You Had It Coming Read online

  ‘Her name is Bridget Kennedy,’ Megan says, bringing Jess back to the here and now. ‘She asked pretty standard questions. We often have to talk to police, especially if we’re first responders … But—’

  ‘But what?’ Jess is not usually this abrupt. Megan’s putting her on edge. She’s going somewhere with this, taking her oh-so-careful time about it.

  ‘I had to tell her that William Newson was known to me.’ Megan is gently spoken in contrast to Jess’s terseness. ‘Then I had to leave before I could fully explain the circumstances. And I knew, just by looking at her face, that she was going to rush off and request the court transcripts.’

  The waitress chooses that moment to arrive with their drinks: tea for Megan and a latte for Jess. The mugs are ridiculously oversized: the caffeine will have Jess buzzing for the rest of the afternoon. She takes a cautious sip, scrambles to gather her thoughts. The court transcripts! She can actually remember the court reporter’s face, sitting next to the judge’s assistant at their own special table, lips pursed as her fingers flew across the keyboard. Jess would spend hours looking at her, but she never so much as glanced in her direction. She had an air of disapproval; it was probably just that she had to concentrate on what was being said.

  ‘So, I should expect a visit from the detective too?’

  Megan’s response is loaded. ‘Maybe … Are you ready for that?’

  Jess bristles. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

  Her gaze is scrutinising. ‘I’m just remembering some of the things you said …’

  Jess’s mug clatters against the metal surface of the table when she puts it down too forcibly. ‘Just because I said I wanted to kill him doesn’t mean I’d actually fucking do it.’

  9

  BRIDGET

  William Newson’s chambers are located in Elizabeth Street, opposite the Downing Centre Court. It’s the usual fare: sombre atmosphere, plush carpets, statement pieces of art in the foyer. Bridget is accompanied by Patrick, one of the homicide detectives on her team. Patrick is the nice guy of the department: nothing’s too much trouble.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Bridget Kennedy and Detective Senior Constable Patrick Yandle to see Joshua Newson.’

  ‘Take a seat,’ the receptionist says in an efficient tone. ‘I’ll let him know you’re waiting.’

  Bridget rang ahead to make sure that Joshua was due in the office today. His father has been dead less than a week, the body not yet released to the family. Unfortunately, the legal world cannot press a pause button to allow for grief. Joshua’s clients still need to meet with him, or see him across at the court. A lot is at stake: their futures, their families, their financial stability. In Bridget’s view their worthiness is up for debate: according to the website, Joshua Newson specialises in drug offences.

  Bridget and Patrick sit down in the waiting area. Patrick scrolls through his phone while Bridget gazes at the enormous artwork on the far wall. It’s an abstract piece, vivid splashes of colour in the background, white chevron-type slashes in the foreground. Are the chevrons meant to be stick figures? Is the artist trying to depict people dancing? She uses her phone to take a photo. Cara, her eldest, is hoping to get a place in a visual arts degree next year. This is something they can talk about when Bridget gets home. She is constantly on the lookout for ways to prise herself into the closed worlds of her teenagers.

  Bridget and Patrick are shown to Joshua’s office ten minutes later. He stands up to greet them. Early thirties, glasses with dark frames, distinctly overweight. He sticks out his hand; it feels clammy in Bridget’s grasp.

  ‘Sorry you had to wait. This is my first morning back.’

  They all sit down. Patrick takes out his notebook. Another impressive piece of art is hung on the wall directly behind Joshua. A portrait of some description. Bridget can make out eyes, a distorted mouth and the swish of hair.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us,’ she says, realigning her gaze to William Newson’s middle son. ‘It must be difficult, returning to work so soon. Did you and your father work closely together?’

  He blinks. Bites on his lip. Takes a few moments to get his emotions in check.

  ‘No. Different areas of speciality. Dad’s office is on the other side of the floor. Some days we didn’t even set eyes on each other. But we caught up for lunch at least once a week.’

  ‘Did your father mention anything of concern to you? Something or someone he was worried about? Or anything difficult or controversial?’

  ‘Nothing he mentioned. Dad dealt with a lot of sexual assault cases, which are controversial by nature. His assistant – Emily – would know the details.’

  Bridget spoke on the phone to Emily Wickham last week. She was in Fiji, on honeymoon, but that didn’t stop her from being startlingly efficient. Within a few hours, Bridget received an email, summarising William Newson’s open cases as well as recently closed ones, including all the relevant names and phone numbers.

  ‘Yes, we’ve been in touch with Emily. Poor girl, having something like this happen while she is on her honeymoon.’

  Bridget honeymooned in Fiji, too. Elaborate breakfast banquets before languishing by the pool. Cocktails at sunset followed by three-course dinners. She came home with four extra kilos and a life-long love of passionfruit mojitos.

  ‘Are you aware of the Malouf–O’Shea trial in 2007?’ she asks, watching Joshua carefully.

  ‘Yes … although I was still in university then and more focused on my social life than my father’s cases.’

  ‘But you know about it?’

  He nods and sighs simultaneously. ‘It caused a stir – the female students were furious about the outcome. There were protests on the campus. Action groups were formed. It didn’t do a lot for my popularity.’

  Bridget can picture it. Placard-holding students pleading for justice. William Newson’s son an unwitting target for their anger.

  ‘The case catapulted my father’s career,’ Joshua continues in a brighter tone. ‘Suddenly he was the go-to person for sexual assault offences in New South Wales.’

  Bridget takes a moment to digest Megan Lowe’s significance to William Newson. She played a pivotal role in his career; it could be argued that his success came at the cost of her trauma. She was someone who inspired protests in universities around the state. Of course, her identity was protected, as is mandatory with sexual assault complainants; she and Jessica Foster were known to the media as ‘Girl A and Girl B’.

  Bridget has conducted some cursory checks into Megan, as well as the control-centre operator who answered the triple-zero call. Both individuals are extremely well regarded and trusted by their colleagues. Bridget doesn’t like the coincidence of Megan being one of the paramedics at the scene, but this past week has been about gathering evidence while it’s fresh. A twelve-year-old rape trial is hard to prioritise over so many other – more recent – lines of inquiry. Yet it still niggles.

  Bridget stares at the artwork while she’s thinking. The portrait is beautiful and ugly at once. Equally repelling and fascinating.

  Joshua notices her interest and turns his seat sideways so that he can see it too. ‘I’m still getting used to this one. I like it. At least, I think I do. We rotate the pieces between offices, so as wide an audience as possible can appreciate them.’

  Joshua’s clients are drug addicts and traffickers. Bridget imagines them as pale and emaciated, with skittish eyes and thoughts. Hardly capable of appreciating a complex piece like this. Maybe she is underestimating them.

  ‘My daughter wants to be an artist,’ she confides. ‘She’s building her portfolio, in between studying for her HSC. The pieces look good to me but apparently the standard is extremely high. She gets super defensive when I give praise. “You’ve no idea, Mum.” I suppose I don’t.’

  Bridget catches Patrick smiling to himself. His kids are really young and cute. Oh, to have those days back again.

  ‘Dad thought that law wasn’t right for me,’ Joshua says softly. ‘
In his mind I wasn’t assertive enough. I guess I proved him wrong …’ Another blink and the sheen of tears in his pale-blue eyes. A few moments to compose himself. ‘I hope I made him proud.’

  Bridget waits a while, then asks, ‘Were you proud of him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve had a look at some of the court transcripts online. The prosecution had compelling evidence in many of the cases but your father somehow managed to convince entire juries otherwise.’

  ‘Dad believed that everyone is entitled to the best defence they can get. That includes rapists.’ Joshua pauses. Bites his lip again. ‘This is hard to say, but even the murderer who shot Dad deserves a defence. Legal representation is a civil right, as is the assumption of innocence.’

  Bridget glances at Patrick’s notebook. The page is blank, bar a few words. Joshua Newson is not giving them much to grab hold of.

  ‘How many cases did your father lose in recent years?’

  ‘None. His success rate was phenomenal. That’s why he was so in demand.’

  ‘How many charges were withdrawn before reaching trial?’

  ‘The vast majority,’ he concedes, and Bridget notices beads of sweat above his full lips. ‘But that’s the nature of sexual assault. It’s one person’s word against another’s. Most of the time only two people know what really happened, and their perceptions of reality are often very different.’

  Bridget is aware of this, from the half-dozen cases she handled in her early career. She remembers one particular girl, shaking uncontrollably as she made her statement, genuinely distraught but at the same time failing to provide the confirmatory evidence required for the matter to be referred to the Director of Public Prosecutions.

  ‘Only one in ten reported cases results in a conviction,’ she says, quoting a statistic that Joshua Newson is probably already aware of. ‘But with your father on the case, the odds were even better than that. Or worse, depending on whose side you’re taking.’

  Joshua smiles ruefully. ‘You sound a bit like my mother. It really got to her in the end. I remember her saying, “Some of those boys must be guilty, William, because all those girls can’t be lying.”’

  Bridget’s heart quickens. Patrick suddenly starts writing. Joshua has finally given them something to grab hold of.

  10

  MEGAN

  Tuesday is unusually quiet: a visit to an aged care facility to deal with a suspected stroke, another to the home of an octogenarian who fell and broke her hip. Megan’s had far too much time in her head, analysing that weird meeting with Jess on Saturday. Jess was still that odd mix of scrawny and tough. Her hair was dyed a paler shade of blonde, her face white and sharp; she looked like she could do with a solid meal.

  They didn’t know how to act around each other. As a result, Jess was even more brittle and Megan more reserved. The metal table rattled every time they put down their mugs, adding to the tension. Megan had wanted to see Jess’s face, to check that she wasn’t lying. Because she remembered what she’d said. Because she hadn’t said it just the once. Because she’d said it like she really, really meant it.

  I want to kill that cold-hearted bastard. He’s worse than any rapist.

  Had she killed him? Had something snapped in her after all these years?

  Jess acted like it was a crazy notion. ‘Just because I said I wanted to kill him doesn’t mean I’d actually fucking do it … For God’s sake, I was at the gym that night. There are dozens of people who can vouch for me.’

  An accusing silence before Megan changed tack. ‘How’s Alex?’

  ‘Good. Moved in with me last year.’

  This was a surprise. Megan hadn’t picked Alex as the cohabiting type, but what would she know?

  ‘Still in the landscaping business?’

  Jess rolled her eyes. ‘A glorified gardener, in my mother’s eyes.’

  Jess’s parents maintain that they’re ordinary people. Her father is one of the leading heart surgeons in the city and her mother used to be a concert pianist. They own a six-bedroom home in one of the most affluent suburbs in Sydney, a boat that’s moored at Bobbin Head, and a holiday house in the South of France. Not ordinary by any definition of the word.

  ‘How are your parents?’ Megan asked from ingrained politeness more than a desire to know.

  Jess shrugged and grimaced at the same time. Her shrugs always had a vocabulary of their own. ‘Dad’s preoccupied with work, Mum’s preoccupied with her students. Both of them seem perpetually disappointed with me and suspicious of Alex … They think he’s after my money – their money – which is laughable …’

  Is it so laughable? Is Alex impervious to money? Megan’s head was turned by their wealth. The Fosters were rich in a real-life way. Dog hairs on the custom-made sofas and expensive rugs. Towels discarded in the cabana next to the 25-metre pool. Designer clothes and shoes overflowing from closets to bedroom floors. A set of mud-spattered Range Rovers in the driveway. Mrs Foster admonishing her untidy children in a mildly exasperated manner, all the while knowing that the cleaner would come on Friday and make the place spick and span. Mr Foster unperturbed about the household chaos, possibly quite refreshing after a day spent in the sterile confines of a hospital theatre.

  There is something intoxicating about wealth that’s scruffy and real-life as opposed to the showy, cringy kind. So, yeah, Megan can admit that her head was turned. She was impressed, a little envious. But the downside of that kind of careless wealth was revealed to her during the trial. The danger that comes from not having to clean up after yourself, not having to worry about bills that need paying, from having the luxury to pursue something that is ultimately going to lose you a lot of money, just to make a point. It cultivates selfishness, a poor grasp of reality.

  Jess didn’t ask after Megan’s family; there’s a point where politeness becomes farcical.

  ‘I still can’t believe I was the first responder,’ Megan said, steering the conversation away from the minefield of families. ‘It feels too coincidental.’

  All she got was another shrug, one that said: Don’t ask me. Surely, Jess could understand why she was here, trying to have this conversation? For God’s sake, she had vocalised her desire to kill Newson! More than once. Admittedly after hours of intense cross-examination, riled by the barrister’s audacity.

  Did you make eye contact with the defendants?

  Did you smile at them?

  We have testimony from several witnesses that you were being sexually overt with these two men.

  The idea that Jess might be somehow involved didn’t occur to Megan immediately. The notion crept in later, lodging itself in her brain, arguing its case. Jess hates losing a fight. Her crooked nose is proof of her determination, her ability to prevail over pain. How many other bones did she break when she was fighting professionally? How many times did she pick herself up off the floor and resume the match? Or take a bashing against the ropes until the bell went? If there’s anyone in the world who could hold on to a grudge for twelve long years, it’s Jess. Her incredible doggedness. Her actual words: I want to kill that cold-hearted bastard …

  Megan could have asked more questions as they sat there, the only two people in that soulless little café. In the end, she wasn’t ballsy enough to persevere.

  They said an awkward goodbye and went in separate directions outside the café.

  Megan and Lucas are playing cards with another crew, Kaz and Sakar. The day has dragged on. Only two more call-outs: a great-grandmother with a suspected heart attack, and a withered old man suffering from a dizzy spell. On days like today it’s the elderly who keep them in a job.

  ‘Hey, Megan. You’ve been to Italy, haven’t you?’ Kaz asks as she shuffles the cards.

  ‘Yeah. Ten years ago, though.’

  They’re playing Twenty-one, each chip worth ten cents. The small bet generates excitement, which passes the time while nobody is at risk of losing more than a couple of dollars.

  Kaz
deals the cards deftly. ‘Can you give me some recommendations, darl? Tripadvisor’s driving me crazy. Too many reviews, too many opinions, too much bloody whinging. If you read it all, you’d never go anywhere.’

  Megan is the resident travel advisor at the base. Everyone knows she spent three years hopping from country to country, and even though it was a long time ago, they still ask her for recommendations.

  ‘Sure. I’ll look through my stuff when I get home.’

  Her ‘stuff’ is in dusty boxes under her bed. Bus tickets, tour brochures and other keepsakes. Photo albums, with place names and dates meticulously written in the margins. Pictures of churches, town squares and sunsets. The wizened faces of old men and women sitting outside their homes, and the soft laughing faces of children. Megan’s in very few photographs. She hated herself at the time.

  Megan surveys the cards in her hand. Bust. Again.

  ‘What cities did you go to? I’ve only got six days.’

  Six days isn’t enough, but it’s obvious Kaz already knows that. Not everyone has what Megan had: an open-ended ticket and nothing worth returning for.

  ‘Well, if you’re short of time you should concentrate on the major ones, Venice, Florence, Rome …’

  Lucas wins the round, scooping up the chips with a whoop. Kaz deals another hand and Megan’s thoughts drift back in time. Italy was crazy roads, dry red wines, and men with sexy accents. She caught the train from Geneva to Milan, where she spent a week touring with a Swedish boy she met along the way. After gorging on cathedrals, museums and the Swedish boy, she crossed over to Venice, with its canals, history and romance. Next was Florence, then Rome, where she got a cleaning job in the hostel where she was staying. The hostel was next to the train station, a rough area, not safe to walk at night-time. She spent many of the nights entwined with Raimondo, the owner, twenty years older than her. After a month, she caught a bus to Naples, but no matter how far she travelled, or how many handsome European men she kissed, she couldn’t get away from it. It was there every time she closed her eyes. It was a weight in her stomach when she woke in the mornings. It was present in her parents’ voices when she phoned home.