Alex Palmer - The Labyrinth of Drowning

Once a factotum for organised crime boss Sam Nguyen, Newell had been a useful if minor player in the drug distribution business, until he’d been gaoled for armed robbery five years ago. When he was charged with murder, it had been implied in the tabloids that he’d beaten his cell mate to death on the orders of his former boss, innuendo Nguyen had stridently rejected, going so far as to threaten to sue, and earning himself a few more headlines into the bargain. Harrigan had dismissed the story from the start. According to his intelligence, Nguyen had cut his ties with Newell way back when he was gaoled for robbery.

Harrigan had heard of Joel Griffin before this trial but didn’t know much about him. He seemed to be a middling Sydney criminal lawyer with no flamboyant habits and who did nothing to attract attention to himself. His practice was irregular at best. There were years when he hadn’t worked at all. When his name did appear in the court records, it was on low-key cases where he represented the foot soldiers or lower-level lieutenants of various criminal organisations. Most of the time, he won these cases. When he’d taken on Newell’s defence, people had said he had no chance; the prosecution’s case was unassailable; he and his client would get eaten alive.

Harrigan had soon decided the opposite. Griffin was giving a performance many other more highly paid and better-known barristers would have envied. He dealt with the prosecution witnesses clinically, pitilessly destroying their credibility and chipping away at the crown’s supposedly rock-solid case. He represented the victim for what he was: a man with a history as violent as Newell’s. More than once, he had outmanoeuvred the prosecution on points of law. Griffin was well on his way to constructing a convincing argument that Newell had acted in self-defence, that the victim’s death had been the consequence of a series of wild punches thrown in desperation instead of a sustained and brutal beating. Best of all, he had the right judge. Justice Marian O’Connor was scrupulously fair, concerned with the niceties of the law and always leaned towards the benefit of the doubt.

Harrigan would have been worried if there hadn’t been one other person in the courtroom determined to convict the accused-Newell himself. His fair curled hair and good-looking face made him appear less dangerous and damaged than he was, but Harrigan had dealt with men like Newell throughout his years on the job. Their violence was always waiting on a hair trigger. Violence like the kind that was erupting now, with Newell beginning to shout at the prosecution witness, another prisoner who looked like he wanted to be almost anywhere else.

‘You fucking liar. Who paid you to get up there and talk that fucking shit? I’ll get you, you cunt!’

He exploded in the dock, fists flying, wrestling with the guards who pounced on him.

‘Take him down,’ the judge ordered. ‘Mr Griffin, you can tell your client he is looking at charges of contempt of court at the least. I have to say, his behaviour today is of a piece with his behaviour throughout. As his counsel, you should advise him that treating these proceedings with this degree of contempt does his case no good at all. Court is adjourned until tomorrow.’

The judge’s advice said it all. Griffin might not win the case, but he was skilled enough to get his client a reduced sentence for manslaughter. Newell, on the other hand, was inviting the jury to convict him for cold-blooded murder.

Griffin took the lecture in his stride. He got to his feet with a slight bow. ‘I thank Your Honour for her advice and I will convey it to my client at the first opportunity,’ he said coolly before gathering up his papers.

Harrigan was on his way out of the building when an attendant stopped him and handed him Griffin’s card. Please wait for me at the main entrance, Griffin had written on the back. I want to talk to you.

He’d been noticed after all. Harrigan felt an unpleasant spark of dread. Newell was connected to matters too private and sensitive for him to meet his defence counsel without wondering what might be in the man’s mind. Who knew what had passed between them as client and barrister? If any of Grace’s past history with Newell was ever made public, she would find it devastating. Supposedly Griffin would be bound by client confidentiality, but if so, why ask to see him?

Shortly afterwards, Griffin appeared in the foyer.

‘Joel Griffin,’ he said. ‘We haven’t met before but I’ve heard about you. Hi.’

‘Paul Harrigan. What can I do for you?’

They shook hands as they introduced themselves. Griffin had a disconcertingly weak grip; as if the touch of someone else’s hand was distasteful to him. His clothes were of good quality and had a tailored look, appearing more pricey than a part-time, cut-rate barrister should have been able to afford. A small badge was pinned to his lapel: Gromit, the dog from the Aardman Wallace and Gromit animations, who reads Engineering for Dogs while saving his accident-prone owner from disaster. Griffin saw Harrigan looking at it.

‘I’m a fan,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

‘Yeah, they make me laugh.’

Face to face, Griffin was more impressive than in the courtroom. In his early forties, he was solidly built and his colouring was unusual: very pale skin, black hair and blue eyes. He was tall enough to look Harrigan in the eye and did so almost unblinkingly.

‘Would you mind walking out with me while we talk?’ he said. ‘I need to get a taxi on Oxford Street.’

‘Not a problem. I was going that way myself,’ Harrigan replied.

‘You’re a consultant these days,’ Griffin said.

‘That’s right. I advise individuals and companies how to manage their security and also how to control their legal affairs. It’s all on my website.’

It would have been more accurate for Harrigan to say he advised people on how to protect themselves from both the law and the police. This was a definition he kept to himself.

‘I’ve checked your website.’ Griffin spoke without sociability. ‘You’ve done work for any number of people. State and federal governments, private companies. Important companies, some very large ones. You’re a solicitor. It even says you’re proficient in Indonesian. You must make a lot of money.’

Harrigan ignored the jibe. Bizarrely, there seemed to be almost a touch of envy in Griffin’s tone. ‘I spent some time in Indonesia a number of years ago when I was on secondment with the Australian Federal Police. I learned the language while I was there. Why?’

‘That’s a lot of firepower for someone who’s interested in this trial,’ Griffin said. ‘You’ve been here every day so far. Is there someone you’re advising who’s asked you to watch this case so closely?’

‘Let me ask you a question first. You must know who your client is and the kind of people this case is connecting you to. Are you representing Newell on your own or are your services being paid for by someone else? And do those people want to know why I’m here?’

Griffin laughed. ‘No, Sam Nguyen’s not paying me. In fact, everyone from Chris’s past is running for cover as fast as they can. I don’t think he realises how alone he is. But you’ve got connections of your own, to the police obviously. Maybe they’re at work here.’

You have done your homework, Harrigan thought.

‘Does this mean you’re doing this case pro bono?’ he asked.

Griffin hesitated before replying. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Then you can ignore the fact that I’m here. It’s got nothing to do with anyone.’

Griffin didn’t like the rebuff. There was a slight flush in his face when he spoke again.

‘There’s another side to you that’s not on your website,’ he said. ‘There’s any number of newspaper articles out there. Years of dealing with Sydney’s crime bosses while people asked what your connections to those bosses really were.’