Enza Gandolfo - The Bridge

Sarah had interviewed Ted, the owner of the café. ‘Reliable enough,’ Ted said. ‘Came in on time. She was okay with the customers. Not great with numbers, but quick enough on her feet. Got on okay with the other staff. Didn’t suffer fools — and we get our fair share — but neither do I,’ he said, laughing. When Sarah pressed him to explain, he shook his head and leaned in closer. ‘I was sorry to hear about the accident, sorry about Ashleigh, great kid, sorry for Jo. Bad for everyone. These young people’ — he said it as if he were in his fifties, but Sarah would have guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties — ‘they drink and drive, they don’t think, but neither did I when I was their age. Really, a sorry business. Everyone here feels real bad.’

‘Was Jo friendly with anyone? Other staff, I mean — anyone in particular?’

‘Oh, not sure about that. They hang out together in their breaks, sometimes have a coffee after their shift, they chat when it’s quiet, but nothing more that I’ve noticed. Occasionally, Ashleigh would arrive as Jo’s shift ended and they’d head off somewhere together, but you can ask Ruby or Sue. They worked the same shifts as Jo.’

‘Will you write a character reference?’

‘Not much on writing, but if you want to write something up, along lines of what I’ve said — you know, reliable, hard worker, got on well with staff and customers, I’ll sign it.’

‘Would you rehire Jo?’

They were sitting at a corner table. Next to them, four real-estate agents, wearing grey suits and company ties, were discussing ‘the list’. Ted paused. He was tall and broad-shouldered. There was something of the working-class bloke about him — the kind of man you might imagine working in the mines or on a road gang. ‘Well, it’s tough. I mean, everyone knows her and Ashleigh. And one of Ashleigh’s aunts is a regular — was, anyway, haven’t seen her since the accident — but her friends, they come in here and have their breakfast and I don’t want any trouble. I didn’t think she wanted her job back. Her mother rang and said she quit.’

‘Yes, I know. I meant generally speaking.’

‘It’s not that I wouldn’t employ her. I’d like to give her a chance, but not here. Not yet. All too raw.’

Sarah would write up a letter for Ted to sign, but she was afraid it wasn’t going to make much difference.

‘What about Jo’s friends? Her other friends?’ Sarah had asked Mandy.

‘Mani and Laura, of course,’ Mandy said. ‘If there were other friends at school, I don’t know them.’

‘No one has come around, rung?’

‘Not that I know of. She has her mobile, she has her email, but I don’t know if she’s even turned her phone on since the accident. Her father left a message on my mobile, said he tried to ring her but her phone was off.’

At 9.55 Sarah sipped the last of her coffee. Worried she was now running late, she sprinted back down the street to the Department of Justice building. Halfway, she caught her foot on a raised section of the footpath and tripped, unable to catch herself; she landed hard on her hands and knees. Shit. Her knee hurt. Her right hand stung. A couple of people stopped to help. Embarrassed, she struggled to her feet. ‘I’m fine, fine, thanks,’ she said, picking up her bag and limping towards the entrance of the building. She headed straight for the toilets, locking herself in a cubicle. Once alone, she took several deep breaths and brushed the scuffs from her trousers. Fortunately there was no damage. In the past, she’d ruined clothes, shoes, even a handbag. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

After a couple of minutes, she left the cubicle and washed her hands. Her palm was scratched but there was no blood. She brushed her hair and retouched her lipstick, but didn’t linger with the reflection in the mirror. It’s fine.

She took the lift up to the fourth-floor meeting room. Even though she was late, she was the first to arrive. She poured herself a glass of water from the dispenser — she was supposed to drink eight glasses a day; that was part of the diet. This would be her second glass. She opened her notebook and wrote 1/12/2009 and put two ticks. Yesterday she’d only managed four glasses. At this rate she wouldn’t lose the weight.

‘Water,’ her mother said, ‘makes all the difference.’

She would’ve ignored her mother, but the nutritionist had given her the same advice. ‘Eight glasses a day. More if you can manage.’

If she drank eight glasses of water a day, she’d spend most of her time walking between the tap and the toilet — the extra exercise might result in weight loss, but she wouldn’t get any work done. Some days it was hard to find time to go to the toilet at all. But if she lost weight, she might not fall as often. If she lost weight, she might turn into a light, wispy creature, who floated elven-like through the day, through the city, through life. She shook her head. If only she lived in a society where people respected her for her skill in the courtroom, her ability to work with people no one else wanted to work with, her passion for justice, and didn’t judge her on the size of her body. Maybe then she could be fat and it wouldn’t matter.

Law reform was a part of the legal aid lawyer’s job. Each of the lawyers in her office was assigned particular issues. This meant serving on committees and working groups, going along to meetings, organising events — demonstrations and information nights and campaigns. She hated the meetings, but she went to them. She was committed to political action. Collective political action is the only way to create a more just world : it was her mantra, repeated numerous times, at school talks, during committee meetings when she could see the mood dipping down towards despair or lethargy. She venerated activists. There was a time when she’d aspired to be one, a real activist on the frontline, demonstrating, yelling abuse at the politicians and the police. Not the kind of activist who went on boats with Greenpeace, fighting the whalers, or tied themselves to a tree in the forest, to challenge the loggers; she wasn’t a greenie or an environmentalist. Climate change was happening — there was no doubt about that — and something should be done, but she couldn’t summon up the energy to take it on. Her causes were tied to the unjust living conditions of the people she worked with: poor public housing, inhumane refugee policies, increasing rates of Indigenous deaths in custody, deteriorating conditions for female prisoners, violence against women. But in reality being a full-time activist didn’t suit her. She preferred having a job, a routine, and working one-on-one with her individual, sometimes crazy, clients.

Mandy had asked Sarah what prison would be like for Jo the last time they spoke. It was a question she dreaded. It’ll be fucking awful was the unutterable truth. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Mandy that most women who went to prison ended up going back, time and again. That women prisoners suffered from high levels of depression and anxiety, that suicide attempts were common, and that it was rare for women to come out unscathed.

‘It will be hard,’ Sarah had said. ‘She’ll need all the support you can provide.’

By the time the committee members (several legal aid lawyers from across the city, including from the Victorian Aboriginal Legal Service and Women’s Legal Service Victoria; a social worker; two police officers; a couple of bureaucrats; the representative from the Victorian Law Reform Commission; and representatives from various prisoner support groups) gathered, it was quarter past ten. Sarah’s knee ached, and she became increasingly annoyed with the chair, a long-haired middle-aged lawyer who was happy to wait for a couple more minutes until everyone gets here. The agenda was long — and included the discussion of the submission that Sarah’s working group had drafted on the discrimination against women in Victorian prisons. Writing and researching the submission had taken five months: it included substantial evidence that women prisoners faced more health problems (especially diabetes and heart disease, not to mention the mental-health issues) and were given fewer educational opportunities, which resulted in many of them being unable to cope once they were released. The outcomes were even worse for Indigenous women. But Sarah and the other members of the committee were proud of the report. They wanted these issues highlighted, they had recommendations that would make a difference; now they needed the support of the committee to lobby for change.