Page 28 of The Vet from Snowy River
‘What options, exactly?’
‘The first option is you plead guilty to the charges and we ask for a section 10 dismissal, which means you are found guilty, but no conviction is recorded, so it won’t affect your ability to work or travel in the future.’
‘I pleadguilty? Sue, I’ve had to sell my apartment to defend my innocence, and now you’re saying I just roll over and accept the charges?’
‘It’s an option. It might not be your worst option. You’re paying me legal fees to give you advice, Vera, so listen to it before you bite my head off, all right?’
Vera snorted. ‘As though anyone could. I suspect you’re made of titanium, Sue.’
‘You’d be right. A non-conviction order would see you having to comply with a good behaviour bond. And there’d be certain conditions attached, like steering clear of writing damning articles about the aged care sector in Australia for example … but it might be the quickest way to get this shitshow behind you. To move on.’
She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘So if we agree to this—what did you call it?—section 10 dismissal, that’s it? I’m guilty, but I’m done with all this?’
‘It’s not that easy.’
Of course it wasn’t.
‘The magistrate decides whether or not they’ll grant it based on the seriousness of the charge, and they’ll take into account your character and criminal history, your concern for the greater good, that sort of thing. We have a solid shot.’
‘But no guarantee.’
‘Of course not. Where would the legal profession be if this stuff was ever clear-cut?’
Broke and bitter, she expected. Like she was. ‘What if I don’t want to plead guilty?’
‘Then we proceed as planned: we enter a not guilty plea at the arraignment, the magistrate will set a trial date, and we’ll argue it out.’
Lawyers in suits, batting words back and forth in some musty old courtroom, and her future on the line. She’d known it was coming. She’d known it would be a burden. What she hadn’t factored in was how hard it would be to stay strong for her aunt, for her employees, for the sake of the café’s bottom line, when the world was conspiring to bring her to her knees.
‘Vera? You still there?’
‘Yes, sorry. I was just brooding for a second.’
‘You’re going to want to give me a decision on your plea in the next couple of days. We don’t want to mess the court around, and we want time to work on our arguments depending on which way you want to go.’
Time for her to worry. Spend her last cent on legal fees. Be so distracted she messed up her new business. She sighed. ‘Thanks, Sue. I’ll think it over and let you know.’
Sue made a long breathy noise through her phone receiver, and Vera could almost smell the gush of nicotine. ‘I thought you’d given up smoking?’
‘My lungs did too. But then my ex-husband rang and enraged me so much, it was a cigarette or an aggravated homicide charge. I figured a cigarette wouldn’t ruin my career.’
Vera laughed. ‘You’re a funny girl, Sue. Sorry I got a bit antsy before, I appreciate your hard work, really I do. Thank you.’
‘You won’t be thanking me when you see my latest bill. I just emailed it to you.’
‘Yikes. I better get the hell off this call,’ she said, only half joking.
She said goodbye and hit the end icon. Those meringues had better be ready. She might need to comfort-eat a dozen or so before she headed home. Tidying up the table she’d been using to sort through her paperwork, she stood up and made for the kitchen. Meringues, home, wine, bath. Maybe she’d have the wineinthe bath.
The oven door felt cool when she rested her hand against it, so she chanced opening it and had a look inside. Ah. Dozens of baby meringues winked back at her, their creamy tips just blushed with brown colour. She smiled. No matter how crappy things got, there was always something to be glad about in the kitchen. She hauled out the trays and began lining them up on the stainless steel bench, then frowned as a noise caught her attention.
Crying? She listened, then heard faint scuffling—not in the café, but out in the back alley.
She drew back the bolts and opened the door, and there was the cat, perched on the step as though it had just knocked and was awaiting a butler to grant it entree into a grand home.
‘Can I help you?’
She really must be tired if she was speaking to stray cats. She went to shut the door, then hesitated. For all its attitude, the catwasthin. ‘Wait there,’ she said. ‘Not a paw is to come inside. This kitchen is run by the anxious owner of a safe food handling certificate, and cats are strictly forbidden.’
