Dark Horse (19 page)

B
ars covering the window were subtle, ornate ironwork painted black. From the footpath the courthouse stood tall, grand, taking up a sizeable chunk of the city block. Those slabs of sandstone seemed to be saying
your crimes can’t shake me
. It was strange then that someone had decided to shrink, soften and tame the inside of the building, turn it into something more like a company office, the courtrooms resembling conference rooms. Crime did seem to bend and warp the thin, contemporary walls. The modern fit-out fairly quaked with anything above a misdemeanour. In a lot of ways Sarah wished her case was being heard in the original courthouse interior, where the Honourable Judge presided in a huge, winged-back chair, and the roof soared above them, and door handles rattled and the hinges creaked, and nothing seemed quite as potent as the austere dimensions.

The holding room she was in resembled a corporate suite. There were Monet prints on the walls, a desk, grey carpet, rugs, plump cushions on the sofa. Sarah’s barrister was reapplying her lipstick. She pouted at her reflection in the small mirror. She clicked the compact shut.

Her barrister was in her sixties. It was hard to spot. The woman had good genes: lovely skin, clear whites of her eyes, tidy teeth. She had style: a tailored pantsuit and modern haircut, shoes with narrow toes and low, spiky heels.

‘Did you see Wilson’s face when Brody walked in?’ she said.

‘I saw him look at Brody’s shoes,’ Sarah’s solicitor answered.

‘He looks at all witnesses’ shoes. He reckons he can tell the type of witness by their footwear.’

‘Good shoes, a good witness?’

‘More complex than that, straps mean something, heels something else.’

‘I know what he’d think straps and heels mean.’

The women cleared the desk of their lunch things.

‘Sarah, how are you feeling?’

It was her solicitor who had asked. The woman turned and smiled sympathetically. Sarah was sitting on the sofa against the wall. Shopping lists and school pick-up times and dinner reservations, these were the things Sarah saw every time her solicitor held eye contact with her. The woman’s clothes were always slightly askew and her hair never quite right. She’d probably been a passionate young solicitor once, now she was a mother and a wife on top of that. The kids, the hubby, the house, the car, the washing, all looked to be winning out that day.

‘I’m okay.’

‘Can I get you another tea?’

‘No thanks.’

‘You haven’t eaten, are you sure you’re not hungry?’

‘I’m fine.’

The corrections officer was standing outside the door, talking to another corrections officer. Sarah could see their shapes through the frosted glass. She could hear them laughing.

‘It’s picked up,’ Sarah’s barrister said. She was sorting through papers on the desk. ‘Things are going a lot better now Brody’s in the stand.’

‘Mr Heatherton, how many days were you trapped with my client on Devil Mountain?’

‘Seven.’

‘On what day did it become clear to you that my client was unaware of the events of Christmas morning?’

‘Objection. Your Honour, the defendant’s awareness of the crime is something for the jury to decide.’

‘I’ll rephrase. On what day did it become clear to you that my client appeared to have no knowledge of the events of Christmas morning?’

‘All of it was like she didn’t remember. On the second day, Boxing Day, she spoke as though she didn’t even know why she had the gun with her.’

‘With regard to the gun, would you please explain to the jury how you came to find it and how it came to be in your possession?’

Brody took a sip of water. ‘I’d seen Sarah looking under a pallet in the corner of the shed. When we were making a yard for Tansy, I went down on my own and looked under the pallet. I saw the gun and took it out. I put it on top of the caravan. I thought moving it was the safest thing to do.’

‘Were you threatened by the fact she had a gun?’

‘I didn’t think she’d use it. It felt like it was my responsibility to put it out of the way.’

‘You must have thought about the ramifications though? My client would realise the gun was moved, weren’t you concerned about what you would say to her and what she would do?’

‘Sarah was . . .’ He reached out and touched his fingers to the glass of water in front of him, felt the rim of it for a moment, and then pulled his hand away. ‘She was confused. She thought that there might be another person on the mountain.’

‘Did she think that they had taken the gun?’

‘She asked if they were out there, yes.’

‘What sort of people did she think were out there?’

‘I’m not sure. She seemed to think I was on the mountain doing something illegal, and that the person out there was linked to that.’

‘She believed a criminal partner of yours was hiding in the bush? What else did she think you and this imaginary criminal might be doing?’

‘I’m not sure. But she was also very agitated about her phone.’

‘Her phone that had gotten wet and wasn’t working?’

‘I should explain,’ Brody said. ‘I had taken the battery out. I was worried her phone would start working and she’d make calls and it would come out what was really going on. I was trying to avoid that type of confrontation. Sarah’s main worry, though, was drying out the inside.’

‘And did she attempt to open it to do that?’

‘She smashed it open.’

‘Would you demonstrate that please?’

‘She . . .’ Brody lifted his hand and opened it as though holding a mobile phone. He brought the imaginary phone down hard against the top edge of the witness box, ‘. . . kept hitting it.’

‘To open it?’

‘Yes. She destroyed it.’

‘What did my client tell you that same day about her horse, Mr Heatherton?’

‘She told me the black mare lore, that black mares live forever.’

‘Do you remember her words?’

‘She said . . . black mares are earthbound and their spirits pass on to the next black mare.’

‘She explained to you that her horse was immortal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Heatherton, have you any experience of dealing with people suffering from schizophrenia?’

‘I have.’ He paused. ‘My brother.’

‘Is your brother a diagnosed schizophrenic?’

‘Yes, he is.’ Brody’s fingers returned to the glass edge. He grazed them on the rim.

‘Have you ever seen your brother during a schizophrenic episode?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Did you see any similarities between your brother’s behaviour during one of his schizophrenic episodes and the behaviour of my client on that Christmas Day and the days following it?’

While concentrating on the rim of the glass, Brody said, ‘I saw a lot of similarities.’

‘Did my client, while smashing open her phone – a device that was of utmost importance while you were trapped and running short on food, a lifeline that you had intentions of trying to fix – did she appear to you to know what she was doing, and that her conduct was wrong?’

‘No, she did not.’

‘Mr Heatherton, did my client ever make clear what kind of criminal she believed you to be?’

‘There were times she . . .’ he cleared his throat, ‘ . . . she called me Sid – the bushranger that died at the hut.’

Brody pinched his nose and looked down while he rubbed it. More than ever, the courtroom felt surreal to Sarah then. Her eyes grew dry as she controlled her blinking.

‘My client referred to you not as Brody, but as Sid, the bushranger who had died one hundred and fifty years ago at the hut?’

‘A couple of times,’ Brody said looking up. ‘She actually didn’t use my real name much at all.’

On the mounted courtroom screen was the mug shot of Sarah taken the morning following her arrest. She hadn’t changed or showered when it had been taken. Her hair was wild around her face. Her eyes were bloodshot, squinting. Dust from the hut streaked her cheeks. Scratches from her ride had dried as thin bloody lines on her neck.

‘Mr Heatherton, please explain what happened after my client had freed you from the hut.’

‘She told me she’d run from the police. I knew the police were going to come in even harder because of it. Also, I’d sent her to my car. It was full of weapons. In my first call to the police I’d explained to them that I’d been unable to lock my gun drawer, and that my weapons weren’t secured. They’d stressed that I not take her near my car. I knew if they’d seen her going through it and putting things in her backpack . . . things were going to get out of control. I decided to sedate Sarah with the painkillers she’d brought with her.’

‘You gave her the alcohol and the tablets as a way to restrain her?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘It didn’t work. It made things worse. She was out for a short while, then she came to – she was addled. She was scared. While I was getting Tansy she took her rifle back and she pointed it at me.’

‘She pointed it at you, but she had just
saved
your life?’

‘That’s right. She was confused. She was convinced I was going to take her horse. I was trying to secure Tansy, but Sarah couldn’t understand that. It’s my fault for drugging her. It was my fault for sending her down there, to my car. The police wouldn’t have been as forceful if not for me.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I let go of Tansy. Sarah dropped the gun and it discharged. The horse was injured. Tansy ran away into the bush.’

‘Thank you, Mr Heatherton, we have heard from the officer in charge that day regarding what happened next.’

Brody reached for the glass of water, but pulled his hand quickly back. He was shaking.

‘Mr Heatherton, when you look across at my client sitting in the courtroom today, does she appear to you to be the same woman you encountered on Christmas Day and the same woman you spent seven days trapped with on the mountain?’

He looked at her. Sarah had no option other than to look back at him. They held one another’s gaze.

‘No,’ Brody said.

‘I have no further questions, Your Honour.’

S
arah’s barrister sat down on the sofa with her. Her solicitor pulled a desk chair close. The team huddle before the final quarter.

‘We need to go over the points we believe the prosecution is going to focus on tomorrow, and to prepare for the ways Wilson will try and trip Brody up. Brody’s got an impeccable background. They won’t have found anything there. His brother is legitimately ill, it’s a sad story, they won’t bring that up. An angle that I’m concerned about is . . .’ Sarah’s barrister tapped her nail on the top of Sarah’s knee, ‘the question of collusion . . . You and Brody . . .’ She lifted her hand and rubbed the sides of two of her fingers together. ‘I’m getting something, ever since he came into the courtroom.’

‘I’m getting it too,’ her solicitor said. ‘If we’re feeling it, the prosecution is. Whether there’s anything to it or not, we have to talk about it.’ She paused. ‘Is there anything to it?’

‘The problem is,’ her barrister continued before Sarah could answer, ‘it could undermine things more than anything else. We’ve avoided the dual survivor thing for this reason. It’s best for the jury to think of you two as rather separate. You saved his life and he might feel indebted to you, he might bend the story in your favour. It’s not coming across that way, and that’s good. We need him to stay credible.’

‘In this way his good looks actually work against us,’ her solicitor said. ‘Half the people in the room are thinking,
seven days isolated with him – yum . . .
’

‘When you put an attractive person in the witness box, sex crops up, every time. It’s in everyone’s head. It wouldn’t be a problem if he was ugly. You’re these two attractive people, and it’s beginning to feel like the elephant in the room.’

Her solicitor said, ‘We didn’t ask, but Wilson will. When pressed – and he will be pressed – is there any chance Brody might answer yes to the question of sex?’

‘I don’t know how he’ll answer.’

‘Was there anything like that between you?’

Sarah shook her head.

The two women did their silent communicating thing.

‘Sarah . . . we need to know. We have to be prepared. Was there sex?’

‘There . . . might have been.’

‘More than once?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘But you didn’t talk with him about the shooting at any point?’

‘No.’

‘Did he tell you you’d been caught on security camera taking Tansy?’

‘I’ve told you – I had no idea about the footage until I got down. He didn’t tell me anything. We didn’t talk about it.’

‘But there were things you did discuss.’

‘Not about the shooting or about the chance of a trial. Nothing like that. We just . . . he just . . . we talked about other things.’

‘Did he ever allude to a deeper understanding of the situation, or did you?’

It was the kissing that came to Sarah’s mind, the way he moved, his energy, the way he drew her to him, and the look in his eye when they kissed –
I know
. How could Sarah explain that? – The truth was there whenever they were touching.

‘Sarah?’

‘We didn’t talk about it.’

The older woman stared into Sarah’s eyes. She didn’t hide that she was searching. ‘Was there something unspoken? A sense of collusion?’

‘We didn’t plan anything.’

‘You’re not in love with him are you?’

‘No.’ Sarah then leaned away and rubbed her forehead. ‘Those words mean nothing anyway.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I love you: it means nothing. Just because he said it doesn’t make it real.’

She cringed the moment the words had left her mouth.

Her barrister leaned back and exhaled. Her solicitor put down her coffee. The two women looked away from one another. Nothing confidential and knowing passed between them. They stared off in opposite directions.

The next day Brody wore skinny jeans and the brace on the outside of his knee. He wore a T-shirt under a fawn-coloured jacket and cowboy boots. He took the stand. The judge entered. Everyone had to rise.

Beneath his wig and robe, Wilson, the Crown Prosecutor, had on an old suit and scuffed shoes. As the judge sat, he sat, and propped one leg up on the other, reclining back in his chair. It was an act. So much in the courtroom was. He jumped up and strolled to Brody in the witness box.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ Brody replied.

‘Who cooked?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘While you were trapped together on the mountain, who cooked?’

‘Sarah.’

‘Who washed up?’

‘I did.’

‘Did you eat in front of the fire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who lit the fire?’

‘Your Honour?’ Sarah’s barrister lifted her palm to the sky.

‘I’m sorry, Your Honour, but I’m just trying to establish the relationship. Going by what we’ve heard so far, you would think these two survivors were on different mountaintops and were smoke signalling to one another.’

The judge rolled her hand. ‘Go on.’

‘Thank you, Your Honour.’ The prosecutor smiled at Brody and waited for his answer to the last question. ‘The fire,’ he reminded.

‘We kept it going most of the time.’

‘Together you made sure it didn’t go out? Or just you?’

‘We both kept an eye on it.’

‘Where did you sleep?’

‘In the caravan.’

‘Where did the defendant sleep?’

‘In the caravan.’

‘A double bed?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, you had food, you had fire, you had a caravan, you’d been through an ordeal getting there.’ The prosecutor rubbed his face and thought a moment. ‘Was it cold?’ he said, as though coming up with his questions on the fly.

‘Your Honour? I think it’s been established that they were on the same mountaintop.’

‘I do too.’

‘Yes, Your Honour. Mr Heatherton, what does your job
really
entail?’

‘I monitor the deer population in the ranges.’

‘You shoot them.’

‘Yes.’

‘On your own, you stalk them and kill them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you like untamed things?’

‘Wild animals? Yes.’

‘Are you single, Mr Heatherton?’

Brody glanced at the judge, as though hoping the question was out of line.

He answered belatedly, ‘Yes.’

‘Were you single at the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘How would you describe your relationship with the defendant?’

The question was sudden. Sarah could see it took a while for Brody to process it.

‘We were trapped together.’

‘Time and time again, Mr Heatherton, you’ve stated that the defendant saved your life. You must be very grateful?’

Brody nodded once, curt and sharp. ‘I’m looking for her horse.’ He then looked across at Sarah and tried to communicate something. His gaze was openly intense for a second or two.

‘As your way of saying thank you?’ the prosecutor said.

‘Yes.’

‘The horse was shot. Are you telling us you are out searching the ranges for a dead horse?’

‘An animal of Tansy’s size could survive a .22 calibre bullet, into a muscled area, if it didn’t get infected. I think, there’s a chance, she’s alive.’

These words were meant for Sarah, directed at her, the last two words in particular – Brody’s voice was softer, intimate.

Sarah frowned.
He wouldn’t get her hopes up like that, would he, unless he was sure?

‘The horse belonged to the victim,’ the prosecutor was saying, ‘you stated so yourself – you heard on the police scanner that the defendant stole the horse. If you find the animal, will you deliver it to the victim’s family? They’re in the gallery, Mr Heatherton. I’m sure it would make a big difference to them if the horse that was stolen from their loved one, was returned to them.’

Brody looked up into the gallery. Sarah could see that he didn’t know where to look for her dead husband’s family, or who they were.

Brody said after a moment, ‘In my eyes, Tansy is Sarah’s horse.’

‘Mr Heatherton, are you fulfilling a promise you made to the defendant to take care of her horse?’

‘No,’ he lied.

Onscreen was the TV news footage of Sarah at Spinners Creek. Compared to the YouTube clip this footage was focussed and her voice was audible. Blustering wind and rushing water had been edited out. Sarah was pointing up the mountain, calling that Brody was trapped in the hut. Tansy’s coat was glistening with sweat. There were small nicks and cuts on Tansy’s body. These were the times Sarah’s façade fully cracked: seeing her mare. She dug her nails into her palms. She blinked back her tears.

The clip showed them galloping off, away up the track, as an officer shouted, ‘He’s not located! Hold your fire!’

The camera peered cautiously around the front of the excavator and filmed the police with their weapons pointed across the creek.

The prosecutor indicated for the footage to be paused there. He turned to Brody.

‘If the defendant was so uncommunicative, and those times she did speak it was disjointed and hard to follow, can you explain why she risked her life, and her horse’s life, for you?’

Brody was still looking up at the frozen image on the screen. ‘No, I can’t.’

The prosecutor walked over to the jury. ‘Irrational, psychotic, deranged, paranoid, fearing an attack from people in the bush, insect invasions, bushrangers, immortal horses, talk of global warming having wiped out all of civilisation . . . but when faced with an army of men, weapons raised, pointed at her, all her fears seemingly coming true, she’s not displaying any mentally ill behaviour at all. She’s telling us, rationally I would say, that you,’ he turned to face Brody again, ‘are trapped and the helicopter needs to be informed. Her concern is focused on you. And the horse, that she stole, and murdered —’

‘Objection, Your Honour.’

The prosecutor recanted on his own, ‘The same horse that she stole, and took the life of her husband in the process of stealing, seems suddenly secondary to you, Mr Heatherton. You can’t explain that?’

‘No I can’t.’ He was still looking up at the clip. He faced the prosecutor again. ‘I wouldn’t say, though, that running away from police when they had guns pointed at you is very stable behaviour.’

Sarah’s barrister and solicitor exchanged satisfied looks.

‘You showed an amazing amount of faith in her,’ the prosecutor bit back in response, ‘to send her down there in the first place. You must have thought there was a strong chance she would come back. Or else you wouldn’t have sent her off and left yourself trapped all alone, would you? She could have helped cut through the beam. She could have been there to dig you out if the landslide covered you. She could have waved down the helicopter and led them straight to you. If she’d stayed, Mr Heatherton, the helicopter
would
have gone straight to you. Instead, all their resources were redirected down to the fork in the road to cut Ms Barnard off. You would have been out within two and a half hours if she’d stayed there.’

‘They wouldn’t have got to me – the helipad was ruined; they couldn’t land.’

‘They didn’t have to land, they were about to drop officers in when they were redirected.’

‘I didn’t know they’d try that. I was told the high winds would stop any chance of a rescue.’

‘And that news made you think the best plan was to send a supposedly mentally unstable woman down the mountain, not even for help, but to rifle through your weapon-laden car, dodge police, and then ride all the way back up again?’

‘Yes. I could see how much Sarah wanted to help.’

‘How much
did
the two of you want to help one another, Mr Heatherton?’

‘I would have done the same thing if she’d been trapped, if that’s what you mean?’

‘How did you build the yard with your damaged knee?’

‘With difficulty.’

‘How did you dig the holes for the posts?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Sarah did then? Did you instruct her?’

‘I marked out where to dig.’

‘In surviving together you were living in one another’s pockets, and yet you tell us you weren’t close?’

‘Her illness stopped us getting close.’

‘Did you and the defendant engage in any sexual activity?’

Brody seemed ready for the question. ‘No.’

‘No intimacy at all? No touching? Not one hug?’

‘No.’

‘Mr Heatherton, I take it you
are
aware of the defendant’s condition?’

As soon as he said it, Sarah knew what the prosecutor was doing. It worked. Brody’s gaze shot across to Sarah, and before she had a chance to somehow signal
no
, his gaze had dropped to her belly.

Everyone in the courtroom saw it, they saw the look on his face – panic.

Sarah’s barrister and solicitor slid a wary sidewards look to one another.
Here we go
.

‘Umm . . . I’m sorry . . . Mr Heatherton?’ the prosecutor said. ‘I was referring to the defendant’s propensity for migraines. What condition did you think I was talking about?’

Brody had turned pale. The courtroom was silent.

‘Mr Heatherton?’

He just shook his head. Sarah could see he was still recovering from the idea of her being pregnant. She could tell he’d like for everything to stop for a second,
time out
signalled by the judge, and for him to be allowed to come across and ask Sarah the question himself, privately and respectfully between the two of them, categorically clear it up.

Sarah smiled gently across at him, and quietly said, ‘
No.
’ She did it too as a way to share the burden. Now they’d both stuffed up. Whispers started behind her in the gallery, people asking others what she’d said.

‘I’m going to ask you once again, and I am going to remind you that you are under oath – Mr Heatherton, did you and the defendant engage in any sexual activity?’

‘Your Honour, I have some further questions for the witness.’

‘Yes, I imagine you would have,’ the judge replied.

Sarah’s barrister approached the witness box. Brody was staring into the middle distance. His arms were crossed low on his chest.

‘Mr Heatherton, it’s been a long day; I’ll be brief.’

He stayed silent.