From: Inside Queensland, March, 1998
ROCKHAMPTON, population 65,000, the unauthorised capital of central Queensland, 650 kilometres north of the state capital Brisbane, sits only a matter of metres north of the Tropic of Capricorn. The city almost escaped being in the tropics. A few kilometres south and it would have. But such was not to be. Climatically Rockhampton is firmly within what geographers call "the torrid zone" and over the years it has managed to get itself a reputation as a torridly tropical city - a reputation that even really tropical cities a thousand miles nearer the equator don't have - and would not want.
The three S's - "sin, sweat and sorrow" are what Anthony Trollope says best describe the place. The famous writer was also responsible for passing into legend the story about the Rockhamptonite who died and went to Hell. The first night he was there, Trollope asserted, he was yelling for blankets.
"Rocky" is known the length and breadth of the Australian continent for two things - one , the statues of bulls (some rudely emasculated by wags or puritans), that line its arterial streets, and the other, the power of its summer heat.
It is not just that the city sits all but astride the tropic. It also sits on the spot where the early settlers could ford the river barring their access to the lands that lay to the north. The city grew up on the river at the point where it could be most easily crossed. The problem, climatically, has been that this point is about 40 kilometres from the coast. And just to ensure complete failure for any sneaky sea breeze that might attempt the trip, Rocky sits tucked in behind the perfect windbreak - the Berserkers - the Berserker Range. When the sun beats down on Rocky, there is nowhere to hide. The city bakes.
Tuesday, December 2, 1997 is a baking day. The second day of summer and first day of committal proceedings in the local magistrates court into matters alleged against a local man. Multiple charges of indecent dealing with boys. Numerous charges of indecent dealing with girls. Rape. Attempted rape. Assault. Assault occasioning bodily harm. Carnal knowledge against the order of nature. And so on. Seventy charges in all.
The magistrates court's front doors once opened on to the mall that used to be East Street. But renovations are in full swing to create a new court complex for Rockhampton. A temporary entrance has been created down the side of the old building next to where the new one will be one day. A wall of silver metal sheeting has been erected along most of the boundary line between the old court and the construction site next door - but not along all of the boundary line. Just where it is needed most, the wall was forgotten.
Instead, a sumo-sized Kato swivelling crane is parked hard against the lattice walls of the covered public space outside Courtroom 2. This is the place where visitors and lawyers and offenders gather to organise themselves for the day's proceedings. Heavy diesel fumes and the powerful roar of the crane's big engine pass unhindered through the latticework walls to mingle with the next-door neighbours - the visitors, lawyers and offenders attend-ing Rockhampton's magistrates courts. No fear of conversations being eavesdropped here today. Diesel fume asphyxiation may be a problem - but secrets in this place will be absolutely safe. At times a shout would likely not be heard.
Apart from the roar of the crane, electric saws saw and grinders grind. Heavy planks thump where they are dropped. Hammers thud on timber and clang on pipes. There are shouts from time to time and regular smashing noises as the flotsam and jetsam of construction, propelled off the third-floor level of the new court complex, arrive in the waste bin positioned on the ground below.
The hard planks of the benches that line the lattice walls of the public enclosure are half-filled with the morning's parade of Rockhampton's overnight problems - all awaiting their turn in Courtroom One. Some display handcuffs on wrists clasped beneath bowed heads. Thongs and bare feet, dark skins and light, young and old. Legal Aid and duty solicitors hurry from client to client and to and fro. The scene is probably being replayed in a hundred courthouses across the country. It is just another day. Or is it?
Courtroom Two is shut. As 10 o'clock approaches the media arrive. They have notebooks and know each other and are the only ones talking freely. They check the court lists and note the case mentioned for Courtroom 2. One fresh-faced young man has WIN embroidered on his shirt and another young man in tow to lug his TV camera. Two also-young women, un-embroidered, clutch shorthand books.
The door to Courtroom 2 swings open. A large young policeman sporting a belt any draught horse would be proud to wear as a girth, and adorned with pouches of all shapes and sizes, emerges. He dangles a couple of sheets of paper at a respectable distance in front of him. A very large spider is clinging to the leading edge of the leading sheet. The spider goes into the bin. Spider stories then engage the policeman, a colleague (with an equally impressive belt and array of pouches) and the media for the next hour and a half.
From time to time the police prosecutor appears in the lattice space for a cigarette. He too is young. His uniform is crisp and pressed, his hair close-cropped. His neatness seems out of place - a contrast to most other occupants here. Except for one thing. Everyone smokes. Offenders and their supporters, the media, lawyers, police. The prosecutor. There is tension here. For whatever reason, everybody today is having his day, or maybe, another day, in court. Nervous energy is running free and a cigarette the only available antidote.
There is another who also looks out of place. Young, again, and slight - not a gram, let alone a kilogram, of extra weight - sandy hair to the shoulders, and tanned. You can tell because there are no sleeves to conceal bronzed arms and shoulders. A triathlete perhaps? As others lounge and loll about, this slender figure seems to have much to do. Black shoes, black stockings, black business dress and scarf. Plain but very stylish. Unlike her outfit the wearer is more than a little busy. In this door, out that one, a few words here, a few there, off again, back again, gone again. She must surely be lost - such is her incongruity in these surroundings. A rose among the thorns. Probably works for a stockbroker - if they have them in Rockhampton.
Above the grubby paved floor of the lattice space the skylights in the ceiling are doing an excellent job. Light from the now late-morning blazing Rockhampton sun glares in providing more than adequate illumination for the Legal Aid lawyers as they consult their now-thinning collection of clients and fill in appropriate forms. On the back of the light, the heat surges through the skylights. A few metres away the Kato crane roars up to full- throttle, swivels a load of something up to the top floor of the skeleton taking shape next door, sighs back to idling speed, and roars into life again. And again. And again.
By now all the spider stories have been told. The two policemen with their pistols, handcuffs, pocket knives, torches, and whatever else they carry in their armoury of pouches, have gone. The media have by now sought space on the hard wooden benches and the early vigour of their conversation has dulled. They seem resigned to a long wait. And the heat marches on. The weatherman is going for 38 degrees.
The prosecutor appears for another cigarette and the WIN reporter asks a question on behalf of those still remaining.
"They're on their way", the prosecutor replies.
The minutes tick by. At last a tall man in a dark suit, a short man in a lighter suit, a tall woman (young again) and a man in mid-blue trousers, blue figured shirt with sleeves rolled down and a pale blue tie that was all the rage in the '50s appear and head straight on in to Courtroom Two. The media follow.
Inside it is cooler, thankfully, and somehow the heavy doors and the vertical blinds over the windows keep the noise of the crane and the builders at bay. The room is just big enough for the magistrate's bench, a bench for the court staff and recording gear, a bench for the prosecutor and defence team, a witness box, a small dock and seats for maybe a dozen members of the public.
The furniture occupies the room - but hardly inspires a sense of awe. There is no crest behind the magistrate's chair. No lion, nor unicorn, nor "Dieu et mon droit" in sight. The walls are bare. No symbols. No flag. And no solid oak here. Fake maple perhaps. Chipboard laminated and spotted with the dark brown plastic blobs that hide the screws that hold it all together. A microphone for each of the actors. A screen behind the magistrate's chair and two screens next to the witness stand.
Of such is the face of justice, Rock-hampton, Queensland, 1997.
All rise as the magistrate arrives. Quite a young man (as would now be expected) in a black gown. Softly spoken, he begins proceedings.
The prosecutor announces his name as does the recently arrived man in the dark suit who represents the defendant. He apologises for being late.
The magistrate inquires if the prosecution intends amending charges 10 to 18. Papers and folders are flicked through and ruffled as prosecution and defence search out the relevant documents.
"April the thirty-first is not a date known to law, Sergeant," His Worship advises the prosecutor.
More flicking and ruffling.
Sorry, the prosecutor says, the date should be April 30. The defence does not object. Exhibits are then called and the busy young woman in the black business dress carries each forward in turn for the magistrate to stamp and number.
Statements, documents, sketch plans drawn by witnesses, aerial photographs, photograph albums, newspaper cuttings, 40 exhibits in all.
The prosecutor calls his first witness. The busy young woman in black. A constable in the Queensland Police Service.
She explains the detail of her investigation and identifies the man with the pale blue tie as the subject of the inquiries she has conducted. No further questions, Your Worship. The barrister then has some straightforward questions on the detail of her investigations, and that done she is stood down.
The prosecutor next advises His Worship that he had expected proceedings to this point to have taken a good deal longer and indicates it will take five or 10 minutes to get his first witness to the court. Exercising caution, His Worship adjourns for 10.
Some of those involved venture out into the heat and the fumes. The media stay put. They had two hours of that earlier in the day.
Then the door opens and the prosecutor returns.
"This court is now closed," he advises all and sundry.
No submissions, no application, just a simple statement. The media file out and vanish. The door to Courtroom Two closes. What is to happen inside that room over the next two days is only for those in the room to know.
Witnesses arrive one by one, men first. All are obviously tense and stressed, apparently dreading what lies ahead. Nerves have clearly taken hold of the pits of their stomachs. After 30 or 40 years they are about to relive some of the experiences of their childhoods. Once inside that door they will be interrogated on what happened to them in the minutest detail. Their faces, some pale, some drawn, some furrowed, tell they are already suffering what they are about to encounter.
The door closes. Whatever it is has begun.
Outside the lattice space is deserted save for its sad noticeboard and even sadder notices (which may not have had a real reader in years), a Coke machine and two rubbish bins with plastic liners spilling out from under battered lids. For most, the business of the day is over. But not in Courtroom Two.
Minutes dawdle by. The mercury and the carpenters press on. At last the sumo crane falls silent. Construction workers must eat. The court too adjourns for lunch.
Outside, the fumes have gone - but the sun, glaring relentlessly down on the city, has not. The weatherman has done it again. Spot on - 38.
At 2.15pm the hearing resumes. Justice Department staff usher the next witness through the lattice space, and the doors of Courtroom Two swing shut again. The second witness, tall, well-built, jeans, figured shirt, sneakers, is also very tense.
Next door the crane roars back into life spreading its fumes and noise through the latticework again. An hour later the doors open, the witness is chaperoned away, some of the actors file out for a few minutes break and a quick puff and another witness is ushered in. This time another man, slight frame, heavy beard, longish hair, dark trousers and shoes, white tee-shirt. The doors close for another hour.
When he reappears the court is adjourned for the day.
For the rest the tension remains. They will have yet another night to relive their memories. So what is new. They have lived those memories every day of their lives. This time there is one saving grace. At least they have company. There are others here who know - and they all gain strength aware that someone understands, that someone believes. Even if it is only one of them. Tomorrow will be the women's day. It is clear the men are going first.
Wednesday December 3, 1997, arrives. Outside Courtroom Two there is a repeat of the day before. The line-up of offenders, the lawyers, the policemen, downcast eyes, some handcuffs, the media, the unrelenting heat, the crane and the fumes. A woman, pale as death, has her wrist in a sling. She offers comfort and support to her partner. Drug charges, the media advise. Heroin and cocaine.
This time there are no delays. One by one the witnesses appear. A youngish looking man, fair-skinned, cropped hair, shirt, trousers, shoes, tattoos. Like yesterday one could cut the tension with a knife. Each new witness grimly disappears through the door to reappear about an hour later.
A sun-tanned man, slightly built, baseball cap, heavy dark glasses, blue trousers, dark-coloured shirt is ushered in. A tiny older woman is by his side. His mother possibly. Her face is streaked by tears.
When he reappears it is clear he is distressed. The Justice Department staff lead the way to the witness room at the end of the corridor. A Victims of Crime volunteer, smartly dressed and motherly, offers comfort and support. The scene is repeated again and again. Just the names and faces change.
Finally it is the women's turn. A striking figure, tall with long hair and pearls standing out against a black business dress, black stockings, black shoes, demands attention. She is clearly tense and on the edge of her nerves.
Finally the time has come. She follows the slight figure of the police investigator into the court.
The interrogation begins.
Outside a policeman in plain clothes, Justice Department officers and the lady from Victims of Crime hover around. Sometimes in the witness room, sometimes on the mobile phone. Aware but unaware of what is happening inside the walls of Courtroom Two.
After an hour, the woman in black suddenly appears through a side door. She is very angry and upset. The police investigator is by her side. The Victims of Crime lady and the Justice Department woman rush down the corridor. She sits by the Coke machine, her voice raised above the noise next-door. He's only doing his job, she is told. She is not the one on trial here, she says.
The prosecutor appears. There is to be a short adjournment. The strain on the woman's face is stark. She has clearly had more than enough of whatever is going on inside. The other women offer comforting words and little by little composure returns. Just in time. The adjournment is up. The hearing is about to resume. Prosecutor, barrister, solicitor and defendant head back into court. The woman in black stands and follows them in. Behind her the police investigator closes the door. The committal hearing of a man for alleged crimes against the woman, as a child, amongst others, resumes. Outside the crane roars on. And the sun beats down. As if nothing had happened.
At 1.30pm it is over. The court adjourns until 2.30 pm. Her evidence for the time being is behind her. Of course, this is only a committal. A trial may be yet to come.
A woman in a smart light-blue tailored skirt and white long-sleeved blouse is next. She too demands attention. Tense and trying to be calm but betrayed by nerves.
The man against whom she will testify returns from lunch and there he is, standing just over there. Confronted, there is recognition. Words pass to a friend.
She is whisked away to a witness room and a few minutes later begins her walk down the short corridor to Courtroom Two. It is time to tell her story. An hour later she is back in the witness room. It is done.
But indeed it is not. There is a need to examine more witnesses and the hearing is adjourned for almost four months.
One by one the actors file out. The police investigator is still busy. The defence team collects its files and cases, and leaves. The prosecutor adjusts his broad-brimmed hat to protect his two-blade scalp from the ravages of the sun, and leaves through the opposite doorway.
A friend gives the woman in the light-blue skirt a hug. There are tears close to the surface - too close. She retreats to the witness room and to the women from Victims of Crime and Department of Justice. They vanish through a side door. Everyone has gone.
The lattice space is empty.
Except for the fumes from the sumo crane.
Maybe if there is to be a trial the new courthouse will be ready.
On 30 March. 1998, a Rockhampton man was committed to stand trial on 69 counts.
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