In Sickness, in Health ... and in Jail Read online

  As the afternoon wore on and the search continued, dark and disturbing thoughts began to creep in. Did I really know my husband? Was he living a secret life? Earlier that day, I had thought he was Paddy: homebody, introvert, business owner, father. Sure, he had taken calculated risks to start his own business. But aside from that, Paddy had the most conservative and predictable sensibilities of anyone I’d ever met. It just didn’t add up. And that was precisely when I began to descend into panic. The aforementioned qualities are always cited when neighbours of accused criminals are interviewed on TV. ‘He was a quiet man, a great father,’ they say, before the reporter reveals exclusive details of an underground meth lab or trophies from long-term missing persons.

  ‘I need to go upstairs . . . to get the yellow pages . . .’ I said to Bad Cop, in the hope I could find a solicitor or arrange to see Patrick at the police station. I was also dying to go to the toilet.

  ‘I need to accompany you at all times,’ Bad Cop said and so I held off going to the bathroom.

  Once upstairs, I was outraged at the state of our bedroom. Clothes were spilling out of drawers. Stationery was strewn all over the desk, and books and magazines lay in various states of abandon. It looked like someone had given it a really good going-over. Only, the police hadn’t been in there yet. This was the way we left our bedroom most mornings since we had children.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a negligee. Although it was partially camouflaged by the abundance of other clothing that hung from the end of our bed, I was mortified. Under the guise of making the bed, I slipped it under the quilt.

  But Bad Cop saw me. ‘And what do we have here?’ he said, whipping back the quilt to reveal a black gossamer-thin slip. The swirled lace on the bustier seemed to stare up at us with bulging eyes. Bad Cop blushed.

  I called the police station. I called my sister-in-law, Cathy—a former legal costings consultant. My phone calls didn’t clarify anything. The police weren’t able to disclose the nature of the charges because a search was being conducted, and I was informed that Patrick had sent away the lawyer his sister had arranged for him to see.

  Nothing about the events of the day made any sense. It all felt like a hoax. And the mood of what was turning out to be the single worst day of my life was not sombre. It was farcical. No more so than when a group of teenagers in a passing car slowed to a stop and shouted, ‘Here, Piggy, Piggy, Piggy!’

  It was dark when the policemen left, and I fell onto the couch in a stupor. A loud knock followed.

  ‘Have you seen any sunglasses?’ Good Cop asked when I answered the door.

  ‘Is this some sort of code? Are you trying to tell me something?’

  ‘Yes, that I’ve lost my sunglasses. Can I come in?’ he asked.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To look for them.’

  ‘Um, okay.’ After a quick search, he left me with his card so I could contact him if I found them.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Nick asked later that night, snuggled in our bed. I went to great lengths to explain that he was still helping the police with their investigation.

  ‘What time are we going to the beach?’ he asked, and I smiled at the non sequitur, explaining that our relaxing beach holiday would have to wait.

  ‘Is it because of paperwork?’ he then asked. At five, Nick was a delightful blend of innocence and insight. Like me, he still thought this situation was a simple misunderstanding.

  ‘I think so. Tomorrow I’ll meet Dad at court and we can explain it all to the judge—’

  ‘“Tell it to the judge, Pinky,”’ Lexie said, quoting a line from their favourite show, SpongeBob SquarePants, which, coincidentally, referred to a pink starfish named Patrick.

  ‘It’s not funny, Lexie,’ Nick said.

  ‘“Tell it to the judge, tell it to the judge.”’ At two and a half, Lexie had no idea what was going on.

  ‘She’s only little,’ I reminded him.

  ‘What will the judge do if Dad didn’t do the right paperwork?’ Nick asked, concerned. The kids were both familiar with this term and they played a game that involved scribbling on paper and passing it back and forth.

  ‘“Tell it to the judge, tell it to the judge”.’

  ‘Lexie!’ yelled Nick.

  ‘I don’t know, it’s probably just a mistake. But whatever happens, we’ll work it out,’ I said, stroking Nick’s beautiful little face.

  He smiled and began chanting with Lexie. I knew if there was one thing I could count on, it was our kids’ fervent love of chanting. I couldn’t allow myself to think about what might happen in court the following day. I had to hold it together. So, to lighten the mood, I joined them: ‘“Tell it to the judge, tell it to the judge”.’

  When the kids had finally settled down and drifted off to sleep in our bed, I lay there thinking what has he done?

  TWO

  The next morning, as I waited outside the local courthouse in Western Sydney, I smoked half a packet of passive cigarettes, courtesy of one heavily pregnant woman and several tattooed men (one with a mohawk and two missing teeth).

  ‘Do you know what time the courthouse opens?’ I asked a woman on the periphery of the motley crew.

  ‘You a lawyer?’ she asked accusingly.

  ‘No, no . . . my husband was . . . is . . . locked up,’ I found myself whispering conspiratorially, and her demeanour softened.

  ‘Nine, but they don’t start until nine-thirty.’

  ‘First time?’ asked an older man in a shiny polyester suit and white sneakers.

  I nodded.

  ‘Thought so, you look like a dove in shit. First time’s the hardest. Here, have one of these,’ he said warmly, proffering a cigarette.

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ I said. And if I sounded judgemental, it wasn’t because I was a stranger to chain-smoking, tattooed hooligans. I’d grown up in a neighbourhood in the Hunter Valley filled with them. All my life choices had been so careful and considered because I was determined not to end up in that sort of environment. And yet there I was, outside the courthouse, with just about the roughest looking group of people you could imagine.

  ‘I don’t smoke . . . anymore, but thank you,’ I added, forcing a smile.

  When the courthouse opened, I joined the long queue that led to the airport-style security checkpoint.

  ‘Place all your personal items, including the contents of your pockets, in a clear plastic box,’ the guard repeated to each person, as though his voice were looped. And as the items moved along the conveyor belt, each person walked one by one through the doorframe-shaped metal detector, before a hand-held wand was waved over them.

  Up until this point, I had responded to everything the way I usually do. I’d internalised it all, burying it deep down inside me. And every time a thought bubbled to the surface, I would squash it back down. Over the years I’d worked hard on denial. Prided myself on my ability to stay in control. To keep it together. But standing there it was increasingly hard to deny the truth. I was thirty-eight years old. I had left my job to care for our two children. And my husband was locked up.

  Inside the courthouse, denial was the order of the day. Many people were dressed in tracksuits, cut-off T-shirts or leggings. Surprisingly, most of them were wearing bright, expensive sneakers. From the ankles down (with the exception of a few people who were not wearing any shoes), it looked like a commercial for Foot Locker. I’d have thought that if you had to go to court, either to defend yourself or to show your support for someone you care about, you might want to rethink the anarchy singlet or try to conceal the bare-breasted lady tattoo. I had spent the best part of the morning trying to find an outfit that looked conservative enough and I was beginning to feel overdressed.

  The corridor of the local courthouse is L-shaped, acting as both a meeting place and an entrance for each courtroom. Dilapidated chairs lined the corridor. I slumped into one of them opposite a small reception area. A large woman approached.

  ‘Are you in danger
? Do you have an AVO or DVO out against anyone?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said, unconvincingly. She looked dubious but went away. Several minutes later, another large woman appeared. ‘Do you have any concerns for your safety?’ she asked.

  I imagined for a moment how nice it would feel to be comforted by her voluminous flesh. ‘No, I’m fine,’ I said, rising to find a seat at the other end of the corridor.

  At twenty past nine, a smattering of suited individuals emerged through the sea of leisurewear. Some of them had manila folders, and others, for reasons that escaped me, were pulling wheeled suitcases. The youngest of the group peeled off and headed straight for me. He had honey-coloured hair, a designer suit (extra-fancy with exposed stitching on the lapels) and pointed black shoes that were so shiny they looked like polished stone. He oozed charisma. This was Patrick’s junior solicitor, Mark, the only available lawyer I had been able to find on the phone that morning at short notice.

  I greeted him with a series of rapid-fire questions. He placed his hand on my shoulder, told me to relax.

  ‘Your husband is not going to prison. Not for something like this,’ he said and gave me a winning smile. ‘We have a barrister who’s very experienced in bail applications who’ll be here a little later, so let’s all calm down and find a meeting room and then we can talk.’

  There was only one meeting room available. It was tiny, and furnished with a single chair and a collapsible graffiti-covered school desk. At his insistence I took the chair but after a few minutes we both realised it was not really working out. He was trying to take notes and my head was level with his crotch. So we switched. Mark could take notes with greater ease but his head was now level with my chest, and on the desk separating us there was a very large black-permanent-marker drawing of a penis.

  ‘Does your husband have a criminal record?’ Mark asked.

  I was distracted by the drawing. It was so out of place in a room designed for lawyers to meet with clients. ‘No, nothing . . . a parking ticket.’ I remembered this because, despite my own numerous traffic infringements, I had yelled at Patrick for not being more careful.

  Mark asked about our relationship, and I explained that there had been the requisite conflicts about raising children and finances but assured him that we have a good marriage.

  ‘Do you own your own home?’

  ‘No.’

  He looked worried. ‘So you’re renting?’

  ‘No, we haven’t paid off our house yet.’

  ‘So you have a mortgage?’

  I nodded.

  ‘This is good . . . this is good.’

  Mark asked more questions about our children and where we lived and our occupations and I told him everything I could think of. Then it was my turn to ask the questions about the charges. Mark began with the good news. My fears of him being a drug baron or a serial killer were way off the mark. The bad news was that Patrick had been charged with a number of offences: possession of a slingshot, two crossbows (one assembled, one unassembled), one unregistered rifle, and three metallic objects that look like miniature crossbows. The truth hit me like a sharp, stinging slap. I felt bewildered. I felt confused.

  ‘Are you sitting down?’ Mark quipped, given there was no chair for me to sit on. He went on to explain that possession was not the only aspect of the charges. Patrick sold, or, in the case of the unregistered rifle, agreed to sell (which under state law is the same thing), the items to an undercover police officer.

  I had no idea what to say, what to think. I was frozen, except for my hand which fell onto the desk for support, landing right next to the words ‘This is fucked’, which had been carved into the surface. I couldn’t have put it better myself.

  Midmorning, Susan, the barrister, arrived. Her raven-coloured hair was slicked back into a ponytail and her manner was alarmingly brusque. Unlike Mark, Susan’s responses to my questions were measured. Without an in-depth study of the laws pertaining to the case, she could not and would not give me any definite answers. ‘What I can do now is my very best to get him out on bail. Mounting a case while someone is in custody can be a very difficult and costly exercise.’

  Susan instructed me to secure seats in the courtroom, along with Patrick’s six siblings and various in-laws who had arrived to show their support, while she went downstairs to meet with Patrick.

  In the courtroom another matter, involving a boy hitting his stepfather in the cranium with a broken bottle, was underway. As the magistrate discussed the feasibility of future cohabitation, two guards escorted Patrick into the courtroom. They motioned for him to sit in the dock, a small area surrounded by bulletproof glass.

  I’d been with Patrick for so many years, I assumed I’d already seen him in every possible light. I’d seen him tongue-tied and nervous when he first asked me out. I’d experienced his raw vulnerability when he asked me to marry him. I had seen the way he held our newborn children, with such tenderness my heart ached. I had shared his sense of loss when he was retrenched. I’d seen him naked. I had seen him sick. I’d seen him on the toilet. And once, while holidaying in Vietnam, I had seen a combination of all three. But I had never seen him like this. Dressed in yesterday’s work clothes. Unkempt. Unshaven. Handcuffed. Completely and utterly demoralised.

  After the broken-bottle-to-the-cranium matter, the magistrate asked Patrick to stand as his charges were read out.

  The prosecution opposed bail and my heart sank. I began to panic about how I was going to look after the kids, and run an importing business when multiplying single digits without a calculator presents a challenge for me.

  But I needn’t have worried. Susan was incredible, both her presence and rhetoric. For the sake of brevity I will not include the transcript, but her argument was as follows: Her client is thirty-six years old with an unblemished record. He is aware of both the seriousness and the magnitude of the charges brought before the court but does not pose a flight risk or danger to the community for the following reasons: he is a homeowner with a successful and legitimate business specialising in furniture, camping and archery, a sport recognised in the Olympic Games. Her client has been happily married for fourteen years (after the previous twenty-four hours I felt the compulsion to object but managed to restrain myself), and has two children aged five and two, about to start primary school and preschool respectively. And he is deeply entrenched in the community, both through his large family, who are present for the proceedings, and through his patronage of a large number of charities.

  After a brief deliberation, the magistrate granted Patrick bail and explained that he was to report to Penrith Police Station three times a week.

  Patrick’s handcuffs were removed and he was released from custody. I was flooded with relief. I exhaled so deeply, it felt like I had been holding my breath the whole time, afraid that our life—our simple, ordinary life—would be torn apart.

  But he was out. He was free. In the corridor, I hugged him urgently, unable to believe that I could now talk to him and touch him. And as quickly as the relief had arrived, it was replaced by such an acute spasm of anger I wanted to hit him. Why? Why? Why did he do this? What was he thinking?

  Patrick walked to the reception counter at the far end of the courthouse in order to sign the bail paperwork. I didn’t accompany him. I needed some breathing space. Some time to process what had happened. So I lingered in the corridor, wrestling with the relief and the fury.

  ‘Are you in any danger?’ a welfare woman asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  But when we get home, my husband will be.

  THREE

  ‘So, how are you?’ Steph asked, pen poised. She was the psychologist I had started seeing the year before, when a dark cloud of depression had lingered a little too long. I’d always been able to manage my bouts of melancholy until I had children.

  ‘Not so great, actually . . . my husband got arrested.’ I watched as Steph, normally the epitome of professionalism, physically recoiled.


  In the short time since the arrest, I had experienced a myriad of reactions. Patrick’s best mate Simon had laughed hysterically before saying, ‘You’re shitting me right?’ And Nick’s kindergarten teacher fell into a tiny classroom chair, reeling from shock.

  ‘Okay,’ Steph said, drawing it out. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was just an ordinary day . . .’ I began. I’d read somewhere that it is common for people to begin their account of a trauma that way. It’s not that what came before was so ordinary, it’s that what followed was so unexpected and so extraordinary that I was grappling for a way to distinguish between the before and the after.

  I went through the whole police raid, courthouse shebang, and Steph took notes. Unlike the hairy-upper-lipped, orthopaedic-shod variety of psychologist I’d seen in the past, Steph was decidedly stylish. She wore figure-hugging dresses and stiletto heels, and a lot of expensive jewellery. Sometimes her impeccable appearance accentuated the tangled mess that was my life.

  ‘And how are you?’ Steph asked in her penetrating, unnerving way.

  ‘I’m okay, still shell-shocked . . . I know it probably sounds clichéd but I just never thought . . . I didn’t think that’s who he was.’

  ‘Who did you think he was?’ Steph asked, smoothing the bottom of her charcoal dress.

  ‘Someone who doesn’t sell crossbows to undercover police officers,’ I said, imagining Steph’s perfect, professional, husband.

  She looked up and off to one side, as if trying to recall what I had previously told her about my husband of fourteen years. ‘Tell me about . . . Patrick.’

  ‘Apparently, we look alike. When we got married, friends joked that we only took up one side of the church.’

  Steph laughed. I liked that she got me. Other psychologists I had seen acted like their sense of humour had been extracted at graduation.

  ‘So, you look alike. Are you the same in other ways?’ Steph straightened her long legs, crossing them at the ankles.