At about one p.m. each day, as the flow of people through the garish doors of the Australian Rugby League Club’s dining room gradually increased, it was customary for many of the diners to nod to the heavyset figure with the rough-hewn face of a Gallipoli veteran seated at the table to the right of the doors.
There was a certain deference in the attitude of the few who approached to shake hands and chat briefly. He ate alone, with a book as his companion. There was no aura of holding court, and yet everyone in the room was somehow aware of his presence.
There was certainly nothing in his manner or dress to warrant particular attention. The suit was a nondescript blue and appeared to have been purchased from St Vincent de Paul, the tie was a narrow strip from the 1960s, held in the middle by a faded silver clip with a Returned Serviceman’s badge in the centre. His slab of a face was capped by a thick full head of hair, remarkable for a man of his age, but shaved up at the sides in a fashion no longer seen. There was a forward slope to the whole face, with a jutting chin, huge ears like a prize fighter’s but without the scars, and rectangular glasses that, along with the hair and the tie, stated clearly that he regarded fashion as the first sign of moral decay.
Those who summoned the courage to stop by his table as he chewed slowly on his cutlets, chips and peas or, on Fridays, fish, chips and peas, were a rich stew of harbour creatures. Book-makers, rugby league footballers and sometimes those from other codes-businessmen, politicians from state parliament or from local councils, a judge or two (although they mainly nodded from a distance), and others on the make. He was happy to talk about sports or politics or events of the day, but cut off any attempt to discuss legal matters by returning to his book. He was said to be a formidable powerbroker in the right of the New South Wales Labor Party, but how and through what channels this power was wielded no one seemed to know.
His chambers were nearby in Phillip Street, and there a very different stream of supplicants passed through. It was rare for Hedley Stimson QC to appear in person in a courtroom these days, but he still rendered opinions of great force and clarity for others to plead. As he spoke, the body was slumped back in the chair but the face and the attitude leaned forward, intent, alert. His hands waved slowly with the words like a conductor, and they commanded mesmerising attention because they were enormous, out of proportion with the rest of his body, like the ears. But with his final opinion about to be delivered, the hands ceased moving and one finger came up with the words ‘therefore…’ No solicitor who had ever briefed Hedley Stimson had failed to learn that once the finger was raised and the ‘therefore’ produced, the meeting was concluded.
When Jack and his solicitor entered this inner sanctum he remained seated. ‘Good morning, Kemp. And this is obviously Mr Beaumont, about whom I have been reading with such interest.’ Jack stiffened, thinking of the newspaper articles, of which there’d now been three. ‘I refer, of course, to the documents you have provided and the brief from Mr Kemp, which is, as always, succinct, but in this case slightly mysterious. You have no court case on foot, Mr Beaumont. No one is suing you; you are suing no one; you are not being pursued by any of the authorities for heinous offences; you have not, apparently, for I’m sure Kemp would have noted it, murdered anyone. In short, none of the driving forces which usually herd people into this small, but I hope you agree, distinguished room appear to be in play. So how can I help you, Mr Beaumont?’
Jack felt he presented his case with force and confidence.
Facts and documents were in the brief and he, with the Pope’s help and analysis, understood most of them. Sometimes the linking patterns between one factor and another slid away from him when he re-read them at night in the study at the top of the house. This business was unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. You could produce almost any profit, legitimately, just by changing a few assumptions on risk or by tweaking a judgement on reserving policy or turning a dial on ‘smoothing’. The line between right and wrong was shrouded in grey mist on a distant horizon. Just when he held it clearly in sight, it merged and shifted and slipped away from him. But it had to be there-somewhere. And he was holding it firmly in sight now as he laid out his concerns in logical sequence to the impassive, watchful figure of Hedley Stimson QC.
The eyes of the old lawyer never left him throughout the nearly forty minutes of his exposition, the meat-pie hands were motionless on the desk. At one point Jack nearly lost his train of thought as he focused on those hands, rough and black under the nails, the hands of a working man, not a lawyer. It was in the workshop at the back of the house in Wahroonga, where he’d lived for the past twenty-five years, that Hedley Stimson formed the opinions that were the foundation of his legendary reputation, as the lathe whirred and shavings and sawdust flew onto the cracked concrete floor that was never swept.
Finally, Jack puttered to a halt. The lack of any visible or verbal response other than that unrelenting stare was too much. The old lawyer nodded at him. ‘Most impressive, Mr Beaumont. You have garnered an understanding of a series of most complex issues in a relatively short time. I’m sure you would greatly impress any jury if, of course, you were permitted to address them uninterrupted for a mere half-hour or so. But we have no jury, do we Mr Kemp? A great pity, it is true, for I have ultimate faith in the wisdom of juries-if only we could extend this excellent system into the world outside the sterility of courts. Fewer arguments, less war, more justice? What do you think, Mr Beaumont?’ Hedley Stimson paused briefly but in such a way as to block any response. ‘Regrettably, however, we must deal with the conventions of our time. You’ve raised a number of interesting concerns, but it’s unclear to me what actions you expect to flow from your inquiries. Are you seeking to raise these matters with the regulatory authorities, take civil actions against distinguished citizens, to terminate your contract or to alleviate your conscience?’
Jack stared back into the pools of the deep-set eyes but didn’t flinch, as so many witnesses had over the decades. These were the same questions Louise had put to him when the ice had finally thawed between them. He’d been faithful always-almost. Their fights, and there were few, were about him arriving home late without a call, or disappearing at a party for longer than a drink. No more than that.
She’d sensed a conspiracy immediately when he had told her about his exclusion from the Colonial Club, about the greasy slipperiness of it all. ‘These things don’t just happen, Jack. We’ve never before had an article about us in the press that wasn’t complimentary, and then you get blackballed. There are no coincidences. Someone is out to get you.’ And then, as her focus shifted to the perpetrators of this evil, so did her anger. She was there to defend him, to fight for their world, to attack. Louise on the hunt was as relentless a beast as he’d ever seen. So when he wavered about taking his worries to Hedley Stimson, as the Pope had suggested, she stiffened his back in minutes. ‘Darling, there’s a link between these attacks on you and all the questions you’ve been asking at HOA. There has to be. You know in your heart these people are up to something, and you have to pin the bastards, whoever they are-or you’re not the man I know you to be.’
What was the answer to the question being put to him in this book-lined room? What actions did he expect to flow now that he’d summoned the resolve to introduce legal opinion into the equation? He looked back across the desk for what seemed like minutes before answering.
‘I don’t know. That’s what I need your advice on. It’s certainly not about protecting me. I haven’t done anything wrong and I don’t want anyone’s money. But what we do at HOA affects people’s lives whether they’re shareholders or policyholders. We’re not selling baked beans or a night at the movies. I’m concerned that if the company gets into trouble through improper practice, or even mismanagement, if that’s what it is, we could hurt thousands of people. And if it’s being done to profit someone else, then yes, I want to bring them to justice.’
The gnarled hands remained flat on the desk, the eyes held his.
‘I see.’ Hedley Stimson closed the folder in front of him. ‘In order to prove what you suspect, you’d need not only the primary documents-and we’re talking about dozens of confidential company documents, not just the few you have here-’ he tapped the folder, ‘you’d also need deep actuarial and accounting assessments from the best practitioners. The support you could expect from the regulatory authorities, despite all kinds of comforting statements, would amount to very little. The forces brought to bear against you, on the other hand, would include a barrage of legal manoeuvres, and the most damaging attacks on your reputation and credibility-not only during the course of any proceedings, but continuously for the rest of your professional life, should you have any, as well as concerted and probably successful attempts to ruin you financially, aided in part by the extraordinarily high fees you would have to pay me and Mr Kemp here, over a very long period, a period we could extend almost indefinitely, given a chance. Therefore…’ there was the slight raising of the brow and the one hand was slowly lifted with the raised index finger, ‘I must advise you in the strongest terms not to consider proceeding with any of these matters in a formal legal framework. You may choose to handle them by negotiation and discussion within the company and its board, or to resign your position. That is a matter for you and not within my purview. This is the advice I must give you.’
Jack stood and began to pace the room. He had to move when he was uncomfortable, it had always been like that. But now at least he was not uncertain. Some of Louise’s anger had transferred itself to him.
‘But there is stuff here that’s wrong, isn’t there? Some of this could be a monumental fraud, couldn’t it? Are you saying there’s no breach of the law here, nothing to pursue? Are you saying-’ Jack stopped in mid-flight to scrutinise the books on the shelves. ‘These aren’t law books.’ He took one down. ‘They’re all novels.’ He turned to the old lawyer with the book still in his hand.
Hedley Stimson smiled at him gently. ‘Yes, Mr Beaumont. Every student clerk and second-rate solicitor has read the law books. You’re not going to win cases by seeking wisdom in their dry pages. Sooner or later the law’s about human behaviour, about motive, about greed, about lust and power and love and violence, about trust and the breaking of it. That’s all in these books. If they make any new laws, I read about them. Otherwise, I stick to life.’
Jack nodded. ‘And the people you admire in these books, they just give up, do they? They don’t question or probe or struggle? They just turn their backs and walk away? If you tell me I’m being paranoid and I’ve misconstrued all this, okay. But is that what you’re saying?’
He felt a hand on his elbow and the voice of Godfrey Kemp say quietly, ‘Come on, Jack, Mr Stimson has given us his opinion, and it’s good advice so-’ But before the sentence was finished the gravelly voice broke in.
‘Yes, it’s good advice, Mr Beaumont. However-’ He paused. Godfrey Kemp dropped his hand from Jack’s arm in surprise. Never, in twenty-five years of briefing Hedley Stimson, had he heard a ‘however’ after the ‘therefore’.
‘However, Mr Beaumont, the advice I’ve given you is the best advice anyone could give you. It’s not necessarily my opinion about what is the right course of action morally, legally or from any other point of view. It’s not necessarily what one of the heroes in those novels you’ve been gazing at so intently would do. But this is not a story we’re discussing, Mr Beaumont. We are discussing your life, and whether you’ll be able to enjoy it with some degree of normality or whether you’ll be chewed up in a legal mincing machine. Do I make myself clear?’
Jack looked at the book he was holding in his hand. ‘This is one of my favourite novels.’
Hedley Stimson smiled at the battered old paperback. ‘Mine also, Mr Beaumont. When I find the human condition slightly repulsive, I read it quietly with a strong cup of tea.’
Jack was still standing in front of the desk, legs slightly apart, challenging something-he wasn’t quite sure what. ‘Then what is your view? Are there laws being broken here? Can people be damaged? Are there corrupt persons at work who should be brought to justice? How do I fight this? How do I look at myself in the mirror if I crawl away?’
The face seemed to be hewn from stone, so fixed was the gaze directed at Jack. ‘Sit down, Mr Beaumont.’ Slowly he eased the chair back slightly from the desk. ‘They’ll chew you up, son. Do you understand that? Chew you up, spit you out; win or lose, your life will never be the same again. Do you see that?’
‘I see part of it.’ Jack’s shoulders were hunched forward with concentration.
The minutes ticked away. Gradually the enormous hands rose from the desk and began to conduct words in the air. ‘In my opinion there are likely criminal and civil proceedings of a serious nature which might result from substantiation of the concerns you have outlined to me. These include breaches of the Corporations Act in respect of the conduct of directors, failure to disclose conflicts of interests, possible falsification of accounts by management condoned by the auditors, possible fraud charges arising from the conduct of the chief financial officer in respect of documents filed with the Australian Prudential Regulation Authority and the Australian Securities and Investments Commission, as well as the Australian Stock Exchange. There are also probable causes of action for shareholders arising from these misleading documents, not to mention other potential actions under Section 52 of the Trade Practices Act. These are merely my preliminary views.’
Jack didn’t look away or shuffle in the chair. At last he asked very quietly, ‘Then how do I fight?’
Hedley Stimson turned to his colleague. ‘Mr Kemp, I know you have a meeting. Please feel free to leave. Mr Beaumont and I have concluded our conference and are merely chatting to no great point.’
Godfrey Kemp departed, surprised and confused. He’d never left a client alone with Hedley Stimson before, or indeed any other barrister. It was bad practice not to have a witness to a discussion in chambers.
‘So you admire the hero in that book, do you? Well, Mr Beaumont, no doubt you’d like to fight injustice in the courts and emerge victorious, having protected the interests of all the widows and orphans who live in the humble dwellings insured by your large but probably unscrupulous company, run by a gang of thieves but presented to the world with your own brand of polished salesmanship. Thus you are established as a man of true substance and ethics by these heroic actions and spend the rest of your life smiling admiringly at your burnished image in as many mirrors as you can find. Is that your idea?’
‘Something like that, but just the one mirror will do.’ The old lawyer chuckled quietly at Jack’s response. ‘Have you ever been in a war, son?’
‘No. I’m one of the lucky ones who’s never held a rifle except in the school cadets.’
‘They’re not good, the little I know of them. I was in Korea, which was no picnic, but my father was killed at Gallipoli. God knows what that was like. This might be your Gallipoli. Why would you want to bring that on yourself?’
‘I didn’t bring it on myself. I just happened to be there. But I can’t walk away and turn my back on it, can I?’
‘Thousands would. And do.’ There was silence again. The eyes stayed fixed on Jack, but no longer with the searching stare. ‘I’ve waited a long time to meet you, son, a very long time.’
He stood and walked to the window, looking down into Phillip Street, where all the other lawyers and their clients were scurrying off to sue or be sued. ‘If you want to fight, you’ll need troops. Not just lawyers, they’re easy. Analysts, strategists, actuarial advice, communications advice-God knows what. And money, lots of money.’
‘I can get all that.’ Jack was still holding the book in both hands. He put it on the desk. ‘But will you help me?’
The hand that reached forward seemed larger than the book.
‘You realise the point of To Kill a Mockingbird is that sometimes it can be right to remain silent?’ Jack said nothing. ‘But not this time, I hear you say?’
The book was placed carefully on the desk and the old lawyer sat, just as carefully, as he always did when advice was about to be despatched.
‘Very well. We won’t meet here again. I’ll write an opinion confirming my initial advice to you not to proceed. Somehow these matters seep through the walls and become known. You will appear to follow my advice. We don’t want our opponents marshalling their resources until we’re ready to fire the first shot. You’ll get your team together and report to me using only this phone number.’ He took a card from the holder on the desk and wrote on the back of it. ‘You’re not to communicate with Mr Kemp again except to inform him that you have decided not to proceed with the matter. I trust Kemp more than anyone I know, other than my wife, but his walls are also porous. When we meet we’ll meet only at my residence, and in the manner I instruct. Is this clear? Do you begin to understand the nature of your folly?’
Jack spoke immediately. ‘Yes. I’ll call within the week.’ Hedley Stimson walked with him to the door, opened it and said in a slightly raised voice, ‘Goodbye, Mr Beaumont. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more encouraging advice-but best wishes in any event.’
There had never been a meeting of the group before for any reason other than for lunch. They were a club with no name, no rules, no aims, and their only premises were the wooden-floored rooms in the restaurant at Bondi. This was Monday and the restaurant was closed, yet they sat at the long table looking down on the distant surfers sliding and dipping and cutting back across the face of the breaking waves. Today there were no rich smells of garlic and grilling meat or pungent aromas of chilli and shellfish drifting from the kitchen. The room smelled musty and dead. All the other tables had chairs standing on them. The vases were upside down on the old carved sideboard and somehow the atmosphere was equally inverted.
The Pope sat at the end of the table and spoke in a clear, calm voice. ‘Forgive me, friends, for asking you to come. I realise it’s entirely against what we stand for-namely nothing. We’ve been the club without a cause. We meet just to meet, nothing more. But now we have a friend in great need. My question is simply this, is it appropriate for us to unite, to use our strange and disparate resources to help in these circumstances?’
The members looked around the table, unsure who would respond first. Finally Murray Ingham spoke. ‘I assume you mean Jack Beaumont since he’s the only one not here?’
‘That means nothing, he’s probably on the nest again,’ Maroubra called from the end of the table, but the resultant laughter was uncertain and muted.
The Pope smiled. ‘He may well be, Maroubra, but this time it seems to be a nest of crocodiles our friend has stumbled into. But I stress that he hasn’t asked for our help.’
Murray Ingham peered out from beneath his bushy brows.
‘Why don’t you tell us the story and we’ll see if we like the plot?’
‘I’d like to be able to do that in detail, but part of the deal would have to be that we each agree to do our part without seeing the whole picture. I’d deal with Jack and coordinate things. It’s a big ask, I know, and the prudent response would be for everyone to say no.’
Maroubra’s voice boomed out again. ‘Prudent? Now you’re challenging us, you cunning bastard. Since when has anyone in this group been prudent? There was nothing prudent about that swim a few of us did at Coogee with cartons of beer on our backs-in a ten-foot surf. Remember that? And they had the helicopters out looking for us. Thought we were goners. Remember how I came out of the water and asked some bloke in a uniform what was going on and he said, Some mad buggers have tried to swim out to the rocks with beer on their backs. I just said, You’re joking, and left him to it. Poor bastard’s probably still there looking out to sea.’ Now the laughter was genuine, almost relieved. ‘So don’t give us prudence. Tell us what you can and we’ll make the call.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen.’ The Pope took out a small notebook. ‘These are the facts I’m able to give you at this time.’
He began to read slowly and clearly. When he was finished there was a long silence. Again it was Murray Ingham who responded. ‘It’s an interesting tale, although not one I’d write. It’s got everything but sex, which is extraordinary considering the hero.’
The Judge cut in. ‘There’s considerable potential for serious legal consequences to flow from even the little that’s been said. I, for one, am ready to help-with a proviso that if proceedings are commenced in any way, I may have to withdraw for obvious reasons. I imagine one or two others would have similar potential conflicts.’
Maroubra chipped in, parodying the Judge’s slightly pompous tones. ‘I could state that while my salvage business doesn’t appear to bear directly on the issues at hand, should ethical or legal questions relating to the recovery of sunken boats or used bricks arise unexpectedly, I also may have to pull out. Otherwise I pledge my troth.’
The Pope grinned at him. ‘Thank you, as always. You might be surprised, Maroubra, but there are many reasons we could call on you. Quite a few of the contacts you have in sections of the police force and insurance investigators and so on could be very handy.’ Eyebrows were raised around the table. ‘Yes, it could get very nasty, comrades. We’d be proceeding on the basis that if anyone has a problem at any time, they just let me know. Since we don’t exist, except as individuals, there’s nothing to bind us together.’
‘Except one thing.’ It was the courtroom voice of Tom Smiley that interrupted.
‘Yes. Except one.’ The Pope looked around the table, holding the eyes of each person for a moment. ‘So. We go forward together?’ He opened the notebook again. ‘Here’s how you can help.’