Double Exposure (15 page)

Twenty-five
Aquarium

‘Post-mortem examination of the victim's skull and cranial cavity revealed evidence of three distinct blows.'

The medical examiner extends a telescopic pointer and directs it at a multicoloured diagram of the human brain. There is no showmanship in his presentation. It is a dry, factual analysis of the facts as he has been able to determine them.

‘One here, across the lower section of the occipital lobe' – the pointer taps an area at the base of the cut-away skull – ‘and two close together, here … and here' – two deft taps – ‘both around the junction of the parietal and temporal lobes, and both of a much more traumatic nature. The one at the base of the skull caused some surface bleeding, a small contusion and some bruising, which might, if the victim had lived, have developed into a small sub-dural haematoma – quite operable and definitely not life-threatening.'

A short pause. He is warming to his subject, still dry but making eye contact with the magistrate. And with Abby.

‘But
these
blows …' Turning back to the chart, he slides the pointer up to the area in question. ‘Either one of them would have caused permanent brain damage.'

A flip-chart easel is set up beside the chart, and he turns over the cover sheet to reveal two enlarged colour photographs of the exposed brain.

‘You can see here the damage to the lower left-hemisphere parietal lobe and the upper temporal. The trauma shattered the skull right here … and there are small bone splinters lodged in the brain matter, but the actual cause of death was a rupture of this large artery under here.' Abby stares in fascination at the picture, but the artery is hidden by the mass of red. ‘The victim suffered massive blood loss into the cranial cavity and irreversible impairment of brain function, and death, while not instantaneous, was inevitable.'

Korman, the prosecutor, nods sagely before asking his next question. He has stood in front of his table for the entire demonstration and now he is tapping his pen against the palm of his left hand, looking thoughtful.

The guy's an actor …

Abby waits for the pause to end, for the scene to play itself out.

‘Dr Timms, you have testified that the blows to the side of the head were administered with such force that they drove splinters of bone into the brain and produced massive concussion injuries and the rupture of a major blood-vessel.'

‘I have.' The examiner holds the prosecutor's gaze with confidence.

‘The defendant claims that she hit the deceased twice with a bottle, as they struggled in the gutter. Now, Doctor, the deceased was a big man. A strong man with a formidable temper. Do you consider the power of the blows required to inflict such injuries to be consistent with the defendant – a slight young thing, who doesn't look –'

‘Objection, Your Honour!' Feldman is up on his feet, his tone outraged.

They're both actors …

She watches Feldman launch into his rehearsed spiel, impressed at how spontaneous it appears.

‘My learned friend is leading the witness. Could Your Honour instruct him to restrict his questions to the available facts? Dr Timms is an expert medical examiner, but he has not examined my client, and therefore knows neither her arm strength nor her ability to exert force – especially under duress. His opinion is therefore no more “expert” than that of any man in the street.'

The magistrate considers for a moment, then leans forward onto his folded arms.

‘I'll overrule at this stage, Mr Feldman. Dr Timms has a great deal of experience in examining the results of trauma, and I think he is entitled to give us the benefit of that experience. But Mr Korman, I caution you to confine your questions to the bare essentials. We do not need to hear your opinion of the defendant's physical prowess.'

‘Of course, Your Honour.' His point made, the prosecutor turns back to face his witness.

‘Dr Timms … In your
expert
opinion, do you believe that the defendant could have inflicted those blows on the deceased – a man so much stronger than she was – while she was wrestling with him in the gutter?'

‘I believe that it is highly unlikely.'

‘In your opinion, how were the blows inflicted?'

The man looks directly at Abby, then back at the prosecutor, before answering.

‘It is most probable that they were delivered from above and behind the deceased.'

Korman beams.

‘Above. And behind … Thank you, Doctor. No further questions.'

Without waiting for the magistrate's invitation, Lionel Feldman stands and moves around from behind the defence table, feigning a slightly puzzled frown.

‘Doctor, you said, if I may quote one of your previous answers …' Reaching behind him, he picks up a yellow pad from the table and scans the page. ‘Yes, here it is: “The victim suffered massive blood loss and irreversible impairment of brain function, and death, while not instantaneous, was inevitable.” So, what you are saying, if I understand you correctly, is that there was no chance, under the circumstances, that quick action by my client might have saved him. Would that be a fair assessment?'

The examiner nods his head in agreement.

‘It would. Under the circumstances, given the nature of the injury, there was nothing whatsoever that she could have done to save him. He was as good as dead as soon as the bottle made contact with his skull.'

‘Thank you, Doctor.'

‘Why'd he ask that?' T.J. leans across to whisper the question.

Feldman has paused, looking through his notes, preparing his next question. Cain answers without removing his gaze from the medical examiner.

‘He wants to establish that there was nothing Abby could have done to help the guy once the injury had been inflicted. Otherwise the magistrate might accept self-defence, but she'd still be charged for not stopping to give assistance. For allowing him to bleed to death when it might have been prevented. If the guy would have died anyway, it becomes a moot point. He needed to have it on record that there was nothing she could have done to stop him dying. Watch Korman, he knows the point's been made.'

Feldman is ready to continue.

‘Doctor, when Mr Korman asked you if it was possible for my client to have inflicted the injuries as she has described, you said, ‘it is highly unlikely'.'

‘That is correct.'

‘But not impossible?'

For barely a second, the doctor hesitates.

‘After twenty-five years in the job, sir, I am reluctant to use the word impossible.'

‘So, it is
possible
that my client's account of the night in question is accurate?'

‘It is possible, but –'

‘No further questions. Thank you, Doctor.'

*

T.J.'s story

The first day of the trial was taken up establishing what everyone basically knew. That Sal Princi was dead and that he'd died because someone – that someone being Abby – had beaten him over the head with something hard and breakable.

It's nothing like you see it on TV I mean, the forensic evidence, the police accounts of the crime-scene and the legal arguments are all so long-winded and drawn out, so nit-picking and precise, that after a couple of hours of explanation and re-explanation and clarification you just want to scream.

Cain and I were only there to lend moral support because Chris couldn't be there until the afternoon.

I found it a bit strange that he couldn't make it on the first morning of what was clearly the most important event of Abby's life, but Cain said that it was her idea. The trial was going to take a while, and with the exhibition coming up in a few days, it was more important that he make sure everything was perfect for that. I don't think she wanted him to be there all the time, watching her ordeal, and especially not on the opening morning. It was something she felt she had to do alone. The rest of us weren't a real issue, but I don't think she felt strong enough to put on a show in front of him. Not for any length of time.

So I took the morning off TAFE, Cain had agreed to drop me off at lunchtime for my afternoon session and we were there for her as the trial began. Chris would arrive before the afternoon session started, so she would always have a friendly face there to smile if she turned around – which she didn't do very often. She was concentrating hard on the evidence, sometimes leaning over to ask Mr F a question, or to make a comment, which he often scribbled down on the yellow pad lying on the table in front of him.

But it wasn't going well.

Korman was hammering away at the forensic evidence, and despite the attempts of the defence to establish doubt, Dr Timms and Detective Pollock, the investigating officer, were both very credible witnesses and the facts didn't exactly back up Abby's version of events. Reasonable doubt was beginning to look like a long shot.

And that wasn't her biggest worry. Her only character witnesses were career hookers, and the girl who had put her into the defendant's chair in the first place was on the list of prosecution witnesses.

I watched Cain. He was leaning forward in his seat staring at her, as she sat forward in her seat staring at the witness box, watching them hammering the nails into her coffin.

Then it was lunchtime and the court went into recess. As we reached the door, I stopped, Abby was in conversation with Mr Feldman and his assistant. She looked up at me and smiled. Not a confident smile – more a silent thank you. I placed my fingertips on my lips and blew her a kiss, then walked out through the heavy wooden doors and into the sunlit corridor outside.

*

‘I feel like a fish in a damned aquarium, bumping up against the glass and getting nowhere.' Chris stirs his coffee. Across the street an old man walking an even older dog. ‘It's all going on in front of me, and there's nothing I can do to influence what's happening. She looked so small sitting there. So …'

‘Helpless?' Cain supplies the word, placing his cup carefully onto its saucer.

‘Maybe. I don't know. She seemed calm. Maybe too calm, considering the way things are going. But not helpless. From time to time she'd look back at me and smile. Like
she
needed to comfort
me
.' A short sigh. ‘Resigned. That's what it seemed to me. As if she'd decided it was all too hard. Like she faced one too many curve-balls and she was waiting for the third-strike call.'

‘Did you talk to Feldman? What's he say?'

‘Not much. Professional detachment, or something. He plays each scene as it comes, plans ahead but stays loose, flexible. Ready to counter what they might throw at him. But he's worried about Tess. She's the unpredictable element. The blindsider.'

‘Has Abby told him the truth about her?'

‘Don't know. I couldn't figure out how to broach the question without giving it away. If she hasn't told him …'

‘She
has
to tell him. What other choice is there?'

‘Not
to tell him? I don't know, bro. What she's thinking. If she's thinking. She's dug herself this huge deep hole and it's about to collapse on top of her, but she just keeps digging. I've got this gut feeling that she's going to lose, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.'

For a moment the silence stretches.

Cain leans forward to touch his brother's hand.

‘You can't protect the whole world, Chris. Sometimes, you just have to accept –'

‘What? Accept what? That shit happens? That bad things happen to good people? Well, I don't accept it.' His voice breaks and he buries his face in his hands. ‘I don't want to protect the whole damned world, Cain. I just want to protect
her
.'

Beyond the glass, the rain has begun, streaking the windows with tiny rivulets, but Cain is looking beyond them.

*

8 November 1994

Four-thirty.

‘I don't care. We're going out. Grab an umbrella if you have to, but get them in the car.'

Abraham Eveson flings open the screen-door and strides through the strengthening rain towards the Land Cruiser standing huge in the driveway. There is a desperate determination in his manner, and she pauses for a brief moment to watch him. Something is wrong, but she dares not ask him about it.

Maybe tonight …

Cain is ready, waiting by the door, watching her for guidance. Chris is halfway up the stairs, looking down at her with an expression much older than his years. She deflects his unspoken question with the conscious pretence of a smile.

‘Come on,' she says to them. ‘Yourfather doesn't like to be kept waiting.'

Vaguely, she wonders if eight is old enough to understand the notion of understatement.

Your father doesn't like …

Lately, there is little that he does like.

As she bends down in front of the hallstand to grab the handle of the umbrella, she catches herself reflected in the hallstand mirror.

The wrinkles are growing more pronounced. She opens her mouth wide, stretching the skin across her cheeks and around her eyes, where the damage is worst.

The ruby earrings glow crimson on her lobes, like two tiny droplets of blood.

Outside, the engine roars into life, and the horn sounds.

‘Come on. Let's go.'

The twins run across the lawn and scramble into the back seat of the car. She pulls the house-door to, tests its lock, then steps out into the rain, which rattles like bullets on the dome of the umbrella …

Part Three
Self-portrait

Art does not reproduce the visible; rather, it makes it visible.

– Paul Klee

Twenty-six
Because

T.J.'s story

Once, when Cain was being particularly idealistic, I made the totally original point that real life isn't like a Hollywood movie.

It wasn't a comment on Cinema as Art, it was just an attempt to win an argument. I usually resort to cliches when I'm out of my depth – which is most of the time when I'm trying to outargue him.

‘Of
course
it isn't!' he replied, as if it all made perfect sense. ‘That's the whole point.'

I must have looked blank, because he went on: ‘We don't go to a movie to see reality, we go to
escape
reality. Or rather, to redefine it. Reality is too huge, too complicated. Story is the metaphor we can grasp. Good versus evil, right versus wrong, order versus chaos. Reality in a stylised form. It helps us interpret our world.'

‘And Hollywood explains
my
world?'

‘At a deeper level, yes. It's like any art form. You have to look beneath the surface, strip away the superficial plot and the special effects and look for the subtext. The universal truth that supports the action.

‘For the average person, Spielberg explains the reality of existence at least as well as Freud or Jung. And a whole lot better than Picasso. But he does it in pretty much the same way – by tapping in to the symbols that exist beneath the story we manage to convince ourselves is reality.
Jaws
is just our fear of the unknown, hidden beneath the surface and magnified a hundred times.
E.T.
is our desperate need to belong and be loved, no matter how different we appear to be.
Jurassic Park
is just a big-budget special-effects version of the Frankenstein myth, or Pandora; it goes to the core of our concept of order in the universe, and the dangers of playing God.

‘Do you know what makes a successful movie?'

It wasn't a question that he expected an answer to, but I gave him one anyway.

‘Ticket sales?'

‘Emotional response. Fear, sadness, happiness – anger, even. The movie isn't talking to our conscious logic, it's ripping away at our emotions, and if it does that well, we'll come out and recommend it to our friends. But we'll also think about it, and
that's
where the power of the story lies. We talk about what it
means.
To us. Not what happened, but what the events and the characters made us
feel.
Or think about.

‘Was
Titanic
about a big ship hitting an iceberg? If it had been no one would have gone to see it more than once. And certainly no one would have recommended it to their friends. It was about love and memory and how they combine to overpower the most cataclysmic events – and even death itself. It was about emotion. The special effects and the soundtrack just increased the intensity of the feeling. In the end, story isn't about events. It's about the people caught up in those events.'

For some reason, I was thinking about that conversation as I sat in the courtroom watching Chris. It was Thursday, the day Tess was scheduled to give evidence, so I felt the need to be there. He'd picked me up on his way in. With Cain at Hoyts, I think he needed the moral support.

All the way in, he'd barely spoken, and I hadn't tried to fill the silence. Mainly because I couldn't think of anything to say.

Now, he was leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees, listening to the lawyers arguing some point of law, and watching Abby. She sat picking imaginary dirt out from under her fingernails. Then she looked back at him and smiled. Barely a smile, really, just a tiny movement at the edges of her mouth, but suddenly everything Cain had said made complete sense.

It's about the people …

With so much at stake, something in that half-smile said it all …

The judge called a short recess and we left the courtroom. Outside, it was raining again, pouring in streams, bouncing off the road and the footpaths, turning late-morning into twilight.

And suddenly it felt just like a movie.

Things were reaching a head behind those doors. After this recess, Tess would be called to give her evidence – and that would be it. Make or break. No one knew what she'd told the prosecution, and they were staying tight-lipped. I guess you couldn't expect them to behave in any other way, but just the fact that they had her on their list of witnesses was really worrying. We had to expect the worst.

And now the special-effects department had turned on the rain machine. All we needed to make the scene complete was the music.

You've been hanging around Cain too long …

I moved closer to Chris and put an arm around his shoulder. He acknowledged the gesture by patting my hand, but his eyes were on the rain.

On the resumption, Tess took the stand and the oath, and Korman stood up.

‘Miss Maloney … Can I call you Tess?'

‘I guess.'

‘Okay, Tess … I'm going to ask you a few questions about what happened on the night in question, and I'd like you to answer in as much detail as possible. Is that clear?'

She was nervous. She looked at Abby, then away again, as if the whole thing was a bad dream and she was trying desperately to wake up.

Yes, she was working her pitch. Yes, Abby was there. Yes, Sal turned up. About twelve-thirty, she guessed, but she couldn't be certain. She was a little ‘wasted'.

Korman didn't like that last comment. He hurried to his next question, hoping to gloss over the state of his star witness ‘on the night in question'. Feldman scribbled a note on his yellow pad.

‘And what happened next?'

It was obvious that Korman had prepared her carefully. He turned to stare at Abby, to get her reaction when Tess dropped her grenade into the proceedings.

Well, Tess dropped her grenade alright. It just wasn't the one that he – or anyone else – was expecting.

‘He had me by the neck, up against the wall. He was hurtin' me. Then Abby … Miss Taylor … shouted out. She told him to stop. I think she said somethin' like, “For God's sake, leave her alone!” And you didn't speak like that to Sal.

‘He turned towards her and I thought he was gonna do her. Right there in the street. But she pushed him. Hard. He tripped on the kerb and smashed his head on the rubbish bin. It's one of those concrete ones. He dropped like a bagful of sh … Sorry, he dropped like a stone.'

I was watching Korman, so I saw the smile. He was still looking at Abby as he interrupted the flow of Tess's narrative.

‘Now, Tess, according to Detective Pollock, in her record of interview Miss Taylor here has stated that Sal Princi grabbed her and that as they wrestled in the gutter, she picked up the bottle and hit him in self-defence. Is that how you remember it?'

A long pause. Tess looked down at her lap, as if she was summoning the strength to answer. Then she took a deep breath and looked up, straight into Abby's eyes.

‘No, it isn't.'

We were expecting it, but I felt Chris slump next to me. Even Abby's shoulders fell a little.

‘Can you be more specific?'

Korman was coaching her. He was playing his ace, and he wanted to make it pay.

‘When he fell, I thought he was out cold, but then he began to move. To get up.'

‘Was that when the defendant hit him?'

Another pause.

‘Miss Maloney? Was that when –'

‘I heard the question! That wasn't when she hit him … Because she didn't hit him.'

Suddenly the smile disappeared from Korman's face.

‘She didn't … ?'

‘
I
did. She didn't even know he was gettin' up. After he fell, she turned and ran. She knew what she'd be in for if he did get up, so she ran. When I saw him move, I called to her, but she didn't stop. Then he turned towards me. I knew that look. I knew if he made it to his feet … I wanted to run, too, but my legs were like lead. I couldn't hardly move. So I picked up the bottle and I hit him. So's he wouldn't get up.'

By now, Korman was at the witness box.

‘But that's not what you told the police. When they interviewed you, you said –'

‘I was
scared
, alright? I
lied
. Then, when you came to interview me, I was … But I can't lie no more. Abby's only here because of me. It wouldn't be right.'

‘Your Honour.' Korman looked like a man who just lost the winning ticket in Lotto. ‘This witness –'

‘Is in the middle of answering your question, Mr Korman. I suggest we allow her to continue.'

‘But, Your Honour …'

‘But nothing. We will hear what your witness has to say. Miss Maloney, I must instruct you, however, that you are under oath, and that anything you say may be used against you in any future court proceedings. Do you still wish to speak?'

Tess nodded and swallowed hard.

When she spoke, it was to Abby.

‘I know you didn't think I could handle it, Ab. And maybe I won't. In the long run, maybe I'll … I don't know. But I couldn't let you. Not when I saw you sitting there. No one ever done anything like that for me. No one …'

She wiped her nose with her hand and turned back towards the judge.

‘I hit him and he fell. But he wouldn't stay down. So I hit him again and the bottle shattered. He dropped onto his face and he didn't move. That was when I ran.'

By now, Lionel Feldman had regained his composure. He rose to his feet and addressed the bench.

‘Your Honour, under the circumstances, I am sure my esteemed colleague would offer no objection if I moved for the charges against my client to be withdrawn.'

With a wave of his hand, Korman submitted.

And that was it.

Case dismissed.

The judge ordered that Tess be taken into custody until the police and the prosecutors decided what to do with her, but Feldman said that he doubted it would ever come to trial. Selfdefence, a history of intolerable violence and a reasonable fear of personal danger, and a defendant who'd got her whole story out under oath during someone else's trial, didn't make for a case that anyone in the prosecutor's office was going to want to take on. And even if someone did, he said, he'd take the case
pro bono.
Which I thought was very generous, seeing as how Chris was ready to do another picture deal.

I tried Cain, but all I could get was his message bank. After gushing the good news, I hung up and joined Abby and Chris. I stood waiting patiently until they were in a state to notice I was there.

‘I couldn't get Cain,' I announced, as Chris reached out and drew me into the celebratory embrace.

‘It's okay,' he said. ‘His battery died. I just managed to tell him the news before it carked. He's going to meet us at Viaggi's for the celebration at seven. He'll pick you up at home around six-thirty. Right now, I'd kill for a coffee. I'm just going to see if Mr F wants to join us.'

And he was gone. Abby still had her arm around me, and I felt a small squeeze on my shoulder.

‘Thanks,' she whispered.

‘What for? I didn't do anything. I felt like a third wheel most of the time.'

‘For being here. It meant …'

The wall finally crumbled and she began crying. I held her against me and felt the erratic rhythm of her sobs. All I could do was stroke her hair and allow the tension its release.

By the time Chris returned, the sobs had eased. I kissed her hair and stepped back.

‘I could do with a coffee myself,' I managed, blinking back a tear of my own. ‘Lead on MacDuff.'

Chris slid an arm around each of us and began frog-marching us towards the exit doors, but after a few paces the march transformed into a kind of high-stepping theatrical skipping and he began singing.

‘We're off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz …'

The lawyers and their clients, gathered in their whispering huddles against the walls, looked up as we passed, puzzled and annoyed.

At first, it was just Chris, and I couldn't understand how he had the nerve, but then Abby's voice joined in.

‘You'll find he is a whiz of a Wiz if ever a Wiz there was …'

She looked at me behind his back and smiled.

What the hell …

‘If ever oh ever a Wiz there was, the Wizard of Oz is one because …'

If Chris was some kind of cross-gender Dorothy, then Abby was probably the Lion. So what did that make me? The Tin Man? The one who'd lost touch with her heart. The one who was too afraid to love.

As we approached the exit doors, I looked at Chris, but I was seeing Cain.

Hadn't he proved himself yet? Why was I still afraid?

‘Because, because, because, because, becaauuse …'

Outside, the singing collapsed into laughter, and the two of them hugged at the kerbside, oblivious to the passing stares.

While I, as usual, stood back and watched.

Cain phoned around five.

‘T.J.?' he began. ‘I won't make it to dinner. I've been throwing up all afternoon. It's some gastro bug.'

He sounded terrible.

‘Okay,' I said, trying not to sound too disappointed. I was looking forward to the celebration. ‘I can come around if you like.'

‘I would like. But I don't think it's a good idea. If it's contagious, I don't want you getting it and passing it on to Ty or your mother. My parents are at home if I need anything. With any luck, I can pass it on to my father. Give
him
the shits for a change. You go ahead and have fun. I'll call Chris and get them to pick you up.'

For a moment I considered it.

‘Nah. Let them have the night to themselves. They don't want me playing chaperone. You get home to bed. I'll call them.'

So the day ended in anticlimax.

I couldn't help wondering, as I hung up the phone, if Cain was scared to introduce me to his parents. I mean, it had been months, and the only time I'd been inside their house was when the pair of them were at work, or away for the weekend.