CHAPTER 1

MY TRIAL WAS A FARCE!

 It was a Wednesday morning, the 06th of November. Derby Day, in fact.

An incredible event that combines sport, fashion and food all in one place. 

Whilst the rest of Melbourne was engulfed in horse racing and carnival spirit, men enmeshed in Family Court proceedings are prepping to be either shorn or stripped entirely of their money, homes and families. 

The stakes are high, with hundreds of thousands of dollars and sometimes millions on the line. These stakes unsurprisingly drive people to lie. Lies are at the messy heart of divorce. The lies can be so significant that lawyers and judges often have to officiate death matches of he-said-she-said.

If you have ever passed through metal detectors at airports, you're already familiar with the process of emptying your pockets, isolating your notebooks and iPads from your bag or briefcase, and putting your bag and briefcase in a large plastic tub on a conveyor belt ready to be scanned for any explosives, machetes, pistols, and machine guns that we may have inadvertently forgotten to leave in the trunk or boot of our car or basement at home.

It is certainly not our intention to subvert the prominent paradigm.

As I waited this fateful day, two barristers behind me were discussing the details of some sworn testimony a scorned wife was scheduled to give later that day about her relationship with her abusive husband.

We were all herded through the detectors without any order of succession. The right of succession does not start until we reach the other side of the metal detectors. As I wrote earlier, you must be careful not to place anything hazardous in the plastic tub, as any shift in the paradigm (perish the thought!) would be nothing short of a cataclysm comparable to the First World War.

Once given the all-clear, I walked left to the Daily Court List, looked up my name and duly proceeded to level 4, courtroom 4X, as indicated on the list-.

Justice W. Smallcock was presiding.

Julia, my wife, walked in with her usual entourage. McKenzie friend Mr M Wank, her sister Ebrill, her ugly friend Fat Bertrude, Fat Bertrude’s house cleaner, sister-in-law, and Fat Bertrude’s mother. My wife Julia and her friend Mr M Wank proceeded to sit behind the bench in front of the court clerks whilst the rest of her entourage found their places in the gallery.

This is now where the right of succession takes form.

In a typical courtroom, the judge sits behind a raised desk known as the bench. Adjacent to the bench are the witness stand on one side and the desks where the court clerks sit on the other. The courtroom is divided into two parts by an imaginary barrier known as the bar. There is an open space between the bench and the counsel tables. If documents must be given or taken from the Judge, barristers are typically expected to approach the court clerk.

I walked in on my own, took my usual seat to the right of the same bench and leaned back on my chair until three slow knocks from the judge’s chamber sounded out.

(Remember the right of succession I mentioned?) 

“Silence in Court. All stand” We all stood.

“This Honourable Court is now in session”, announced the Clerk.

Each time I heard the three knocks, I remembered an old wives' tale concerning the three knocks of death. If you hear three knocks on the door and nobody's there when you answer, someone close to you is supposedly going to die. And if several deaths occur in the same family, you tie a black ribbon to everything left alive that enters the house, even dogs and chickens.

The judge entered and walked to his chair. He then bowed, everybody else bowed, and the judge sat.

“Please be seated,” announced the Clerk, and everyone in court sat.

My wife Julia then stood and announced that she was the defendant representing herself, and then I stood and announced that I was the applicant without representation.

As this was our 43rd session, we were now well-accustomed to the court procedures. 

Yes, you read right! The 43rd fucking session!

“Ms Cutler, I’m ready to hear your arguments regarding your application,” says Justice W. Smallcock.

Julia stood and immediately turned on the floodgates for the waterworks.

“Your Honour,” she began before pausing and catching her breath.           What a performance.

She gasped and continued, “Your Honour, I’m sorry, but I’m so nervous. " Wiping away her crocodile tears, she'd perfected this strategy throughout the past five years leading up to these proceedings.

“Since the separation, the applicant has left me destitute. He continues to ignore the orders of this court, and now I’m forced to fend for myself and my three children. He took over the business directorship without my consent, leaving me penniless. Furthermore, I’ve just realised he’s now commenced additional proceedings in Spain concerning our holiday house on the coast, and I don’t have the means to defend my right of title. He has no consideration for his children and no respect for this court.”

She now bursts into a hysterical fit and supposedly uncontrollable crying. Her McKenzie friend Mr M Wank stood and consoled her, then asked  Judge W. Smallcock for a moment for Julia to recompose herself. 

Justice W Smallcock then looked at me and waited for me to respond.

“Mr Cutler, what do you say about your application in the case that will convince me to stay my previous orders?” Justice W. Smallcock asked.

I remained silent, eyes closed and calmly began my breathing exercises, a relaxing technique taught to me after recently experiencing a minor stroke.

“Mr Cutler?” Justice W Smallcock repeated.

 Slowly breathing in, then exhaling. I opened my eyes, turned my head towards Julia and her McKenzie friend Mr M Wank and began to clap slowly. If you don’t know the meaning of this, slow clapping is widely used as a popular dramatic device, usually accompanied by ironic dialogue such as “well done” or “Bravo” to indicate disbelief or show scorn.

“That performance your Honour is truly worthy of an Oscar.”

Judge W. Smallcock cut me short with, “Mr Cutler, your application is for a stay of my Orders of the Final Trial. What are your arguments?”

“Your Honour,” I replied, always remaining composed,

“your trial has been nothing but a farce.” I continued.

At this stage, it wasn’t difficult to see that Justice W Smallcock was becoming annoyed.

“I take offence to your comment, Mr Cutler,” he said fumed.

“By calling it a farce, you’re displaying a lack of respect for me and this court !”

Respect?

Let me talk about respect for a moment, Dear Reader, with a sidebar on my mother; may she rest in peace. In her heyday, she was a maiden with an iron fist. She was strict because of her cultural traditions. She was a taskmaster, mission maker and decider of everyone’s general direction in life. Her expectations of me were exceedingly high, though she provided little nurturance. Her feedback for me was often negative. More than once, she threw her slipper from across the room smack on target to the back of my head or gave firm and unyielding swings of the pastry roller onto my arse as I attempted to outrun her for dear life. 

I grew more robust as the years passed, and she became slower. The slippers and pastry roller became a distant memory. But she refused to fit the stereotype of the doddering, depressed pensioner and likened herself to a sophist. Her devotion to the truth was beyond question. Her take on respect was simple.

If you want respect, then learn to give it!

  “Offence is not intended, your honour,” I replied, when in fact, Dear Reader, you and I both know it absolutely was. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of printing the definition of farce this morning,” holding the printed page with one hand, the other hand in my trouser pocket, imitating what can probably be best described as the Perry Mason look and proceeded to read out what, of course, suited me… 

 The Collins definition goes as follows:   

“A farce is a broad satire or comedy, though now it’s used to describe something that is supposed to be serious but has turned ridiculous.”

I read a slightly different version :

“If a defendant is not treated fairly, his lawyer might say that the trial is a farce.”

I claimed this to be an Oxford dictionary definition, fully conversant that it was not.

“Furthermore!” I continued, raising my tone for a more dramatic effect.

“Her affidavits are just as implausible as the 1001 Tales of The Arabian Nights!”

“Sit down, Mr Cutler!” exclaimed Justice W. Smallcock, his face flushed crimson.

Smallcock then turned his attention back to Julia.

“Ms Cutler, are you now in a better mindset?  Have you composed yourself, and can you continue, please?”

“Yes, thank you, your Honour,” she replied— a remarkable portrait of dignified strength.

“It recently came to my attention that the respondent has started a new company, guising it under his de facto girlfriend's name.” His girlfriend has just arrived from Spain, where she was previously an English teacher. She cannot possibly know how to run a business of this nature.”

“Objection, Your Honour!” I exclaimed.

“She is not my girlfriend, and no one has arrived from Spain! Furthermore, these accusations are irrelevant to this court, and the applicant's comments are only hearsay”!

Now hearsay, my Dear Reader, is an essential court term that simply means gossip.

“Sit down, Mr Cutler! You’ll have your chance.”

“I won’t warn you again!” snapped Smallcock.

 “He clearly intends to transfer the business assets to this new company of his girlfriend to avoid paying the business debts to the banks!” continued my wife innocently. 

“Your Honour! She’s referring to phoenixing!” I interrupted once again.

“It’s where she claims I transfer over assets from one company to another to avoid paying financiers and creditors. But this is a moot point because, regardless of the registered owner of the assets, the banks have lien on the vehicles until the debt owed is discharged!”

And I sat back down.

At this point, I was aghast at the silence.

No one was talking. Justice Smallcock didn’t even ask me to shut up.

So, I stood back up again, projecting plenty of confidence and continued.

“Furthermore, your Honour, she cannot be appointed director as this was already covered in prior trials! Judge Reinhold concluded that the applicant did not possess the necessary accreditation.”

“Your Honour, as I said previously, and I’ll say again, your courtroom is a farce!”

“We should not even be here listening to her crap again!”

Apparently, Judge Smallcock was not in agreement with this assessment.

“One more outburst, Mr Cutler, and I’ll have you handcuffed and thrown out of my courtroom!” he threatened.

“It’s been five years to the day today, and we’re back to square one!” I protested with a raised voice.

“You’re nothing but a circus ringmaster!” 

Justice W. Smallcock then exploded. 

“Mr Cutler! I’ll have you for contempt of court and incarcerate you for a period of my choosing!” vociferously opposing my rebellious demeanour.

 “You have no idea how to do your job!” I bellowed.

Defensively, with his stiff-necked pride, he threatened to leave the courtroom. 

 Now reader. I swallowed all that anger when it was a fire seed and forgot to drink something cool; it erupted within me until it emerged as scorching as the fieriest breath ever unleashed by a dragon on the person I knew to be a cantankerous, easily annoyed, pugnacious fuck. Justice W Smallcock.

I  breathed fire and let fly. 

“I shit turds that are bigger than you!”