As for Rye, she said her only role in all of this was as the mama-san who supplied escorts. But what was she doing with so much cash? Rye did not elect to give evidence. Her lawyer, a trim South African woman who wore a pearl necklace, began her closing address by saying to the jury: ‘Kia ora.’ She emphasised that Rye was one of us. On the subject of Rye’s texts (Luv ya heaps, etc.) while she was under surveillance at motels in Rotorua and Tauranga: ‘She was obviously very involved with the lives of her whanau and her friends . . . A lot of living and loving was going on.’
What about all that cash? ‘It’s not illegal to have large amounts of money.’ And: ‘Money on its own doesn’t mean anything.’ Also: ‘There are any number of reasons why people keep large amounts of cash.’
The lawyer’s closing statement clocked in at an economical 57 minutes. Then the judge summed up, and the jury was released to consider its verdict. It was Tuesday afternoon.
4
It was just another P trial. But once I sat in, I had to see it through. My editors said that they’d rather I didn’t, but they were indulgent. Yes, they said warily, that sounds like good copy, as I kept them updated by talking up the tension of X’s dangerous charade, how it involved hookers and hard cash and ‘an international drug cartel’ — I probably didn’t mention the $1.50 tinfoil. The days and weeks passed; finally, the jury came back with its verdict at 10.16 on Tuesday night. They had gone out for dinner, at the court’s expense, at the Hyatt. It was a cold night. The lawyers hung around the courtroom. One or two smokers put on their expensive overcoats to step outside. All the bright overhead lights in the High Court were kept on.
The jury was escorted by a registrar back down the leafy English street from the Hyatt to the court, the judge was alerted, the defendants were called up from their cells. The courtroom was unlocked. ‘Silence for Her Honour. All stand.’ Justice Winkelmann took her seat, and asked the foreman of the jury whether it had reached a unanimous verdict. It had. The charges were read out. Nobakht was found guilty. Rye was found not guilty. ‘You are free to go, Ms Rye,’ said the judge, and Rye was all smiles, ready to resume a lot of living and loving, as she stomped out of the courtroom in her Ugg boots without giving Nobakht so much as a backwards glance. He was remanded in custody. The judge said to him, ‘A lengthy term of imprisonment is inevitable.’
He appeared for sentencing a month later. The judge said, ‘I have received a pre-sentence report in respect of you. At the time that the report was written you continued to deny any involvement in the offending, but this morning I have had placed before me a letter from you in which you admit your involvement.’
And then she said, ‘You say, however, that it occurred because of associating with bad people and you assure me that you will never offend again.’
She listed submissions from the prosecution and the defence. Both agreed that there were mitigating factors. Nobakht had no previous offences, ‘and you have family who will be affected by your imprisonment’.
And then she said, ‘I do not take into account your personal circumstances. In cases involving such serious drug offending, such considerations carry little if any weight. Part of the cost of your offending will be carried by your wife and child. That is inevitable and you must accept responsibility for that.’
She said, ‘Mr Nobakht, please stand.’ He stood. She read out his sentence. He got 10 years. And then she said, ‘Stand down, please.’
The sentence was brutish, ugly and long, and that’s the way it goes. All trials are horrible from beginning to end, a meticulous, tormenting re-enactment of alleged wrongs. I had my pick of whatever was happening in the High Court in that spring; I may as well have walked in with a blindfold; it didn’t matter that it was the P trial of Nobakht and Rye. It could just as easily have been someone else’s terror of their guilt being detected or their innocence being overlooked. Secretly I knew that what I was after was ordinary, run-of-the-mill courtroom misery. This is all that so many P trials ever achieved. From the last, sorry part of Nobakht’s evidence to his lawyer:
Mr Nobakht, what do you say is your primary source of income?
I worked in the orchard, and I was trying to expand my business.
Now, do you have anything you wish to say or add in relation to your employment as an apple-picker?
I wanted just simply to show the jury and you that I do work in an orchard and I have got all the equipment here.
When you talk about equipment, Mr Nobakht, what is it that you want to say about that?
Prosecution: Objection. This is a court of law, not an opportunity to give speeches about apple picking. Moving into irrelevance.
Her Honour: It is not relevant.
Defence: As Your Honour pleases.
Two boxes of Pacific Rose apples had been placed under a chair outside Courtroom 7. Nobakht’s wife had brought them up from their orchard in Napier.
