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    Matter of Guilt: Shortz!Series
    Matter of Guilt: Shortz!Series
    Matter of Guilt: Shortz!Series
    Ebook100 pages1 hour

    Matter of Guilt: Shortz!Series

    By DAVID PHILLIPS

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    About this ebook

    A lawyer takes on the task of defending a man who is plainly guilty of the murder charge.The boss of the defendant's gang appears during the trial process to taunt and haunt him as he works to limit the damage to his client and, at the same time, plots revenge for crimes and sufferings of the past. He finds himself caught in the conflicts of the past while he deals with the urgencies of the present. The lawyer wonders: Could I be capable of murder?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavidRPhillips
    Release dateFeb 18, 2017
    ISBN9781540123114
    Matter of Guilt: Shortz!Series
    Author

    DAVID PHILLIPS

    David Phillips, FCPA (ret.) is in his mid-seventies and lives just out of Melbourne, Australia. He began writing in his early seventies and found an enjoyment in putting ideas together with research to come up with stories, often linked to historical events of interest. He finds writing a labour of love and spends time at the keyboard every day.

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      Book preview

      Matter of Guilt - DAVID PHILLIPS

      ONE

      NOW

      ––––––––

      My name is Martin Bluthal. I am a lawyer and, well, I have to say it, I am successful. This does not mean that I consider myself a good lawyer, just a success in the way that people generally assess others.

      I am not all that comfortable in the role of upholder of justice and as a man embroiled in the fight for the rights of others. In fact, I am not all that comfortable in my life as it is and as it has unfolded to this time. I know that, inside me, lurks a latent murderer and it disturbs me during the days and interrupts me during the nights and it will not go away.

      I handle cases on behalf of the accused, most of whom have been as guilty as sin but have been wise enough to appear with the advantage of a cast-iron alibi or a masterful series of confusing pieces of information relative to the events of the day on which they have been accused of a mighty malfeasance. My role has been to confuse juries, to confound the facts of the prosecution, to plead for the first elements of justice to prevail, to demolish or diminish evidence and assist the court to free my clients on lack of substantive evidence. The generosity of wealthy men when relieved of the stress of a period of their lives as a guest of the realm can be, at times, surprising.

      My life and my career were somewhat satisfying and fiscally rewarding until the day that I was approached to defend Harold 'The Trigger' Waterson. He was accused of murdering two drug couriers who, it was supposed, had double-crossed his boss Sy Cellnik, a man who had avoided prosecution on the basis that he was seen by several people in Brisbane at the precise time that the hit was made. The cops knew that he had ordered the killings. They just could not tie enough pieces together to convince the prosecutors to lay charges against him and had to be content with ‘Trigger’.

      At the inquest, Sylvester Cellnik had been called. I saw that he was the same cocky, smirking SOB that he had been the day I first set eyes on him when he was twenty-two years old and I was seven. He was older, fatter, greyer but he was the same man all right.

      The prosecution was after Waterson. I wanted Cellnik.

      ***

      It certainly was of little assistance to me in preparing the defence case when Waterson blurted out to me, as he puffed out his chest, the idiot:

      ' Ha! 'Course I dunnit. Put those two down real smart just like Sy tol' me to. You should've heard 'em squealin' fer mercy after bein' so damn cocky before they knew that I was gonna do 'em. Stupid bastards. Think Sy was gonna let 'em cheat on him? Not bloody likely.'

      ' Look, Harold, I must caution you. Please don't talk like that if you want me to try to get you a sentence that will see you out of prison one day. Don't talk like that on the inside or to me or to anybody or you'll be in the can for life.'

      ' Oh, shit, sorry. I thought I could tell you all about it and it wouldn't matter.'

      ' Well, it doesn't help me to be the outraged defender of justice on your behalf. From now on, keep it shut, all right.'

      ' Okay. Got it.'

      ' Now, where were you when these two murders took place?'

      ' I just told.. Oh! Yeah. I was at the movies with my girl, Frieda.'

      ' What was the movie that night?'

      ' I forget.'

      ' No. You don't forget.'

      ' I do. I bloody forget.'

      ' Well, get it through your dumb head. You told the police it was Mad Max Two.'

      ' Oh. Yeah. Mad Max Two.'

      We went on for two hours, over and over. I wanted an idea of whether he could be prepped to say the right things and I was well and truly concerned after this session. Harold's brain could only hold so much at once.

      He was in great danger. Sy Cellnik would know this and could not afford for him to take the stand if he could not keep his trap shut. He could drop Sy in the shit in no time at all.

      I needed the forces of good to find ways to keep 'Trigger' alive.

      ***

      THEN

      ––––––––

      You found out about people and events in a few different ways. Old newspapers in the local library and old-timers who knew all the folk-lore, knew where all the bodies were buried. My best source was Charlie Martins, an old codger who knew all the local history and was happy to sit and recall it all for hours on end whenever he had an audience. As a kid, I was one of those who dwelt on every word. Because of old Charlie, I came to know a fair bit about Sy Cellnick. I can hear him in my mind even now, so many years later.

      ‘Yes’, he’d begin, ‘Sy went to school in Port Melbourne and grew up there. He was christened Sylvester after a great-uncle but by the time he was off the teat he was just called Sy. Port had everything a young fellow would want. It had beaches and milk bars and pubs and SP bookies and prostitutes and a bunch of bad-ass members of the Painters and Dockers Union. It had a footy team that always seemed to be doing well and that usually took care of Sunday afternoon. His old man was a member of the wharfie’s union, as were a lot of his mates, and Sy soon got the flavour of his conversation from the Sunday morning piss-ups in his dad's garage or at the home of one of the mates.’

      ‘He mixed in with all the elements as he grew into the culture of the area. It did not take long for him to adopt the lore of the land: If you need something and can't afford it, then bloody nick it. If you're not crash-hot at football, then you'd better find another way to make a quid.'

      ‘The local cops had to tread a fine line. They all had mates amongst the union blokes and didn't want to rock the boat too much, so they would turn a blind eye to minor malfeasances in the interests of peace and the good neighbour policy. This enabled Sy to keep a clean record until he was eighteen, as the cops put his stealing and rough-house ways down to exuberant youth and the fact that his old man was a good mate of the blokes at the local station.’

      ‘In the end, because he had got away with stuff for so long, he got a bit big-headed and went a bit too far and they just had to take him in. He had smashed the window of a local menswear store, broken open the till, taken all the cash along with a heap of marked and tagged clothing which he just took home and stashed under his bed. The police came with a few questions and found the stuff. The shop owner easily identified the goods. At this stage of his developing career he just hadn't managed to

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