Heller's Punishment (31 page)

He declined to
answer more questions and flashed his impish grin, “See you later,
fellows!”

He jauntily
jogged up the stairs into the court complex, halting briefly to
sign autographs for a few elderly diehard fans, throwing me a wry
glance as he did so. His lawyers were already outside the courtroom
and he huddled with them about tactics for the day. The men and I
stood around uselessly, the court complex having its own security
officers, who eyed us territorially with unnecessary hostility. I
smiled at them sweetly while the men wore their usual
expressionless faces.

I glanced over
at the entrance and noticed a huge man heading in our direction. He
was one of those bulkily muscled short men, with thighs so big that
he lumbered from side to side when he walked. He was accompanied by
a petite woman almost running to keep up with him, and a motley
crew who trailed after him. They pulled up close to us and took a
seat, the supporters jeering over at Trent in low voices. The man’s
face was a mask of concentrated hatred, all aimed in Trent’s
direction.
Hmm, it must the plaintiff,
I thought to myself.
Trent valiantly ignored the jeering, probably on his lawyers’
advice, though he looked over at the crowd with some concern.

All parties
were called into the courtroom and I went in with Trent, leaving
the two men to idle outside. I sat in the public gallery across the
aisle from the plaintiff’s family and friends, feuding parties on
either side of the court. The rest of the seats were taken by
media, bored pensioners and unemployed sticky beaks. Prepared for a
dull day of testifying, I sat next to a frantically crocheting
elderly woman, who immediately introduced herself as Gloria. I
hoped she didn’t remember my reputation with senior citizens,
otherwise we might end up with a commotion on our hands. She
favoured me with a blindingly white toothy dentures beam, her
gnarled fingers moving at a mile a minute on the yarn.

“Oh, I’m
looking forward to this one, love. Some of them are boring, but
this one is going to be good. I watch Trent Dawson every night.
He’s such a hornbag, don’t you think?” she said. I nearly burst out
laughing and had to clamp a hand across my mouth.

“He sure is,” I
agreed with admirable diplomacy when I could trust myself to speak
again. Trent clearly had strong sex appeal for the older female
demographic.

Having found a
happy common ground, we settled down together to watch the trial.
We heard a lot about the deceased woman from the man’s lawyer. That
petite woman skilfully painted a moving story of a loving mother,
partner and friend and dedicated business owner, driven to ending
her own life through the heartless and callous actions of Trent.
She described him as the worst form of low-life, hounding
hard-working small business people to their death just for
sensationalism and ratings. He was a money-hungry, media-slut with
no morals (as well evidenced by his personal life, she tried
arguing, before being shouted down by Trent’s lawyers) who didn’t
care who he hurt in his craving for scandal and popularity. The
whole time she spoke, a large picture of the deceased woman, taken
at some family celebration, was flashed onto the court’s media
screen. She’d been a bleached blonde, blue-eyed, pale-skinned
woman, and in the photo she was smiling and happy, surrounded by
her loved ones, including her partner and their children.

I didn’t know
how Trent sat there so composed, his glasses reluctantly slipped on
to read his notes, his face sombre, listening to such a diatribe of
criticism and condemnation. He appeared calm and reasonable, and if
you’d just arrived from another country, you’d be outraged by the
slurs to which he was being subjected. But unfortunately, the whole
nation was well acquainted with his numerous dalliances and
belligerent on-screen personality. He’d never get a fair trial
around here. I thought his case was doomed from the start.

However, when
he was called up to the stand to testify, the plaintiff, Gavin,
didn’t do himself any favours. Edgy and sweaty, he quickly became
aggressive under cross-examination. He stumbled over his testimony
and backtracked so many times that everyone in the court ended up
confused over his evidence, despite his lawyer’s best efforts to
guide him back to the pre-rehearsed script.

“Did he say he
was in the house when she killed herself or at his brother’s
place?” asked Gloria in a perplexed whisper, showing her sharp
mind. She’d managed to keep up with the intricate details, but not
with his jumbled recollections. Unfortunately, I couldn’t answer
her because I hadn’t been properly listening, half of my attention
directed to Trent’s grim profile. I didn’t know for whom to feel
most sorry– the nervous, unpracticed Gavin who’d lost his partner
in terrible circumstances with children left to care for, or Trent
who was just doing his job and giving the public what they wanted,
which his high ratings demonstrably illustrated.

The trial
closed for the day after hours of wretched testimony from Gavin’s
side, including the victim’s psychologist, work colleagues and
friends. We all filed out, exhausted and emotionally drained.
This was when the fireworks would start
, I thought, on
alert. But Gavin’s team was obviously worn out with the realities
of the court process, and left quietly in low spirits. No doubt
they would regroup tomorrow and we would face some trouble then.
Personally, I was tired from sitting all day entertaining Gloria.
She’d revealed a relentless determination to engage me in small
talk during the court recesses, although she was respectfully quiet
when the court was in session. Trent and I collapsed on the back
seat of his car, the bored men in front driving us to his
apartment. We looked at each other.

“How do you
stand hearing everything they say about you?” I asked with great
sympathy.

“They’re upset.
I understand that. Someone they loved killed herself. That’s
difficult for them to handle and they want to lash out. I’m a
convenient target. I try not to take it personally.” He paused.
“It’s not always easy though. She was tough on me today. I’m not
that evil, believe me.” I thought he looked stressed, not as smooth
and confident as when we’d left this morning. I guess the day had
taken its toll on him.

Trying to lift
his mood, I suggested brightly, “How about I cook you a fantastic
dinner tonight and help you forget all about today?”

“You cook?”

“Um, I’m no
master chef. Do you cook?”

He laughed.
“That’s a big no from me. I burn water when I boil it. But I do
have a professional kitchen in my apartment though.”

“Don’t get too
excited. I’m no expert.”

“All I’m
thinking right now is that you’re cute
and
you can cook. My
mother wants to meet you. Soon.”

I laughed. “My
mother wants to meet you too, but not to match-make with me. She
wants you for her own immoral purposes.”

He groaned
laughingly. “It’s my fate in life to appeal to older women. They’re
my biggest fan base.”

“Could be
worse. Could be older men.”

He laughed.
“True. What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

“I dunno.
What’s in your pantry?”

“Probably
nothing. I eat out most of the time.” He tapped Dubov on the
shoulder. “We have to go to the nearest supermarket.”

Dubov didn’t
blink twice, but immediately changed route to guide the car to an
adjacent suburb. Trent and I shopped together while the men waited
in the car, choosing some fresh pasta, salmon, capers, dill, salad
vegetables and wine. He paid for the groceries, winking at the
awe-struck teenaged cashier. She giggled excitedly, and took her
phone from her pocket to snap photos of him carrying away the
groceries.

“Do you want me
to confiscate those photos?” I asked irritably, looking back at her
happily snapping away.

“Of course not!
She might end up being a fan one day. And it’s just something you
get used to when you’re a celebrity. After all, everyone loves to
meet someone who’s on TV!”

Chapter
21

Back at his
place, the men gone for the night, I made salmon pasta and salad.
It was deliciously light food and we both scoffed it, ravenous
after the trying day, sitting on his balcony enjoying its
spectacular view of the harbour. It was hard to think of a nicer
place to have a meal.

“Tilly, that
was very tasty. It’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked
meal. Thank you. You were too modest about your cooking abilities
before,” he flattered, wiping his mouth on a napkin. Replete, he
sat back and sipped some wine.

“I enjoy
cooking,” I said taking our plates to the kitchen and surveying the
mess of plates and saucepans I’d left with dismay. I called out to
him. “Where’s your help?”

“I don’t have
any,” he admitted regretfully, coming in and viewing the damage as
well. “I only have a cleaner in twice a week. But she doesn’t do
dishes.”

“What? Oh boy.
I suppose we’ll have to do it ourselves,” I stated
unenthusiastically. I wished now I hadn’t used so many dishes and
utensils.

“I suppose,” he
agreed half-heartedly.

“You wash and
I’ll dry.”

He commenced
rolling up his sleeves, then stopped. “Hold on! I have a dishwasher
somewhere in here. I distinctly remember using it once,” he
protested, and after a few minutes was even able to locate and
identify that particular appliance in his kitchen.

Together we
stacked the dishwasher, wiped down the benches and left the kitchen
sparkling clean. Back on the balcony again, wine glasses refilled,
we swapped summaries of our upbringings.

He reminisced.
“Working class. Five kids, two adults, a three bedroom rented house
with only one bathroom. Father unemployed and sick. Mother stressed
and overworked in boring, underpaid factory jobs, with the bulk of
the housework and cooking to do when she came home. That woman is a
powerhouse. And a saint. I was a hard worker at school, but
smart-mouthed. Bad reports but good grades. Was accepted into
university, the first one in my family. Studied journalism. Massive
sacrifices from everyone, including me, to pay my way through.
Obnoxious regional interviews as a newbie brought me attention,
then I was offered the hosting job on
People’s Pulse
. And
that’s my life so far.”

I shared in
return. “Middle class for me. Three kids, four bedrooms, two
bathrooms. Dad a university lecturer, Mum a primary school teacher.
Two older brothers, one a cop, the other a personal trainer. Big
age gap between us, so my childhood was pretty lonely. I was an
okay student. Dropped out of university without finishing. Drifted.
Tried acting for a while. Then somehow landed my job with Heller.
And here I am!”

“Acting? What
in?”

“Nothing much.
An ad and a small role in
Summer Days
. I played a psycho
bitch who slept with everyone in town and then drove her car off a
cliff. I hope you don’t remember it.”

“I don’t watch
that rubbish, even though it’s on my network. That’s interesting
though. Why did you give it up?”

I laughed.
“Because I have no talent and couldn’t get any regular work. And
when Heller offered me a job I turned my back on acting, something
I’ve never regretted.”

“He sounds a
very demanding boss. How do you get on with him?”

“We have our
ups and downs,” was all I would admit.

“I’d love to do
a story on him and his business. My ratings would go through the
roof, especially with the female viewers. Do you think he’d
agree?”

“I don’t know,
Trent. He’s a very private person. But he’s also a hard-nosed
businessman and it would be good publicity for him. You might be
able to persuade him using that approach.”

“Thanks for the
tip, Tilly. I hope you don’t mind if I go do some work now. I’ll
have a backlog of emails and phone calls to get through after being
out of the office all day. Oh, and I forgot to tell you that your
room is down the hall, second door on the left. It has its own
bathroom.”

“No worries. I
think I’ll spend the evening admiring the view.”

I took a quick
shower and changed into jeans and a t-shirt and spent a relaxing
hour on the balcony, watching the various watercraft meandering
their way around and across the harbour. Seeing the boats made me
think about Meili Eriksen for a sad few moments.

I rang Heller
and told him about my day. We chatted for a while and I described
the beautiful view to him.

“You’re making
me jealous, my sweet,” he said. “I’m sitting here in my office
looking at a brick wall.”

“Maybe we
should move from the Warehouse to a waterfront location. I’m
finding it very calming. Have you noticed that we’re not even
arguing about anything?”

“Yes, it’s most
agreeable. I wish we could be like this all the time. But I can’t
afford a waterfront property, Matilda. I’m afraid that out in the
suburbs here is more to my budget.”

“Shame. I could
really become used to this lifestyle.”

“Don’t enjoy it
too much. I want you to come back to me.”

“I’ll always
come back to you, Heller.”

“I hope you
mean that, my sweet,” he said quietly.

“Of course I
do.” I rudely yawned into the phone. “I better go. It’s getting
late. I’ll ring you again tomorrow.”

“Okay. Sweet
dreams.”

“You too,
Heller. Bye.”

I decided it
was time to hit the sack and popped my head around the door to
Trent’s office, knocking gently. He had his serious face on again,
his glasses perched on his nose, peering intently at his computer
monitor. He looked up and smiled.

“Hello! Had a
good evening? I feel guilty leaving you all alone for so long. I
promise I won’t work every night.”