Laughing along with Noone, MacIntyre said, “Were there any other questions, Mr. Wells?”
The papers blurred in front of him. The ink bled on the page. He had no choice now. He was in a fight for his reputation,his career, maybe even his life—the gallows had seen plenty of men like him. Everything in him screamed to sit down, or tosnatch up his papers and run, but he couldn’t, he knew that, splaying his hands on the table and forcing himself to keep hisfeet. He’d thrown down his cards and would have to ride it out: rip, shit, or bust.
“In those—” he began, his voice so faint and hoarse the words barely made it past his lips. He cleared his throat and swallowed. “In those eighteen years, Chief Inspector, how many arrests did you make?”
Noone was still enjoying the acclaim from the gallery, nodding and smiling at whoever was back there, and for a moment didn’trealize he was being addressed.
“Sorry? Did you say something?”
“Yes, I was asking how many arrests you made in those eighteen years?”
The crowd settled finally. “In the Native Police?” Noone said.
“Exactly.”
“A ridiculous question. I couldn’t possibly begin to count them.”
“Of Aborigines, I mean. How many Aborigines have you arrested?”
“Do you have any idea how many patrols I led, Mr. Wells?”
“Do you?”
“No. It would be well into the hundreds. More. Far too many to recall.”
“And how many of those were successful, would you say? Approximately?”
“Most of them, though there are always complications now and then.”
“Hundreds of successful patrols, then. And just to be clear, what do you mean when you use the word patrol?”
“Riding out with my troopers in pursuit of a suspect, investigating a crime, usually following some kind of depredation havingbeen committed by the blacks.”
“Depredations such as . . . ?”
Noone sighed. “Anything from unlawful assembly to attacking cattle to an outrage as heinous as that which befell the McBrides.”
“And you were almost always successful, you just said?”
“I was good at my job, Mr. Wells. I still am.”
“I wonder then—and since you can’t recall the numbers exactly, you’ll forgive me for laboring the point—why I found not asingle record of an Aborigine being prosecuted following an arrest by you. Not one. After so many successful patrols, thecourt records should be overflowing with trials and convictions based on your good work. Yet there is nothing, at least notso far as I was able to find.”
“Perhaps you just haven’t looked hard enough.”
“Oh, I assure you I have. As have my clerks. We have spent a great deal of time at the task. Which is why I asked the question:if these hundreds of successful patrols yielded not one single prosecution, how many arrests were actually made? You do notstrike me as the kind of officer who would release a suspect without charge, having gone to the trouble of tracking him down.”
“I was very thorough, Mr. Wells, as I have said.”
“Quite. But can you answer the question?”
“Which was what exactly?”
“Why so few prosecutions, Chief Inspector?”
Noone shifted in his chair. “Often it was more a case of deterrence than prosecution. A warning, as it were. And of dispersingassemblages as and when.”
“Dispersing, yes. And we all know what that means.”
“It is a common-enough word.”
“And a common-enough euphemism among Native Police officers for the massacre of Aborigines, is it not?”
Noone glanced uneasily at MacIntyre. “Of course not.”
“Really? Because I have here a number of your police reports in which—”
“Keep the questions relevant, Mr. Wells,” MacIntyre said. “We are only concerned with the case directly before us, not theChief Inspector’s entire career.”
Henry paused, allowed Noone to stew in discomfort for a while. He was twitching impatiently, coiling like a spring. And, despiteit all, Henry was beginning to enjoy himself. He was on his own stomping ground now.
“Very well then. Returning to the question of arrests . . .”
“For God’s sake,” Noone said.
“Given the lack of prosecutions—which is not my opinion, by the way, but recorded fact—I am curious to know, Chief Inspector,what other outcomes were you able to secure over your eighteen-year service that would have rendered these hundreds of patrolssuccessful, in your own mind?”
Noone was very still for a moment. Henry forced himself to hold his gaze.
“Have you ever served in law enforcement, Henry?”
“I have not.”
“The military?”
“Again, no.”
“Have you ever chosen to risk your life for a purpose greater than your own?”
“Not unless standing here counts,” Henry said, laughing nervously, prompting titters from the gallery behind.
“Well, let me tell you something about this country: we were not given it by the grace of God, not like they’d have you believe.By rights, none of you even ought to be here. You all, in one way or another, came on the boats. The natives whose land weare squatting on wanted nothing other than for us to leave. That is why they speared your cattle. That is why they attackedyour homes. That is why, when the police come calling, they would rather fight to the death than face trial. They do not acceptour laws any more than they accept our presence here. Frankly, it is a miracle I am still alive, that this town even exists.The things I have endured . . . the countless things men like me have done to keep men like you safe on these shores, andyet here you stand questioning me about arrest statistics: What the hell is this, MacIntyre?”
“It was you who insisted,” the judge blustered. “I was done!”
Noone was making to leave the witness box. Henry needed to keep him there. Over the commotion in the gallery he shouted, “Thenlet’s discuss the McBride murders, the reason we are all here. Surely you can’t object to that?”
Noone settled. The muscle at his jaw creased. He took a long nasal breath and folded his arms so tightly his jacket lookedready to tear. Henry didn’t wait for him to answer, pressing ahead
