MURDER BRIEF (2 page)

Robyn had always found her
father rather distant and forbidding. Now he seemed quite scary,
particularly the several times he half-yelled at the barristers.
But she was also proud that he wielded so much power and
authority.

Most of her other memories of
him were rather grey. He flitted in and out of her life, rarely
showing much affection. She couldn’t remember him ever picking her
up - she had no memory of his hands - or saying anything nice.
Instead, he often ordered her to "stand up straight and speak
clearly".

Maybe, in time, they’d have got
close. However, when she was seven, her mother tearfully explained
that he'd gone off to heaven and wouldn't be back - a disappearance
she found strange rather than upsetting. Only several years later
did she learn that he suffered a fatal heart attack while sitting
in his chambers, writing a reserved judgment. His associate found
him slumped over his desk.

After his death, he remained a
ghostly presence in her life, particularly when her mother
repeatedly told her that, if he was alive, he’d have want her to go
to the Bar and rise to become Senior Counsel. "Think how excited he
would have been if you took silk," her mother said. That was not an
emotion she associated with her father. But she nodded
dutifully.

For a long time, Robyn resisted
the whole idea. She always had plenty of drive and ambition. At
high school, she was an outstanding student. But she didn’t want to
live in her father's shadow or do her mother’s bidding. She’d
choose another profession.

However, during her last year at
high school, she still hadn’t chosen one and started to toy with
the idea of becoming a barrister. She’d always enjoyed debating at
school, and surely she could do better than the fat guys she saw in
court. True, there were downsides. She suspected that, until now,
she hadn’t really dealt with her father’s memory and becoming a
barrister might force her to do that. But so what? Everybody had
baggage. She could handle hers. Yes, she’d study law and go to the
Bar as soon as possible.

So, after graduating from
university with first class honours, she worked for a couple of
years in a big corporate law firm before heading for the Bar,
trembling with excitement.

So far she had gained little
traction. After four years, she was still appearing in suburban
Local Courts for petty criminals like Mavis Vandervort.

She now realized her whole
approach had been dreadfully naïve, because she thought she could
succeed without help and acted as if she was on a quest rather than
building a career. That was a recipe for disaster. Success at the
Bar depended on patronage and contacts. Without them, she would
never get a chance to shine.

There was, of course, a simple
way to remedy her mistake: she was not unattractive and there were
plenty of lecherous senior barristers around who, if she slept with
them, would send work - good work - in her direction. She didn’t
want to stoop that low. But failure was not an option. Maybe it was
time to toughen up and stop being a princess.

Most of Sydney’s barristers
occupied drab buildings that lined both sides of Phillip Street,
just before the street reached the 23-storey concrete tower that
housed the Supreme and Federal Courts. It was a legal canyon in
which barristers stripped clients of their money and judges
stripped them of their illusions.

When Robyn arrived at the Bar, a
hoary old barrister advised her that it was vitally important to
buy a room in "the right set of chambers". However, with typical
stubbornness and naivety, she bought a room in Fisher Chambers
instead. True, the room was cheap. But there was a reason for that.
Fisher Chambers occupied the fourth floor of a squat building with
a green-tiled façade festooned with rusted air-conditioning units.
A decade ago, it was a leading set of chambers with a dozen
heavy-weight silk and plenty of successful juniors. But its glory
days were over. Judicial appointments, retirements, costly divorces
and defections to other floors had drained its strength. Now, it
only had four bantam-weight silk - who brought in little work - and
about twenty struggling juniors like Robyn.

The next morning, she sat at her
desk, munching a bagel and flicking through the
Sydney Morning
Herald
when, to her surprise, Brian Davis strode into her room.
He was in his early forties, tall and well-built, with prominent
features and expensively maintained hair. He wore a Zegna suit and
a Rolex glinted on his wrist. He looked like he was dressed by a
valet.

Brian belonged to Lord Mansfield
Chambers, a couple of floors below, but much higher in prestige. It
was bursting with busy silk and successful juniors. But none shone
brighter than him. He was a silk with a huge criminal law practice
and a glowing future.

In a rare stroke of good
fortune, a solicitor friend of Robyn had recently briefed Robyn to
act as Brian's junior. They appeared for the accused in a big
heroin importation trial.

When she first met him, she
thought he was arrogant, superficial and doused in self-regard. He
probably looked smug while asleep. Nothing he subsequently did
changed her opinion. However, to her surprise, in front of the
jury, he did a great impersonation of a bluff, straight-talking
barrister while, at the same time, twisting the evidence out of
shape. Indeed, after their client was acquitted, he leaned over to
her and grinned. "You know, I hope I didn’t mislead the judge and
jury
too
much."

During the trial, he seemed
anxious to impress her and even asked her out to dinner. She
politely declined, saying she was too busy. She wasn’t quite sure
why she said no. After all, he was good-looking, bright and
articulate - light-years ahead of the sorry bunch of losers she’d
dated recently.

However, his smugness was a big
turn-off and he was widely known as a skirt chaser. One female
colleague warned her that "he’s a hard dog to keep on the porch"
and another cautioned that "he’s nice enough to break a girl’s
heart, but not marry her".

After declining his invitation
to dinner, she didn’t expect to see him again. Now he was back.
Why?
What the hell did he want?

He nervously shot his linen
cuffs. "Umm, hi."

"Hi."

"I haven’t seen you for a week,
so I thought I’d pop up and see how you’re getting on."

"Oh, I’m fine."

"Really? Good, good, that’s
good. Well, I was wondering if you’ve got time for a cup of coffee.
I’ve got some good news to impart."

Jesus. Why couldn’t the arrogant
bastard take no for an answer? But she might as well have coffee
with him. She wasn’t busy and a little curious. "OK. Sure."

They descended in a lift and
strolled across the road to
Angelos
, a cafe with black
walls, polished floorboards and metal tables. The cafe was full of
lawyers loudly talking to each other or into their mobile phones.
The waiters were all female Scandinavian backpackers who spoke
better English than most of the barristers they served.

Robyn and Brian sat near the
pavement.

He said: "How’s life? How did
the offensive language case go?"

Robyn sighed and described how
Mrs Vandervelt imploded in the witness box. "She looked so sweet
and gentle, but was mad a meat-axe."

He laughed. "That’s not your
fault. I once had a client who found God in the witness box. I’m
not kidding: he saw a vision of Jesus on the wall behind the judge
and confessed to everything. The judge gave him ten years
inside."

"But maybe I should have noticed
earlier she was totally insane."

"And done what? Told her to
behave herself? That wouldn’t have worked. Don’t beat yourself up.
Remember, you can’t drag all your clients into the lifeboat. Some
are gonna drown. And when they do, send your bill and move on."

His sympathetic tone surprised
her. Maybe she’d misjudged him a little. "I suppose. But I’m tired
of representing total losers in the Local Court. I want to play in
the big leagues."

He smiled broadly. "And so you
shall, and so you shall - maybe sooner than you think."

"What do you mean?"

His soft lips curled arrogantly.
"Well, yesterday I got a fantastic brief, really fantastic."

Typical of him to start talking
about himself. "Really? Who’s the client?"

His smile almost jumped off his
face. "Rex Markham."

Robyn was stunned. Nine months
ago the novelist was charged with murdering his wife, igniting a
media frenzy. Soon afterwards, a magistrate committed him to stand
trial. It must be due to start fairly soon.

She said: "You’re going to
appear for him at the trial?"

"Yup."

"When does it start?"

"In three weeks."

"You must be excited. It’s gonna
be
big
."

Brian grinned. "Huuuge."

A very senior silk called Bert
Lightfoot had appeared for Markham at the committal hearing. "But
what about Lightfoot? What’s happen to him?"

"He’s been dumped."

"Why?"

"According to Markham’s
solicitor, a guy called Bernie Roberts, Markham lost confidence in
old Lighthead, which isn’t surprising: he’s well past his prime.
Markham wants a young and vigorous silk who’ll run rings around the
prosecution. So Bernie recommended me."

Christ, he was full of himself.
"Have you met Markham yet?"

"No, Tomorrow morning."

"And who’s your junior?"

He leaned forward and smiled.
"That’s what I want to talk about."

Her stomach flip-flopped. "What
do you mean?"

"I want you."

A big hand squeezed her lungs.
Why the hell did he want her? Because he respected her legal
ability? Or wanted to shag her? Or both?

The answer didn’t really matter
because she couldn’t afford to waste this opportunity. Appearing in
the Markham trial, even as junior counsel, would really boost her
career: she’d get priceless exposure, earn good money and maybe
even learn a trick or two.

True, she’d probably have to
beat off his grubby advances, but she was a big girl and could
defend herself, if necessary.

She leaned forward and smiled.
"Thanks. I’d love to?"

He showed plenty of sparkling
teeth. "You sure?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. I’ll tell Bernie to brief
you."

"And he will?"

"Yeah. He said I could pick my
junior, and now I have."

"Thanks, thanks a lot."

He looked smug. "Forget it.
Believe me, good juniors are bloody hard to find." He leaned
forward. "And you know the best thing?"

"What?"

"Bernie has money in trust -
lots of it. You can charge your full rate."

Christ. She’d earn twice what
Legal Aid usually paid. She smiled. "Goodness, then he must be
innocent."

Brian beamed. "You betchya."

She squirmed. "This is really
exciting. You know, I’ve even read some of his novels. Four, in
fact."

"Any good?"

"Yeah. I’m a big fan. You read
any?"

"No. But I’ve seen a movie based
on one, I think."

"That doesn’t count. You’ve got
to read a novel, not watch it."

"I know. But these days, I don’t
get much time to read. I used to. In fact, I majored in English
Lit. Even got a few credits."

The waiter brought their coffees
and both took sips.

Brian said: "Anyway, I’m meeting
Markham tomorrow morning, in my room, at 10 o’clock. Can you make
it?"

"Definitely."

They exchanged some Bar gossip.
Then he strolled over to the counter and paid for the coffee. As he
did, she noticed that her skirt had ridden up her thigh. She
smoothed it down.

Once again, she wondered if he
was just trying to get her into bed. Probably. But it wasn’t her
job to crawl into his perverted brain and find out what nasty
erotic fantasies were brewing. She hadn’t enticed him and didn’t
plan to. She’d be polite, friendly and, above all, professional. If
he put the hard word on her, she’d pull him into line.

That evening, Brian Davis drove
his late-model Audi coupe across the Harbour Bridge towards his big
water-front apartment in Milson’s Point. He usually enjoyed his
drive home because it was one of the few times during the day when
he could, without interruption, wallow in self-satisfaction,
although he didn’t quite see it in those terms.

At forty-one he was already a
silk with a huge practice. Many silk aged fast in the job and
started shying away from battle. But he still had most of his brain
cells and a thirst for combat. In Court he was extremely glib and
good at massaging the truth. His clients were usually acquitted.
Solicitors deluged him with briefs.

His love-life was just as
successful, arithmetically at least. He had a panel of girlfriends
who shifted in and out of favour, oblivious to each other. The
trick was not to invite them anywhere - like his apartment - where
their paths might cross.

He’d always pitied his pals who
got married and endured twenty years of wage-slavery - shackled to
shopaholic wives and nasty kids - before divorce consigned them to
penury. Marriage was a psychotic illness that could only be cured
at ruinous expense. No woman would lead him into captivity. He’d
keep all of his options open all of the time.

Then he met Robyn Parker.

Without his knowledge, she was
briefed as his junior in a drug trial and he was immediately
smitten. Despite her clunky glasses and slightly frumpy clothes,
she was more attractive and alive than any of the panellists who,
he now saw, were just banal and grasping. She didn’t just act like
a woman, she
was
one. Maybe, after a while, he’d find her
cleverness a threat and her bluntness tiresome. But, for the
moment, they were invigorating.