90 Packets of Instant Noodles (18 page)

I read her letter over and over before I fall asleep.

The next day we sleep in and the old man's like a hyperactive puppy when he boings into my room.

‘Joel, get up! It's such a beautiful day.' He looks out the window, grinning into the forest. ‘I'd forgotten just how ...
perfect
it is down here.'

I roll over and mumble, ‘Go away.'

‘Oh, come on,' he says. ‘I'm gunna do a fry-up—bacon and eggs, mushies, tomato, come on.'

‘In a minute,' I groan into the pillow.

The remembering always takes a few moments when you wake up. Then gradually the things come at you like waves breaking onshore. Pounding.

Once I hear him leave, I sit up and stare out at the view from my window. This is the end of it. This is where the Joel–Bella gig dies out altogether. Twelve months. Like she said, it's hardly even worth trying. I suppose there's a tiny possibility in there somewhere. There's always a possibility. But it's never going to get back to how it was, not after another year, and not after all this.

The main reason they're going to New Zealand is because her folks want to keep her away from me. They think I'm the wrong guy for her. (And they don't even know yet about this latest stuff. Fucking hell—they'd probably take her to
Mars
if they knew what had just happened.) But you know what? They're right. It sticks in my throat to say it, but I haven't been right for her. Right now she should take a raincheck on the Strattan item. And that's not to say he's a hopeless cause or anything, because if anyone has convinced me that's not true it's her. I
will
be okay—I am getting there—I'm just taking my own sweet time, that's all.

Maybe it's enough to have been with Bella for a while. Even if we're not together, she's still the one who made me not want to do it anymore. That was all because of her. So none of this was a waste.

The light pierces through a crack in the trees onto my window, making me squint. In the kitchen, I can hear Dad banging pots and cracking eggs into a bowl.

Home, when I get there, will be barely recognisable. No Craggs just up the road. No Bella. I guess it really will be a new start.

When we roll up, there are already people hanging around outside the court entrance. It's like every bogan in Bunbury is here, some with their olds, some with their chick for company. One guy brings along a mate with a prize mullet. I feel like I've been in finishing school in Switzerland for the last ten years around these dudes, they're so seriously tragic. It's not like I haven't seen it before, but it's got a bit of Bunno
flayva
down here, if you know what I mean.

At exactly 8a.m. the doors to the foyer are unlocked, and some people start pulling out their paperwork, while others just sit in the school-row plastic chairs and wait.

We sit. A legal-aid person sets up at her desk in a tiny office off the corridor. People queue for her advice.

Finally, they open the door to Court 1. Dad says we should go in and wait for Craggs's case to come up. Anyone's allowed in here. There's a chick with a notepad sitting a couple of seats away, all dressed up, and a few other parents-and-friends types sitting around us. It's a weird scene, sort of a cross between being in someone else's lounge room and the most formal place you can imagine.

When the magistrate comes in, a woman stands up and says, ‘All rise,' and everyone in court stands up while a bloke about Dad's age gets himself comfortable at the bench. We sit down and the woman calls out the first case. No one appears. Someone goes outside and calls the name loudly down the corridor, but after thirty seconds or so the judge shakes his head, notes it, and announces a fine and a new appearance date.

Next up is some chick who got busted shoplifting a bikini from the local surf shop. She's really nervous and doesn't have a lawyer. Her dad is sitting behind her. She pleads guilty. The magistrate asks her how old she is, and when she says fifteen, he leans forward and says directly to her, ‘Miss Kaplan, I suggest you think very seriously about your plans for the future. You're young and young people often make mistakes, but learn from those errors, Miss Kaplan. Learn from them. I don't wish to see you in here again.' He tells her to return the goods, write a letter of apology to the shop owner and then he slaps her with a $300 fine. It's all over in about ten minutes.

It's actually pretty interesting—in fact, it's entertaining. Even though I've been in court before, I still can't believe that just
any
one can come in here and listen to all this personal stuff that people have done in moments of horrendous weakness and stupidity. If it weren't for the thought of Craggs being one of them, I reckon I'd be enjoying myself.

A copper stands up for the next one and tells the court that the seventeen-year-old guy sitting in the box was done for his third speeding offence since he got his licence. ‘We caught him doing 107 kilometres per hour in a 50 zone, Your Honour, in a silver BMW 700si.'

Your Honour flicks through papers and takes as long as he wants to read things before looking up and addressing anyone. For all you know, he might have zoned out. Everyone has to remain completely silent while he shuffles and reads, shuffles and reads.

‘Looking at your file, here, Mr Davies, it seems you're on the student council at Bunbury Grammar, is that correct?'

‘Yes, it is.'

‘And you are in your final year there.'

‘Year 12, Your Honour, yes.'

‘And this is your third offence in six months.'

He nods.

‘Have you anything to say for yourself?'

‘It was stupid and I'm sorry, Your Honour.'

The magistrate's head snaps up at that. ‘Apologies will hardly be sufficient when you kill someone in one of your speeding sprees, Mr Davies. In addition, you hold a position of respect in your school community and unfortunately you have proved—three times—that you're not capable of filling that role. I only have one course of action available to me in a case like this: you are prohibited from driving for twelve months, effective today. Furthermore, this court orders you to attend the driver education program at the Bunbury Outreach Centre. You may reapply for your licence only when you have fulfilled these requirements.'

The kid sways on the spot like a tree about to fall.

‘Next.'

That's when Craggs comes in, through a different door, escorted by a cop. Jesus fucking Christ. It really brings it home, seeing him like that. I guess he's been in remand all this time. He looks tired but cocky—a pretty typical look for Craggs, actually. Tremain comes in and a young lawyer moves over to the other end of the bench and spreads papers out in front. I look around. Craggs's folks aren't here.

In a monotone the woman reads out, ‘Case number 27035, Craig Michael Adams. The charges before the court are one count of manslaughter, two counts of assault with violence and two counts of theft.'

The whole atmosphere in court changes.

The magistrate looks at Tremain and nods. ‘Go ahead, Constable.'

Manslaughter.

The blood drains away from my head. I have to try hard to concentrate.

‘Your Honour, on the morning of 29 July, at approximately 7.30a.m., the home of Mr Robert Neville was unlawfully entered by the defendant, who had in his possession a .303 rifle. This weapon was the property of Mr Neville, and was registered under the Firearms Act. It is alleged that the weapon was seized by the defendant from outside the residence just before he entered...'

And on it goes. The thing is unravelled.

‘The prosecution alleges ... defendant surprised by the untimely return ... Altercation proceeded ... one shot fired at victim's abdominal area ... Robert Neville died as a result of injuries...'

‘...defendant seen around his house several days before ... same weapon used to violently assault Mrs Pritchard ... chipped cheekbone, bruising and concussion ... Till raided for approximately $150 ... Positive ID made ... Apprehended defendant at farming property with the weapon in his possession ... Prints match defendant's...

I am stunned, somehow, even though I already know most of what had happened. I'm trying to fit this with the Craggs I know, the guy I've grown up with. It's scary. He
assaulted her
with the gun when she tried to call for help?

There's a pause and the magistrate says, ‘Is that all?'

Tremain flicks through his notes and finally says, ‘Yes, Your Honour.'

‘Thank you, Constable.' The magistrate takes a long time writing in his file before swinging his attention to the lawyer, who stands up.

‘How does Mr Adams plead to the charge of manslaughter?'

The lawyer indicates for Craggs to stand up.

‘Guilty,' Craggs says quietly but clearly.

‘And to the charges of assault with violence?'

‘Guilty.'

‘Theft?'

‘Guilty.' His voice drops to just above a whisper.

The judge scribbles notes in a file. ‘Is there anything you wish to add?'

‘Yes, Your Honour,' the lawyer says as Craggs sits down again. ‘I wish the court to know that my client has some extenuating circumstances that relate directly to his case.'

‘Go ahead,' the magistrate says, leaning back in his chair.

‘It needs to be said that Mr Adams's home life has been far from ideal, Your Honour. His father has a history of violent episodes involving the mother and the children. Police have been called on two occasions to attend domestic disputes at the home. My client left home recently in order to avoid these increasingly unpleasant confrontations. In his statement, my client indicates that he was not of clear mind at the time of the offences, stating that he, quote, “blacked out” and thought he was at home. “I thought he [the man] was my father.”'

‘Has a psychological assessment been done, Counsellor?'

‘Yes, Your Honour.' He passes a document to the assistant, who passes it to the magistrate. ‘It indicates the possibility of a momentary psychosis due to previous psychological trauma and—'

‘I can see for myself what it indicates, thank you.' After perusing it, the magistrate says, ‘One of its conclusions appears to be that the defendant is in relatively good shape, psychologically, given his history.'

‘Well, yes, Your Honour. I think that is what's known as having a thick skin.'

Your Honour raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that the medical term for it, Counsellor?'

The lawyer turns red and picks up another file. ‘May I continue?'

‘You may.'

‘Perhaps more important is the fact that Mr Adams has an excellent record of performance at school—'

‘According to his file here, he was recently expelled.'

‘Er, yes, Your Honour, but I mean in terms of his academic performance. I have reports here from several of his teachers. And I am aware that these offences are very serious, but I ask that the court be lenient, given his age and his background. Mr Adams is said to be quite gifted in the area of mathematics, as well as having a higher than average intellectual capacity, according to the school's files.'

Two people in front of me shift about in their seats and exchange a look.

‘I ask that the court allows this young man the opportunity to make the most of his talents, rather than feeding him into the juvenile detention system and losing that hope altogether.'

I don't think I've taken a breath in the last twenty minutes. The lawyer shuffles files and sits down, while the magistrate writes things and re-reads bits of paper.

Finally, Your Honour sits up and speaks directly to Craggs. ‘Seeing that you are apparently of higher intelligence, I take it you understand that these offences are
gravely
serious.'

Craggs nods slightly.

‘You have caused the death of a man. Whether intentional or not, there is no doubt in this court that your violent actions were the direct cause of Robert Neville's death. That is something you will have to live with for the rest of your life. Furthermore, this is not one offence but rather a series of offences, spanning nearly six hours and two separate properties.

‘Moreover,' he turns to the lawyer, ‘the offender has already spent some time at Banksia Hill and it seems that, on release, he has almost immediately reoffended. As I have seen so many times before in this court, these offences are significantly more serious.'

Craggs is staring at the floor.

‘However, Mr Adams has pleaded guilty at the first opportunity and the court does take into account, to a certain degree, the social history of those before it.

‘I am especially interested in these testimonies from your teachers. It seems you are quite profoundly talented in some areas, Mr Adams. It is a great shame to see that you have chosen to pursue activities that have landed you in my court than rather than those that might get you into university.'

His chair squeaks in the intense silence as he sits back.

The girl with the notepad is scribbling feverishly.

‘My job here is twofold: to ensure that the public is protected from threat, and to enable the rehabilitation of those before me. With juvenile offenders, especially, I take this role very seriously indeed. Had you done this in three years' time, Mr Adams, I would not be able to be at all generous.'

Craggs swallows.

‘I hope you are aware that when a Schedule 1 offence is committed, the Children's Court has the authority to recommend adult incarceration. That means that you could go to an adult jail, Mr Adams, do you understand that?'

‘Yes.'

‘And while I will have to reconvene this court for final sentencing, I will say this: you
will
be removed from society to consider what you have done, and your sentence will be significant. I'm aware that at your age, Mr Adams, a long period of time in detention will be difficult, but I am hoping it will be long enough for you to realise what kind of life you will lead should you continue on your current path.'

Craggs doesn't flinch.

‘I would like to consider placing you in a juvenile detention centre where you will be able to attend school and work programs. Kanginning Juvenile Detention Centre comes to mind. But there will be no early-release clauses in any sentence I hand down, in order to reflect the severity of the offences you have committed. However, this is just one of the options available to the court in such cases. I will review your case in the coming days to see what is the best course of action, but beyond that, Mr Adams, all I can do is wish you luck.'

He closes the file.

‘This court will reconvene on 10 August at 2p.m. for sentencing.'

As Craggs stands up to leave, he looks to the back of the court, where Dad and I are sitting. I see him scan the people and then his eyes fall on mine. His mouth twitches into a wry, pale grin. He jerks his chin at me, as if to say,
Hey, Blowjoel.

I don't know what to do. I raise my hand and half wave, half salute.

‘Next,' calls the magistrate.

‘See ya round,' Craggs says across the room.

‘Catch ya,' I say.

This may be the last time I see Craggs for a very long time.

And in my sadness, there is a tiny pinprick of hope: I know for certain that I won't ever find myself in one of these places again.