In New Zealand, there’s a candy assortment of gangs. Most often, they ride on motorcycles, deal in narcotics, prostitution, illegal guns and fear. Recruitment’s booming as New Zealand’s underpaid police scarper to Australia, and dysfunctional kids clamber up the criminal career ladder.
As a court bailiff, John Brady thought he’d seen them all: Mongrel Mob, Head Hunters, Tribesmen, Killer Beez, Black Power, you name it. But these days there was a new gang hitting the courts with increasing regularity: Grey Power.
Today, he was in charge of Edith Smith, aged eighty-five. She was on so much medication it was hard to keep track of; pills for rheumatoid arthritis, underactive thyroid, high blood pressure, fluid retention, probiotics, magnesium (“keeps your stools soft”), and so much more. It takes her an age to swallow them all. She has to use a walker to get into court and John helps her to the dock.
“You’re a good boy, John,” she says, looking at him with rheumy eyes. She reminds John of his grandma. Yet this little ol’ lady is apparently in charge of the most notorious gang in the country.
“You’ll be right, Edith,” he says and gives her a small smile.
“All rise for His Honourable Judge Adams.”
“Edith, you’re meant to stand,” whispers John.
“Stand? I’ve only just sat down. Bugger that.”
“Court is in session, Crown versus Edith Smith.”
It’s a first appearance, and Edith is facing a raft of charges. The prosecution alleges that Edith is the mastermind behind some of the most infamous crimes reported in New Zealand. The “headless chicken” where a known paedophile was mangled by a pensioner’s mobility scooter. The “rolled-over-Rowan”, a repeat rapist out on a technicality who met his demise under a pensioner’s Rolls Royce. And the “upsa-Daisy” where a woman who had scammed millions out of the elderly was found dead, floating upside down in a pensioner’s duck pond. In each case, the pensioners involved claimed, “It was an accident”, “I didn’t have my glasses on”, “My hearing aids weren’t plugged in” or “I’ve got dementia, dear” and all were let off the hook.
Edith lets out a little chuckle as each one is mentioned. “OOhh, that was a good one,” she says at the upsa-Daisy. “I remember that one.”
John sighs. This is not boding well.
“Does the defendant have counsel?” asks the Judge.
“Edith, he’s speaking to you,” whispers John.
“What?! Speak up, young man.”
The Judge shouts across the courtroom, “I SAID, DO YOU HAVE COUNSEL?”
“No need to yell. I’m not deaf. You just need to enunciate your words better.”
John had never seen Judge Adams do an eye roll before today.
“Your Honour, we understand Ms Smith has declined counsel,” says the prosecution trying to be helpful.
“Ms Smith, is that true?”
“Well, if you’re talking about that pimple-faced boy, fresh out of law school, I thought I might do a better job myself.”
“Ms Smith, these are serious charges you’re facing, and the prosecution has already indicated they’re opposed to bail. It’s in your best interests to have counsel represent you.”
“As I’ve said all along, I’ve done nothing wrong. All I do is operate a Garden Club for like-minded pensioners. We like to do a bit of collective weeding.”
“Your Honour, I must interject. A search of Ms Smith’s home produced copious evidence pointing to the Garden Club being a front for illegal activities where Ms Smith and her associates seem to have taken it upon themselves to mete out their own form of justice.”
“Like I said, we do a spot of weeding.”
“Ms Smith, I’m going to take a half-hour break. During that time I urge you to instruct counsel. Court’s adjourned.” The Judge slams down his gavel, a tad too enthusiastically.
“A bit tetchy, isn’t he, John?” says Edith.
“Edith, let me help you find a lawyer.”
“Don’t you worry, pet. It’ll be all right. Anyone would think our Garden Club was doing something wrong with all the fuss.”
John couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Edith, it is wrong. You can’t…”
“Oh, but we can. Better than you young folk. And what are they going to do? Lock us up? Most of us haven’t got that much time left anyway. We’re keeping crime off the streets, young man. Sprucing up society. Giving it a wee prune. Now, you must excuse me, as my bladder isn’t what it used to be.”
Edith trundles off with her walker at full speed.
John’s left gobsmacked.
When court is next called Judge Adams enters looking disconcerted. He doesn’t waste time.
“I… have to say, counsel, I’ve briefly looked at the evidence in the break, and it looks… well… rather spurious. I’m not sure these charges against Ms Smith can be upheld, and I’d strongly urge you to reconsider the stance you’re taking before you pursue it further. Do you understand?”
The prosecution looks perplexed, “Ah… yes? Your Honour.”
“Ms Smith, you’re released on bail. No conditions, and hopefully we won’t have to put you through something like this again.”
“Good boy,” says Edith. “I can’t wait to get back to gardening.”
And so the leader of Grey Power leaves the courtroom.
John helps her to the carpark. He’s still in shock at what’s happened.
“John, you give your Nan my love. I’ll be seeing her at our next meeting. Tell her she can use my axe if she can’t find her own. Last time I think it was buried in some scumbag’s skull.”
“My Nan?”
“Oh, yes. You know even Judge Adam’s mother belongs to our Garden Club. She’s a dab hand with a pistol. We call her the “Dead-header” because she aims for the head. I knew she’d be on the phone to her son giving him an earful. You take care, now.”
John watches Edith ride off, on a pink Harley Davidson, with painted flowers.
“Grey Power!” she yells with one arm raised.
And John finds himself raising his own, in salute.
Anne Wilkins is a former family court lawyer, and now a sleep-deprived primary school teacher in New Zealand. She writes in her spare time (which she has very little of). Her love of writing is fuelled by copious amounts of coffee, reading and hope. Her work can be found in Apex Magazine, Cosmic Horror Monthly, Elegant Literature, Humour Me, Sci-fi Shorts and elsewhere. Anne is the winner of the June 2024 “Bad Blood” Elegant Literature Prize, the 2023 “Halloween Frights” Autumn Writers Battle, and the 2023 Cambridge Autumn Festival Short Story Competition.
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