Justice Cudlip Trout has been recalled from Gardening Leave. He presided over the whitewash of officials blamed for Phillip John Smith's notorious escape to Brazil.
His Honour's notes: One of the juicier perks of judging is that after being put out to pasture, we are asked to re-don the wig for government inquiries into entertaining stuff-ups.
It's not all beer and skittles. Stuff-up management can be rigorous work. True, they pile up your wheelbarrow with four thou per day, but we need to keep our wits about us.
If we don't bat sensibly, we might lose future gigs. So one dead bats the tricky stuff, and saves the punishment for the lesser bowlers.
Take Phillip Smith. A dashing judge could thoughtlessly pile on a hundred before lunch.
Here's a lifer who gets day release to make social calls, and flits off to Rio on a passport he arranged from jail. Red faces all round, and I could end a hatful of careers in a flash. But best to be careful.
I decided to kick off by convening the first sitting in Phillip Smith's cell, with the evidence handy. There was more than you'd think. It was an emporium packed with enough gear for a Salvo Shop.
''Where'd he get all this?'' I asked the Head Warden.
''He was very diligent, sir. He ran a mail order business from here. Most commendable.''
''So was it mainly sex aids?'' I asked, holding up something pink and dodgy.
''No,'' said the warden icily.
''That's where he kept his violets.''
''So what about all the tools stashed in the corner? The fireman's axe, the crowbar, the acetylene torch?''
''Health and Safety, sir. We can't have prisoners trapped inside when their mates set fire to the jail. We're proud to run a 'best practice' facility.''
I riffled through the travel brochures beside the espresso machine. Cooking classes in Tuscany, a Viennese opera tour, and fly fishing at Huka Lodge. Beside them was a school exercise book, with a title crayoned on the front.
''P. Smith. Secret Diary. Private and Confidential.''
As I opened it and began to read the ''Escape Plan'' chapter, Smith's social worker threw me to the ground, and snatched it away.
''Dear God, be careful, Your Honour,'' he wheezed.
''These are clearly Mr Smith's personal secrets. The Privacy Commissioner will be down on us like a ton of bricks.''
This was getting difficult. I turned to the Parole Board chap, an owlish psychiatrist with a drooping bow tie.
''I gather you knocked back Smith's first request for early release. What were your grounds?''
''Repeated inappropriate behaviour, Your Honour. He was incorrigible. The man wasn't fit for society.''
''What did he do?''
''Smith kept calling other prisoners 'dear' and 'sweetie'. It was dreadful. We'd often find the Mongrel Mob huddled in the tea room, crying softly. That was bad enough, but Smith went too far when he snogged the Padre, and whistled at the dog handler.''
''Great Scott. He did all that, and we still gave him a passport?''
''It wasn't as easy as the media made out, sir. Smith had the devil of a job getting his photos witnessed, because our JP had been released. He combed the place for a professional person of good repute. I believe he made do with the inmates' pharmacist.''
It was then I noticed the trapdoor and the shovel beside Smith's bed.
''What's all this then?'' I demanded.
''Smith's been burrowing?''
''Yes, it's all part of his rehab,'' said the Chief Warden.
''Smith became treasurer of our Beef and Burgundy club, and was digging a wine cellar. We were very proud of him - he'd reached thirty metres.''
''There's the pity of it,'' he snuffled, brushing aside a tear.
''Just when there was light at the end of the tunnel, Smith runs off and wrecks it all.''
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
