Crisis of Identity

When Dawes visited mum around two days ago and dropped that warrant on her, I suggested we seek legal advice. Mum wasn’t interested. She didn’t believe any lawyer would be able to assist. In her words, “it is a warrant issued by a court… What can a lawyer do?”

I didn’t push it. I didn’t agree, but I had to avoid upsetting her any more than what Dawes already has. She was resigned to the fact she will have to provide her DNA.

After the day I’d had, the kid gloves towards mum had to come off. It was time to make her understand that we now require legal advice; advice about the warrant and advice about the libellous defamation of our family by Dawes and this journalist from the Western Australian newspaper.

From the bar I went straight to mum’s. It wasn’t a pleasant visit. She was understandably devastated by the newspaper article. It took many straight whiskeys, followed by a number of strong coffees before mum calmed down enough to think rationally. Eventually she agreed with me. We now require sound legal advice.

It was well after midnight by the time I felt comfortable enough to leave mum on her own. Her racing blood pressure had settled. She appeared much calmer and she was able to talk without breaking down in tears.

Seeing my mum like this is incredibly distressing. She doesn’t deserve this. No one does. It is now time for positive action, but I have to do it legally. No hit men. No black balaclavas and baseball bats. This has to be fought through the courts. Dawes has to be held to account. He has to be made to pay for what he has done.

Two weeks after Dawes visited Perth and changed our lives forever, mum and I headed for the city. It was our time to return serve to Dawes. It was our time to send a message to this career cop that it’s not OK to mess with people’s lives in his misguided pursuit for justice.

I drove mum in her black S-Class Merc. It was a more appropriate form of transport for my mother than my dusty work truck.

Sadly, it took the loss of my dad for me to understand how precious my time is with my parents. I now realise that I didn’t visit them anywhere near enough while dad was alive and now it’s too late.

I can’t undo what has been done, but I will not let that happen again. So I visit mum often, up to three times a week. They are not always long visits, but I keep in touch.

Whenever Mum and I are together we chat about anything and everything. I relish the opportunity to catch up and learn about her week, but today was different. Today was an uncharacteristically quiet trip into the city. Mum spent most of the time staring silently out her window.

Dawes upset mum, more than she lets on. She is angry about being forced to provide her DNA to the police, when she has not done anything wrong. She is angry about being publicly labelled a kidnapper. Regardless of the obvious lack of evidence, now in the court of public opinion, mum is guilty.

What sort of justice system do we have where cops on a fishing expedition can randomly select law abiding members of society and force them to provide DNA samples, or publish untruths that attack a person’s character?

The demand for city parking spaces exceeded supply. After several laps of the area we happened across someone exiting a space on St Georges Terrace.

With the parking meter fed, we made our way to the QV1, a towering architectural concoction of concrete and glass stretching over 43 floors.

Following a quick check of the tenancy directory, we traversed the spacious marble entry foyer to take an elevator to the 35th floor.

The elevator doors sprung open to polished marble tiles leading us through open, double glass doors to a large foyer with a central island reception desk. Beyond the desk, a waiting room of tub chairs sat in front of ceiling to floor picture windows, overlooking the Swan River and South Perth.

A smiling receptionist greeted us like she was genuinely pleased to see us. I introduced myself and informed her of our allotted appointment time of 9.30am.

After she confirmed our meeting, she directed us to the waiting area beyond her desk. The scenic vista from 35 floors up was a welcome distraction to the wait.

While we enjoyed the view, a fit looking blonde woman, smartly dressed in a grey jacket and skirt, approached and offered us coffees. She returned a short time later with an espresso blend that would be the envy of any café Barista.

Despite being Perth locals and knowing the city area well, mum and I were impressed by the magnificence of the elevated views over the river and south Perth. A cloudless blue sky framed the postcard-perfect vista.

We were only half way through our coffees when the receptionist who greeted us from the elevator approached.

‘Mr Davison will see you now,’ she said. ‘You are welcome to bring your coffees with you.’

The receptionist escorted us down a timber panelled hallway, to a large door. The brass name tag beside the door read, “Miles Davison- Partner”. She knocked once then opened the door for us to enter.

As we stepped inside the office our lawyer stood from his desk. He fastened a button on his suit jacket as he moved around to greet us. Miles Davison, whom we are meeting for the first time, is a high profile Senior Counsel barrister who came highly recommended to us.

He is a tall, lean man in his forties. His salt and pepper hair was salon styled. He wore a dark bespoke suit that would’ve been five or six times my $500 Peter Jackson.

Two walls of the spacious corner office shared the same views as those in the waiting area, courtesy of the ceiling to floor picture windows.

A large bookshelf, crammed with all sorts of bound legal journals and legislation, lined the wall to our left.

His court attire — his black Senior Counsel silk robe and wig — hung on a coat stand in the corner beside a small round meeting table, positioned next to the windows.

A framed 10 x 8 inch family photo took pride of place on the corner of his oversized timber desk.

He extended his hand to me. ‘You must be Kade…’ I accepted his handshake. ‘Miles Davison, pleased to meet you,’ he said.

‘This is my mother, Vicky Miller…’ He shook mum’s hand.

He directed us to the meeting table. Mum and I took a seat while he grabbed a yellow pad from his desk. He unbuttoned a single button on his jacket and slid into a chair opposite us.

‘These views are outstanding, aren’t they?’ mum said.

‘Yes, they are special,’ he said. ‘Now,’ he clasped his hands and leaned on his elbows. ’How can I help you today?

‘We have a problem with a police Detective who is harassing my family,’ I began. ‘A few weeks ago he served a warrant on mum for her DNA and he is also responsible for a defamatory newspaper article about us. We just want to know what we can do about it. What our legal recourse is.’

Miles scribbled some notes. ‘OK. Let’s start with the warrant. Do you have a copy with you?’

Miles was a charismatic and articulate man. His voice was gentle and he spoke with the enunciation of a British Royal, suggesting refinement and education.

‘I do.’ Mum removed the warrant from her handbag and handed it to Miles. He read the warrant, pausing to scribble notes. When he finished his eyes lifted to me.

‘Our first question is… Do we have to comply with this warrant?’ I asked.

‘This is a court order compelling you, Vicky, to provide a sample of your DNA to the police, via a non-intimate procedure. Which in essence is just a mouth swab, or a hair sample.’

‘That much we understand,’ I said. ‘But our concerns are as to why mum has to provide her DNA, when she hasn’t committed any offence.’

He placed the warrant to the side. ‘I’ll discuss your obligations under this warrant shortly. First, let me explain what this warrant means.’ He clasped his hands on his note pad. ‘Before a Magistrate issues a warrant for a non-intimate procedure, the police must first prove to the court that there are reasonable grounds to believe that you committed an offence, and further, there are reasonable grounds to believe that the forensic procedure… the non-intimate DNA sample… may show evidence tending to confirm, or disprove your guilt. Now. Is it your understanding that you have not committed any offence…?’

‘I have not,’ mum said firmly. She clutched her handbag to her chest.

‘Why do you believe you were served with this warrant…?’

‘A detective rang me and said he wanted to ask some questions about a young boy who went missing twenty-five years ago.’

Miles’ eyebrows arched. ‘Twenty-five years ago…?’ He repeated as his questioning eyes flicked between mum and me.