Matthew Flinders' Cat (55 page)

Billy was hugely relieved at the prospect of meeting the judge privately and, in particular, at six o’clock, which meant he would still have time to get to the AA meeting that night. The gods were smiling on him. If his preoccupation with AA in the light of what was happening around him seemed to verge on the obsessive, it was because Billy knew that he was capable of backsliding, that alcohol still had a tremendous psychological hold on him. He had always been obsessive about maintaining a set routine, but now it was critical.

It was the first time since he’d fallen from grace that he had called a fellow member of the legal profession and he’d expected to be rejected. Even though Marcus Eisenstein had been a boyhood friend and close colleague, Billy had always accepted that friendship, professional or personal, needed to be nourished, and as he’d been the one to cut all his past ties, he had therefore no right to expect a favour or even recognition. If his wife and daughter were unwilling to speak to him, the judge had every right to refuse to take his call.

Billy purchased half a loaf of bread and, seated on his bench in the Botanic Gardens, made up the day’s ammunition. Attempting to remember exactly what Ryan had told him, he began to write up his notes so he could present them to Marcus Eisenstein that evening.

It was Billy’s obsession with order and detail that had made him such an outstanding lawyer, it was also the quality his peers thought would eventually take him onto the bench. His ability to replicate verbal evidence or an interview almost exactly as it had occurred was well known in legal circles at the time. Even though alcohol had partially destroyed his prodigious recall so that it wasn’t always spontaneous, it was still very effective. These days it would sometimes take a little longer, such as remembering where he’d first heard the name The Boys’ Boutique, but he knew that eventually it would come to him. Billy, despite everything, still trusted his mind to deliver the goods.

Marcus Eisenstein would be able to read his notes and then, if he wished, cross-examine Ryan. Billy also knew that the judge would do so in the kindest, gentlest way. He knew Ryan sufficiently well to realise that the boy had done his crying and possessed a great deal of personal pride, so would answer the questions he was asked with honesty and courage and would hold back his tears in front of a stranger. This wasn’t necessarily a good thing, the tears of abused children, even in front of a judge, were always heart-wrenching and, in a lawyer’s book, generally useful.

Billy spent the rest of the day as usual, except that he left the library at half-past three and took a taxi to fetch Ryan. They returned to the bench in the Gardens and Billy went over his morning’s notes carefully with the boy. Then he started telling the story of Trim and the wreck of the
Porpoise
.

At a quarter to five they walked down to Cowper’s Wharf Road and found a concealed position where they could watch the entrance to the Flag Hotel.

‘Now watch very carefully, Ryan,’ Billy cautioned. ‘I want you to identify anyone who comes out that you recognise.’

‘There’s lotsa people round here I know,’ Ryan answered.

‘Yes, that’s possible, but we’re looking for someone you haven’t known for that long.’

‘Who?’ Ryan asked.

‘No, Ryan, I can’t tell you, you have to tell me, it’s part of the plan.’

They hadn’t been waiting long when a taxi pulled up outside the pub and the driver sounded his horn. ‘Now watch carefully, Ryan,’ Billy urged, his hand on Ryan’s shoulder.

A few moments later Marion came out of the pub and Billy felt Ryan start. ‘It’s her, it’s The Queenie!’ he said in a frightened voice.

‘It all begins to make sense,’ Billy said, half to himself. They watched the taxi move away and Billy took Ryan to sit on the edge of the Finger Wharf, where he continued the story of Trim on Wreck Reef. Later, they caught a taxi to Bellevue Hill, where Justice Eisenstein lived, Billy explaining on the way where they were going.

‘It’s very important that you try to answer the questions you are asked. Just tell the judge what you told me, Ryan. Don’t be frightened. Marcus Eisenstein and I went to kindergarten together and then to Sydney Grammar and university, and for years we were lawyers together. He’s an old mate and a very nice man.’

‘Can he put me in gaol?’ Ryan asked.

Billy laughed. ‘No, not tonight anyway. I told you he’s a friend, who I hope is going to help us.’

The taxi stopped outside a large and rather clumsylooking red brick mansion in Victoria Road where Billy had played so often as a child. He didn’t mention to Ryan that his own family home was only three doors down and an even more imposing edifice.

Marcus Eisenstein welcomed them personally at the front door and led them directly into his study. Shortly afterwards, a maid brought in tea and cake and a bottle of lemonade for Ryan. Ryan was strictly a Coca-Cola man and Billy wondered for a moment if he would reject the lemonade. While he was a very nice child, he hadn’t acquired any of the social niceties and had a tendency to speak his mind. But Ryan accepted the drink without a word, though he declined the offer of cake. No doubt Maria had been plying him with her pastries all day.

The judge’s study was lined with books, half of them covered in green or red leather, their titles and volumes stamped in gold. There was a library ladder in one corner of the room, and the parquet floor was covered by three large colourful Persian rugs. Each of the deep leather club chairs had a small table to match, and in an area on its own there was a grand old desk with a green leather top and, behind it, a modern typist’s chair. It was the kind of study you might see in an English movie, and all it lacked was the ancestral portraits on the wall.

‘Well now, why are we here?’ Marcus Eisenstein asked, pouring Billy a cup of tea. ‘Though I must say it’s nice to see you, Billy. Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

Billy, who was down to two teaspoons of sugar, thanked him again for seeing them. ‘I thought it might be best if you read my notes and then perhaps we can talk.’ The briefcase was still handcuffed to his wrist so he reached for the key around his neck, opened the handcuff and retrieved his notebook. Marcus Eisenstein didn’t remark on the shackled briefcase and accepted the notepad, which Billy had opened on the appropriate page. He read for a good ten minutes, occasionally grunting and glancing up at Ryan, finally returning it to Billy.

‘I’m glad to see you haven’t lost any of your skills, Billy, these notes are excellent.’ He started to question Ryan, asking him to elaborate on various aspects. It soon became obvious that he was impressed with the child’s intelligence and recall.

Ryan had also managed to answer him with only an occasional tremor in his voice and only once had tears run silently down his cheeks.

‘Well done, Ryan,’ Marcus Eisenstein said at the conclusion of his questions. Turning to Billy, he said, ‘If you will come to my chambers tomorrow afternoon, I will have arranged for Ryan to be placed in safe custody with Mr and Mrs Poleondakis as a protected witness. As we have no case yet, I will get the necessary papers from Justice Wood. Unfortunately, the royal commission’s terms of reference only include the police and public servants and not members of the public. But I see from your notes that a Mr Alfred Petersen, a senior public servant in the Department of Community Services, may be involved. He would, I imagine, fall within the scope of the inquiry so Justice Wood will be able to justify Ryan’s protected witness status.’

‘Thank you, Marcus, do you think the papers can be dated as of six this morning?’ Billy asked. ‘Otherwise I’m breaking the law by harbouring someone wanted by the police for questioning.’

‘Good point, I’m sure that can be arranged.’ Marcus Eisenstein turned to Ryan. ‘Ryan, I need to talk to Billy about some legal matters. How would you like to go into the lounge and watch television?’

After Ryan left, the judge turned to Billy. ‘Poor little blighter and so bright, how easily the lives of the disadvantaged young can be ruined.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Have you thought how we might go about the apprehension of these people, this network, Billy?’

‘Yes, certainly, Marcus. Your mention of the inquiry into police corruption is one of the things I wanted to raise with you. We certainly know one, possibly two, locations where this activity takes place, so we know from Ryan’s testimony and my own observation the
where
and some of the
how
. We also know
who
, in terms of at least the principals in the operation. My fear is that we cannot trust a police force already under investigation for protecting paedophiles to launch an operation against such a network.’

‘My sentiments exactly. We have a problem here, mate. Ryan’s experience with the German, Karl, may or may not suggest that he is a sex tourist and while under the Crimes Act the definition of sex tourism allows for the arrest of Australians who engage in sexual intercourse with a child abroad, it does
not
cover foreigners entering Australia for the purposes of utilising Australian children for the same purpose. In other words, the first example falls under the authority of the Federal Police and Federal Court while the latter comes under the authority of the state police and local jurisprudence.’

‘Yes, but can we trust the locals?’ Billy replied. Eisenstein laughed. ‘In part you’re asking if I can be trusted? I’m not sure I know the answer. One of my senior judges has already been made to stand down pending an inquiry. We are going to have to be very careful how we go about this whole matter.’ Marcus Eisenstein sighed. ‘There’s one thing we do know, paedophile networks have
not
been the subject of proactive law enforcement. The excuse is that there is a lack of resources, though privately I think there may also be a lack of will. We know that large profits are involved and that these networks are highly organised. You may rest assured that where such covert criminal operations take place with so little police intervention, there is corruption present on a considerable scale. This is not simply a question of mounting a police raid and bringing these people before the courts. First, we have to find men in the force who can be depended on to mount such an operation without leaking it, then we have to ensure a legal system that can effectively prosecute the offenders. So far, our record on both counts is abysmal.’

Marcus Eisenstein rose from his chair, went over to a bookshelf and returned with a file. ‘Here are some of the current statistics, Billy. One in four girls and one in seven boys have been sexually abused before the age of sixteen. Available evidence shows that many of the so-called rings or networks are either run by economically advantaged, high-profile individuals, or their clients. In other words, important people in the community. We have absolute proof of the cynical and self-serving nature of these paedophiles who introduce children to addictive drugs and cult-like brainwashing so their under-age victims are too afraid, substance-dependent, or too ashamed to tell or to appear as witnesses. This manipulation of minors has become a legal trick of the trade.’

The judge looked up from the file he was reading. ‘As the chief justice of this state, I am ashamed of our record. Less than one per cent of perpetrators are ever convicted. If it helps, and it doesn’t, the statistics are the same for the rest of Australia.’ Marcus Eisenstein was visibly upset. ‘Imagine a society, any society, with onequarter of its daughters and one-seventh of its sons struck down by a plague, a virus that isn’t immediately fatal but which has an incipient result that leads to suicide, persistent lifelong nightmares, intractable psychiatric disorders, drug and alcohol abuse, anorexia and depression, all of which require lifelong treatment. What do you suppose that society’s response should be? Yet that’s what we have here and nothing is done about it.’

The chief justice was now totally wound up. ‘Sexual abuse of children probably accounts for more misery and suffering than any of the great plagues of history, if for no other reason than that it lasts a lifetime. That, my dear old friend, is what we are up against. That is truly why the law is an ass! A massive public-health problem like child sexual abuse demands a massive social response, yet there is no shout or even a whimper of indignation. There is no National AIDS Council equivalent, no National Heart Foundation, no National Quit Smoking program, no Anti-Cancer Council! Despite the glaringly obvious evidence in front of us, we do nothing! And evil men are allowed to trample the young seedlings of our nation underfoot!’

Billy was truly confounded by the judge’s response. He’d expected a reasoned and sanguine reaction. Marcus Eisenstein was a man who cherished the rule of law, yet here he was decrying the very institution he was responsible for, and privately despairing at what had been his life’s work.

‘Marcus, you don’t sound very hopeful. Are you saying that there is nothing we can do about child abuse, specifically about Ryan?’

‘No, Billy, I am in a very small way exultant. I thank you for bringing this matter to me. This child has not been corrupted as a witness, he is bright and believable. While it may only be one small hammer blow where a thunderbolt is needed, we are going to make damn sure this one sticks. We will not rely on the Wood Royal Commission. Its terms of reference are too restrictive, too limited.’ Marcus Eisenstein covered his face with both hands and appeared to be thinking. When he looked up at Billy again, he said, ‘I’m going to need some time.’

‘How much time?’ Billy asked anxiously.