MURDER BRIEF (13 page)

Brian Davis’ greatest strength
as a barrister was his self-confidence. Because he’d convinced
himself of his ability, he was good at convincing others; because
he
looked
in control, people thought he
was
in
control. He learnt early in his career that clients didn’t want to
hear his doubts and fears. They wanted to be led towards the
promised land. And that was what he did, even if he didn’t know
where it was and
their
journey often ended in prison.

However, despite that, he
usually felt jittery on the morning of a murder trial, though he
wasn't one of those barristers who habitually threw up into
bathroom sinks. His nerves usually lasted until he started talking
in court. Listening to his own voice always calmed him down.

That Monday morning, he woke and
immediately felt queasy. Bile tickled his tonsils before receding.
Squadrons of butterflies did aerial acrobatics in his stomach and
refused to land. God, he wished he’d gone into another profession -
any other. Instead, he now had to suffer for his ambition, vanity
and greed.

It was vital during a big trial
to eat regularly and not lose weight. So he shuffled into the
kitchen and forced himself to eat a few pieces of toast, washed
down with orange juice. After showering, he dressed and headed for
his chambers.

He arrived just after eight. On
the metal court-trolley in the corner of his room were four
ring-bound folders containing his whole brief. No point re-reading
them and wasting precious mental energy.

To distract himself, he sat at
his desk and tried to read the sports section of the
Sydney
Morning Herald.
But his nerves refused to settle. He stood and
stared out his window at the ant-like pedestrians scurrying along
Phillip Street, heading for their offices to shuffle paper, drink
coffee and gossip about their weekends. Too bad he couldn’t join
them.

However, before long, his
natural self-confidence started creeping back into his system. He’d
appeared in murder trials before and survived. Indeed, he’d been
brilliant before and would be brilliant again. No reason to think
this trial would be any different. He’d be fine.

He started pacing around his
room, practicing his opening address to the jury, and was still
mumbling to himself when the door opened and Robyn entered, fully
robed.

For the last two days, he'd been
too preoccupied with the trial to reflect much on Friday night. But
he strongly suspected that her rejection of him was not final.
Indeed, the big problem was his timing. After all, propositioning
her just before the trial - when they were both under so much
pressure - was unforgivably dumb. No wonder she reacted so
hysterically.

Now, he had to wait until the
trial was over and then delicately - yes, delicately - declare his
love. Surely she’d succumb.

Still, he looked for some sign
she was angry or upset with him and saw none - just tension and
excitement.

She said: "Hi. How’re you
feeling? Get much sleep?"

"Enough. You?"

"Not much. Only a couple of
hours."

"Well, I bet you slept more than
our client."

"Yeah, he must be
terrified."

He couldn’t just ignore Friday
night. "Look, umm, about Friday night: I’m sorry if I offended
you."

She shook her head. "Forget
about that. I already have. We’ve got to focus on the trial. We can
talk about that sort of stuff afterwards, OK?"

"We can?"

"Yes."

It looked like he was right: the
only problem was his timing. He felt much better. "OK."

"Good, now, do you want to talk
about the case?"

He preferred a distraction. "No
point. The die is cast. What did you do over the weekend?"

Robyn gabbled for a while about
how she shopped on Saturday and spent Sunday at home. He tried to
focus on what she was saying, but his mind kept drifting towards
the day ahead.

Just after nine o’clock, Brian’s
secretary, Denise, popped her head through the doorway and said
Bernie Roberts and their client had arrived. Brian told her to send
them in.

Soon afterwards, Bernie led Rex
Markham into the room. Rex wore a light-blue business suit and dark
expression. Large pouches underlined reddish eyes. But his bearing
and gait were steady, suggesting he wouldn’t crumble under the
pressure. Brian was relieved. He hated having to fight a case while
propping up a fragile client. That was exhausting.

Brian had warned Rex that, when
the trial started, he’d be remanded in custody, so Rex carried a
small overnight bag.

Brian and Robyn said hello.

Rex responded with a concrete
smile and damp handshakes. "God. So the day has finally
arrived."

Brian said: "Yes, soon be
over."

He asked everyone to sit in the
chairs facing his desk. Then he sat behind the desk and explained
to Rex how, in court, Rex would be arraigned, the jury empanelled
and the trial commence. Rex kept nodding, but obviously wasn’t
taking much in.

At 9.45am, Brian told everyone
it was time to go. He quickly robed, picked up his bar bag and led
everyone out of his room. Bernie pushed the metal trolley.

On the pavement outside, Brian
turned right and headed towards the old Supreme Court building,
less than 50 metres away. Roiling around its entrance was a huge
media pack. They saw the Markham party and scurried forward. The
case was
sub judice
, so the reporters didn’t bother asking
questions. Instead, cameramen and photographers fanned out and
aimed their lenses at Rex.

Brian had a theory that
television made people look like they were walking fast and thus
scurrying to get away. So he led his little party at a funereal
pace through the media throng and up the steps into the main
foyer.

The Banco Court, built in the
1860s, was the most splendid courtroom in the state. A large
skylight was embedded in an ornamental wrought-zinc ceiling. All
the furnishings were made of polished cedar, including a massive
carved canopy above the judge’s bench. On the judge’s right was an
elevated jury box, facing the dock. A raised public gallery jutted
out over the well of the court.

When Brian entered, the Crown
Prosecutor, Sam Mahoney SC, was already at the Bar table, wearing
his customary smirk.

One of the first illusions Brian
lost when he joined the Bar was that prosecutors were impartial and
honest. He soon discovered they liked winning as much as anyone and
didn't care how they won.

Mahoney was one of the worst of
the breed. A devout Catholic, widely known as "the Pope’s
Prosecutor" or "the Mad Monk", he truly believed God had chosen him
as an instrument of wrath. For him, trials were an apocalyptic
struggle between the Forces of Light and the Forces of Darkness,
the Children of God and the Spawn of the Devil, with the fate of
Christendom in the balance. He took far more guidance from the Old
Testament than the Crimes Act.

Certainly, like all fanatics, he
believed that ends justified means and was happy to misrepresent
evidence, hide unpalatable facts and lie to opponents. God knew and
understood.

A few months ago, Brian clashed
with him during a trial, because Mahoney kept flipping through a
bible while Brian was extracting evidence from his client. Brian
asked the judge to discharge the jury on the basis that Mahoney was
trying to influence the jury; the judge agree.

Brian never liked it when
someone else pulled a dirty trick in court and was always anxious
to claim the high moral ground. So, out in the hallway, he called
Mahoney a professional disgrace. The two barristers then engaged in
some fairly pathetic pushing and shoving until their solicitors
dragged them apart.

Sitting next to Mahoney at the
bar table was his regular junior, Angus Tucker, tall and spindly
with a bushy beard. Brian knew nothing about him and had never
heard him speak. He was just a spooky presence.

When Brian sat at the bar table,
Mahoney smiled. "Hello Davis. How are you?"

Brian half-smiled. "In a bad
mood."

"Oh, really? Why?"

"Because you’ve dragged my poor
client down here on a trumped up charge. You should be ashamed of
yourself."

Mahoney’s smile widened. "Come
off it. He’s a murderer, and I can prove it."

"We’ll see."

Mahoney’s grin turned
malevolent. "In fact, I feel especially confident about this
one."

"Why?"

"Oh, I’ve got something up my
sleeve."

"What?"

Mahoney waved airily. "You’ll
find out, in good time."

Brian glared. "No, I want to
know now. You’ve got a duty to disclose all relevant
information."

Mahoney looked smug. "Don’t
worry. I’ve complied with my duty. I always do."

Did Mahoney really have
something up his sleeve? Was Brian walking into a trap? Such claims
were usually a bluff. But Mahoney was a sneaky bastard and sounded
particularly confident. Maybe he was planning an ambush.

However, no point jumping at
shadows. The die was cast.

At ten o’clock, Justice Dobell
trudged solemnly onto the bench and sat down. He was a thin,
hatchet-faced man with the politeness of a coiled snake. His gaze
travelled along the Bar table to see who might give him
trouble.

Mahoney announced that he
appeared for the Crown with his learned junior, Mr Tucker.

Brian rose. "Your Honour, I
appear for the accused, with my learned junior, Ms Parker."

The judge said: "Alright, Mr
Davis. Your client here?"

Brian nodded towards Rex
Markham, sitting behind him, next to Bernie Roberts. "Yes, your
Honour."

"Good. Please ask him to step
into the dock."

Bernie guided their client into
the dock.

Mahoney passed the indictment of
murder to the Judge’s Associate, who arraigned the accused by
reading it out and asking him how he pleaded.

Rex spoke loudly. "Not
guilty".

A dozen reporters in the press
box bent over and scribbled in their notebooks.

A Sheriff’s Officer led a panel
of twenty prospective jurors through a side-door and seated them in
the well of the court. Each juror was handed a card with an
identification number. Identical cards were placed in a ballot box.
The Judge’s Associate drew cards from the box until twelve jurors
sat in the jury box.

The prosecution and defence were
only allowed three pre-emptory challenges.

Mahoney made none. But Brian
scanned the prospective jurors. He tended to be suspicious of young
women, public servants and anyone carrying the
Daily
Telegraph;
he didn’t mind old guys, because they had usually
seen a bit of life.

He challenged two young women in
short skirts chewing gum and prayed he hadn’t just removed the two
jurors most likely to acquit.

Two new jurors were chosen and
the jury empanelled. While that happened, Brian recalled an old
barrister’s advice that: "Most jurors are idiots. But a jury is
always much smarter than the sum of its parts: it misses nothing
and forgets nothing, so never take it for granted."

His nerves had settled and his
mind was now completely focused on the trial. He probably wouldn’t
panic again until just before the jury returned its verdict.

After the Judge’s Associate had
read out the charge of murder, Mahoney made his opening address to
the jury, outlining the evidence he intended to call against Rex
Markham. It would show that Rex had a bitter marriage, was present
in Sydney on the night of the murder and initially lied about his
whereabouts. "At the end of this trial, it will be very obvious to
you that Rex Markham, angry at his wife, drove up to Sydney and
murdered her. However, he slipped up badly and now finds himself in
the dock."

The first witness Mahoney called
was the head of the homicide investigation, Detective Inspector
Paul Holloway, a fat man with a gingery crew-cut and no-nonsense
features. He spoke slowly, but was obviously no fool.

Holloway explained how, at 9pm
on the night of the murder, a neighbor of the Markhams heard a
woman scream. The neighbour called the police and a patrol car was
dispatched to the scene. The patrol officers found the back door of
the terrace had a broken lock. They entered and found the body of
Alice Markham in the kitchen.

Soon afterwards, Holloway
arrived at the crime scene, where he supervised the collection of
evidence and removal of the body. The next morning, he drove down
to the Markhams’ beach-house near Nowra, where he executed a search
warrant and conducted a tape-recorded interview with Rex Markham.
During that interview, Markham claimed he’d been at the beach-house
for the whole weekend.

Next, the detective described
how an analysis of Rex Markham’s credit card records revealed that
Markham purchased petrol in Sydney at 6.50pm on the night his wife
died. The detective confronted Markham with that evidence. Then, in
a second interview, Markham admitted that he had lied about his
whereabouts on that night. Instead of staying at the beach-house he
had, in fact, dined with his literary agent, Hugh Grimble, at
Watsons Bay.

Mahoney tendered transcripts of
both the first and second interviews and the credit card records.
Copies were handed to the jurors.

Brian didn’t intend to spend
much time cross-examining any of the prosecution witnesses. The
crucial issue in the case was not whether they were telling the
truth, but whether Rex was. Fruitless attacks on them would just
underline the strength of the prosecution case. Better to accept
their evidence and submit it proved nothing.

However, Brian did get Holloway
to admit that, after the murder, the detective discovered several
pieces of jewelry missing from the Markhams’ terrace.