The Glass Mountain (17 page)

43

The card reads ‘Adrian C. Chalmers, Barrister and Solicitor'.

At 9.55 Ossie is standing in the street staring into dark glass that rises, box-shaped, to five levels. He pushes a double pane and walks in. The clock over reception says ten.

‘Yes?' A girl in a leather skirt, her hair woven in a plait, half smiles. She knows the op shop label when she sees it. The rolled up cuffs a giveaway.

‘I've got an appointment with Adrian C. Chalmers.'

‘And your name?'

‘Austin Ingram.'

The girl gives her plait a flick, a button a press, and says to a machine, “Your 10 o'clock appointment's here, Mr Chalmers.' And to Ossie, ‘Take a seat, he won't be long.'

There are magazines on the glass table but he just sits. He studies the room and the painting on the wall — a jumble of squares and triangles entitled ‘Night in the City'.

Now a door opens and a man appears. He walks towards him and holds out his hand. ‘Adrian Chalmers,' he says.

His room is glass-blown too. All glass and leather and green things growing in silver stands.

Ossie thinks, I've seen you before. You're the man in the grey suit who was at the hospital.

There's silence while the man reads something, writes something and sorts through papers. Finally he looks up.

‘You are Austin Ingram of no fixed address?'

‘Yeah.'

‘You were acquainted with the late Mrs Esther Ellis?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I'm the executor of her estate. And it is my duty to inform you that you are a beneficiary under her will.' He pauses, leans back in his chair and studies his client. ‘Haven't I seen you somewhere before?' he says.

‘At the hospital, outside her room.'

‘Ah — and you were going in?'

‘Yeah.'

He leans forward again, scribbles something, then looks up. ‘May I ask how you came to know Mrs Ellis?'

‘I knocked her over in the street,' Ossie replies. And suddenly he begins to tell this person things he thought he'd never share with anyone — even the wayfaring and the planning of her pink and mauve garden …

Finally he stops. He stares at his hands. Makes fists.

‘That's a nice story,' says Adrian Chalmers.

‘Did you know her? I mean —'

‘Years ago,' he replies. ‘In another place. Then I met her again, here — as you did, in the street.'

‘What was she like before …?'

‘The same. Bodies change, natures don't. Neither, I think, do eyes or voices … She always knew exactly what she wanted —' The man smiles a quick, private smile. ‘And as far as you're concerned, what she wanted was for you to have a start in life. To that end, as I said, you're a beneficiary.'

‘But she's only known me —'

‘She made a second will.'

Ossie is silent. Again the man jots something down. ‘I believe that you're leaving for the city,' he says.

‘Yeah.'

‘You must advise me as to where you can be contacted as soon as you arrive. We're talking about a substantial amount of money. One hundred thousand dollars to be precise.' Adrian Chalmers, Barrister and Solicitor, pauses. ‘Mr Ingram,' he says, ‘you're a wealthy young man.'

44

The rains have come. For two days clouds have been gathering, massing together, turning from white to grey to black. Hanging low. And now the rains have come again. And the wind with them.

At the glass doors Sheralyn Smythe waits, stares into the sweeping squall. She re-reads her notes, quotes Corinthians to plate glass, sees the bus crawl past, its wipers whirring, and the police car loom largely and pull into the entrance. She flicks up her umbrella and runs.

Today he's wearing formal gear. She, a formal suit.

‘You look lovely, Sherry,' he says.

‘Did you fix it?'

‘I did my best. They only got here yesterday.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Just that I could guarantee he wouldn't be taking off — that it'd be real important to him to say good-bye to her. They're human beings, Sherry. CID see a lot of sad, mixed-up stuff …'

‘You're a good person, Dan. And I love you.'

‘I love you too.'

The car turns left onto bitumen. Sheralyn stares into the rain, gives a sad little laugh. ‘Ossie will approve of today,' she says. ‘Kept on about dying in the sunshine …'

They glide into the main street.

‘I hope —' says Dan, ‘I hope he'll be —'

‘He's stronger than he thinks,' Sheralyn replies.

They pull up. Outside the funeral parlour stands the hearse, rain splattering onto its roof. Around and about people click umbrellas closed and move in.

On the outskirts of the town, at the end of a dirt road, is the cemetery. Now the rain beats from the west, splashes on tombstones, fills cracks in the marble, runs in tiny rivulets between slabs …

Beneath a tree Ossie huddles and watches two men in coats and boots at the Ellis vault make ready. Soon they'll all be here, all saying nice things — kind words. Kind words claw flesh, blind eyes. He knows. So here he'll stay. He shivers, pulls his jacket collar higher and draws tight to the tree.

The rain pelts down …

Again he peers down the road. They're coming. He edges further into the bark. Suddenly the black one in front stops. Four, five cars — Marion's bus too — bank up. Heads poke from windows. The hearse is bogged, stuck in the mud at the side of the road. How she'd laugh at that — he can see her. Then with a roar and a whirr and a spraying up over those behind, all nicely cleaned and polished, it's off again and through the gate and bumpety bumping along this lane and that until it stops. And the others behind it.

From his hiding place Ossie watches. Sees the small gathering under black umbrellas pick their way forward. Sees Sheralyn, Dan, Horace and others. Sees Max in a wheel chair with Kate. Sees Adrian Chalmers. Sees Marjorie Butcher with her husband, the nurse with frizzy hair. Sees the coffin wobble forward. Sees an arrangement of flowers, pink and mauve.

Hears the mumble of speech. The minister's wet and getting wetter. Mumbles faster. He lifts up his eyes to the hills. But the rain blinds.

Something makes Ossie glance around. A car has pulled up on the other side of the road, quite close to where he stands. An ordinary looking car — dark blue. He can see the outline of two men sitting in the front.

He turns back and continues his watch. They're lowering her in or they already have. He can't tell.

Now umbrellas shudder, stagger, make for the road. The gravediggers pick up shovels …

And the cars begin to edge away.

When they've gone, the gravediggers too, he'll go over and talk to her …

The blue car is still there. It hasn't moved off with the rest. As he watches, the doors open and two men in raincoats step out. They walk quickly, heads bent against the squall. They disappear, then surface again. They're in the graveyard, but they're not making for her. Not stopping to talk, to promise that while they live their love'll stop the dark from closing up …

They're slopping between slabs, kicking up mud. Making for the tree. His tree. Him.

Two men in raincoats. Broad. Tall. Though he is taller.

‘Are you Austin Ingram?'

‘Yeah.'

‘You're under arrest for the murder of Esther Ellis. I must warn you that you're not obliged to say or do anything but that anything you do say or do may be recorded and given in evidence.'

There's no reply, no sound except for the singing rain.

And the dull echo of falling earth.

PART 3

THE HOUSE OF JUDGEMENT

“Mr Clerk, will you tell us, please, what is the very stiffest penalty we can impose for this offence? Without, of course, giving the prisoner the benefit of any doubt, because there isn't any.”

The Wind in the Willows
Kenneth Grahame

1

The Supreme Court is the highest court in the state. It rises from the street step by stone step to granite columns, to arched walkways dark with shadow, with serious statuary. It rises to entrances with iron faces, to windows curtained from the light. And higher still to the giant carapace that looms above the street. The Supreme Court dome.

Today, upon it, the nation's flag hangs limply.

Today's trial has caused a stir, on the streets, in the media, over the back fence. Everyone's taking a position, has a point of view. There's debating on the box, experts experting, a flurry of proing and conning.

In the streets they've already assembled, right to the anti-abortionists.

Rain pitter-patters over umbrellas, drips onto placards and blurs script.

The gathering grows. Trams rattle past. ‘Ding your bell if you support …' Ding ding, ding ding.

It's winter. The morning is chill, still, with silent rain. Lights glow from street lamps, office buildings, the court.

By the stone steps the gathering swells.

At 10.20 a police van rolls into a back lane and pulls up. Men in uniform and armed get out and hurry the day's accused in through a side door.

On the streets outside, the chanting grows.

The Supreme Court tries the heinous crimes — murder, kidnapping, rape. It looks a bit like a theatre arranged for a play — with heavy drapes, special boxes and benches where judges, barristers, instructing solicitors and others sit, rise and perform their parts. It is lit from above by a huge chandelier that casts light into dull corners and creates shadows on people's faces.

The gallery is full and the many who have missed out are left to huddle together in the drifting rain.

Inside, the onlookers nudge each other and point out the bar table, its lecterns and microphones, the defence counsel on the left, the prosecution on the right, the jury seated in two rows, five down, seven up, the press gallery, the dock where the accused will sit, the wooden curlicued witness box. They look towards the judge's associate's mini-bench, where, too, the tipstaff sits. Like in a theatre, he is the person who sees that the props are in place.

They study the stenographer's desk where a transcript of the trial will be made, and lastly the bench, the Rococco gull-winged cupola — the judge's throne.

Now a hush descends as the accused is led in. A murmur rolls along the pews. He's taller than he looks on the box, but his hair's just as lovely, so black and curly. He wears grey trousers, a blue tie and a jacket. He stands in the dock, an officer on either side. He stands there, taking in colours and shapes, and sees a familiar figure seated below him. Sheralyn winks. Ossie winks back.

On the dot of 10.30, to an ‘All rise' and a ‘God save the Queen', the judge enters.

Mr Justice Hepburn adjusts his glasses and fiddles with his papers.

In the foyer, witnesses for the prosecution sit and count floor tiles, wooden panels. And wait.

Inside, the judge's associate calls, ‘The Queen versus Austin Eric Ingram', and proceeds to read the charge. The room is told that, at his arraignment, the accused entered a plea of not guilty.

Now the judge will deliver the prologue, his opening address to the jury. He turns to the twelve just citizens, he exhorts the severity of their office. He reminds them that they must weigh up the evidence for themselves, being mindful that if the accused is found guilty he must be found guilty beyond reasonable doubt. He pauses, writes something down, then calls upon Mr Timothy James QC, Counsel for the Prosecution, to make his opening address.

Mr Timothy James stands and faces the jury.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,' he begins. His voice woos, proclaims wealth and privilege. He clasps his hands behind his back, occasionally raising one in gesture. He apprises them of the nature of the case. He states that he will call witnesses to attest to the criminality of the accused and set before them irrefutable evidence that will confirm an intention to end the life of an elderly, vulnerable lady for the sole purpose of monetary gain. His learned friend, he says, will play on their compassion, describe a life blighted by violence and neglect, but he, Timothy James QC, will uphold the law and calls upon the ‘ladies and gentlemen of the jury' to do the same.

He flicks back his gown and sits.

Now comes the counsel for the defence, who states that the witnesses he will call will not only refute the evidence of the prosecution but will attest to a genuine bond that grew between two people of similar circumstances and with similar needs. A bond that led to the intellectual and moral development of one who had suffered societal and cultural impoverishment. He goes on to describe a past that ‘but for a quirk of fate, ladies and gentleman, could be your past. And mine.'

Counsel for the defence, like a deflating balloon, descends into his seat. Behind him in the dock stands his client, Austin Ingram. The accused.

‘I've been assigned to your case,' he'd said.

He opens a battered briefcase and takes out a lunch-box.

‘Like a banana?'

‘No thanks.'

‘Been in court all morning.' Mr Daryl Nunn gollops thick bread and sausage. Large lunch, large lawyer. His suit sags in folds and curls dustily upon outsize shoes.

‘I've been assigned to your case,' he repeats, brushing fruitcake from a folder. He read, ‘Austin Eric Ingram.' He looks up. ‘Well, Austin —'

‘Ossie. Ossie with an O.'

Daryl Nunn studies his client. It's a bonus when they're good looking and this one is. Very. He reminded him of someone, some film star. Before colour.

On the grey-painted wall a clock ticks, the only fixture in this room except for a table and two chairs. The only players are the law, the law breaker and the keeper on the other side of a steel door.

Mr Daryl Nunn attacks a banana. ‘The arraignment's the day after tomorrow,' he mumbles. ‘That means you're brought before the court to answer the indictment — the charge. In other words, we put in a plea.' He starts on an apple. ‘The judge will say, “Austin Eric Ingram you have been charged with the murder of da da da da da how do you plead?” And you'll say, “Guilty”.'

‘Not guilty.'

‘You don't understand.' Counsel for the defence clips his lunchbox closed and props his glasses over flabby flesh. ‘You plead guilty. I tell the judge how kind and loving you were to the old girl —'

‘Essie.'

‘That she was dying anyway, in pain and all that. I tell him what the director lady, and others, have had to say … Then the prosecutor pops up and goes on about the money she left you and he'll try to get in a bit about your past, which I will challenge, it having no bearing on this case … The judge will listen, weigh it all up, bring in a verdict of manslaughter and you'll probably get five years. It's not perfect, but it's the best you can hope for. Mercy killing, euthansia — whatever you like to call it — regardless of how humanitarian your motive, is against the law.' The lawyer closes the folder and looks at the clock.

Ossie leans towards him. ‘It wasn't murder,' he says softly.

‘Have you been listening?'

‘You explain things most jurisprudently, er — what do I call you?'

‘Daryl.'

‘Daryl, an' that's very excellent. But I'm not pleading guilty. It wasn't murder an' that's what I'm charged with.'

‘Are you suggesting that you were not responsible for this woman's death?'

‘I'm not saying that.'

‘Then what are you saying?'

‘It wasn't murder.'

Daryl Nunn, junior barrister, funded by legal aid, takes off his glasses, wipes away sweat and puts them back on. ‘Ossie, we're talking about the law. The judicial system …'

‘I've been acquainted with the law quite intimately, Daryl, as you know. But according to the very excellent Oxford dictionary what's right here in this establishment, the definition of murder is “To kill (a human being) unlawfully with malice aforethought”.'

There is a pause. Daryl Nunn shakes his head.

‘She was your friend, eh?'

‘I wouldn't have hurt her, Daryl. I couldn't have.'

‘Ossie, I understand what you're saying and it's very commendable. But you'd better listen to me and listen hard. If you plead not guilty you'll hang around here for anything up to two years, then you'll go to trial. Trial by jury in the Supreme Court. A trial that could last for days, where everything— and I mean everything — will come out. All your past. They'll miss nothing … Ossie, you've no comprehension of what it's like to be cross-examined by a top QC … I've seen grown men shredded — turned into quivering wrecks. And then what? Twenty five years? Life? The term of your natural life — on a one-way journey of a thousand miles, never to be released … And what if, for argument's sake, the judge or the prosecutor — or both — are Right to Lifers?' The man pauses, takes in dark eyes, wants to see them smile. ‘Ossie, you're being romantic when you should be practical. Do you think the old girl —'

‘Essie.'

‘Do you think Essie would want you languishing in gaol for the rest of your life? And don't think that the truth — as you see it — will set you free. They'd fry you.'

‘Daryl —'

‘No.' Counsel for the defence picks up his briefcase and thunders to the door. ‘Think about what I've said. I'll call back tomorrow.' He knocks twice, then turns and points to a forked tongue licking up a neck.

‘And get rid of that.'

‘I can't.'

‘Well, cover it up.'

The judge, who has been writing things down again, has stopped and is calling upon Mr Timothy James QC to open the case for the crown.

Dr Jeremy Davis, stooped and spectacled, is known to the court. The court is known to Dr Davis — it holds no terrors for him. He's the acting state coroner. Yes, it was he who performed the autopsy on the late Mrs Esther Ellis. The body was delivered to the morgue on such and such a date at such and such an hour. His findings confirmed that death was the result of a large ingestion of morphine. He goes on to describe the drug, its contents and character, the quantity administered, its effects on the respiratory and nervous systems … Dr Davis drones rather than articulates. Members of the jury lean forward. Every word counts — mistake a no for a yes and the meaning's reversed.

Mr James (continuing): Dr Davis, were there any unusual external markings or discolouration on the body?

Dr Davis: Yes. I found microscopic traces of blood on the right hand.

Mr James: What did you conclude from this?

Dr Davis: That most probably her hand had been held. The blood was compatible with that of the accused.

A scientist from the forensic laboratory now takes the stand and states that the morphine was in tablet form and administered in conjunction with sips of water, and that two sets of fingerprints were found on the bottle, those of the sister in charge of the oncology ward and those of the accused. He adds that the accused's prints were found also on the glass, together with DNA from the deceased. He makes the comment that the glass had been recently washed and dried.

A policeman is the next witness.

Constable Brett Allen is a large man with hands like plates.

Mr James: Constable Allen, six years ago you were involved in an incident concerning a group of bikies. Do you recall this?

Constable Allen: I do.

Mr James: And did the said incident implicate the accused, Austin Ingram?

Constable Allen: It did.

Mr Nunn (rising): Objection, Your Honour. What my client has allegedly done in the past has no bearing on this case.

Judge: Where is this leading, Mr James?

Mr James: I am trying to establish a modus operandi, Your Honour. There are certain similarities between the two crimes and evidence in relation to the past crime will be critical in determining the guilt of the accused.

The judge ponders, rubs his nose, ponders further, then states that he'll allow the evidence.

Mr James (again facing the witness): Constable Allen, please take us through the events of that evening.

Constable Allen looks at the judge: May I refer to my notes, Your Honour?'

Judge: You may.

Constable Allen (reading): On the evening of the 5th I was patrolling the hills around Lookout Point when I overheard what I construed to be a disturbance or a possible disturbance coming from a northeasterly direction. I approached the site. When I heard words like “you fuckin' pig” (excuse me, Your Honour) and “I'm gonna kill you”, I proceeded to park the vehicle and radio for assistance. Back-up support arrived at 6.33 p.m. at which time two officers and myself proceeded forward on foot. Behind a slight rise in the terrain we encountered a bikie gang, one of whom was in a prostrate position on the ground and bleeding. Another was standing over him with what we observed to be a knife …

Mr James (interrupting): Constable Allen, can you identify either of those two men in court?

Constable Allen: The accused. He was the one with the knife.

Mr James: Can you be quite sure, Constable Allen. He was only twelve years of age at the time.

Constable Allen: Never saw hair black like that before.

Mr James: Did the injured man bring charges against the boy?

Constable Allen: No one was saying a thing. Though the one that was hurt they called Carver.

A wig twitches, the judge is hungry. It's time for lunch.

All rise as Mr Justice Hepburn exits. Now people snatch up coats and umbrellas. They turn to each other and whisper. They watch the counsels share a joke — the toggles on their wigs wag.

Back in his cell below the court, Ossie stares at a page of writing. He looks up. Someone is coming. He hopes it's his counsel. Yesterday kind dumpy Daryl had begged him for the last time to change his plea. He's let him down …