Chapter 32
Craig Thoms’ solicitor had informed him what his immediate future would be if his bail application was denied, so it was of no particular surprise when the Magistrate who heard his case and denied his bail application, ordered him to be remanded to the strangely named Metropolitan Remand and Reception Centre until his pre-trial hearing commenced. The MRRC is the maximum security section of the sprawling Silverwater Correctional Centre and has a reputation as being one of the toughest prisons in the state of New South Wales. It is home to mostly untried and unsentenced offenders who have been refused bail on serious charges and are waiting for the wheels of the justice system to slowly turn their way.
At seven p.m. on the dot, two Corrective Services officers arrived at the Parramatta Police Station and signed for custody.
“Time to go mate. Don’t give us any trouble now,” said the smaller of the two.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Craig responded glumly.
They shackled his hands and feet and led him out to the transport truck parked at the rear of the station. Martin Warnock had stayed with him since his second interview and as he was led away, promised he would do everything in his power to help him beat the charges, but his claim sounded hollow in Craig’s ears.
Craig was the only prisoner being transported to Silverwater. The other detainees that had shared the cells with him and who had been denied bail on lesser charges, had already been transported to the medium security, and infinitely more desirable – if such a description could be used on a prison - Parramatta detention centre.
Craig had tried to show no emotion during the time he spent in the cells and courtroom, but now as he found himself alone in the back of the transport and finally out of sight of the cold, hard eyes of the other prisoners and the police, he held his face in his hands and allowed his emotions to overwhelm him just for a little while.
After a bone jarring twenty minute ride along the badly weathered and cracked Parramatta Road they arrived at the MRRC at Silverwater. Craig waited nervously while the transport slowly progressed through three sets of wire fences, each topped with rings of razor wire until they reached the inner compound.
By the time the rear doors of the transport were jerked open he had fully regained his composure and vowed to himself to stay strong for as long as it took. He was led to a reception area, shackled to a sturdy, bolted down chair and told to wait – as if he had other options available to him. The Corrective Services officers left the room while Craig stared at the four white walls and waited. There were twenty chairs in the room, but again, he was the only prisoner.
He sat impassively and took in the sounds and smells of the prison as they filtered down to him. He could hear the guards talking and laughing down the hallway, the occasional shriek and holler from the prisoners and could smell the evening meal being prepared in the kitchen.
Almost an hour later, with their handover complete, two prison guards came to collect him. They led him by the arms down a long corridor and into a large room where new prisoners were processed. His shackles were finally removed and he was made to strip off all of his clothing and stand inside a telephone box sized metal detector. From there he was fingerprinted, retinal scanned, a sample of his DNA was taken from inside his cheek and then he was finally given a freshly laundered prison uniform.
As he pulled on his clothes, the enormity of his situation struck him and it was all he could do to finish dressing himself before nearly collapsing into a chair while he waited for a senior officer to arrive and conduct his entry interview. Another thirty minutes of silent, queasy, abject boredom passed before another officer entered the room. He was a heavily built man of around six feet in height with a large round gut, sloping, yet powerful shoulders and expressionless dark eyes. He carried himself confidently, with an air of authority lingering in his wake. He sat across the desk from Craig and began looking through his paperwork that had been attached to a wooden clipboard. Craig noticed his name tag read ‘Mike’.
“So, you’re the guy that topped Fogliani,” he said with a cold sneer which showed crooked, nicotine stained teeth. Craig thought about denying it but decided not to bother wasting his breath on someone who wouldn’t have believed him and was of no value to him even if he could convince him of his innocence.
“That’s what they’ve charged me with.”
“You must be one dumb fuck. Are you a dumb fuck Thoms?” said Mike, double checking the clipboard to check if he had his name right.
“Maybe I am.”
The guard sneered, disappointed not to have got a rise out of the newby. “There’s no maybe about it dumb fuck. You know there’s been a lot of talk in here about you already. Fogliani had plenty of friends and some of them are in here. I hope you’ve got some friends too because if you don’t, some people are going to be testing you out pretty soon and we can’t keep an eye on everything that happens in here. Enjoy your stay dumb fuck. Take him to Pod 3 in D block,” Mike said to the other guard. “I’ve had enough of dealing with scum for today. We can finish up with him tomorrow.”
It was eleven-thirty p.m. before Craig Thoms was led down the bleak fluorescent lit corridor that led to D Block. Lights out at eleven meant that all was dim and quiet in D Block except for the occasional cough or snore. Craig looked straight ahead as he was marched to his cell and was watched by those who had not succumbed to sleep in the cells that he walked past.
“This is it Thoms,” said the guard. “Open 103,” yelled the guard back down the corridor to the control post. The door to cell 103 slid back with an efficient motorised clang. Craig stepped through the threshold into the darkened cell.
“Close 103!”
He turned as the door closed, holding his bundle of meagre possessions which consisted of a spare uniform and toiletries that he would soon realise made home brand look luxurious. The sight of the steel bars in front of his face made his soul shudder. He choked back the emotions that threatened to spill out and turned away to face the inside of his cell.
On the top bunk was a form from which a quiet snore emanated and Craig quietly hoped that his cellmate wasn’t one of Foglianis’ friends. As he lay down on the lower bunk he realised for the first time that he was exhausted and starving. He hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and had barely slept in the previous seventy-two hours and although it was quiet and warm and he had his own bed, sleep was the furthest thought from his mind.
Chapter 33
Detective Robards reviewed his notes from the interview the previous day, where Craig Thoms had spoken about Harvey Petersham, his drug buyer. He wasn’t even certain why he was chasing this lead up, if you could call it that, and doubted it had anything to do with the case, but Nelson’s brief phone call to him earlier in the morning left no room for negotiation. It seemed like a futile fishing expedition and Robards figuratively and literally hated fishing, particularly trout fishing because those things never took the bait and when they did, they invariably spat it out before you hooked them good.
Robards sighed and mentally shrugged his shoulders. He took the time to pull up Harvey Petersham’s criminal record on his computer and shook his head at the staggering length and breadth of his criminal career. Starting at the age of fourteen and spanning the ensuing twenty-six years, there had been arrest after arrest after arrest, mostly for small amounts of drug possession, but there were also charges for drunk driving, assault and even a public mischief charge relating to indecent exposure. Robards concluded sagely that he was a small time, pathetic and obviously not too smart career criminal. Lenient judges and a soft hearted criminal system ensured that despite his repeated infractions with the law, Petersham had only been to prison four times that added up to a grand total of just over two years.
According to his file, Harvey Petersham was currently serving twelve months probation, courtesy of his most recent drug arrest. Robards was grateful that he would be able to access his current address through his probation case officer, however that feeling soon dissipated, and he again sighed deeply, when he noticed on the file that the probation case officer was Sourav Bedi. Robards had dealt with him before on a number of occasions and his dislike for him was so intense the thought of calling him nearly caused him actual physical pain. Bedi’s arrogance and confidence in his own superiority were equally and oppositely matched by his incompetence and laziness. Nevertheless, Robards pushed through the pain barrier and picked up the phone. He was almost ecstatic to actually catch Sourav at work as he had a reputation for exploiting the already generous leave provisions of the New
