THE SONG MASTER Read online

  ‘Across the Nullarbor Plain? Are you mad?’ laughed Susan.

  ‘Why not? Be an adventure, it’s mostly bitumen road now.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Somehow I can’t see my Saab nosing into the Kimberley. Beth tells me the Barradja will be at their dry season camp a couple of hundred kilometres outside Kununurra.’

  Andrew looked serious. ‘Have the people in that community agreed to you going? You could be seen as representing white law and that could be a problem. You’d better make sure Beth has permission to bring you along.’

  Susan was surprised. ‘I hadn’t thought about me being allowed to go in or not. I’ve never faced the idea of not being allowed to go somewhere in my own country.’

  ‘You’ve stormed the portals of the all-male law clubs, I assume?’ He gave a smile.

  She pouted at him. She was trying not to take offence at his flippant male remarks. ‘My sisters did that for me a few years back. Mind you, the old boys’ network is alive and well in the legal profession. We’ve just started a women’s legal network which is proving quite effective.’

  ‘I bet. I wouldn’t tangle with a mob like you.’ Seeing her raised eyebrows he added, ‘Just kidding. So. When are you coming?’ He looked eager.

  ‘I don’t know. I have to get time off, liaise with Beth.’ Susan was already making plans in her head. ‘We’ll just have to see what the fates work out.’

  The kiss goodnight left her breathless.

  He promised to call. This pleased her. The more she saw of him here, the easier it would be visiting him in the Kimberley.

  Susan met Beth and Barwon outside Waverley Local Court for the hearing of his case. They had already appeared at the List Day, where Susan had entered a plea of not guilty on behalf of her client and had the matter announced as ready for hearing.

  ‘Nervous?’ asked Susan, glancing across at Barwon. He shrugged slightly, adjusting his tie. He wore a navy blazer, charcoal pants and white shirt. She had complimented him on his outfit. ‘You look like an ad for Country Road.’

  ‘I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t apprehensive.’ He gave a brief smile that turned to a grimace as he saw several photographers outside the entrance to the court.

  Inside, Barwon sat in a chair behind Susan, who was at a long table with the police prosecutor at the other end. Shirley Bisson was seated in the first row behind the prosecutor. Elegantly dressed in a pale blue suit, she sat with lowered head, looking at her hands in her lap. The clerk checked that the recording apparatus was working and nodded to the prosecutor.

  The police officer from Rose Bay, who had attended the scene, gave his evidence, reading his statement onto the court record, followed by the second officer who had corroborated his superior’s statement.

  Susan then addressed the magistrate and quickly explained that, because of the superficial nature of the defendant’s wound, she was consenting to the tender of a medical report from the hospital, to save calling the doctor to court. The report was tendered into evidence with the consent of both parties and received by the magistrate.

  Shirley Bisson flinched slightly as the court recorder called her as the third witness. The prosecutor, a portly ex-footballer, took her through the evening of the alleged assault after only the briefest questioning of her relationship with Barwon.

  ‘Why did the relationship fall apart?’ asked the prosecutor.

  Shirley’s hands worried her handkerchief into a knotted ball and she looked down before replying. ‘He changed. He didn’t seem as interested as before.’

  ‘Did you lose interest as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When he left your home twelve months ago, did you make it clear you did not want to see him again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After he left, did he contact you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you ever expect him back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it was a total surprise to find him in the apartment on the night in question?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you frightened?’

  Barwon whispered something to Susan and the movement seemed to distract the witness. She stole a glimpse in his direction, then looked down again at her hands twisting the handkerchief. She heard the prosecutor ask the question again.

  ‘Were you frightened, Mrs Bisson?’

  She looked up, a nervous tic at the corner of one eye, her face strained. ‘Yes I was.’

  ‘And he tried to have intercourse with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you ran into the kitchen and got a knife?’

  Susan sprang to her feet. ‘Objection, leading the witness.’

  ‘The question allowed, please proceed.’

  ‘Why? Why did you get the knife?’

  ‘To protect myself.’

  ‘What were you afraid of at this point?’

  ‘He might try to rape me. Or hurt me.’

  ‘Did he come after you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How was he dressed when he entered the kitchen?’

  ‘He was naked.’ Before the prosecutor could ask the next question, she added a detail that sent a ripple of amusement through the courtroom. ‘Except for his socks. He still had his socks on.’

  The prosecuting sergeant took a deep breath. ‘His socks. Good. Then what happened?’

  ‘He tried to grab me and I swung the knife at him. I wanted to scare him off.’

  ‘Did you succeed?’

  ‘Yes. He ran out of the apartment.’

  ‘Did he say anything before he ran out?’

  Again she paused and looked down at her hands. ‘I think he swore.’

  ‘At you.’

  ‘Yes . . . I think so.’

  She hesitated, then replied softly. ‘I can’t remember.’

  The prosecutor raised an eyebrow. ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘I rang the police and told them what happened.’

  Susan worked constantly on her notes of the evidence, at the same time watching the witness as closely as possible, analysing every little movement of body language, every pause in her replies, every expression on her face. It was a relief when she heard the magistrate say, ‘Yes, cross examination of the witness, Miss Massey.’

  Now a different kind of concentration was required, and different skills, and she relished this moment. She was convinced Shirley Bisson was not telling the truth, or at best suffering from a very faulty memory. The task was to get her to contradict herself, to make a clearly tense nervous system crack, and in the confusion create sufficient doubt about the quality and credibility of her evidence.

  Susan rose and looked at the witness, catching a flash of worry and even a hint of embarrassment in her eyes. Susan smiled at her reassuringly. ‘You must be hating all of this, I imagine.’

  The magistrate looked over his glasses. ‘Do you have specific questions for the witness, Miss Massey?’ The rebuke was subtle in the tone of his voice, but that didn’t worry Susan. She had succeeded in throwing the witness off guard.

  ‘Did you love Nigel Barwon?’ She stressed the word ‘love’. The effect on Shirley Bisson was dramatic. She fumbled for words.

  ‘Well, did you? Did you deeply love Nigel Barwon?’ pressed Susan with a voice that demanded an immediate answer.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘At one stage. Yes.’

  ‘Please speak up, Mrs Bisson,’ said the magistrate.

  ‘And how long did you live together at your apartment in Darling Point Road, Darling Point?’

  ‘A bit over a year.’

  ‘And you and Nigel Barwon appeared socially together in public and at private functions during that time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were lovers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And during the time you lived together, were there any serious domestic disagreements, fights or incidents?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘No . Not really.’

  ‘So you n
ever had cause to feel threatened or in danger from Mr Barwon?’

  ‘Not at that time.’

  ‘Even after your amicable parting, you never worried about him causing you harm?’

  ‘I suppose not . . .’

  ‘So you were never worried about him harming you. And did you agree to go your separate ways, when he said he wanted to go to Western Australia to find his mother’s family?’

  ‘Well, sort of . . . I . . .’

  ‘Just answer the question please.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘That means yes?’

  Shirley Bisson nodded and the magistrate, who was making notes, turned to her. ‘Please make an audible reply, Mrs Bisson.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when Nigel Barwon moved out, you allowed him to take all his possessions, including the many presents you’d bought him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In fact, you agreed he could move his things out over several days, using his own door key. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you ever ask for that key back?’

  ‘I forgot that . . .’

  ‘Just answer the question, yes or no please,’ Susan cut in quickly.

  ‘No. I did not ask for the key.’

  ‘On the night of the incident, were you sleeping naked?’

  Once again the witness was embarrassed and hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Once he came into the bedroom, even though there was not much light, you quickly recognised him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If it had not been someone like Barwon, who you recognised, you would have been really terrified?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I would have.’

  ‘So it was a relief in a way to recognise Barwon?’

  The witness looked quickly to the prosecutor, almost pleading for help as her words came tumbling out. ‘Yes, but I was still . . . frightened.’

  ‘Were you angry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Susan with deliberate emphasis. ‘Angry and frightened. Were you more angry than frightened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied, clearly flustered. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you did not immediately run to the kitchen, he sat on the bed and you both talked, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had you got out from under the sheets?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So there you were, naked, on the bed, talking with your former lover, right?’

  ‘I don’t know if you’d call it talking. We were arguing.’

  ‘Arguing? About what?’

  ‘He wanted to make love with me.’

  ‘He asked?’

  ‘Well . . . sort of.’

  ‘Sort of . . . asked,’ repeated Susan, bending down to make a note, quite unnecessarily, on her pad.

  Then she looked at the witness in silence for a short while until she felt the timing was right. ‘He kissed you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Several times?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you run immediately to the kitchen?’

  ‘No. I ran a bit later.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When he started to take off his clothes.’

  ‘How long before you ran from the bedroom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘One minute, two minutes, three minutes, five minutes . . . you must have some idea.’

  ‘No. I lost track of time.’

  Again Susan went through the business of writing very deliberately on her pad and repeating the words slowly . . . ‘No , I lost track of time.’

  ‘Let me put the picture I get to you, Mrs Bisson, and tell me if I have got it right. You both sat on the bed, you naked, kissing until you lost track of time, then when he started to undress you ran off to the kitchen. Is that right?’

  The prosecutor jumped to his feet. ‘Objection.’

  ‘Yes, I won’t allow that question,’ said the magistrate. ‘Anymore questions, Miss Massey?’

  ‘No, Your Worship.’

  ‘Any re-examination of the witness, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir, that is the conclusion of the prosecution’s case.’

  ‘Miss Massey, do you wish to address me on prima facie?’ asked the magistrate.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, Miss Massey, I hold there is a prima facie case, do you wish to call any evidence?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I call Nigel Barwon.’

  She led him through his story, that he’d had a few drinks, felt lonely and since he was in the neighbourhood and still had the key, decided he would call on his former lover. He knocked on the door before letting himself in. He identified himself to her as soon as he knew she was awake.

  ‘Did you think she would be frightened?’

  ‘No, not really. Not when she knew it was me.’

  ‘Did she scream or shout?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you aroused when you saw her naked body?’

  Barwon was a little hesitant, from embarrassment at the bluntness of the question delivered so dispassionately by the young woman lawyer. ‘Yeah, of course. It was only natural.’

  ‘You kissed several times?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when you went into the kitchen, naked, did you expect to be welcomed with open arms?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure. I knew she still felt good about me.’

  ‘Did you attack her?’

  ‘No way. I did not attack her.’

  ‘Did you swear at her?’

  ‘I swore, mainly in shock. I didn’t expect her to swing a knife at me. I can’t remember that part too well. I was bleeding.’

  ‘You were drunk weren’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes. But not rotten drunk, if you know what I mean. Just drunk.’

  Susan suppressed a smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Barwon.’

  The prosecutor realised a massive hole had been knocked in his case. His witness had not handled the cross examination well at all, and the defendant was coming across as a reasonable man, reacting quite normally given the odd circumstances of the situation. Despite brief cross examination of the defendant by the prosecutor, the incident was looking like an old-fashioned domestic argument.

  After the prosecutor addressed the magistrate on the case for the Crown, Susan rose to make her address.

  She closed by saying, ‘Your Worship, as we have heard today, my client has only ever had a fond and caring attitude to the alleged victim. He never intended to frighten or harm her, though he has expressed regret for his actions and in the past months since they separated, he has kept away from her.’

  In his summary, the prosecutor had tried hard to portray Barwon as a villain of the first order. But Susan had reduced the incident to something between a fairly ordinary domestic argument and a case of a woman angry at herself for an emotional and physical lapse. The poor man had been led on by her naked embrace on the bed. She lost track of time, Susan had said, with a very pointed reference to her notes. No screaming, just shared passion of sorts for a while, then a reaction in which the violence clearly originated with her, not him.

  Susan and the prosecutor stood before the magistrate as he adjusted his glasses and addressed them. ‘For the prosecution to establish this offence in this jurisdiction, I must be satisfied beyond a reasonable doubt. Having heard all the evidence, and having had the opportunity to observe the demeanour of each witness whilst cross examined and their evidence tested, I feel that I have a doubt, and that doubt must therefore go to the defendant, and I dismiss the charge.’

  Barwon let out his breath in a soft sigh and smiled at Susan.

  They all rose, giving a slight bow to the bench before turning and filing out of the court.

  Barwon and Susan were first to leave the building but Barwon paused at the door and waited for Shirley. For a moment they looked at each other and he spoke softly. ‘I never meant to hurt you.’

  ‘N
or I you.’

  ‘Good luck, Shirley.’

  ‘I hope you find your family.’

  She turned away as she sighted the photographers and a reporter closing in around Barwon.

  Beth was quickly beside him and, ignoring questions from the reporter asking the former TV presenter to make a statement, she linked her arm through Barwon’s and walked him over to Susan. ‘Let’s celebrate. I’m supervising a trip to the nearest coffee shop.’

  He sat cross-legged before last night’s fire crumbling soft dry grass onto the faintly glowing embers under the hot ash. They caught and he blew gently, fanning the small blaze before adding more grass and dry twigs.

  The smell of the fire brought others to the circle. The day had begun. The smoke rose into the pale sky, chasing the echoes of the dawn chorus. His younger son Luke joined him, sitting beside him in the same fashion, his eyes still sleepy.

  Daniel Ardjani held his hands, now finely laced with veins and wrinkles, over the fire to warm them, then reached out and rubbed them across Luke’s belly. He re-warmed his hands and rubbed the boy’s face and head. It was an awakening to the awareness of the coming day, an entreaty to learn from this day. To learn of his belonging, his respect of the law, of nature and of the wisdom from his father and the elders. The boy smiled, nodded, and stretched his own hands towards the warmth of the fire. This was wudu time. As the heat rose, it was time for first lessons. Later would come food gathering with the women, for Luke, just nine years of age, was only allowed to go with the men on certain occasions.

  Ardjani showed the young boy the feather of the spotted nightjar. ‘This one belong Wodoi–man country. This owl is from Dhumby story. He is the poor little owl who suffered because of two ignorant children. These two boys were left to play while their parents were away. And they were disrespectful and disobedient. They caught the owl and tore out Dhumby’s feathers and stuck spinifex in him. He tried to fly and fell, boom, down on the earth.’ Ardjani dropped the feather on the ground and the boy stared at it, sadness in his eyes. Ardjani’s voice became deeper. ‘All the tribe men and women were killed in a great flood, punished for what those boys did. Those boys ran away but they got caught and locked in the womb of a boab tree far away where no one can help them. Dhumby’s spirit flew to the sacred cave where he is painted on the wall with the Wandjina. So we old people, we make sure young people know the law and keep it. Otherwise we old people be punished for the mistakes our children make. Boys must respect and be obedient to the laws so the law can go on through the elders and the next generation. Otherwise we all be killed. This story is here, in the land, it is the law.’