Читать книгу Direct Action - J D Svenson - Страница 14

On Monday morning Brian Prendergast’s ground floor looked to Cressida more like a hipster open-plan cafe than the back entrance to a Woollahra town house. Gigantic hardwood doors opened onto a blue-tiled plunge pool, itself ringed by wooden benches that backed onto a commercial kitchen and bar where, it was rumoured, cocktails had once been mixed for Emilio Dolce. In her opinion the head Partner of Mergers and Acquisitions was more Maldives than Byron Bay, but a hippie streak in corporate design was big at the moment and God knew he could afford to get an interior designer in every two years to tell him that. The most glamorous thing Cressida had actually been there for before were client cocktail parties where male reps made a fool of themselves in the pool and female solicitors tried to avoid getting thrown in with them; it was somewhat of a relief to be there in the daytime.

When it became clear that the blackout would not be sorted by the following week, the place had become a satellite office of Hannes Swartling M&A. When Cressida arrived at 7am, via her flat for something to wear, bacon and eggs brought by Tesla steamed in a row of bain maries on the breakfast bar, next to three types of cereal, a large bowl of yoghurt, and the glossy moons of several poached fruits. Outside the pool was one long, inviting slice of blue water reflecting back the sky. Misting pedestal fans circulated cool air across the room and black thickets of phone and laptop cords feasted like leeches on power boards against the wall. But aside from a waiter setting out cutlery, the place was empty.

From behind a sliding door at the back of the room came the sound of splashing water. Adjacent was a stack of bathsheets on a chair, next to a pile of bound documents. Oh, a shower. And a blowdry! Yes please. She snagged one of the towels and selected a licorice tea bag from the rosewood box on the counter while she waited, thinking back to the emergency centre they had visited the previous day; the hordes of overexcited children, feet bopping on the waxed gymnasium floors as they ran circuits of the basketball court, through the rows of camp beds and piled belongings, their dishevelled parents queuing for hot water and nappies. If only the perpetrators had given some warning, she thought, filling the cup and setting it down on a platform between two benches. But then, that probably wasn’t the point, was it.

There was one spot left on one of the overborne power boards and she plugged her laptop into it, flooded with a renewed sense of ease when it winked into life. Stage one of reconnection to the world, she thought, sipping her tea. Her plan was first to do some background reading on InterConnex, then start getting the legal team together and make contact with the project managers in each state to get in the loop on the stakeholder meetings. There were concept plans and options to review, geotech reports and environmental assessments to read, approval application documents to prepare, all towards the finalisation of the T & C document in time for the launch in May. If it was anything like the other State motorways, she thought, watching the light dance on the pool, the tendering alone would be a nightmare. One day, she reflected with an odd detachment as the printer doled out the finance documents Richard had emailed her, she and Felipe would be able to afford a place like this. He was already on four hundred k, and once she was a Partner, her income would be almost the same. It was a vertiginous feeling, to have everything she had worked for be so close. It was hers, hers. As long as nothing went wrong.

The water stopped and the door to the ensuite opened. Richard emerged with a towel around his waist. As he reached into the gym bag on the carpet he noticed Cressida.

‘Oh Cress, hi,’ he said. ‘Nice to see you. Brought you some light reading.’ He pointed at the foot-high pile of bound documents on a chair. ‘Road documents,’ he said with a grin. ‘Have you seen Michael yet? He really wanted to see you.’

‘Um, no?’ she said, glancing at the pile. ‘Is he around?’

‘Upstairs,’ said Richard, giving a can of aerosol deodorant a vigorous shake. ‘I’d take a coffee. He looked serious.’

‘Right …’ Cressida said. A meeting, upstairs, instead of down here where the business happened? Odd. ‘Thanks.’ It must be something to do with the partnership vote, she decided as she climbed the stairs with her tea. Telling her about when it was rescheduled for. Nothing worse than that, no doubt. Hopefully whatever it was would be quick – she was itching to get back to the road project.

Arriving into the foyer at the top of the stairwell felt like crossing into an inner sanctum. Gold-framed mirrors and hardwood tables were pressed against the walls, and a Persian rug lined the parquet floor that stretched to the front door. To her right was a loungeroom scattered with square leather couches and a glass-topped coffee table. The temperature was at least ten degrees lower than downstairs, and Cressida felt herself relax just from the feel of the air-con on her damp skin. On the far side of the loungeroom, Michael was standing by a large plate-glass window staring down at the pool.

‘Ah, Cressida,’ he said, crossing the floor. He clasped her hand. ‘Good to see you.’ He indicated a couch. ‘Take a seat. Had breakfast?’

‘Um, no, actually,’ she said. Unless you counted the apple she’d had in the car. Dinner the night before had been raw vegetables and tinned tuna. She was ravenous, but the thought of chowing down on a bowl of muesli and yoghurt in front of the Managing Partner was not appealing. ‘It can wait,’ she said.

He turned around and said, ‘Sandra said what, ten minutes, Brian?’

Cressida looked up to see Brian Prendergast standing in the kitchen at the cappucino machine. What was he doing here? Oh but it’s his house, silly, she remembered. He’s just making his morning coffee. Brian nodded. Cressida frowned and tried to read Michael’s face. The Managing Partner and a Senior Partner she didn’t know well, calling a private meeting with her? And with a person she didn’t know? The only time she’d heard of that was on Level 65 when people were given the shove. They’d call someone independent in to make sure it was all ‘impartial’ – and witnessed should there be a dispute over who said what later. Her heart dropped into her stomach. Was that why the partnership vote hadn’t been rescheduled yet? They were planning to sack her?

But as she stood up and reached over to shake Brian’s hand across the bench, the thing she noticed immediately was how distracted he was. It was like someone had flicked the dimmer switch on his usual energy. His smile as he held out a plate of croissants and danishes to her was only half its usual intensity.

‘Who’s Sandra?’ asked Cressida, taking a pastry and trying to sound offhand.

Michael lowered himself onto the couch opposite and ran a hand across his face. ‘It’s complicated, Cressida. I’ll explain when she gets here,’ he said. ‘How’s things?’

Brian sat at an angle in a chair on the other side of her and nursed his coffee.

‘Fine, thanks,’ she said, warily. ‘Except for my partnership application of course. When is the vote rescheduled for by the way?’ she said, taking a dainty mouthful of her tea as she looked at Michael over the rim. Instead of answering, Michael gave a pained looked at Brian, who gave a show of grimacing and took a swig of his coffee.

‘Such a ruddy cock-up, that,’ Brian said, finally, the English cut-glass curve to his voice pure Melbourne royalty. ‘If only that idiot Bollos had kept quiet.’ The accent made the frankness of his words compelling, cool almost, instead of uncouth. ‘If she had,’ he continued, ‘you’d already be a Partner by now. I’m sure of it. Things being as they are though …’ He sighed. ‘It might be quite a while I’m afraid.’ He gave Cressida a sympathetic look, but then his eyes drifted to the floor, and a pensive look crossed his face. Cressida shifted uncomfortably.

‘So … what’s up?’

Brian glanced up. ‘Michael will fill you in.’

There was a sheet of paper on the couch next to him and Michael leaned over to pick it up. He passed it to her. ‘Brian’s ex-wife emailed him the link this morning.’

She read. It was a copy of the front page of The Age. GOTCHA, screamed the headline in capitals, above a half-page image of a smiling young woman in school uniform. In the colour photo her face was ruddy, the cheeks pink as if she’d just come in from the cowshed.

‘Holy fuck,’ she said, looking closer. ‘Sorry, I mean—’ She reddened, glancing up, but her gaze was drawn back to the page again. ‘Gosh.’ She slurped her tea, reading: A 22-year-old woman was taken into custody last night in relation to the NSW power outage. Charges under Commonwealth terrorism laws are expected. ‘They got someone.’ Outage, Cressida thought. Bit of an understatement.

Brian remained silent, his face concealed in his coffee cup. Then he looked up at a photograph on the opposite wall. In it rows of smiling young women on bleachers wore red and navy sports uniforms, a set of hockey sticks crossed in front. Ascham. It was the Ascham hockey team. She’d played against them at PLC.

‘Two hundred thousand dollars in private-school education,’ he sighed. ‘Down the drain.’

Cressida wasn’t sure whether they were talking about the girls in the photograph now, or somehow the girl in the story – or some combination of both. All she knew was that things seemed to be going weird. She grasped for something to say, but Michael stepped in again.

‘Cressida,’ Michael began. Then the doorbell rang. ‘Ah,’ he said, with palpable relief, standing up. ‘That must be Sandra.’

He crossed to the front door and a moment later there was the clop of heavy heels on parquet, and a large woman in a two-piece suit and rimless glasses entered. ‘Sandra,’ Michael beamed, standing up. He shook her hand then turned to Cressida.

‘Cressida, this is Sandra Crane. You probably know she’s a criminal defence barrister. Among other things.’

Criminal defence barrister? Cressida stared at the frizzy-haired woman in front of her. Last Cressida had read, the woman before her had been in The Hague, defending the former Syrian president against charges of torture and genocide. A Senior Counsel renowned for winning impossible cases, she had seen three of Australia’s most notorious murderers acquitted on appeal, one following a Commission of Inquiry twenty years after he’d been put in gaol. Cressida didn’t know whether to shake her hand or curtsey. She chose the former.

‘Cressida,’ Sandra said, appraising her with cool grey eyes.

‘A … an honour to meet you,’ Cressida said, sweat springing out on her palms and making her want to wipe them on her trousers. She resisted.

‘You’re a jolly champion for coming, Crane,’ Michael said, kissing her cheek. It seemed like a brave move to Cressida but she figured they must be well enough acquainted. ‘Coffee?’

‘Black thanks,’ said Sandra, and sat down on an armchair opposite.

There was the blare of the coffee machine again and over it Michael called out, ‘How was the Netherlands?’

‘A bloody circus,’ the woman answered, putting her bag carefully beside her on the floor. Her tone was soft but emphatic, her voice deep and somehow both authoritative and laconic. It was such a contrast to how Cressida spoke, she thought, she who always found herself speaking quickly and loudly, to get everything out in case people moved on before the end of what she was saying. Sandra, however, sounded as if she knew every word she said would be strained for, and probably written down, so there was no need to make sure people could hear her. How wonderful that would be, Cressida thought. To know people were going to pay attention. To not have to make an effort to make them.

‘Is that the girl?’ Sandra asked, flicking her gaze at the printout. Brian handed it to her. ‘Young,’ she observed.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Cressida said.

Sandra glanced at her and continued, ‘Where is she? Silverwater?’

Brian’s eyes strayed back to Cressida. ‘I don’t know. That’s the first thing we need to find out. The article just says she turned up at the temporary cop van at Muswellbrook LAC.’

Michael returned with the coffee and passed it to Sandra. As he sat down Brian started speaking, almost to himself.

‘She always was so bloody passionate about things. Used to fly into a rage at the slightest injustice when she was a child. Then of course she had to go to Iraq. Iraq. As if she wasn’t mad enough already.’

Sandra took a small square container out of her bag and opened it to tip two small white tablets into her coffee, then stirred it. Cressida was wondering how Brian knew so much about a terrorist’s biography, and also what all this had to do with her, but mainly she was thinking that what he was saying and Sandra being here, at least it didn’t sound like it was going in the direction of a dismissal conversation, so she allowed herself to relax a little.

‘You seem to know a lot about her,’ Cressida said.

Brian looked at her. ‘I should do. She’s my daughter.’

‘What?’

Brian nodded. Cressida thought that maybe she shouldn’t sound so appalled. But she didn’t know how she should sound. There wasn’t anything in her internal Hannes Swartling handbook for this. She felt flustered and embarrassed, as if he had just put a bucket of offal in her lap. It would have been less awkward if he’d said the girl in the paper was his teen lover, for God’s sake, or a love-child from his past, who was now a hooker up on drug charges or extortion or, God, anything but terrorism. Then, she would have flicked to ‘understanding’. Compassionate. Non-judgemental.

But this information made her feel instead like she might vomit. She looked across at him, trying to keep the judgement out of her eyes. Immediately she found herself thinking about what the hell had gone wrong with his parenting that his daughter had ended up in this mess. Her second thought was the photo. The girl had gone to Ascham?

Cressida swallowed and turned her gaze to Sandra, just for somewhere to look. The other woman’s pale grey eyes were inscrutable though, and Cressida’s discomfiture slid straight off them. No help there. I guess you’d have to be pretty impassive to defend a war criminal, Cressida found herself thinking. Above such base notions as judgement.

‘But’ – she picked up the paper off the table again, speaking just for something to fill the silence, and scanned it – ‘it says here explosives offences.’ And hang on … Liddell? Wasn’t that one of the power stations owned by the client they’d met with on Saturday? She looked at Brian. Wow. He was seriously in the scato.

‘For now,’ Sandra said, sipping her coffee.

‘The thing is, Cressida,’ Brian continued quietly, regarding her, ‘we both know that when scandal gets out in the legal fraternity, it’s really hard to live it down.’

Cressida felt herself flush to the roots of her hair. She glanced again at Sandra, unsure whether the woman opposite knew about her father, then in the next moment feeling certain she did. As well as The Australian Leo had been front page news in the legal circulars for weeks, and the lead story in The Sydney Morning Herald twice. And Brian was right. People remembered. Cressida gave a low whistle. Sandra’s eyes flicked to hers and she thought she saw humour there, but the woman remained silent.

‘We can’t brief an outside lawyer on this,’ Brian announced. ‘Sandra here of course has the discretion of a Swiss banker, but there is no way I am trusting this to an instructing solicitor outside the firm. You’ve got experience at the highest levels of criminal law practice, Cressida. You know most of what there is to know about the Criminal Code jurisdiction. Sandra can tell you anything you don’t. We need to get her acquitted.’

Cressida was still so stunned at the idea that she was being asked to act on a criminal matter, for an M & A Partner’s daughter she had never met, with Sandra Crane, that it took a moment to take in the last thing Brian had said.

‘Acquitted,’ she said. ‘But …’ She picked up the article again. ‘Didn’t she do it? I mean, it says here that she gave herself in. Confessed.’ She pointed to the word for emphasis.

‘That need not be a problem,’ Sandra said. ‘We don’t know what she’s confessed to. In fact we don’t even know what the charges she’s up on are. There may be several. Or none at all. Newspapers don’t always get these things right. Or it could just be a beat-up by that rag,’ she said, flicking her hand delicately at the curl of paper. ‘Although I will say – with the New South Wales Counter Terrorism unit involved, we have to assume Code charges are likely.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ Cressida said, wishing she either had more time to think or that her brain worked faster. She couldn’t think which would be worse: discovering your daughter could be up on terrorism charges, or finding it out from the paper. Except possibly finding it out via your ex-wife. The immediate problem, though, was that they were all looking at her. Come on, she told herself, say something intelligent. Fortunately, Michael spoke.

‘I couldn’t get anyone on the phone at Muswellbrook copshop,’ said Michael. ‘God knows what they do with criminals in these conditions. Normally they go to Silverwater first, right, Cressida?’

‘What? Oh – yes,’ said Cressida, suffused with relief to know at least something.

‘She may still be there though,’ said Sandra. ‘At Muswellbrook LAC. Last night isn’t much time to get her down to Sydney.’

Brian stared at Sandra, his blue eyes bright. ‘It’s unlikely she’ll be found guilty of terrorism offences though, right? I mean, yes to explosives, probably even sabotage, or whatever – but terrorism?’

Sandra set down her coffee. ‘The terror crime list was written for what these people have been up to, Brian,’ she said, softly. ‘The government is going to be licking its chops. Not to mention ropable about not picking it up beforehand. And there’s also the probability of property damage and sabotage offences under State legislation. Maybe some explosives offences. And something under the Electricity Supply Act?’ she mused. ‘Interference with power supply and so on. Oh and of course conspiracy, acting in company,’ she said, like rounding off a list of cake ingredients. ‘I imagine we can give the double jeopardy prohibition a good swing on some of those. But there’s a very specific intent for the terrorism charges,’ she said, squinting upwards, remembering. ‘Let me get it right. An action done or a threat is made,’ she recited, as if of a well learnt poem, ‘with the intention of advancing a political, religious or ideological cause, and’ – she paused – ‘with the intention of coercing or influencing the government or the public by intimidation. Section 101 of the Commonwealth Criminal Code,’ she said, almost with a flourish. ‘There are about ten different types of charge of course too. Commit a terrorist act, receive training for terrorism, possession of something in connection with a terrorist act … What else is there, Michael?’ she asked him. Colleague to colleague, thoughtful.

Brian’s eyes widened and he shook his head. Cress reached for her bag and scrambled to find a pen.

‘Let’s see …’ Sandra continued. ‘Direct activities of a terrorist organisation, recruitment for a terrorist organisation … That’s assuming they can prove terrorist organisation, of course. We’d be putting – I imagine?’ – she glanced at Brian – ‘that there wasn’t one, I think? Ragtag band of belligerents, et cetera? Anyway, the other potential charges – the State ones: sabotage and these explosives offences – their mental element is just the standard you’d expect for property damage.’ She shrugged. ‘You know, intent to injure, intent to destroy and so on. Depending on the offence. What do you think?’ she said, turning to Brian. ‘Did she do this with intention to intimidate the government into doing something? Taking action on climate change, for example?’

Brian’s face was slack. ‘I have no idea. Like I said – I haven’t seen her. Not for four years, now. Though she’s always been known as what I think is referred to as a “peacenik”.’ He enunciated the word as if it were a curious term in a foreign language. ‘For as long as I can remember. She has her faults, of course, as we all do, but … well, the Joanne I knew would never have wanted to hurt anybody. Mind you that was before she went to Iraq.’ His jaw clenched and abruptly he dropped his face forwards, pressing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll agree she certainly failed there,’ Sandra said, ‘but that’s another matter.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Cressida, trying to sound less piping. She didn’t care though, she decided; if she was going to represent this woman, she had to understand. ‘Were workers injured at the plant?’

‘I have no idea. I was thinking of since then. Harm from lack of power, and so on. Anyway for our purpose it’s immaterial,’ Sandra said, briskly. ‘It will be relevant to sentence but not the choice of charges per se. For that the point is motive – whether to intimidate or not. If the CDPP’ – ah, of course; this would be the Commonwealth Director of Public Prosecutions, not State, thought Cressida – ‘can’t get corroborating evidence to show the terrorist intent, they’re left with just the basic criminal stuff. Sabotage, mainly. Which has a maximum twenty-year sentence instead of life.’

Michael straightened, all efficiency while his co-Partner was losing it. ‘Let’s say they can establish that, Sandra,’ he said, clipped. ‘The terrorist intent, as you call it. What then?’

‘Guess she’d have to investigate plea options.’ Sandra shrugged. ‘Or mental impairment? Or that she was drug-addled and driven into it by some charismatic leader. Something. Depends on her instructions, of course.’

Wow, Cressida thought. Either way, no babies for her, then. She looked down at the photo on the printout. Had she thought about it, this girl who had turned herself in to Muswellbrook LAC at 9pm last night? Did she know that by blowing up a power station she’d said goodbye to any progeny? Cressida looked at Brian. What did that feel like, she thought, knowing your own child would be locked up away from the sunlight for the next two decades, with humans that were for the most part walking scar tissue, all of your care and investment in raising them come to a screaming halt in a prison cell? She didn’t know anything about Brian’s family life, but that had to hurt.

But as unfortunate as all this was, Cressida thought, putting down her notebook and biting into the pastry, it had nothing to do with her. Sure, there’d be lawyers who’d think she was insane to turn down a job as Sandra Crane’s instructing solicitor – on anything – but federal crimes wasn’t a career direction she had any interest in. It certainly didn’t seem like it would help her get partnership. And even if he had stuck up for her at the partnership meeting, she knew she couldn’t afford the poo that was about to stick to Brian anywhere near her: it was hard enough getting ahead in the firm as a female even when you did do everything right. Anyway, she thought, what about the fact that the power stations were owned by a Hannes Swartling client? If she took this on – and if she did, under the professional conduct rules that meant the firm did – it would be a massive professional conflict. Even so-called ‘Chinese walls’, where you kept everything to yourself and didn’t discuss it with any other lawyer in the firm, wouldn’t avoid that. She glanced at them. How could Brian even ask her? And Michael, for that matter. If they thought she’d put her practising certificate at risk over this one he was mistaken.

‘I’d love to help, Brian,’ she said. ‘Really I would. But – I’m surprised Richard didn’t already tell you – I’m lead solicitor on InterConnex, so …’ In other words, I wouldn’t touch this if I was the last lawyer alive.

Brian looked at her in surprise, a small furrow creasing the skin between his eyebrows. He glanced across at Michael.

‘Yes,’ Michael said, turning to her. ‘Richard did mention that. A very exciting project, I agree. I don’t think there’s a way you can manage both, though.’ He sighed. ‘I know the client asked for you, but I don’t think it will be a huge problem to find someone else. At least at first, anyway,’ he added. ‘This whole thing should be done and dusted well before any ink’s ready to be put on any road contracts. I imagine you’ll spend, what’ – he glanced at Sandra – ‘six months on this? And then you can come back in on InterConnex.’

Six months? He had to be kidding. Even if she agreed to risk the conflict, by that time she might as well get a job as a paralegal on it, Cressida thought. All the main work would be done, the relationships cemented, the chain of influence – and therefore prestige and reputation – established. Instead of making a name for herself she’d be a worker bee again, slogging it out for no recognition and bugger-all pay. She was supposed to be spending the coming week travelling to the construction sites, for goodness sake. She’d been intending to ask Esma to book the flights as soon as the power was back. No. It wouldn’t do.

‘It could be over that quickly, yes,’ Sandra confirmed, nodding. ‘Depends on whether the government wants to string it out or not. Or alternatively be seen to get her behind bars as quickly as possible. Them, I should say.’

Of course. There were other suspects. Why the hell wasn’t this person getting the same legal representation as them?

‘I should warn you though,’ Sandra added, ‘other cases like these have taken years to run their course. Three at least.’

Cressida swallowed. That was unthinkable.

‘Well what is happening with the other suspects, by the way?’ she said. ‘On Eraring and the other plant …’ She scanned the newspaper article. ‘Bayswater. Surely they have legal representation?’

‘I have no idea. Brian’s daughter is possibly the only one that can afford me,’ Sandra said, glancing at him. ‘The rest will have Legal Aid, I imagine. Depending on their finances. Of course I wouldn’t act for any of the others anyway. In my experience this sort of thing turns into a professional conflict pretty quickly. The knives tend to come out between suspects before the first mention. Which reminds me. We need to get back to basics.’ She turned to Cressida. ‘The first thing to do is to get instructions, obviously. Find out whether she’s happy for us to act for her – which I assume she will be – and get as much detail as you can about what charges have been laid. Of course don’t ask her too many questions about the incident itself at this point,’ Sandra said. ‘Then you’ll need to get the papers – from the CDPP, if the client doesn’t have them. Either way, the first thing is to find out exactly what they’re levelling at her so far. And find out how she wants to plead, of course, once we know what to – charges and full brief of evidence before she decides, of course. Once they’ve had it transferred up to the District Court, seek orders for one at the first mention. That will take a while – I’m rarely in the Dizzo, but I think it’s eight weeks on strictly indictables? Again, depends what the charges are. But I’m sure you’re familiar with the Practice Notes.’ She added, ‘Anyway, once we’ve got all that, we’ll know where we are.’

‘Here’s my secretary’s number,’ Brian said, scrawling it on the back of the news article with his heavy wood embossed pen and handing it to Cressida. ‘Esma. Worth her weight in gold. Consider her yours for this, Cressida. And whatever else you need.’

An unfamiliar feeling began to stir in Cressida, and she tried to pin it down. Ah, she realised with wonder. That was it. Power. For the last four years, since Leo’s conviction – well, her whole time at Hannes Swartling, actually, but the last four years had been the worst – it had been the other way around. As if, despite all her work and dedication, Hannes Swartling were doing her a favour by keeping her on. Four years of embarrassment, worrying about what they thought of her, proving how different she was from Leo over and over again – how trustworthy, because her father had turned out so much the opposite. Even walking up the stairs to this meeting she had been afraid for her job, she reflected with some bitterness.

By doing this, they would owe her.

But she knew that if she did do it, there would have to be cast-iron Chinese walls, and she was going to be asking Sandra a lot of stupid questions. Terrorism and sabotage would be very different from defending on insider trading. And, she thought, looking across at those inscrutable grey eyes, Sandra was not someone she wanted to look stupid in front of.

‘Any thoughts on a junior?’ Cressida ventured, to give herself time to think. ‘And what about bail? Should we appeal?’ If there was a junior barrister involved that would make the second issue easier; she could ask them all the stupid questions and still look good to Sandra.

‘I’ll ask round my chambers,’ said Sandra. ‘We’ll need to see what the charges are first, and that will give me an idea of who would be good. Byron’s good on property crimes,’ she mused. ‘You could try a bail application, of course, always worth a go – but on this? No way.’

Well there was some leeway on the timing then, Cressida thought. She would keep working on InterConnex at the same time, at least during the beginning. Eight weeks for the brief of evidence, that was a start. Once she had found the client, she’d just go out there and introduce herself, get the instructions to act for her, advise her about the charges and then there was nothing to do till the first mention in four weeks. Maybe file a bail appeal, but Cressida thought Sandra was probably right – it would be pissing in the wind. It’s going to be okay, she reassured herself. You can keep this on the rails.

‘I’ll do this on two conditions,’ Cressida said, ignoring Sandra’s surprised look and the slight, incredulous smile that sprang to Michael’s mouth. Yes that’s right, she thought. It’s not all up to you now. ‘First, I keep the road project, unless and until I tell you it’s too much. Second, you reschedule the partnership vote within a fortnight. And,’ she said, marshalling courage, ‘I get it.’ And don’t give me any crap about how it’s democratic, she thought. I know you two are the numbers guys. Except for those two in Melbourne. I don’t know what’s up with them. ‘Otherwise, well, I’m …’ – she took a deep breath; eleven years – ‘I’m looking elsewhere.’

Michael’s eyes widened and his jaw twitched, and for a moment something flashed across his face. It was a look she hadn’t seen there before. Respect. Brian, however, was looking decidedly dark.

‘Cressida, come on,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry, Brian, I mean it. You talk about how hard it is to live things down in the law. Well I’m sick and tired of being judged in my father’s shadow. It’s time this firm gave me the value I deserve.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sandra began, in a voice that said she was anything but, ‘I thought we would have the instructing solicitor here. You three work that out, and whoever it is, get them to this woman as soon as the power’s back on. We need things while they’re fresh.’ Cressida flushed in embarrassment at Sandra’s tone, but kept her gaze on Michael. They couldn’t refuse her, she thought – they’d already told her everything. How could they disagree?

‘I’ll organise it,’ Michael said, quietly.

‘I’ll call around and see if I can find out where she is,’ said Brian. ‘Then you can get in to see her tomorrow, either Silverwater or Lithgow, probably.’

Of course he was in a hurry, it was his daughter, Cressida thought. But rushing around and doing things in a panic wouldn’t make things happen any quicker. Anyway most of the scheduling would be up to the prosecution.

‘Uh-uh,’ said Sandra. ‘That won’t be happening.’

‘What? Why?’

‘All Corrections is in lockdown until the power’s back on. You can imagine the security issues.’ She sighed and drained her coffee. ‘The prisons have generators, of course, but everything’s being run on the absolute minimum. Your daughter is going to be twiddling her thumbs for a little while yet.’ She smiled. ‘Ironic, really. Well, gentlemen, Cressida,’ she said, standing. ‘If that’s all?’

‘But,’ Cressida interrupted, a thousand thoughts flying around her brain at once, ‘but what about—’ What about the conflict of interest? ‘Oh nothing,’ she said, stupidly. ‘Ms Crane, I’ll let you know when I get in to see her. And you can expect a full brief twenty-four hours later. I’ll add the police brief when we get it.’

‘Excellent,’ Sandra said, standing up.

As Michael showed Sandra out Cressida sat, shaky with adrenaline aftershock. She turned to Brian. ‘Brian,’ she ventured. ‘This is a huge fucking conflict. Don’t you need to ask SinoGen? And get the rest of the Partners’ okay, for that matter?’

Brian looked at her. ‘No, I don’t, Cressida. Never been a better application of the phrase Chinese walls, I would have thought. SinoGen is not your client. They’re not even mine. They’re Richard’s. There’s no problem. Oh and Cressida,’ Brian said, as she started for the stairs.

She stopped, her hand on the balustrade. ‘Yes?’

‘Is Hannes Swartling listed as your contact on the Law Society website? Maybe amend that – your name will be on the court papers …’

Cressida frowned. He was really serious about this confidentiality thing.

‘Sure. Do you want this?’ She held out the printout. Brian shook his head.

‘It’s okay. I’ll get another. Her name’s Fairbank,’ he added. ‘Joanne Fairbank. She … she took her mother’s name when we split up.’

‘Ok,’ said Cressida. ‘Thanks.’

Downstairs at the sink as she poured the rest of her cold tea down the drain, Cressida leant against the counter and looked out at the pool, feeling disembodied. Across the room Pip was sitting on one of the bench seats tapping into her laptop. Cress folded up the article and slipped it in her handbag, then approached her.

‘Hey,’ Pip said when she saw Cressida. ‘I’ve got all the EOI precedents on a zip folder now. So if you email me the tenderer list, I can start filling them … Hang on. You’re paler than the lychees in my martini last night,’ she observed, eyes narrowed. ‘What’s up?’

‘What? Oh. No. Nothing. That sounds good. Yes. Um. I have to talk to Esma about a couple of things, quickly, and then …’

‘Cressida? You’re acting really weird,’ said Pip, frowning.

‘Really?’ She brightened her tone, smiling. ‘No, I’m just thinking about the road project. Oh, Brian just gave me a new file, but it shouldn’t take long.’

‘Brian did?’ said Pip, eyes homing in on Cressida. ‘What, in M & A?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Criminal, of all things.’

‘Criminal? You’re kidding,’ Pip said. ‘But what do you know about that?’

Cressida looked at her. ‘My thoughts exactly.’