Prima Facie Suzie Miller: (4.8/5.0 - 262 Downloads)
Prima Facie Suzie Miller: (4.8/5.0 - 262 Downloads)
Available at [Link]
( 4.8/5.0 ★ | 262 downloads )
[Link]
Prima Facie Suzie Miller
EBOOK
Available Formats
[Link]
harts-creek-stories-book-five-suzie-peters/
[Link]
[Link]
[Link]
Belle Révolte Linsey Miller
[Link]
[Link]
miller/
[Link]
kristie-miller/
[Link]
[Link]
About Prima Facie
Cover
About Prima Facie
Title page
Dedication
Epigraph
Before
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3: Then
Chapter 4
Chapter 5: Then
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8: Then
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12: Then
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16: Then
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
After: Seven hundred and eighty-two days later
Chapter 20: Now
Chapter 21
Chapter 22: Then
Chapter 23: Now
Chapter 24: Then
Chapter 25: Now
Chapter 26: Then
Chapter 27
Chapter 28: Then
Chapter 29
Chapter 30: Then
Chapter 31: Now
Chapter 32: Then
Chapter 33: Now
Chapter 34: Then
Chapter 35: Then
Chapter 36: Now
Chapter 37: Then
Chapter 38: Now
Chapter 39: Then
Chapter 40: Then
Chapter 41: Now
Chapter 42: Then
Chapter 43: Now
Chapter 44: Now
Chapter 45: Later
Chapter 46: After
Acknowledgements
About Suzie Miller
Copyright page
Newsletter
For all the women who comprise the ‘one in three’.
Boldness be my friend.
Shakespeare (from Cymbaline)
THOROUGHBREDS. EVERY SINGLE one. Primed for the race, every muscle
pumped; groomed in expensive, understated, designer grey or navy suits,
classic white shirts, black robes. All these top legal women have a sort of
swagger, an ironic way of owning the space, a satchel flung from one
shoulder to the opposite hip. Nude or red lipstick, not too much mascara.
Cool earrings, and designer boots, or cheeky heels bought on a trip
overseas. I study them all. Have done so for years. Copy them. I’m a good
mimic. Eventually I become better at ‘being a barrister’ than the ones born
to it. The top women do law differently to the men, subtly different, and it
takes a while for me to compute the various ways they own the space. All
the little details are secret code for ‘we’re here but we’re doing it our way,
not like the crusty old male barristers of the past’. And these details
accumulate the more confident you become, the more you own your space
in court.
Barrister-bags in pink or blue are placed around the court, like loyal
dogs beside their owners: blue for baby barristers of fewer than twenty
years, the pink ones are a badge of honour, given to a junior barrister by a
KC who has singled them out for praise. I was granted a pink one, and I
treasure it, but I use mine more ironically than anything else. Soft, thick,
white ropes of a certain length and texture act as handles; blazoned with
hand-stitched initials in the only font permitted, and lined with court-
approved ticking. A barrister-bag was once a thing of pride, supposed to be
used for carrying briefs and materials for court – they might have been
useful centuries ago – but now, really they’re for show. Symbols of the elite,
handed down from father to son to son. Sometimes a daughter received her
father’s bag, but those barristers – the women who grew up with law in the
family – they don’t have the same uncomfortable relationship with these
things that I do; they don’t love the law like I do either. They don’t see it as
a tool for power in the way I always have; don’t hold it tight. Sure, they
know it is ‘powerful’, but most slipped into the law as if settling into an old
leather armchair, and think of it more as a family business, not a desperate
arena to fight for justice.
It’s easy to pick these women. They mostly don’t do criminal law,
nothing grubby. Nothing risky. If they do opt for a criminal practice, it’s
usually a tame version, and often chosen more out of curiosity than life
experience, more for the excitement than the desire to fight for clients on
the lowest rungs of social standing.
For those of us beyond the barrister-bag accoutrements, the satchel is a
much better statement; confident, unfazed, a symbol of having made it well
past the need for a security blanket, our own little badge of honour.
Yet there are some things we all have in common: the horsehair wigs
that cover our well-cut, warmly coloured styles that give all women
barristers the same unfortunate case of ‘six pm wig-hair’ at the end of a
long day. Something the male forebears didn’t account for when they
enshrined it as legal costume. The only way the men can differentiate from
each other is the colour of their tie; occasionally, one might add some
unusual glasses or an interesting watch.
In a glance, I can tell who’s who in the court foyer. What cases they
have run, won, lost; what cases are listed today. If it’s a certain group of
barristers, then it’s all white-collar crime in corporate finance cases, their
instructing solicitors trail behind them with trolleys of white binders.
And then there are those of us who ride the lifts to the criminal courts.
We circle, heads held high. All of us trained and ready for the sprint. Not
jumpy but wired, like a horse; excited, restless. Waiting for the starting gun.
The first to break loses.
I walk into court with my client, take in a rabble of police leaning into
the prosecution barrister. Arnold Lathan is prosecuting. Good. I’m glad it’s
him; dare I say this is now perhaps a winnable case. I nod to Arnold briefly
and he nods back. My blood rises but I have to keep it together, don’t get
too excited. Arnold’s always prepared, he’s just not as quick once things
unfold. I don’t recognise any of the police. That’s also good. They have no
idea what to expect.
My client is lagging. Tony. He’s a tall guy, big. This isn’t the first time
I’ve acted for him, but it is the first time on a matter like this. The charge of
stealing and assault is based entirely on the evidence of one man, someone
Tony once played football with. A compromised witness with a major
grudge against him. He dislikes Tony, looks down on him; and has made a
statement that leaves out the abuse and assault Tony endured at this man’s
hands. The police clearly believed the man’s story, and so here we are. Tony
is dressed as I told him, but he still doesn’t cut it. A suit from Primark, a
cheap no-brand shirt, and a tie he must have got free with the shirt. Still, at
least he tried. He’s hidden all his tatts under that layer of polyester. Good.
It’s always a shock to me when these tough guys are about to walk into a
court; they’re unexpectedly nervous. And Tony is no different. Out there,
they run the streets, confident, cocky, reading all the signs, but in here, the
signals are different, and each of them say ‘you have no power’. I told Tony
to ‘bring your toothbrush’ and he told me this morning that he actually did.
He pulled it out of his pocket, a blue Tesco’s brand with some fluff from the
pocket of his new jacket layering the bristles.
No Tony, it’s just a saying.
But you told me –
It’s just lawyer talk.
His eyes are glued to my lips, trying to work out what I’m saying. I
explain it.
It means ‘the cops have a good case’.
But you said –
Tony, they won’t actually let you take your toothbrush into prison
with you!
They won’t?
He’s scanning me for any sort of hope.
Don’t panic just yet.
Tony is scared. Like, little-boy scared. Of course he is. For him this is
not an everyday thing, not a familiar place. He’s been up all night, drinking
and vomiting. He’s had to iron that shirt, and ask his girlfriend, or his mum,
to put the tie on for him. He probably caught the train in and ate Maccy-D’s
around the corner, not knowing where he’d spend the next night. This is
big; he could go away for a few years if he goes down.
The truth is, keeping them afraid is useful. They listen more, tend to be
a bit in awe of you, and it acts as a buffer in case they go down. It means
once they know jail is possible, you’re all they have. If we walk out of here
today, I am his favourite person. If he goes inside, it won’t be a shock. I can
see so much of my brother in Tony. Out of place, in a terrible situation that
looks like it can only get worse. I head over to him.
Hey Tony.
As he hurries to stand up, I see he is sweating.
You ok?
Yeah. Yeah.
Anyone coming to be with you?
His tongue moistens his lips. He’s just twenty-five.
Mum’s on her way.
Good.
I am the only thing familiar in this room. There is laughter from a group
of barristers, another calling loudly for his client. Confidence and power
surround Tony, but he has none of it. His eyes are soft, and for the first time
since I met him, he has neither gum nor cigarette in his mouth. I see the
child in him. Not the arsehole in the police brief, the thug who drank too
much, lost his cool and is in over his head.
Do you think there’s any hope your witness will arrive?
He has an ex-girlfriend who witnessed it all, saw that it was not Tony
who threw the first punch.
Dunno. Maybe. Shall I call her again?
Yeah, you do that. Tell her we’re in the list for ten am.
I know there’s no hope. She’s been AWOL for the last month. Truth is
she doesn’t want anything to do with this case. She’s scared to give
evidence. No one likes to be cross-examined. At least calling her will give
Tony something to do as he waits for his mum. And it gives me a chance to
review the main points, a trip to the loo, straighten my wig and make-up.
When Tony takes his seat in court, he pulls the chair up to the bar table
beside me. I have to reprimand him. I turn to him and explain he is to sit in
the dock, and direct him over to the court officer. He complies meekly; he’s
shaking. The man described in the police brief as a dangerous, violent,
drunken thug in a bar, is this scared 25-year-old shaking like a boy. The
narratives do not reconcile. This is the truth of the law. Tony’s mum enters,
takes a seat halfway down in the gallery. She is alone too. Texting. I gesture
to her to turn off her phone. She doesn’t understand. I give up.
I turn and look at the court clock. Court is starting to hush; the judge is
late but not very. It’s just after ten. I hear the chatter in the gallery behind
me, but now I’m on the job I push it into background noise. Flick through
my papers, pour some water from the jug on the bench into a tumbler,
arrange my notes.
The energy in the room, like every case I run, is pumped: this is the
moment before, when the charged space around me has a current of
excitement and dread. This is where my skill set gets to flex its muscle. I
draw all my energy into the same place, make the bar table my own.
Blinkers on; only focused on what is ahead. Face confident, giving nothing
away. So much of this is theatre. All the details of the case are in my head,
no room for anything else. I am holding it together, holding back, keeping
my blood at just the right temperature. Just below boil. Waiting. Waiting.
Then bang.
The court officer calls out:
All rise.
We all leap to our feet, nodding our respect as the judge arrives. He
takes his seat, and we take ours. The prosecutor and I, pumped, both in our
own lane, both utterly aware of each breath the other takes, but never
acknowledging each other unless, ‘I refer to my friend, the prosecutor, Your
Honour’. No eye contact.
We are out of the stalls and it’s on. It’s a long race so I hold back, know
when to have restraint. Nothing worse than jumping in too early out of a
desire to win a point that ultimately undermines your case. The prosecution
opens, stands, and looks at the jury. The best chance for Tony is if the
prosecution case can’t be made, where the prosecution evidence can be
undermined by the defence and there’s the chance to make an argument for
no case to answer. That means the case fails, Tony walks.
I have the whole course mapped in my mind, yet I’m ready to tear it up
at the first surprise. The prosecutor stands and lists the charges. At the bar
table my eyes graze the bench, performing practiced nonchalance at the
prosecution’s accusations. My face gives nothing away. Sit still, straight
back, focus on what’s before me, poised, watching, waiting, nerves taut.
Every word uttered I am processing, interrogating, filing away, all the while
feigning boredom. Breathe. Eyes gentle but listen to every word, interpret
every physical signal, looking for an opening. The theatre is not just to
impress the clients, not just to show who is in charge, it’s part of the game. I
sit slightly back, head cocked to one side, leaning on the back of my chair,
but all my muscles are tightly wound, waiting to spring.
Then I spy an opening: the prosecution witness is drifting away from
just answering questions, elaborating in ways that he isn’t asked to. I can
see Arnold, the prosecutor, is tempted to ask something he knows is
ambiguous. His hesitation is key. It’s starting to open up, wait, wait . . . let
some more open up. This is the measure of my skill set, the waiting, the
calm before.
And there it is, instinct pushes me forward, I leap to my feet. Measured,
but clear.
Your Honour.
I hold everything in one place, and eyes, eyes are all looking at me. I
can’t see anyone, but I feel the shift. Standing tall, waiting, and the judge
focuses in on me. I hear my own voice.
I’m so sorry to rise, sir, but I believe my friend at the bar table,
counsel for the prosecution, is leading the evidence from his witness.
The prosecution case rests solely on the evidence of this man, this
witness here. A witness who, the defence will argue, is severely
compromised.
Strong and sure, explaining my objection, making my application to
disallow a line of questioning. The prosecutor tries to maintain his
momentum, I feel the urge to say more but rein it in. Less is more. I’ve
made my point, keep them guessing. The judge momentarily pauses, like he
has just felt the energy of the game, his eyes resting on me again; he knows
me, he has seen me in action before. Is that respect? He hasn’t been on this
side of the bench for a long time, but he loves the fight, he loves a muscular
argument, and this one is shaping up. He leans forward. Application
granted.
Yes! In my mind I am cheering, but anyone watching me won’t see it.
My instructing solicitor sits in a chair near mine at the bar table. He is a
man, new to solicitor practice, from a nice private school, with the neatest
haircut in the room. I don’t need him at all, but he thinks I do, so he pores
over his notes just to be ready. I see Tony look at me from the dock as I turn
back to take my seat. He doesn’t know that I have won a significant point,
but he feels it, a subtle shift. The witness in the box is someone Tony once
knew well, but after this there is no friendship left. This man has moved a
long way from when he and Tony played football together. He wears sharp
cologne and works in property now, some sort of estate agent. He is the
‘bastard’ that the Tonys of this world always lose to. To Tony, this man is
everything wrong with his life, a lifetime of built-up hostilities, leading to
this moment where the witness sits in court trying to send Tony to jail. For
me though, the witness is just the witness, a pawn in a bigger game.
I sit down while the prosecutor continues to examine his witness. He
has botched something, and he is patching it up as best he can. There are
other barristers in court, sitting in the gallery as they await their own court
matters, alert to the arguments, curious to see how another one of their own
uses their skills. The judge speaks.
It’s your witness, Ms Ensler.
And this is the moment. The witness is mine, oh yeah, the witness is
mine now. The man breathes in, wary, sizing me up. He is computing
everything about me, taking in what I am wearing, how I look at him,
whether I am the sort of woman he can charm, or ridicule. My neurons are
firing, words being formed. I’m carefully selecting phrases as tight as a
drum. The courtroom is silent, charged, waiting. I drink up this moment.
Never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to, and don’t
ever let the other side think you’ve lost your confidence unless it is part of
the game. I stand and take a moment, move my robes and do up the button
on my suit jacket. The courtroom is still. I can hear my own voice in my
head. Keep it cool, Tessa, keep it cool. I can see in my periphery the witness
still taking the measure of me. I look small to him, young. But he can’t
quite figure me out. I let everyone wait just a second more than they expect,
then I launch.
Cross-examination is the best part. It’s all instinct. Yes, you need the
information, the map of the journey forward, but once you’re on your feet
you need to be nimble. You need to be flexible. Turn on a beat.
I focus in on the witness. I’m poised, ready for the play ahead. But the
witness has no idea who I am. Perhaps he was warned by someone of my
various techniques, but by now he has forgotten it all.
I ask the witness a question, he turns to the judge and answers it
quickly.
I ask the same question in a different way, watch his face, a flicker. He
repeats his answer with a dismissive wave before quickly eyeing the judge.
I repeat his answer. I don’t look, but I feel the prosecutor stir slightly at the
bar table next to me.
I repeat the answer again, quizzically. The witness looks right at me,
thinks I am getting mixed up. I flick through some papers, let him think I’ve
lost my way.
He jumps in, tries to explain his answer, his voice patronising. He lets it
be known with the pacing of his words that he thinks ‘this one is a bit slow
in understanding’.
I hear myself breathing, then a barely audible snicker from the
prosecution.
Good. Very good.
Again, I flick through pages in my file, check Tony in the dock; he
moves uncomfortably. Good. I ask a similar question, and watch the witness
relax. His shoulders roll back, eyes dart around, a smirk. ‘This one doesn’t
seem to know what she’s doing.’ Check the judge. Expressionless. But this
judge has seen me before, he’s seen the likes of me. He’s quietly observing
the performance.
Question one.
Question two.
Look worried about the answers. This emboldens the witness. He looks
around the gallery, seeking an audience. Flashes me a look and
condescends, then . . . is that a hint of flirtation? I nod at his answers,
flicking through pages, fumbling. I watch him, yes yes, here he goes.
I let the witness talk, over talk. I let the witness ‘clarify’. Good.
Thanks for that, sir, I wasn’t sure . . .
And he goes further. He’s in his element. His eyes dismiss me: ‘this one
must be straight out of uni or something; she’s not that good,’ he thinks.
He’s putty in my hands now. He relaxes, thinks he has the upper hand. And
so now he is not careful, not afraid, no longer vigilant.
He says something inconsistent.
I nod, and look confused, let him explain it to me, but inside I am on
alert. This is the break in his serve, this is where I take my lead. He’s
explaining and I’m nodding as he digs himself in further.
Ok, I see. That’s a bit clearer now . . .
Oh, he volunteers more information. It’s all too easy, he has talked
himself into a total mess. I dare to turn and momentarily clock the
prosecutor. I see him put a finger to his forehead. Yes, he knows. And I
know, but the guy about to bury himself doesn’t know; he talks on and on.
In my mind’s eye I am circling him, nodding approval. I ask for further
clarification.
The witness is so obliging! He is ‘helping the woman out’. I quickly
check the judge; my face is a mask, but the judge knows. Turn back to the
witness. There is blood in the water and I let the witness swim on. He has
gone beyond the point of return, no one can help him now.
When he’s done, he sits back, a flash of confidence across his face. I let
him feel his control, feel in charge of the moment. I let him indulge in
feeling safe and secure.
Then I breathe in and out, remind myself to tiptoe through the next bit,
really pace the impact.
The witness crosses his arms. I have stopped flicking through pages, I
am standing very still yet I am circling him. The judge and the other
lawyers know what’s coming. They silently cringe for him, but they love it,
they lean forward. The people in the public gallery are a little bored, they
see incompetence in me, someone lost, they have no idea what is
happening. And the witness, there in the witness box, the man I am talking
to, he still has no clue. No. Fucking. Clue.
I’m sorry, but just to clarify. I do have one more question. I hope you
don’t mind; it will help me get the full picture . . .
The smallest of eye-rolls from the witness. Perfect. This is exactly
where I need him to be. But if the witness were watching the prosecutor, the
guy sitting next to me at the bar table, he’d sense something is amiss. The
prosecutor turns his face down towards the bar table. I stop moving, stop
paper shuffling, stop fawning confusion. I look right at the witness.
I ask my question.
A strange movement crosses his face; he looks to the prosecutor for
reassurance. The prosecutor can’t say anything, but his eyes, they are
begging him to be careful, begging the witness not to fall into the trap laid
out before him. I see all this and then I fire four questions like bullets at the
witness.
Bang, bang.
Bang. Bang.
His face registers the shock. Utter annihilation; he looks at me.
For the first time, this witness sees me. Sees who I really am.
I watch the slow dawning, followed by fury. Fury at me, at being taken
for a ride. I stand up tall, let him see my power. He thought he had this but
here I am. I like that he had dismissed me, I like that he had rolled his eyes,
decided I was lousy at my job. I like it all for this moment. This moment
where I have won the game and he is forced to look at me, and to realise
that he had completely underestimated who he was dealing with.
He doesn’t like it.
I watch the witness sweat as he thinks of an answer. The people in the
gallery are not bored anymore. They have just seen a cross-examination in
action, one as brilliant as they see on television. I can feel the shift in them;
they are now looking at me with respect, curiosity. ‘She’s good.’ But I’m
not done yet.
My first movement is to look over at my client. He stares at me
awestruck, he had long given up, he beams at me, but I continue as if I
haven’t seen him. I am not done yet.
Answer the question please, Mr Bateman.
I say this in the most professional voice I have. The witness does not
speak. I relish this last moment and take my time. The prosecutor has his
head down almost touching the bar table, his case destroyed. He knows it, I
know it and the judge knows it, but the performance must reach its finale. I
press on in the sweetest voice I can muster.
Your Honour, the witness is not answering my question.
The judge reminds Mr Bateman that he must answer the question. I turn
to Mr Bateman and wait. He is cornered, and I wait. He mumbles
something. I lean in.
I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.
The judge speaks wearily.
You must speak into the microphone for the recording, Mr Bateman.
I gesture to the witness to bring the microphone closer to his face,
smiling benevolently. By now Mr Bateman is very wary of me. He answers.
Yes, I was.
So, your answer is a yes then, sir?
The judge has had enough, the man is destroyed, and tells me I have my
answer. I do! And I like it. The prosecutor shakes his head when he is asked
whether he will re-examine. He doesn’t even stand. There’s nothing he can
do to save his case. The judge lets the witness go and as he leaves the
witness box, he tries to make eye contact with the prosecutor. What just
happened?
He is confused, fumbling, he is enraged. With me. His face is shaken as
he walks past me, he has no idea what went down. It’s not emotional for
me, it’s just the game of law. I stand up again and request that the case
against my client be dismissed. Tony doesn’t know what is happening, but
he senses it’s good. I address the judge, neutral.
I submit that there is no case to answer, Your Honour.
The judge is swift, he dismisses the case. He turns and explains to Tony
that the case cannot be proved and that he, Tony, is free to go. Tony shakes
his head, beams, but doesn’t walk from the dock until I beckon to him. As I
pack up my paperwork I turn and nod to his mother. She also stands to
leave. The barristers’ rule is you can’t flaunt a win. Every winner might lose
the next day. We don’t even call it losing, it’s too hard for us to wrap our
mouths around that word, instead we call it ‘coming second’. Today the
prosecutor came second. I nod a thank you and acknowledge the prosecutor,
try not to make eye contact. Put my papers in my satchel and cross it over
my chest, undo my suit jacket and make my way towards the door of the
courtroom. Everyone who saw me win is watching me. I saunter. Mentally
cue applause; it feels good. When I get to the door, I turn, nod to the judge.
Tony and his mother are on either side of me; I motion for them to nod too,
and they do. This big thug of a man and his mum are in my thrall. I am the
one who leads the way through this strange system, puts them on a path to
home. When we are outside the courtroom I dare to strip away the artifice;
not all of it though, they need me to still be in charge.
Tony, you can brush your teeth at home now.
Tony looks at me, questioning.
You’re free to go home Tony. They didn’t have a case. It’s all over.
I realise Tony and his mother, despite hearing the judge dismiss the
case, still do not quite know the outcome. Tony’s mother bursts into tears,
she grabs my hand and puts it to her heart. There’s suddenly a warmth and a
strange closeness towards this mother and her son. It’s too familiar. I start to
falter. This mother, her boy, such love between them. Her relief is so
palpable. I wonder how many sleepless nights she has had worrying about
what would happen today. I also wonder how she can bear it. There will be
another time for Tony in court, of that I have no doubt, but for today she can
take her boy home. Tony’s mum is not letting go of my hand. I put my other
hand over hers and gently take it off her chest, gradually releasing her grip.
I must run, another case to prepare.
Keep it professional. I turn to Tony.
As for you. I don’t want to see you in here ever again.
I say this to a grown man, to someone towering over me. I say this to
Tony, still in his badly ironed shirt, sweat marks now under each arm. He
nods almost violently. He won’t be here again, he is sure. I’m not. But in
this moment, he grabs my hand and shakes it. This giant thug of a man is
filled with respect for me. In this moment, I have power.
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
Environmental Science - Mind Map
Spring 2022 - Research Center
[Link]