

"Frantic. A big client wants us
to sue a competitor. Now we’re working like crazy."

"Who’s the client?"

"Can’t say: market-sensitive
information."

"Who’s the competitor?"

"Can’t tell you that
either."

"What’s the case about?"

"Ditto."

Robyn didn’t want the details
anyway. She’d never been interested in commercial litigation
because there was little human drama: just big corporations
slugging it out over sums that meant nothing to any of them.

Veronica tossed some zucchini
slices into a pot. "How was your day?"

"Not bad. Got a fantastic new
brief."

"Really? Who for?"

Robyn grinned. "Would you
believe, Rex Markham?"

Veronica turned and stared.
"Shit. You’re kidding?"

"No. I’ll be junior counsel at
his trial in about three weeks."

Veronica smiled. "That’s great.
Fantastic. How’d you snag that one?"

"You know that silk I worked
with a couple of weeks ago?"

"Brian Davis - the one who asked
you out to dinner?"

"Yes. He put in a good word for
me."

Veronica frowned. "I don’t
understand. You said ‘no’ to dinner, but he got you this brief.
Mmm. What’s going on?"

Robyn shrugged. "Don’t know.
Don’t care. All I know is that when someone offers you a brief in a
big murder trial, for a client who’s paying top dollar, you take
it, no questions asked."

"Of course. But it sounds like
he’s interested in you. So, if I was you, I’d hump him without
delay."

Robyn frowned. "You’ve never
even met the guy."

"True. But he’s a silk and has
no major disfigurements. That’s all I need to know."

"He’s also jumped into bed with
almost every woman at the Bar."

"Then why miss out?"

"You’re incorrigible. Why’re you
home so early?"

"Steve’s dropping over."

Veronica had been carrying on an
affair with a married partner at her firm called "Steve" for
several months. Robyn had met him several times when he dropped
over for a quick shag, but still didn’t know his surname.

"You mean, Steve from your
firm?"

"Yeah. His wife’s visiting her
parents for a few days. She’s taken the kids. So he’s riding his
bike over. I hope you don’t mind."

Actually, Robyn did mind -
minded a lot - because she was starting to feel like a
co-conspirator. But there was nothing she could do short of move
out.

She shrugged. "It’s up to
you."

"Thanks."

Robyn looked at the food on the
bench. "What’re you making?"

Veronica finished chopping the
zucchini. "A vegetable risotto. You’re welcome to join us if you
want."

"Oh, no, you don’t want me."

"Don’t be stupid. There’s heaps
of food."

She didn’t want to seem rude or
judgmental and was hungry. "OK then. I’ll get changed."

Robyn went upstairs, had a quick
shower and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. Back downstairs, she
found Steve sitting on a kitchen stool. He was in great shape for a
man in his late thirties, wearing bicycle shorts and a Lycra
singlet that barely contained his ropey muscles. His curly blond
hair was damp and face flushed. Hard to believe his job was to
advise on major finance transactions. Robyn would have found him
quite attractive if he wasn’t a cheating bastard.

Robyn said: "Hi Steve."

"Hello."

She hesitated, not sure which
topics were safe. "How’s work?"

"Fine, fine. Busy, of
course."

Fortunately, Veronica said the
food was ready and started serving the risotto.

While they ate, Veronica and
Steve gossiped about their firm: which factions were ascending and
descending; who was sleeping with whom; who would soon make partner
and who would soon get the boot.

Everything about the
conversation was depressing: the smallness of the topics, the
meanness of the attacks and the helplessness of the targets.
Neither worried about the big questions in life or clocking down
towards death. They would spend the rest of their lives hiding in
suits and finding meaning in timesheets; they would divide their
lives into billable units and hand their self-images to performance
review committees. Their conversation convinced Robyn that she
would never, ever work in a big law firm again, no matter what.

Afterwards, she cleaned up while
Veronica and Steve slipped upstairs. Soon they were whimpering like
torture victims. She turned on the dishwasher to drown them
out.

In desperation, she went into
the living room and tried to watch an American court-room drama,
but kept wanting to object to the stupid fucking questions the hero
kept asking witnesses. The judge was also a moron who knew nothing
about the laws of evidence. They should have put the scriptwriters
in the dock.

The rodeo was still underway in
Veronica’s room when she slipped up to bed. For a while, she’d been
considering moving out and living on her own. Maybe it was time to
act.

The next morning, Robyn strolled
several blocks to the District Court Building for the sentencing
hearing of a client called Felix Basten.

Felix was once a senior
executive at a plastics factory. The cause of his downfall was an
addiction to gambling and almost uncanny ability to lose money on
horses, poker machines, greyhounds, cards, stock options and
foreign-currency swaps. After losing all of his own money, he stole
from his employer. That was easy because Felix was responsible for
paying the firm’s building insurance premiums. Instead, he gambled
that money away, losing almost $1.1 million in three years.

Then he lost his biggest bet. He
arrived at work one morning and found the main factory engulfed in
flames. He cruised past the assembled fire engines and drove
straight home, where he scoffed half-dozen Valium, climbed into bed
and pulled the blankets over his head.

However, the world would not
leave him alone. The company soon discovered it had no building
insurance and, within a month, Felix was charged with eleven counts
of embezzlement, to which he pleaded guilty.

Robyn made her plea in
mitigation to Judge Tony Tuck while her client sat in the dock with
waxy skin, cherry-red eyes and several days of stubble. His shirt
collar gaped away from his scrawny neck. His distressed wife sat in
the back of the court.

Robyn spent half-an-hour
pleading for the judge to be lenient because Felix was an honest
and loving family man battling the demon of addiction.