Exposure

Chapter 4

The long weekend passed faster than Emma had expected. She spent most of Saturday at Cal’s house, retrieving sufficient clothes for at least a month and packing them into her car, then tackling dust and cobwebs in the now empty garage. Sunday, she spent with friends, Janet and Luke, partly to discuss the ramifications of Cal’s arrest for CV, and partly because she couldn’t bear the thought of hours alone in the apartment, Jack having offered to help Dugald sort produce at the depot.

Shocked by the charge against his brother – genuinely, Emma believed – Dugald maintained it had to be a mistake, as Ritchie Brothers Markets were in the business of supplying Australian fruit and vegetables to stallholders at each of their six Peninsula venues, rather than dealing in illegal imports. ‘Do you know where he bought the stuff?’ he asked Emma, towards the end of a lengthy call.

‘I have no idea,’ she answered honestly, Cal having made no mention of the boxes’ origins. ‘It’s not as though we needed to stock up, the pantry’s full.’

‘Emma, dear, we’re not talking about supplies for one household. According to our barrister, there was enough in his truck to feed a small village.’

A village of old men, Emma thought, grateful that a dusty wrist-band screen camouflaged her flushed cheeks. ‘Old stock, perhaps, obtained cheaply. You know how much Cal loves a bargain.’

A village of old men,‘Bloody fool probably got talked into it by some shady type he met in a bar. I hope he can identify the bugger.’

Emma sighed. ‘I doubt the vendor would have used a legitimate name.’

‘It won’t go well if Cal knew they were stolen.’

‘No, and I’m not sure pleading ignorance would help, either.’

‘Hang in there, Emma. We’ll get it sorted. Must go, got to pick up the kids from Pamper Point. Sonya’s gone to her usual Monday women’s meeting.’

‘Thanks for the call, Dugald. It helps to have family support.’

‘It’s the least I can do. Shame about the ceremony. I was looking forward to it and a good spread after. I don’t suppose the venue offered a refund?’

‘No, the cancellation came too late for that. ‘Bye, Dugald.’

The screen faded to black, leaving Emma to contemplate whether “women’s meeting” was a euphemism for something more sinister. Mid-afternoon on a Monday seemed an odd time for a social group to meet, when most women worked full-time, and holding the meeting on a public holiday was even more unusual. If only she’d ventured into the CGI file and searched B for Beaumont, Sonya, instead of focusing solely on the task in hand. That was the problem with dividing her life into segments – essential to maintain mental equilibrium and prevent exposure – especially when so much was at stake. Yet tomorrow, work and personal life would overlap, as her colleagues were bound to inquire about Friday’s partnership ceremony.

Beaumont, Sonya* * *

Emma walked briskly from the station, grateful for commuters who were focused on arriving at work promptly following the Christmas and New Year holidays, rather than engaging in conversation. Fronting her colleagues would be embarrassing enough without exchanging greetings on the street. After nodding to the guard at the front entrance, Emma headed straight for the staff lockers to retrieve her uniform, then hurried into the changing room, hoping she could make it to her place on the Front Desk without encountering anyone. But as she hung her street clothes in her locker, the door at the end of the corridor opened.

‘Hi, Emma. I didn’t expect to see you so early,’ Jean remarked, stepping inside. ‘How did it all go?’

‘It didn’t. Cal…’ Emma clutched the locker shelf for support.

Jean rushed forward to wrap her arms around Emma. ‘Don’t tell me he stood you up?’

‘It’s worse than that.’

‘Let’s go outside. There’s no one around at this hour.’ Loosening her hold, Jean guided Emma down the corridor and out into the small courtyard at the rear, where staff sometimes chatted before work or during lunch breaks, taking advantage of the chairs and a table positioned in front of a vertical garden fastened to the next-door building. Both women were aware of surveillance equipment hidden amongst the foliage, so they crossed to the relative safety of the narrow street that led to a busy city thoroughfare.

‘Cal’s not dead,’ Emma said quietly, realising from her friend’s obvious distress that Jean had misinterpreted her response. ‘He’s been arrested.’

Jean leaned closer. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

Emma gave a simplified version of the events leading up to Cal’s arrest, omitting any mention of his farmhouse or Bay-enders Camp. Jean and her flatmate Amy, a TDK at Frankston PCB, were both members of Citizens’ Voice but they didn’t need to know details. ‘He’s appearing before a magistrate this morning,’ Emma concluded. ‘His lawyer is applying for bail.’

‘Is there any chance he’ll get off with a fine?’

‘Not unless we can concoct a reasonable explanation.’

‘Then my advice is to flee the city as soon as he’s released on bail. I can put you in touch with the appropriate people.’

Emma recalled a conversation with two former colleagues who’d dropped out months earlier. ‘Did Ted and Marise speak to you as well?’

‘They made vague mention of a network and I conducted my own enquiries. In the end, Amy and I decided not to proceed. We have other plans.’

‘Early promotion?’

Jean smiled. ‘Two on the second floor should speed up the exposure process.’

‘Don’t you mean three?’

‘So, you won’t be taking my advice?’

Emma shook her head. ‘It’s too soon for camping.’

‘Fair comment.’ Jean glanced at her wrist-band. ‘We’d better get back. Have you thought what you’ll tell the others when they ask about Friday?’

‘The truth.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘It is when the media are sure to report the matter. Cal’s quite well-known in business circles and I don’t want colleagues whispering behind my back. There’s enough talk about my being Tony’s favourite as it is.’

‘I’d be happy to speak to Tony on your behalf.’

‘Thanks, I’d be grateful for that.’

* * *

Tony Buretto, Front Desk Supervisor and renowned womaniser, exuded concern as he strode from his work-station to Emma’s position on the far left, but she wasn’t fooled by his performance. Any moment now, he would be approaching her from behind to place a hand on her shoulder, while suggesting in soothing tones that they adjourn to the staff room. She assumed his caring persona was intended to impress any attractive females standing in the queues of unemployed citizens, rather than his black-clad staff arrayed like birds of prey behind the raised counter.

‘Emma is unwell,’ Tony advised her neighbour, a no-nonsense woman of middle years, as he assisted Emma to her feet. ‘Please merge her queue with yours.’

‘Certainly, Tony,’ Bridget replied, bending forward to speak into her computer. ‘Queue one, join queue two. No jostling for position. All will be attended to in due course.’

Tony’s expression altered to one of irritation. ‘I do wish Bridget would remember she’s dealing with adults, not children,’ he remarked, leading Emma to the door.

Once a primary school teacher, always a primary school teacher, Emma thought but did not say. Keeping her head bowed, she ignored the shuffling of feet and mutterings of annoyance, grateful to Tony for a brief respite from the crowded space.

Once a primary school teacher, always a primary school teacher,‘Coffee?’ Tony asked, the moment they entered the corridor leading to the staffroom.

Emma suppressed a grimace, PCB beverages were appalling! ‘Er, thank you.’

‘I mean a decent brew. You sit yourself down in the staffroom while I fetch coffee from the café around the corner.’

Emma managed a small smile as they parted ways.

Alone in the staffroom, she pondered how to deal with Tony’s inevitable questions. Should she focus on embarrassment over a cancelled ceremony, her failure to secure a decade-younger partner, or denounce Cal’s stupidity? Following Dugald’s call the previous day, Emma had walked along the old coast road to relay his comment about meeting a bloke in a bar to Cal’s barrister, Penelope Watts-Smith. ‘Admitting drink-induced foolishness wouldn’t do Cal’s business reputation any good,’ Penelope had remarked, ‘but it could save him from jail-time. Paying a large fine and suffering the indignity of an enforced stay in a rehabilitation clinic would be a small price to pay for liberty.’

When the staffroom door opened to reveal Tony carrying a cardboard tray containing two coffees and a large slice of cake, Emma was sitting at one of the small tables, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I got you some cake,’ he declared. ‘There’s nothing like a sugar hit when you’re down. Besides, I bet you hardly ate over the weekend.’

‘Thanks, Tony. I did eat at night, my son insisted.’

‘Good for him. Jack, isn’t it?’ Tony slid the tray onto the table, then sat opposite.

‘Yes. He’s a caring son. Good cook, too.’

‘Lucky you.’ Tony took a sip of coffee. ‘Now then, would you like to go home? I realise how difficult it is to be on display with curious colleagues longing for the morning break, so they can ask about your partnership ceremony.’

Emma looked up. ‘I wish all supervisors were caring like you.’

‘I try, Emma, I try. I realise it’s hard enough dealing with the unemployed day in, day out, let alone a demanding or morose supervisor.’

‘AO Barry nearly scared me to death on my first day.’

‘I’m not surprised. He has no idea how to handle staff.’

Reluctant to comment, Emma drank her coffee.

‘Eat up,’ Tony instructed, ‘otherwise I’ll have to risk weight gain.’ He patted his flat stomach. ‘Got to take care at my age, I want to stay in shape.’

‘Very wise.’ Emma took a bite of cake. ‘Delicious.’

‘Good. Right, here’s what I propose.’ He sat back in the seat. ‘At morning break I’ll inform the others about what’s happened. The bare facts, no need for details. I’m not going to ply you with questions either. Jean told me how shocked you are by the whole business. I imagine you haven’t had a chance to speak to your, er, would-be partner?’

Emma shook her head. ‘He was only allowed one call to his lawyer. I’m angry as well as shocked. I can’t believe he could have been so stupid!’

‘He wouldn’t be the first trader to be tempted by a so-called good deal.’

‘You think that’s what happened?’

‘Most likely, plenty of con artists out there. Probably caught him off-guard. Let’s hope the magistrate is lenient, then you can get on with your life together.’

‘I’ll have to figure out how to forgive him first.’

‘You will.’ Tony leaned across the table to pat her arm. ‘You’re a decent woman, Emma Cartwright.’

* * *

A decent woman… The statement echoed in her head as the train headed south, stopping at every station as though determined to make her late for Cal’s court appearance. On the way to the station, she’d texted Penelope her intention to be present, Tony having been correct in his assumption of forgiveness. Yet, behind the mask of diligent employee eager for promotion, she sought evidence of a government’s lies, so she could no longer claim to be a compliant, honest citizen, the dual threads of her current reality were wound tight. How simple life had been before she became entangled with Callum Ritchie, when she could ignore the rumblings of discontent and condone her blinkered existence. Sometimes she wondered what her late partner, Aarav, would have made of her metamorphosis and if he would have joined her in the fight for a return to true democracy. Pointless speculation, she reminded herself, as a bland electronic voice announced they were approaching Frankston Station.

A decent womanPointless speculation,A short walk took her to the Magistrates’ Court, located in a former church – dark-brick exterior, heavy wooden doors, heat hovering in a tiled porch where a priest once stood to greet parishioners. Inside a dim foyer, stained-glass windows admitted strips of coloured light, while over one door, an illuminated sign announced Court in session. Reluctant to enter the court, Emma stood to one side, hoping an official would emerge before too long. She had envisaged a waiting room or a counter where she could ask directions, not an empty space, lacking even the usual screen. Ten minutes remained until Cal’s timeslot; perhaps he and Penelope had chosen to stay outside in her car.

Court in session.Emma was on the point of returning to the porch when light flickered above her head. The sign had altered to read Court in recess. Gathering her courage, she stepped towards the door, expecting a camera click or a voice to demand her ID. Nothing happened, so she ran her hand over the dark-stained timber, seeking an old-fashioned handle like the ones found inside Cal’s home. Her fingers grasped an iron ring; puzzled, she tugged hard.

Court in recess.‘Can I help you?’ a shaky voice asked.

‘Yes, please.’ She turned to face an old man who was shuffling towards her across the uneven stone floor. ‘I can’t seem to open the door.’

‘Gotta twist, then pull.’

‘Am I allowed inside?’

‘Sure. There’s an ID machine on the other side. Cheaper than employing someone, they say.’

‘Are you coming in?’

‘No, I’ve gotta stay here.’

Emma wondered if he’d been asleep in a dark corner. ‘Do you work here?’

‘Sort of. Pensioner community service, they call it.’

‘Right.’ Twist, pull, then the heavy door moved towards her. ‘Thanks for the advice,’ she called, slipping through the narrow opening into a brightly lit, windowless cube. She peered at blank white walls and a low ceiling dotted with spotlights, before turning her attention to the polished concrete floor. Contemporary architecture built within a mid-twentieth century church, like the office and tiny apartment in the centre of Cal’s farmhouse. Concealed from public gaze so no one could question what went on during brief sessions. In front of her was a small screen suspended on thin wires from the ceiling; she lifted her right wrist and waited for the familiar beep.

At first glance, there didn’t appear to be anywhere to sit apart from a large black chair set behind a work-station on a raised semi-circular dais. Then, she noticed a gap in one of the walls that, on inspection, revealed a dimly-lit corridor just wide enough for several citizens to stand one behind the other, waiting for their names to appear on the screen placed at average head height to the right of the doorway. A case of mistaken identity, she thought, the old man had assumed she was a lawyer unfamiliar with the innards of Frankston Magistrates Court. Tucked out of sight, Emma leaned against the wall, trying to calm her nerves through deep breathing.

A case of mistaken identity,the old man had assumed she was a lawyer unfamiliar with the innards of Frankston Magistrates Court.Minutes passed, then she heard someone cross the cube and hesitate for a moment before stepping heavily onto the dais. Centre-stage magistrate, the decision-maker who would determine whether Cal returned to jail or to her arms. She was under no illusion that a fine would be issued today, the legal process was always protracted. More footsteps, the tap-tap of slim heels heading her way.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Penelope whispered through the opening, directing her gaze to the end of the short corridor.

‘I was given the day off. I thought Cal would appreciate the support.’

‘I’m the support. No public allowed in here. You’d better hope he doesn’t call out when he sees you.’ A slight nod and Penelope spun on her heel to retrace her steps.

‘Is there a problem, Ms Watts-Smith?’ a gruff voice asked.

‘No, sir. All in order.’

Emma inched sideways along the wall, grateful for her soft-soled sandals. At the end of the corridor was a closed door with no irksome handle. She heard voices on the other side, one strident, giving an order, the other familiar, answering politely. How could she remain unnoticed when Cal and the police officer entered the narrow passageway?

The door began to open, so she pressed her body hard against the wall, hoping the shift from sunlight to gloom would mask her presence. Heavy work-boots thumped the concrete floor; she held her breath, waiting for a second pair to cross the threshold. Cal advanced quickly, the door closing behind him. Sea-green eyes widened when he noticed her, but, to his credit, he made no sound apart from a slight inhalation of breath. Parted lips mouthed I love you. Emma echoed his greeting. Two lengthy paces and he had departed without a glance at the tiny screen, where his full name pulsed red against a black background. She waited for the cessation of footsteps, then crept closer to the opening and stood with her back against the wall next to the screen.

I love you‘Step forward, Ms Watts-Smith,’ the magistrate directed.

Emma heard small steps followed by a slight cough. ‘I represent Callum Alistair Ritchie who pleads not guilty to the charge of illegally importing foodstuffs into the state of Victoria.’

‘Plea noted.’

‘I request bail for my client on the grounds that, as a citizen of good character and a respected businessman, he poses no flight risk.’

‘There is the question of a previous charge, Ms Watts-Smith.’

‘Dismissed twenty years ago, sir, due to lack of evidence.’

In the silence that followed, Emma envisaged the magistrate mouthing instructions to his computer, so the sound of a fist striking moulded plastic startled her.

‘Can I assist with file retrieval, sir?’ Penelope’s voice rang out.

‘That would be appreciated. Yet again, my screen isn’t responding.’

The magistrate’s voice implied significant age, so perhaps he’d failed to master Compu-eye. Emma relaxed a little.

‘All fixed, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

Emma registered Penelope’s retreat and pondered how long it would be before the magistrate made his decision. The reference to a previous charge had alarmed her, until she recalled the faded scar she had discovered on Cal’s upper right arm months earlier, a tiny ridge of skin beneath her fingers. Jack carried the same mark, evidence of a tracking device implanted prior to his release on bail. It had been removed following the No case to answer verdict, but remained a permanent reminder of harrowing weeks when his future hung in the balance.

No case to answer‘Approach the bench, Callum Ritchie.’

Footsteps, lighter than before, then Emma was straining to hear the magistrate’s voice. Something about an immediate appointment and a police escort, but no mention of bail as far as she could tell. Then, she heard the magistrate dismiss Penelope, heels tapping and the swish of a door opening.