Rake (2010–2018): Season 2, Episode 1 - R vs Mohammed - full transcript

You like it rough, don't you?

Say it. I like it rough!

I like it rough.

Listen, Daddy.

You're filthy, you know that?

Oh, shit.

What could possibly so important
this hour?

I don't know. That's why I'm checking.

Ah, fuck.

Skiddy? Worse than Skiddy.

When did texting take pre-eminence



over actual live
human intercourse, I wonder.

It doesn't matter where you are
these days...

meeting, dinner with friends,

back of a limo
rooting another man's wife.

Someone gets a text, that's it...

everything on the planet
has to stop and give way.

Yes? Yes!

Ah, yes. The reply to the reply.

I'll just be one second. Marvellous.

Push me over. I can't reach.

I'll just be one second.

If this fuckwit had phoned
instead of texting,

you would have said, bugger it,
he can wait until morning.

But oh, no. He texted.



Just as surely as
God would have to Moses

had Moses been able to get
good reception up on Mount Sinai.

Let it be known and proclaimed
throughout the land

that in this brave, new,
broadly banded world,

conversation is now officially
a second-class citizen.

Are you sure I can trust him?

Yeah. Claude, it's cool. He's a mate.

Remember the bloke who was busted

desecrating Rookwood Cemetery last year?

The one who pissed on all those graves?

Come on. The poor man had a terrible
urinary-tract infection.

Anyway, he owes me, big-time.

Oi!

You forgot something. What?

Your lifeline.

The man seen here

passionately kissing
the New South Wales Premier

has been identified as criminal
barrister Cleaver Greene.

Why do they always say it like that?

Criminal barrister, for God's sake,

not a CRIMINAL barrister.

Get the em-PHA-sis right,
for God's sake.

Your Honour,
what sort of madness is this

that here and now, in the 21st century,

in this palazzo of justice
we call Court 11C,

we three men
are debating the right of a woman

to choose her own clothes?

The tyranny of misogyny, Your Honour,

must be consigned... Mr Greene,
are you daring to suggest that

wearing a burqa is an expression of
your client's feminism?

With due respect, Your Honour,
my client doesn't wear a burqa,

she wears a niqab.

The difference being?

The former is, to all intents
and purposes, a body bag.

The latter, a simple veil.

Be that as it may, Mr Greene,

the jury and the court both have a right

to be able to scrutinise
the disposition of any witness.

Mr Forsythe, is there anything else?

Yes, Your Honour. There was the
matter of the video confession.

That appears to be
pretty straightforward.

Mr Greene?

Your Honour, I would submit

that this video footage
is full of unsubstantiated

and uncorroborated assertions
by my client's husband,

who sadly, is unavailable for
cross-examination,

having blown himself to kingdom come.

Your Honour, the video clearly
implicates Mrs Mohammed

in the conspiracy
to blow up Parliament House.

Alright. Let's take a look.

By our actions, the people of Australia

will know the power of our faith.

Your parliament is no more, having been

razed from the ground.

And the dogs within - your prime
minister, your foreign minister...

they're gone too.

Such is the consequence
of joining infidels of America

and other enemies of Islam

and killing the brothers and
sisters of Iran, Iraq, sorry...

and Afghanistan.

I go to paradise a martyr where
adorned virgins will meet me.

Jesus, what a dickhead.

If I was the mufti
responsible for his conversion,

I'd hang my head in shame.

If I was the mufti responsible for
his conversion,

I'd have told him
to give Scientology a crack.

Where's he hail from, Ken?
He's an Albany boy,

born Michael Francis Coorey.

Irish-Catholic mother,
Lebanese-Catholic father.

Full Marist Brothers catastrophe.

Odd jobs. A brief stint panel-beating.

Found Islam somewhere along
the line, and ended up in Yemen,

where he became Yousef Mohammed
and met Zuharah,

now known either as Mrs Mohammed
or the accused.

He didn't even have
the right fucking parliament!

Looks like your girlfriend
dodged a bullet there, Cleave.

Ah, yeah.

Yeah. Tell us, Cleave...

the Premier, she a moaner or a screamer?

Order. Order!

Order. The Leader of the Opposition
will resume his seat.

The Premier has the call.

Thank you, Mr Speaker. As I was saying,

I deeply and sincerely regret
the pain...

this indiscretion has caused.

I ask that, at this difficult time,

my family's privacy be respected.

The task at hand is to
rebuild this State, Mr Speaker.

The task at hand
is to rise again from the ashes

left by those opposite,

who seem to have nothing to offer
the people of this great State

other than gossip and debasement.

The Shadow Attorney General
and Shadow Minister for Police,

Transport, Infrastructure, Racing,
Gaming,

Climate Change and Environment and
Ethnic Affairs.

The Premier calls it
an indiscretion, Mr Speaker.

She calls it a mere indiscretion.

I wonder what her husband,

the Attorney General and Police
Minister, thinks about that.

Do you think it was just
an indiscretion?

Order.

Order. Order!

You see, Mr Speaker, it's not just
a matter of the Premier

betraying her family.

It's not just a question of her lack
of decency and integrity.

The fact that the Premier
would have an extramarital affair

with someone like Cleaver Greene
is something else altogether.

Order. Cleaver Greene...

Order. ..is a dishonest low-life

who spends his days
defending society's scum

and his nights carousing with them.

Greene is defending a terrorist.

Alleged terrorist. Hello!

His story, Mr Speaker,

is a disgraceful and tawdry tale
of dishonour and deceit,

as is the Premier's.

Shut up!

He's got a lovely speaking voice,
hasn't he?

Sue. I'll sue. I will sue
the bastard for defamation.

You can't make parliamentary privilege.

It's an abuse of the privilege,
is what it is.

What can you do about that?
Well, I'm going to... um...

Nicole!

Sorry you had to go through that.

It's just politics.

You think I should resign?

I wouldn't be Robinson Crusoe if I did.

They're not going to make you leader,

if that's what you're thinking.
You know how you poll.

If I resign now,
it's either Stevie or Bill.

It could be Karen. Long shot.

And if it is Stevie or Bill,
you're rooted too, so...

You need me, and I need you.

It's like we're reaffirming our vows.

Come.

Premier, Attorney.

Premier, Attorney.
Yep. So, how bad is it?

We're fine with blokes if focus
groups are anything to go by.

Get a little bounce if anything.
And women?

Depends. If it was for love,
you're fine. 71%.

And if it was purely sexual?

You're a skank. 90%.

And I should be?
Standing by your woman, Cal. 76%.

OK. So I guess it's genuine love, then?

And forgiveness.
Love and forgiveness it is.

Thank you, gentlemen.

So, you utterly reject

the Shadow Attorney General's
characterisation of you

as a low-life, do you, Cleaver Greene?

I do. I refute it in its entirety.

The Shadow Minister for Toasters,
Lobotomies and Nasal Hair,

Harry - sorry - David Potter,
hid like the coward he is

under the cloak
of parliamentary privilege

when he made those obscene remarks
about me.

If Mr Potter really had the courage

of his so-called convictions,

if he had any intestinal fortitude
whatsoever,

he would repeat that scurrilous filth

outside the protection of parliament.

Cleaver Greene is a dishonest low-life

who spends his days
defending society's scum

and his nights carousing with them.

His story, Mr Speaker,
is a disgraceful and tawdry tale

of dishonour and deceit,
as is the Premier's.

Oh, it is on.

It is on, mofo!

I am taking you down
for Queen and country,

and maybe a little beach house down
the South Coast.

Ah, Jesus Christ.

What?

For God's sake,
don't be such a dickhead.

You sue him,
you play right into his hands.

What are you talking about? Your life

and character under a microscope
in a defamation case?

That's exactly what he wants -
a chance to flail you alive.

You'll lose, and end up having to
pay his costs.

Are you going to get that?

Cleaver Greene's chambers.

And it's flay, not flail.

Just one moment. Flay.

Sorry? Sorry?

I have had it with your sorries.

From day one,
this whole fucking relationship

has just been one long series
of sorries.

I want you out of this house,

and I never, ever want to see you
again. Do you hear me?

I need a safe haven.

I'm not sure this is the place right
now. What's the matter?

Is it Todd?

He's been screwing some waitress.

The husband was waiting for me when
I got home.

Jesus. How long...

Since before we even met, it would seem.

Really? The whole time?

If you give me as much as an
I-told-you-so, I swear to God...

Hey, Todd. Hi, Cleave.

I want you to leave now, Todd.

No. You don't want me to do that.
Yeah, I do.

I made a mistake, OK? I am sorry.

Stop saying sorry
like it means something.

I tried to end it with the other girl.

Cleave, really, I did.

There's no point. She's heard it all
before. It's the truth.

The thing is, she...

She kept threatening to hurt herself.

So you're the real victim
in this situation, are you, Todd?

Well, yes, I believe I am.

Where the fuck is your imagination?

At least Cleaver respected me enough

to make an effort with
his bullshit. I really put in.

He told me the two Asian girls
I found him comforting

were Aung San Suu Kyi's cousins.

Somehow, she saw straight through it.

At least we had a few good years.

Is that the benchmark
for a happy marriage these days,

a few good years?

What was I thinking?

I meet another lawyer who loves
to party. Do I run a mile? No.

I marry the bastard three months later.

Those who do not learn from history
are doomed to repeat it.

Correct.

Don't tell me you've become one of them.

One of who?

One of those smug arseholes
who says 'correct'

because they're so up themselves
they think they can own a...

Oh, darling.

I see you've been rooting the Premier.

Political protest, darling.

At heart, I'm really an activist.

Is that you, darling?

Mum?

Dad? Hi, mate.

What's going on?

It's not what it looks like.

Your mum lost a hearing aid
down the back of the sofa.

The thing is, darling, it turns out that

Todd's been...

He's been busted.

There's a shock.

Zuharah. Kids.

Sorry we're so late.

Please come in.

Sounds like someone's having fun.

That is where I conduct my business.

Please.

They can't make me take my veil off.

Yes, they can, Zuharah.

You're the accused.

They'll do it forcibly if necessary.

One, two, three. Don't say anything.

It is God's will I wear it in public.

Well, unless you can call God
as a witness...

I'm not sure he'd have standing as
an expert in this State.

You two think you're so clever and
superior, don't you?

We mean no of fence, Zuharah.

Please don't patronise me.

You are nothing but
a couple of hypocrites.

Oh, really? Especially you, Mr Greene.

Tell me, what will you be wearing at
my trial?

You will be prancing around the court

in a black gown and a white wig,
will you not?

And you think my veil is silly?

At least it serves a purpose.

Look, I take your point,

but the judge is
going to want to see your face

and so will the jury and so do I,
to be perfectly frank.

I'm defending you on
a very, very serious charge.

If I'm going to sell you to a jury,

I need to get to know you, Zuharah.

The whole point of the veil

is so that men like you
can't get to know me.

Men like me?

Men who seduce married women
in limousines.

Tell me, Mr Greene,

do you think you and the Premier
would be in this ugly mess

if she had been dressed
as a married woman ought?

You were charged with conspiracy to
commit a terrorist act.

If you're found guilty, you'll go to
jail for the rest of your life

and you'll see your daughters
for a couple of hours a year.

You have to help me to help you.

Understand?

I am a good Muslim.

You support jihad?

Do you know what the word jihad
actually means?

Struggle.

We all struggle spiritually, gentlemen.

Violent jihad on the other hand

is the work of the devil, not God.

Islam preaches peace.

I do not want my daughters
to grow up in a world

where they are taught to hate.

OK. So maybe you can tell us why

large quantities of hydrogen peroxide,

propanone and ammonia

were delivered to your house
in your name.

How does someone like her
end up marrying such a tool?

The man got lost on the way
to the wrong parliament.

She's smart. She's kind of hot.

Am I allowed to say that
without getting fatwa-ed?

Maybe it was a spiritual thing.

Or maybe he was her ticket out of Yemen.

You know how Ken's going to play it.

The Musical.

It'll run for a decade,
and Zuharah's the star.

Zuharah Mohammed. Christ. Four
guilty votes just in the name.

Hey, have you spoken to Scarlet again
about Maxy's birthday?

Yep. And?

Still a no.

Christ, your wife's a ballbuster.

What does she want from me?
Have you told her I've already...

Bought the present? Yeah.

More?

He's going to go nuts.

Where's it all going to fit?

There's got to be some room
for the guests.

This morning I mapped it all out.
We're fine.

Vino?

No. I'm good, thanks.

I've culled the audition tapes
for the clowns down to five,

but we need to look at that tonight

'cause we're cutting that way too fine.

Darling, this is a seven-year-old's
birthday party.

You've done nothing else
for three weeks.

It's like you're planning
the invasion of Afghanistan.

If only I had.

Don't you think it might be
just a little over the top?

I want to make it perfect for him. OK?

OK.

So.

Cleaver asked me to ask again.

Feel free to ask,
but risk disappointment.

OK, I won't.

Honey, don't be like that.

It's not easy for me.

We're teetering on the edge
of tranquillity

and you want to bring Cleaver
back into our lives?

He's had some bad luck.

Bad luck?

Darling, slipping down the stairs
and breaking your leg is bad luck,

not getting busted having sex
with the Premier in the limo

owned by a guy who gets his kicks

out of pissing on the graves
of dead nuns.

After everything that's happened,
if I'm prepared to forgive him,

to forgive and forget...

OK, don't do it for him, do it for me.

Please?

He'll be on his best behaviour,
I promise.

The Premier - are you in love with her?

Oh! I, ah...

Are you a love rat?

A love rat? A love rat!

Ladies and gentlemen,
my client, Mrs Mohammed,

looks like a terrorist, doesn't she?

She sounds like a terrorist.

Even her name is the sort of name
you might reasonably expect

a terrorist to have - Zuharah Mohammed.

Now, I know you are all good, decent,
fair-minded folk,

but over the last decade or so,

our suspicion of Islamic people

has blossomed,
for want of a better word,

into an irrational but genuine fear.

During the course of this trial,

you are duty-bound to ignore that fear.

Ignore her clothes.
Ignore her skin colour.

Ignore her name.

And I would ask you instead
to focus on the facts.

My client is a loving mother
of two beautiful young girls.

She is a devoted sister and aunt,
she's a deeply spiritual woman

and she is a small businesswoman
of some repute

in South-Western Sydney.

Mrs Mohammed,
what sort of individuals attend

your essential oils
and beauty treatment salon?

It is a service exclusively for
Muslim women.

I should say it is not so much
a salon as a room in our house.

Sounds very discreet and innocuous.

It is, Mr Forsythe.

What prompted you
to start up this business?

My husband was unable to find work.

We needed the money.

Mrs Mohammed, I put it to you

that in conjunction with your husband,

you set up your business
as a means to obtain,

without raising suspicion,
the chemicals required

to make lethal explosive devices.

I deny that.

You had regular deliveries
of hydrogen peroxide,

ammonia and propanone
made to your house in your name.

That is correct.
Large quantities, sometimes.

It is more economical to buy in bulk.

Where were the chemicals kept?

In a padlocked steel cabinet
inside a locked room.

We have children.

The chemicals were,
for all intents and purposes,

your property, were they not? Yes.

You were the one who made the bomb.

That's not true.

I reject violence, as does God.

Mrs Mohammed, you've seen
the video your husband made

before he set out on his journey of
mass destruction.

Objection. Apologies, Your Honour.

Mrs Mohammed... I've seen the video.

It was taken in your house, was it not?

It was. You can tell by the tapestry

hanging on our living-room wall.

You were behind the camera,
were you not?

No. Then who was?

We have a tripod, Mr Forsythe.

Mrs Mohammed, propanone is also known
as acetone, is it not?

It is.

Why in the devil would you need
acetone in a beauty salon?

Acetone is nail-polish recover.

Oh, I see.

And what about ammonia?

Surely that can't be good for the skin?

Ammonia is a common and
highly effective cleaning agent.

And I imagine a reputable salon
proprietor such as yourself

would be keen on trying to maintain

quite a pristine working environment.

Yes, I do.

And what about hydrogen peroxide?
Hair bleach.

A lot of my clients
are very self-conscious.

According to to Exhibit B-17,
33 litres of hydrogen peroxide

were dispensed over one two-week period.

That would suggest a lot of heads
needed bleaching, Mrs Mohammed.

Yes, Your Honour.
It's not just their heads, you see.

What do you mean,
it's not just their heads?

Well, there are other body parts

that may perhaps be transformed
by the use of hydrogen peroxide.

Really? What parts, Mr Greene?

Well, one doesn't want to be
indelicate, Your Honour.

Indelicate? Would you please speak
frankly to the court?

Very well.

I am reliably informed, Your Honour,

that there is currently available
a very popular procedure

called anal bleaching.

Yes.

Well, thank you, Mr Bleach,
ah, Mr Brown.

Ah, Mr Greene.

This might be an appropriate time.

All rise.

Red! The house looks lovely.

The house looks lovely.

Red.

Red, the house looks lovely.

I could blame our respective workloads,

but the truth is...

I have been emotionally absent
from our marriage for some time.

I must take my share
of the responsibility.

I felt alone.

Um, I'm a woman who's always loved
to love.

And this strange man, Cleaver
Greene, came into my life,

and I felt a need, a longing.

As if all you've ever longed for
was a nasty shag.

Spun a web of words.

I...

I fell deeply in love with him.

Bring me a bucket.

So it was torture emotionally.

I was full of guilt and...

remorse.

When I told Cleaver
I had to break it off,

he threatened to go public
about it. Oh, yes?

He put me in an impossible position.

What? I was blackmailing you?

Oh, right, yeah, I was blackmailing you.

This tragedy has somehow
brought us closer

than we've been in many years.

Red?

The house looks lovely.

Cleaver.

You look great.

Thank you.

Present table's outside.

Drinks are out there too.

I was wondering
if we could have a little chat.

Oh?

Well, it's been a while.

Today's not the best day.

Of course.

Before entering the castle,

you must be wearing one of these.

There can be no more than
two persons in the castle

at any one time.

What I care about is what kind of
job the Premier's doing,

not who she's screwing.

There remains the question
about her judgment.

It's a bit like Clinton
and Monica Lewinsky.

Yes. And you're Monica, Cleaver.

Yes, yes, I got that one.

You're the girl
underneath the President's desk.

I imagine it was a thrill at the time,

but has it not left a stain
on your soul?

People are entitled to their own
private lives. Correct.

I'm not about to judge you.

I'm not about to judge the Premier.

I say, live and let live.

But you do know there's a spiritual
dimension to all this.

Infidelity is a mortal sin. Correct.

The two together,
we're going to shake them about

and the birthday boy's going to
give it a blow. One, two...

You've been so good. Happy birthday.

That was terrific, mate, thanks.
Well done.

Cheers. They're a lovely bunch of kids.

You fancy a beer? Ah, I shouldn't.

But what the hell, yeah.

You wouldn't happen to have
any vodka, would you, mate?

Sure.

Great. Be back in a minute.

I mean, sometimes, sometimes,
they don't give you anything.

I'm not just talking about a tip, right?

And it's not like
I'm charging a fortune.

Am I, Bernie?

No, mate.
And it was a really great show.

I'm not just another idiot actor
trying to make ends meet.

I give these kids the best two hours

they've ever had in their lives,
their entire fucking lives.

Hey! Wait - no, no.

Mind your language. There's kids.

You should hear the way
some parents talk to me.

Wait for it.

'I would have thought that
you'd brought your own water.'

My own water, mate!

Mate, do I know you?

Ah, no. Have we met at the circus?

You're that bloke
that's been rooting the Premier.

Language, mate.

You a Tory, mate? Not since
I had my haemorrhoids attended to.

Cleaver. How the fuck can you
look at yourself in the mirror?

What? After what she's done
to this State. Language!

She's raped it, that's what she's done.

Language, mate! Be that as it may.

Be what as it may, mate?

Alright, you want the truth?
Cleaver, don't.

Yes. Right-wing chicks are hot.

Don't. I beg your pardon?

Much hotter than left-wing chicks,
and you know why?

Because right-wing chicks
are aggressively carnivorous,

self-reliant, Ayn Rand acolytes

who understand the value of the moment.

They get that sex is something
in and of itself

beholden to nothing and no-one.

As a consequence of that understanding,

they're less inhibited
and therefore hornier.

Left-wing chicks, on the other hand,

they're vegans
who want a holistic experience.

They're all about context.

They talk about an orgasm
like it's a pet spaniel.

Consequently, the moment's ruined.

This, Mr Clown, is the real reason
why the Left has carked it,

because the Right
is constantly procreating

while the Left is grooming a dead dog.

My mother was a communist.

Oh, so you're adopted.

Just go.

The clown was drunk.

It was torture emotionally.

I was full of guilt and remorse.

When I told Cleaver
I had to break it off,

he threatened to go public
and ruin my career.

He put me in an impossible position.

It was fantastic, dirty sex.
Pure and simple.

That's how she wanted it.
No infatuation, no longing.

No love.

It seems incredible to me
people are buying her crap.

The press has done nothing
but call the Premier

on all her broken promises.

Every day in the papers
you've got a list of them,

yet now because of a couple of
Academy Award-worthy performances

from the Premier and Mr Streep,
suddenly she's Abraham Lincoln.

Here's the real scoop.

The Premier and her husband

can barely stand being
in the same parliament together,

let alone the same bed.

Do you have any proof?

Well, the Premier is a big fan
of the text message.

BIG fan.

As am I, I have to say.

I'm scrolling through my messages
as we speak.

Here's one from the 4th
of this month. Quote...

'Skiddy boring punters to death
at dinner in Newcastle.

Hook up? Urgent need
to get down and dirty.'

Then she signs off - 'XXX-rated.'

Shit. Do you know who Skiddy is?

Shut up!

Skiddy is the Premier's husband,

the attorney-general and police
minister of this State.

She calls him The Skid Mark behind
his back, or Skiddy for short.

How's that for terms of endearment?

Are you saying that is a text
message to you from the Premier?

Yes. I am absolutely saying that,

and I am saying I've got dozens like it.

You sent him dirty texts?

Jesus fucking Christ!

Has Shane Warne
taught you nothing, Claudia?

Claude!

Claude, I'm not sure
there's a way round this.

Of course there's a fucking way
around this.

There's always a fucking way around
everything

because that's what we do.

That's how we spend our time...

consume our careers and lives
finding ways round things.

Do you remember
when you told me to run, Cal?

You were groping my arse
at Nick's birthday.

I thought it was
all about the ideas back then.

Fuck.

Seemed so obvious how to make other
people's lives better.

The next day I said, sure, I'll run.

And you left Grace and we got married.

That's the last time
we talked about ideas.

From that day on, it's just been
running and winning and running.

Well, you've got to be invited
to the dance, darling.

I've been invited
to the fucking dance, Cal.

I'm queen of the fucking prom.

And I haven't had a chance
to do a single move of my own.

I've just been running and winning.

What happened to the ideas?

It's too late for ideas.

I know.

I'll deal with Greene. Good.

I never attempted
to blackmail the Premier.

I never threatened to go public about
our relationship.

I never threatened her
in any way at all. She's lying.

She never tried to break it off,

and I never said
I would go public if she did.

You don't have a case for blackmail.

Like I said, nobody's charging you
with anything at this point.

These are simply preliminary inquiries.

I actually wouldn't mind
being charged, Murph.

I actually would like to see
this whole fucking nightmare

played out in court.
You know why? I'd win.

Because I have the texts.

OK, this is not my phone.

What do you mean?

It's not my phone.

Sure you picked up the right one
when you came through security?

Pretty crowded down there.

You're fucking kidding me?

Relax, Cleave. If your phone is
here, we'll find it.

You sure that's your phone? Yes.

And the texts?
What do you reckon, Barney?

All gone. Every one of them wiped.
Pricks.

This is Cal McGregor. Calm down.

Fuck! Mate!

Write me an affidavit in support.

Support of what? You're the only
other person who's seen the texts.

I haven't seen them,
you told me about them.

I read them out to you.
I didn't see them.

I can't say I saw them.

You don't believe me?
It's not about that.

Mate, I've got a conference. Buddy!

I'm being attacked by every level of
the system right now.

I will happily put on an affidavit

saying what you told me,

but I cannot and will not
perjure myself.

You know the texts exist.
I'm not asking you to lie.

Yes, you are, Cleaver!
You just don't get it, do you?

I've got a conference.

Come.

This just came for you.

Ta.

Latte? Ah, no.

No, I'm good.

My father never came to any sports days.

He never showed any emotions
let alone affection.

He was like this iceberg.

I'm sorry to interrupt,
but do you really think

this has something to do with your
father?

Sorry? 'Cause, let me tell you,

it has nothing to do with your father.

Doesn't it? No.

Nor does it have anything
to do with Scarlet's mother.

Those are sideshows, Barney. Really?

These are my notes on you guys.

All our sessions -
couples and one-on-one.

I did an audit this morning.

And?

Barney, I've never said this before
in my life to a patient,

a colleague, anyone.

In fact, I could be deregistered for
what I'm about to say.

But forget Mummy and Daddy, OK?

The problem you and Scarlet
are confronting,

both as individuals
and in terms of your marriage

is so absurdly obvious,
I don't know what else to say.

Go on.

It's Cleaver Greene.

Jesus Christ.

She's in freefall, mate.
I've never seen anything like it.

57% of the New South Wales public

think that Cleaver Greene is more
trustworthy than the Premier?

That can't possibly be right.
Not only that.

69% think that the blackmail allegations

are politically motivated.

So, what are my options?

Dump Claude, and you'll get
an eight-point bounce.

When you say dump her,

do you mean politically or personally?

Both.

Which I could only do if I was shocked

to find out that Cleaver's side
of the story was the truth.

Shocking though that would be. Shocking.

Shocking. It's not enough
to get you the leadership,

but it's enough to give you wiggle
room with Stevie or Bill

if you want to hang onto AGs and police.

It's a pity about not pursuing
the charges against Greene.

That's the one thing I was
looking forward to this week.

G'day, Stevie. How are you, mate?

I've just happened upon a file
of text messages

between Claude and Cleaver Greene,

and quite frankly, I'm at a loss as
to what to do with them.

Well, I'd be grateful for advice, mate,

because there's every possibility

that tomorrow you could be premier.

So, Dr Fisher, how would you describe

this mixture of materials?

Lethal as a combination, obviously.

And what can you tell us

about the mechanical components
of the bomb?

Pretty standard, really.

Basic shrapnel. Nails, primarily.

It's not usual in such a case

to find evidence of remote detonation,

but that's always a possibility.

I'm sorry...

you found evidence of potential
remote detonation?

Yes. Is that usual in such a bomb?

I mean, my understanding is
that in cases like this,

the bombs are usually self-detonated.

Sometimes there's a failsafe.

If the bomber is incapacitated,

the detonator can still be triggered
by somebody else.

So, Dr Fisher, could this remote
detonation have been triggered

by a mobile-phone call?

That's a common method, yes.

Get Zuharah's mobile bills.

Dr Fisher, if the objective
was to blow up Parliament House,

this was an amateurish joke
of an attempt, wasn't it?

I would never describe
such intentions as jokes.

How big was the bomb, Dr Fisher?

For anyone else to have been
seriously injured or killed,

they would have to have been
standing shoulder to shoulder

with Mr Mohammed.

Really? Then the damage
to Parliament itself

would have been...

Negligible.

Mr Greene?

One moment, Your Honour.

Very well.

No further questions, Your Honour,

but at this point,
I would like to tender

my client's mobile-phone records for
the relevant period.

You'll note that my client sent
no text messages on that morning

and made only one phone call,
apparently to her dentist

to make an appointment
for one of her daughters.

This doesn't preclude the possibility

that Mrs Mohammed
purchased another SIM card

in order to detonate the bomb.

Then, Your Honour,

we would be keen to see evidence of
such a purchase.

Your Honour, I seek an adjournment

so we can make proper inquiries.

Your Honour, what inquiries?

You can get a SIM card

with any packet
of breakfast cereal these days.

The things are a dime a dozen.
And you will recall, Your Honour,

that my client's home was raided.

Her computer and documents
have been seized.

The Crown has had ample opportunity

to furnish us with such evidence if
it did exist.

It clearly does not.

I agree, Mr Greene.

There are no witnesses,
ladies and gentlemen.

My client's only possible

substantive connection with this crime

is that she purchased chemicals

which may have been used
to make the bomb,

chemicals, I might add,

which any of us could purchase this
very afternoon.

But do you know what the worst thing is

about the prosecution's case?

It is a case
that is rooted in prejudice.

Had Mr Mohammed not converted to Islam,

but had it have been old Mike Coorey

who'd blown himself up on that day,

this case would would never
be tried as terrorism.

This would be a case about a sad,
mentally ill guy

who'd gone postal.

The forensic evidence proves beyond
reasonable doubt

that had Mr Mohammed
walked down Macquarie Street

with a cricket bat, he would have
been better placed to take life.

The device in Mr Mohammed's backpack

was only ever going to kill one person.

Mr Greene?

Yes, Your Honour.

I was merely restating the point

that the device
that Mr Mohammed was carrying

was patently inadequate
for its alleged purpose.

This just arrived,
marked 'private and confidential.'

And we've just heard,
Greene got the terrorist off.

'Course he did. Thanks.

We're very pleased for you.

Excuse me.

Hi, mate. Yeah.

It must be a gratifying
and rare experience

to have a genuinely innocent client
acquitted.

You're no terrorist, that's for sure.

This was just plain,
old-fashioned murder, wasn't it?

I beg your pardon?

You sent your husband out on a mission

that could only ever have one result.

Not only was there barely enough
explosive to kill him,

but you were able to detonate it
before he hit Macquarie Street.

Whatever he believed he was doing,

there was only ever one target,
and that was your husband.

The genius of it!

The bit I love is the gall of it.

Playing to our prejudices,

hiding a big crime
inside a much bigger crime,

knowing you'd be labelled a terrorist

instead of a husband killer.

An absurd fiction, Mr Greene.

Here you were, stuck with this moron

who wanted to blow people up,

filling your daughters' heads
full of ideas you despised.

An insufferable fool
who you couldn't divorce.

I had a great-uncle who used to say

there was only one way
to truly end a marriage.

But I'm sure Western society
has come to a more sophisticated

and happy means
of settling such matters.

Thank you, Mr Greene.

Please send your account to the house.

My best wishes to your family.

Mr Speaker, I have here transcripts

of text messages between the
Premier and Mr Cleaver Greene.

They are dated and timed.

I seek leave to table these transcripts

so that the Premier may respond.

Might I add that these are
every bit as shabby

as one might have expected.

Every bit as shabby, Mr Speaker.

Have a look, Premier.

They're all here.
They're in your own words.

No? No?

She won't even have a look.

Won't even have a look.

Resign! Resign! Resign!

Here?

I'm pulling the plug, mate.

On what? You and me.

What did I do this t...

Mate, the clown got pissed.

Cleave, it's too hard.

This is Scarlet, isn't it? Yes, in part.

It's me too.
I've come to a fork in the road.

Or a knife in the back, maybe.
Or a runcible spoon up the arse.

Getting theatrical's not going to help.

If I have to choose between you
and my family,

I will choose my family. I don't see
why there has to be a choice.

Alright, we've had our ups and downs.

Is that some sort of joke?

Cleave, it has to be this way.

Cal?

Hey, Cleave.

Been awhile.

Don't feel that long.

Jesus, you're a slippery bastard.

Every time I...
What can I do for you, Skiddy?

The drug squad's received a tip-off

suggesting there may be
a trafficable amount

of a prescribed substance somewhere
in this vicinity.

And by vicinity, I mean this apartment.

And by prescribed substance,

I mean the 50 bags of coke
I've just hidden here.

They should be here in about ten...

Maybe nine minutes.

So if I were you,

I'd probably do
the first few bags I found,

'cause they're going to be your last.

Fuck! This is what we've come to.

These people are robbing us of meaning

and they have to be stopped.

I borrowed a bit already
from the Foundation

as a loan. I haven't had a chance to
pay it back.

There's a chance I'll be
wading in the brown stuff.

Sally's looking good, isn't she?

Sally's a neighbour.

She's strictly a no-fly zone.
Are we clear on that?

This is nonsense.
I wonder if you'd think that

if suddenly your children
were seized from your home

and tortured and butchered
before your very eyes.