‘Do you have any idea why they did that to you?’
‘Oh, indeed I do. The next week, I was at court, in chambers, when I received an email with the photos attached and a simple statement: You know what to do. Well, I did know what to do, and that was refuse to cave in to a blatant blackmail threat. I showed the photos to my fellow judges.’ Justice O’Toole issues forth another low chuckle. ‘There were some interesting reactions. The photos, you understand, have me dressed in fishnets and a suspender belt, but I don’t look to be under duress. Rather, I’m laughing at the camera, looking as if I’m enjoying myself. Some of my colleagues were mortified, a few were intrigued. I think a couple were impressed. At least one fancies a bit of cross-dressing himself and thought he’d found a fellow traveller. But they were absolutely united in one thing: their determination to preserve the integrity and independence of the court and resist this blackmail attempt. The chief justice herself issued a suppression order.’
‘So when was this?’
‘About a month ago, maybe six weeks.’
‘About the time of your diagnosis, then?’
‘Just before.’
‘What was it all about?’ asks Martin. ‘What did they want you to do?’
‘It was an attempt to affect the outcome of a case I’ve been presiding over. A development application. A large one. But I wasn’t having it. Not this time. The chief justice issued the suppression order and I hoped that might be the end of it. But I installed state-of-the-art security here in the house, just in case the thugs returned.’
‘Surely you knew the suppression wouldn’t hold, that gossip would spread?’
‘Of course. That was the whole point.’ And he smiles a teasing smile, his eyes alive with mischief. It occurs to Martin the judge is enjoying their exchange. ‘People would know what happened. Not the public—forget them—but the people who count. They would know that I had told my fellow judges and that they supported me. The blackmail threat would lose its potency if it was known I had the full backing of my colleagues.’
‘So it worked?’
The judge grimaces, and responds in a voice carrying the weight and inflections of the bench, of a finely crafted legal opinion. ‘More or less. But there was collateral damage. It alerted Elizabeth to the real nature of the Mess. She was fiercely intelligent, of course, but somewhat naive. She believed everybody else shared her high-minded view of the world. I guess that’s why she maintained her membership of the Mess even after her father and her brother resigned.’
‘So what was it Elizabeth discovered?’
‘Not so much discovered, but came to realise. Here’s what happened.’ And the judge pauses, as if to gather his thoughts. Or for dramatic effect. He really does appear to enjoy performing. Maybe it’s the company; much better entertaining a journalist than sitting all alone, waiting in the night.
‘The Mess, as you no doubt know, is secret. It has around thirty members. We meet once a month for dinner. Ostensibly, that’s all there is to it. When Lizzie and I joined we were very junior; the founding generation still held sway. We only got in because of our fathers. We sat at the end of the tables, on the periphery, listening and learning. But years pass, and generations change. We became barristers, we took silk, we ascended to the bench. And we inherited the Mess as well. And we learnt how the world really operates: patronage, nepotism, networks of influence. It’s true: it’s entirely possible for a member to attend the dinners, endure the exotic dining and the well-informed discourse and leave it at that. Participate in some of our philanthropic endeavours. But that’s not why people join the Mess and they know it. That’s not its purpose.’
Martin says nothing. The judge is on a roll and he decides to let him speak.
‘Among other things, the Mess is an information exchange, and not just at the monthly dinners. It’s constant. We reveal information to each other that we really should not. If I want to know what is happening inside the Labor caucus or the Liberal party room, the politicians among us will tell me, openly and frankly. I’m sure they feed information to each other on a daily basis, across party lines. You can imagine how useful that would be. Members who are stockbrokers and businessmen give insider information on business deals, allowing other members to get in on the ground floor, to profit from it. I’m sure you know that’s illegal.’
‘And judges?’ asks Martin.
That elicits another self-amused grin. ‘We too provide information, sometimes circumventing the spirit of the law, sometimes the letter. But that’s not all. As well as information, we exchange favours. At the lowest level, it is petty patronage. A member has a friend who has a son who wants to do a semester interning in the courts. No problem, nothing illegal about that, happens all the time. A member has a daughter who wants a job in a big city law firm, despite having a lacklustre academic record. It can be done. A member wants some confidential information on a case before the courts. Yes, it can be arranged. There’s a spectrum: some members bend the rules, others disregard them, some rejoice in the power of breaking them. Are you following?’
‘I believe I am, yes,’ says Martin. ‘Tell me, though: I’ve heard that Mess members have an obligation to assist each other wherever possible, but only within the law.’
The judge laughs, a real guffaw. ‘Don’t you believe it, son. We break the law, no doubt about it. With impunity. I’ve done it myself.’ The judge pauses, then decides to qualify his assertions. ‘Now, to be clear, there are likely members who have not done anything illegal, although I’d rather think they are in the minority. Elizabeth Torbett always appeared to be like that, a Galahad at the Round Table,
