You Had It Coming Read online

  ‘God, is it that obvious?’

  ‘Only because I’m a trained doctor.’

  Natasha is an oncologist, currently on maternity leave.

  ‘Hopefully not obvious to Mum, then.’

  ‘Mum’s eye is keener than any doctor’s! You’re probably busted, but at least she can’t lecture you while she has Lucy to keep her busy.’

  Natasha is the oldest sibling. When Jess was at primary school, her sister was at high school. When Jess was at high school, Natasha was off at university. Now she’s a new mother and – judging from her washed-out face and bleary eyes – finding it a challenge.

  ‘You look a bit hungover yourself, mate.’ Jess smiles, to take the sting out of her words.

  ‘I wish,’ her sister laughs harshly. ‘I’ve woken up so many mornings thinking I must’ve been out the night before, but all I’ve been doing is feeding Lucy, and changing Lucy, and settling Lucy. Sleep deprivation is worse than any hangover.’

  ‘Can Oliver help?’

  Natasha’s husband is a stockbroker who works crazy hours and always looks like he’s rushing somewhere. He’s talking to Jess’s dad and her brothers, near the barbecue. Alex is notably missing from the circle of testosterone. He’s inside, splayed on the couch, three young children on top of him.

  Another harsh laugh from Natasha. ‘Not a lot Oliver can do. Unless he can grow some boobs.’

  Lucy has started to grizzle. Margaret props her against her shoulder. ‘Natasha, I think you’re needed over here.’

  ‘Coming.’ Natasha stands up. She has an odd expression on her face. ‘Keep doing your own thing, Jess. Don’t let them pressure you into anything.’

  What does she mean by that? Does she regret having Lucy? Did Oliver or Margaret apply pressure, or make loaded comments about her biological clock that prompted her – for once in her life – to make a decision that she had not properly considered? Or maybe she thinks she isn’t succeeding in this new role, floundering when she is used to flourishing. This family is hard on underachievers; Jess knows this first-hand. Natasha was the standard setter. Frighteningly clever, possessing both the focus and the work ethic to see her through years and years of study and training. Maybe if she’d been a little less accomplished, their parents wouldn’t have expected so much from the rest of them.

  Twenty minutes later, the men declare the meat to be cooked and everyone gathers around the outside table. The food settles Jess’s stomach, and her headache loosens its grip, which is illogical given the noise levels – Lucy is crying heartily against a backdrop of children and adults laughing and talking over each other.

  Richard booms from the other end of the table, ‘So, Alex, Margaret tells me you’re going to do some work for us around the pool?’

  ‘Well, um, that’s not confirmed,’ Alex says, not knowing which direction to look, his face flushing under his tan. ‘Margaret hasn’t accepted my quote.’

  ‘Oh.’ Margaret’s fork is suspended mid-air. She’s feigning surprise. ‘Did I need to accept? I just assumed … Sorry, Alex, when can you start?’

  Her mum does it on purpose. Puts Alex on the back foot and puts him in his place at the same time. Thankfully, he’s oblivious to her games; he’s just glad to get the job.

  ‘I have a gap later this week. Should knock it over in four or five days.’

  After dinner there is a Disney princess cake, and they all sing Tilly happy birthday. Jess and Alex help with the tidy-up before making their excuses.

  Jess gives Natasha – who looks as wan as one of her chemo patients – an extra-tight hug. Oliver did not offer to take his baby daughter once all afternoon. Why didn’t her dad or brothers nudge him in the right direction? Margaret would have noted what was happening yet failed to comment. How come Oliver makes the grade and Alex doesn’t? Where does doing your fair share come in the criteria? Good thing Alex doesn’t really care about making the grade.

  At home, Alex slouches in front of the television with a beer and Jess lies on the bed with her phone, which she hasn’t looked at for hours. There’s a text from Vince, asking if she can work an extra hour tomorrow, and a couple of missed calls from an unknown number. A voice message has been left. She presses the phone against her ear, and the halting voice on the other end brings a rush of bad, bad memories.

  ‘Jess, this is … Dylan O’Shea. I just want to … t-talk. Can you m-meet me somewhere? Please say yes. Call or text this … num-num-number.’

  18

  BRIDGET

  Another Monday morning in the Kennedy household. Two comatose teenagers who won’t get out of bed. One flustered husband who can’t find his Opal card (probably due to the comatose children, who borrow the bus cards of other people when they can’t locate their own). One frazzled wife-mother-detective who doesn’t have time to assist her flustered husband in the frantic search of likely places.

  ‘Jesus, Shane, I wouldn’t know where to start looking. Try Cara’s backpack. Or her jeans pocket. Gotta go, love. Make sure they’re out of bed before you leave. Bye-ee.’

  Bridget is on her way to meet Emily Wickham. The newly married young woman is back from her honeymoon and Bridget is hoping she’ll be able to help narrow down their lines of inquiry. Traffic from Willoughby into the city is predictably awful. Bridget uses the time to make a few calls relating to other cases and court matters. One call is to a bereaved mother, the woman’s distress and anger filling the car. Bridget opens the window, petrol fumes and sound pollution diluting the mother’s grief and her own sense of failure that the case has hit an apparent dead-end.

  The door-to-door journey takes more than an hour. Patrick is already waiting in the ground-floor café, sitting at a table that’s suitably out of the way.

  ‘Morning.’ Bridget flops down across from him. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘About ten minutes. All good.’

  Bridget shoots Emily a text to let her know they’ve arrived. Patrick slides a printed document in front of her: the list of cases that William Newson recently worked on. Bridget quickly refreshes her knowledge.

  ‘Here she comes,’ Patrick murmurs.

  Blonde and slender, Emily’s wearing a dark-blue shift dress, showcasing her figure and tan. Her nude-coloured shoes are extremely high with pointy toes; Bridget’s back aches just from looking at them.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Bridget says, shaking Emily’s hand, which has long fake nails painted a light-peach colour. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Senior Constable Patrick Yandle. We know it’s your first morning back, Emily. We’ll try not to take up too much time.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ She sits down, flicks her very straight hair over her shoulder. ‘I came in early out of habit. I always tried to be in the office before William, in case he needed me. But he’s not here, and I’m not sure what to do with myself. I’m not even sure what’s going to happen with my job. So, take as long as you need.’

  It must be disconcerting for the young woman. Away on honeymoon, which is suspended reality in itself, and then returning to this very strange set of circumstances. Will she be redeployed to one of the other barristers in the chambers, or made redundant? Who will make the decision about her future?

  ‘Would you like to order something?’ Patrick asks kindly. ‘Tea or coffee? Cake?’

  Emily shakes her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  Bridget commences. ‘Just for the sake of background information, can I ask your age, please?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘And you’ve been working for Mr Newson how long?’

  ‘Three years next month.’

  ‘We’ve started investigating the list of cases you compiled. Thank you for doing that while you were on holiday – it’s been really helpful. Can you tell me if there was anything particularly controversial or heated among the cases? Any victims who might have felt aggrieved by Mr Newson’s actions? Anything that stands out?’

  Another flick of her hair, which seems to be an unconscious
action. ‘Emotions run high in almost every case. Accusers and defendants are scared and humiliated, having their dirty laundry aired, their bad choices being discussed by lawyers, judges and juries. But the people who are the most emotional – the angriest, I suppose – are the fathers. Sometimes it’s the fathers of the defendants, the boys who’ve been accused. Their child’s life is ruined, there’s no coming back from this, the other party is telling lies … More often it’s the fathers of the victims, the girls. They can turn violent. Threaten all sorts of things … It’s really ugly.’

  ‘Did it ever put you off working for Mr Newson?’

  She shrugs, as though the answer is obvious. ‘Of course. It’s impossible not to be affected.’

  ‘But you didn’t leave. Why is that?’

  ‘Because William believed in his work and in everyone’s right to have legal representation. He used to say, “It’s dirty and upsetting work, that’s why it’s even more important to do it well.” That really resonated with me, and after a while I got to see that sometimes the accuser was acting out of embarrassment or revenge, and William was actually stopping a miscarriage of justice. He was a good boss. I’m paid well, and he gave me extended leave last year when my mum was sick.’

  Bridget and Patrick share a wordless glance. A good boss. A man committed to the justice system. A man who was generous, empathetic and altruistic. Does Emily have a case of rose-tinted glasses?

  ‘Okay, let’s read through this list together and see which cases incited the most backlash … Nichols?’

  ‘Never made it to court. Phone records proved that the woman was lying about her whereabouts.’

  ‘Davis?’

  ‘University student and his former girlfriend. Charges were withdrawn.’

  ‘R v Smith?’

  Her face scrunches with distaste. ‘That one was nasty. DNA analysis confirmed sexual activity but no evidence of bruising, scratches or any other signs of forced sex. The accused was committed for trial but William made a successful application to the DPP to discontinue due to the unreliability of the evidence. The girl’s father went ballistic. He accosted William outside court the following week. William had to get an AVO.’

  ‘The father’s name?’

  ‘Fergus Herrmann.’

  ‘How long since the incident outside the courthouse?’

  ‘Two or three months.’

  Fairly recent, then. Is the father still furious? How long does it take for such blinding anger to abate? Does it ever?

  Bridget continues to ask questions while Patrick takes notes. Emily flags another case – and complainant – as difficult.

  ‘Laura Dundas met our client on a night out, and went back to his place. You could say that the two of them were on very different wavelengths. The case went to court but not enough evidence for a guilty verdict. Laura was beside herself. She protested outside the Downing Centre Court wearing a bikini! Then somehow got past the security doors here and graffitied reception.’

  Jesus. Poor Laura. And not very pleasant for William Newson either. Did he take the threats seriously? Was he cautious about walking alone at night? Watchful on his way in and out of court? Did he take any additional security precautions?

  Bridget sets the list to one side. She’ll have a closer look at Fergus Herrmann and Laura Dundas back at headquarters.

  ‘How about repeat offenders? Did Mr Newson have any clients who were accused more than once?’

  Emily blinks. ‘Not while I’ve been working for him.’

  Bridget is recalling that disturbing conversation with Suzanne Newson, where she compared the offenders to a ‘conveyor belt’. Was Suzanne exaggerating?

  Bridget steers the conversation towards the family. ‘Do you have much to do with Joshua, Mr Newson’s son?’

  ‘Not much. Just slotted him into William’s diary once a week for coffee or lunch.’

  ‘Do you like Joshua?’

  A slight pause. ‘He’s okay, I suppose … But he’s not the same calibre as his dad.’

  ‘Is that your opinion or general opinion?’

  ‘General.’ She shifts in her seat. It’s obvious that this topic is making her uncomfortable. ‘I’ve heard that he’s not very thorough, doesn’t always do his homework and his clients have suffered the consequences. And he has a temper. He blows up, shouts at his secretary, slams doors. William never lost his temper.’

  Interesting. The question is whether it’s relevant. Joshua’s temper tantrums could be superficial or a sign of him being troubled at a much deeper level. His lack of thoroughness could also be interpreted in different ways.

  ‘Did Mr Newson’s ex-wife ever call him at the office?’

  ‘Suzanne? No, not since their divorce.’

  ‘Did he ever speak about her?’

  ‘He asked me to organise flowers for her birthday, and for Mother’s Day. That’s about all.’

  Sending flowers can mean lots of things. Affection. Contrition. Control.

  ‘Any other women in his life? A girlfriend or partner?’

  ‘No, strangely. He was such a nice man. Clever. Thoughtful. Kept himself in good shape. If I were twenty years older …’

  Emily smiles, and suddenly all Bridget can see is insincerity. She’s not sure whether she should believe this young woman. About William Newson being so perfect, about Joshua’s temper and shoddy standards, about anything.

  Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She knows without looking that it’ll be Cara, calling about the missing Opal card and protesting her innocence.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us, Emily. Here’s my card. Call me if anything else comes to mind. Make a record of Mr Newson’s files and who asks for them over the coming weeks. Make sure they’re all accounted for. We may need to organise a warrant at some stage.’

  ‘Sure. Of course. Anything you need, anything at all.’

  They shake hands again, her long fake nails curling around Bridget’s hand. Cara would probably like the peach-coloured polish. Cara would definitely like her hair, that bright blonde, straight but somehow voluminous too.

  Bridget watches Emily stride through the foyer in her high-heeled shoes, heading towards the lifts that will take her up, up, up to a job that strictly no longer exists: executive assistant to a dead man. Did she really come in early out of habit, or was there another more sinister reason? Is this list that she has given them complete?

  Bridget raises an eyebrow at Patrick. ‘What do you think?’

  He clicks the top of his pen a few times. ‘Not sure. She seems too good to be true.’

  Your Honour, members of the jury, I want to take a moment to talk about lies. Why do we lie? Two main reasons. We lie to get what we want. And we lie to protect ourselves, or others. Some children learn how to lie from a young age and are naturally adept at it. Some never learn; they just can’t pull it off, not even as adults. Megan Lowe and Jessica Foster are in the former category – we have heard compelling evidence that these girls are accomplished liars. Megan told her parents she was staying the night at Jessica’s. Jessica told her parents she was staying at Megan’s. Both sets of parents testified that they would not have given their daughter permission to attend an all-night party with boys who were barely known to them. These initial lies were to get what they wanted: to be able to go to the party. Of course, that was just the start of it. They told lies about how much they’d had to drink that night. They told lies about how they ended up in the master bedroom. They told lies about what was said, or indeed not said, while they had sex with my clients. Why all these lies? Well, it was to protect themselves, of course. Megan stated that she felt embarrassed and regretful the next morning. But it was to protect their parents, too. Megan and Jessica didn’t want to disappoint their parents. They didn’t want to shock or disgust them. They wanted to give them a narrative that was more palatable than the ugly truth. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my clients engaged in what some of you regard as morally questionable behaviour; however, their path to this co
urtroom has at least been an honest one. Lies cannot prevail over honesty … no matter how difficult it is for these young ladies and their families to face the truth.

  19

  MEGAN

  Nobody likes being called a liar. It’s humiliating, insulting, disempowering. In a courtroom there’s no opportunity to immediately defend yourself, to respond with something to negate the accusation before it settles in people’s heads and forms an irreversible part of the narrative. It’s true they lied about where they were that night, but it was within the range of normal teenage behaviour. William Newson called them ‘accomplished liars’, as though they had been honing their deception skills for years. That was extremely unfair, and untrue.

  Every muscle in Megan’s body aches. There’s paint in her hair and in the cracks of the skin on her hands. Her fingers are raw from scraping sandpaper on wooden trims and scrubbing walls with sugar soap. She is hoping to get two coats on the skirting boards and doors today. Probably too ambitious.

  Music is playing from her phone, which is hooked up to portable speakers. There’s a lot of time to think. About William Newson and his assault on her credibility and character. About this house and all the good and bad memories within its faded walls. About the disquieting Google history on her mum’s laptop.

  Police uncover threats on William Newson’s life.

  Detectives looking for Yamaha WR450F motorbike in relation to shooting.

  Family and public left without answers.

  The problem is that Roslyn isn’t just mildly curious. Her reactions to William Newson were never mild. On one mortifying occasion she had to be escorted from the courtroom after standing up and screeching at him.

  ‘Stop! Stop saying those terrible things about my daughter.’ Her finger stabbed the air in front of her. ‘How can you call her a liar when you haven’t said a word of truth since the day we came in here?’

  The judge cautioned her but she was oblivious.

  ‘How can you live with yourself?’ Her face was contorted, almost unrecognisable. ‘How can you assassinate the character of these innocent young girls?’