by Ros Carne
Chapter Thirty-five
Mel
Everything about the room was horribly familiar, the grey metal table and chairs, the flickering strip-light, the hard acoustic.
Two male officers introduced themselves; Mel immediately forgot their names. One, sandy-haired, pasty-faced, not much more than twenty years old, made no contribution to the interview other than turning the tape on and off. The other was a coarse-featured man in his thirties whose flat vowels rasped across Mel’s nerves like nails on a blackboard. She forced herself to focus as he outlined the case against her. Neither of the two friends she had called was available and she wasn’t going to accept any old duty solicitor. Better to manage alone.
‘Aren’t I going to see Natasha’s statement?’ Mel asked.
‘In time,’ said the older man. ‘We’ve told you the main points. The examining doctor takes the view there must have been a degree of force to have resulted in the wound sustained. There is one other thing Miss Baker wanted us to tell you. She’s pregnant. Fortunately, it seems that there is no damage to the baby.’
Pregnant. The word was a slap across the face. What chance did Mel have? Pregnant women were believed. Pregnant women were untouchable. Pregnant women didn’t spit out bitter words. Mel felt the officer’s small eyes boring through her.
‘We’ll be speaking to your mother, Mrs Isabel Goddard.’
‘Please don’t involve her. She won’t cope.’
‘We understand she was an eyewitness.’
‘I don’t know what she saw.’ True. You could never know what another person had seen. But she did remember her mother standing in the doorway, did remember the warning, ‘No, Mel,’ in the moment before the attack. What would Isabel say? Mel felt hot and cold at once as she heard the familiar words: ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may hurt your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘So, I’m being charged?’
‘We’ll hear what you have to say.’
This was the moment. She should confess all. Explain everything. Provocation was no defence, but it was strong mitigation. An early plea meant a lighter sentence. Do it now. Do what you believe in. Bursts of anger were wrong. Violence was wrong. But, worst of all was anger coupled with violence, followed by the relentless drip of dishonesty. For that there could be no redemption.
No damage, the officer had said. How could they be sure? She prayed he was right, though she couldn’t help wondering about the hapless child.
Her story bounced off the hard walls, her language articulate and practised. After a lifetime of public speaking she didn’t know how to sound genuinely troubled. In front of an audience, she was cool, prepared, confident. The worst way to proceed now. But it was all she could do. She had decided before arriving that she would give a broad outline of her actions. Not too much detail. She could refine it later if necessary. She prayed it would not be necessary.
She admitted that she and her pupil were no kindred spirits. There was nothing she could put her finger on. The pupil–supervisor relationship was delicate, particularly when the pupil was older, more experienced than usual. Mel had tried to be fair, but things had not worked out. It happened. Two women who simply didn’t like each other. Different backgrounds. The inherently competitive nature of the Bar.
She held back on the Attendance Note, the email to Paul. With luck she would never need them. If ever she did, a jury would understand why she had kept them back, her desire not to bring up confidential correspondence or unfounded suspicion. A jury. She was already imagining a trial and she hadn’t even been charged. As for Jacob, she couldn’t even utter his name in this vile place. It would be sacrilege. She took a deep breath and continued.
She had met Natasha for coffee in the Dulwich Picture Gallery. Her pupil needed a reference and there were a few matters she, Mel, wished to discuss. During the conversation Mel had referred to her mother, Isabel Goddard, a retired actress who had appeared in a long running soap. It turned out that Natasha was a fan and was eager to meet Isabel. But Isabel had become somewhat reclusive in her old age and Mel was reluctant to arrive with an uninvited guest. Natasha seemed disappointed but Mel thought no more about it until two weeks later.
She had let herself into her mother’s house and was waiting for Isabel to return from an outing. It was hard to describe her feelings when Isabel walked in with Natasha. Mel had been stunned. Not simply that Natasha had chosen to befriend her mother independently. But that she had failed to mention to Isabel that she was her daughter’s pupil. It was duplicitous, inexplicable.
They had been standing in the spare bedroom. An argument arose. As the argument grew heated Natasha had rushed towards her, whether to grab her or hit her it was impossible to say. Natasha was so unpredictable she might even have been intending a conciliatory hug. With appalling luck the poor girl had tripped, probably on one of the many high heeled shoes that were lined up across the carpet. And so, she fell, crashing against the glass edge of the dressing table.
The man’s eyes tunnelled through her. The technique was routine, intended to intimidate. There were rules about what the police could say and do, but there were no rules about their facial expression. It was their final weapon. When he asked for the second time about the relationship with Natasha, she told him she had nothing to add. She had already been open and honest about the difficulties. Anyway, the relationship was irrelevant. What mattered was what had happened in her mother’s spare room last Sunday afternoon and she had already told them what she had witnessed. There was nothing more she could say.
Privately she told herself she would need the support of a good solicitor if the police wished to take this further. She had said too much already. The older officer repeated the date, stated the precise time and declared that he was terminating the interview. The younger man turned off the tape. Mel was free to go.
* * *
She went straight to chambers and handed in Natasha’s phone. She emptied her pigeonhole and went home to prepare her next case. For the next week she threw herself into work, focusing on other lives. At home, at night, her own crashed in, images of blood, of falling, the bleak, grey interview room, swirling panic about the future. Jacob avoided conversation and for once she was glad that he was wrapped up in his separate world. She could only speak in pleasantries, her voice and body in the room with him, her mind elsewhere, circling, ruminating. Just as she was considering whether to ring the police to see how they were progressing with Natasha’s complaint, she was invited to attend the station again.
She was charged with Assault Occasioning Actual Bodily Harm and given police bail with a condition not to have contact with the complainant Miss Natasha Baker. Nor should she speak to any potential witnesses about the case. This included her mother, Mrs Isabel Goddard.
‘I’ll have to speak to my mother. She lives alone. She’s frail, elderly. She depends on me.’
‘You may see her. But you should not speak to her about the events that led to Miss Baker’s injuries.’
She had no choice but to agree and sign the conditions. In a daze she walked out into the busy street, narrowly avoiding a cyclist hurtling across a zebra crossing. She could no longer keep her secret from Jacob but how could she tell him? She might call Claude. He would maintain a barrister’s detachment, clicking into professional mode, even when dealing with the mother of his son. She carried on walking in the direction of chambers. It was almost noon. Perfect. Most of the tenants would be in court or working from home. Her heart was thumping as she entered the clerks’ room.
‘Hi, Andy.’
‘Hi, Mel,’ said Andy. ‘Everything OK? Haven’t seen you for a bit.’
‘Sort of. It’s kind of complicated. I’ll need a couple of days off court. I hope that’s not too inconvenient for you. I just wanted to pick up a few things and check my pigeonhole.’
‘Sure. Two new care cases came in for you
yesterday. Natasha had an injury. Did you hear?’
‘Yes. I did. Poor girl.’ He looked as if he wanted a chat. She smiled and said, ‘Catch up later?’ as she headed to the computer room, the room where three months ago, Natasha had scanned her emails. It was empty. She sat down. Voices clamoured in her head.
‘Plead not guilty. You need to keep working.’
‘Plead guilty. How can you stand up in court again?’
‘Everyone in chambers will know about the charge.v
‘The media will love it.’
‘What will you tell Jacob?’
Just as she felt as if her head would explode, she remembered the advice her own pupil supervisor had given her more than twenty years ago. Take it slowly. Stage by stage. Law is only a form of common sense. No magic in it. It’s problem solving. Like life. And don’t forget to breathe.
For long minutes she sat alone, breathing, trying to empty her mind. Then she opened her eyes, picked up the phone and asked the receptionist to put her through to her head of chambers, Jeremy Troughton, QC. It was time to go public.
Chapter Thirty-six
Mel
Bridge Court was not a wealthy set of chambers and even its head, a busy QC with a large murder practice, had only a small room to himself. The window looked out over a tiny sunken courtyard. Its very modesty brought up a tangle of emotions.
Jeremy Troughton QC stood up when Mel entered, inviting her to sit in the leather upholstered chair facing him, the one usually occupied by clients. She felt herself trembling as she sat down.
He was the only member of chambers who met the public’s fantasy of what a barrister should look and sound like: the stern gaze, the head of thick grey hair swept back from a high forehead, the deep public-school voice. He asked how he could help, and she outlined her edited version of what had occurred.
He listened attentively and, as she spoke, the enormity of her possible loss punched her heart. She had been a tenant in this place for twenty years, a pupil here when a small group of high-minded criminal and family barristers had broken away from another set to focus on Legal Aid work. Some of those people were now taking on private work to survive and, like most chambers, it had grown. At that stage there had been only eight of them. Now there were more than fifty.
Bridge Court was her second home, her other family. After Claude left her, it had been a comfort to walk in from the hurly burly of London courts to meet fellow tenants in the scruffy communal kitchen for a cup of tea. They would compare notes about judges, opponents, solicitors. When everything had changed at home, it was a place holding some sense of continuity. Increasingly her colleagues worked remotely, and she missed the chambers’ companionship. But it was still there if you looked for it. There was usually someone around to bounce off the latest case law or, more likely, court gossip.
‘Speak to the Bar Standards Board,’ said Jeremy. ‘Self-report before anyone else passes it on. Natasha’s solicitor might have contacted them already. They’ll want details immediately but they’re unlikely to act while there’s a trial pending. As to work, unless and until they say otherwise, it’s up to you.’
‘I don’t see how I can carry on. Natasha’s still here. I’m not allowed any contact with her. She’s got another two months of pupillage to complete. After that she might want to squat.’
‘Paula’s offered to take her on as a pupil. And there’s no need for you to meet. I’ll speak to the clerks. Just let them know if you’re planning to come in. As for squatting, I don’t think that would be wise.’
‘She might have a job with CPS. I wasn’t prepared to write a reference but I expect someone will.’
Jeremy lowered his eyebrows. His thin mouth tightened. It was impossible to read his thoughts.
‘I’ll have a word with Donald.’
‘Tresiger?’
Donald Tresiger was Director of Public Prosecutions and had overall responsibility for the CPS. A word in his ear would surely assist Natasha’s recruitment. It crossed Mel’s mind that in several other countries a word in Tresiger’s ear could lead to the CPS dropping the charge, but this was the English legal system, revered throughout the world for its honesty and integrity.
‘The same. We were at Magdalen together. I’m sure he can sort it.’
Difficult as it was to accept that Natasha might get away with her sickening behaviour, Mel couldn’t help feeling that a job with the CPS might be the best way to shut her up, the best way to put a brake on her reckless conduct. The image of Jacob’s naked body rose in her mind. Natasha must know that Mel would not hold back if the photos were posted to the world. For the first time in her life, Mel was grateful for the old boys’ network.
‘No point in you leaving immediately. It’ll be months till trial.’
‘They may want to expedite matters because of the pregnancy.’
‘Well, we’re not going to ask you to go. As far as Bridge Court is concerned, you’re innocent until proved guilty. I won’t go into Natasha’s motivations. That’s a matter for your legal representative. Mel, you know as well as I do that a barrister’s trained to keep calm in a storm. When the going gets tough the tough get going and so forth. Apply it to yourself and you’ll be fine. I’d be surprised if it goes as far as trial. Any witnesses?’
‘My mother.’
‘Perfect. She’ll back you up. They’ll drop it.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Have you thought who you’ll use if it gets that far?’
‘Maybe Alisha.’
‘Good choice. I imagine she’ll do it pro bono.’
‘I hope so.’
Alisha Mehta had recently left Bridge Court for a more prestigious, human rights set. She was highly regarded and, having moved on from Bridge Court, she would be able to represent Mel without any suggestion of special interest.
‘You’ve a son, haven’t you?’ As Jeremy asked about Jacob, she saw another, softer, side to her head of chambers and remembered that Jeremy too had a son, a wayward lad with drug problems.
‘Yes, Jacob. He’s just sixteen.’
‘You’ll need to keep working.’
‘If it’s all right with you I’ll do what’s in my diary for the next two months. After that I’d prefer to take a sabbatical till it’s all over.’
‘Your decision. If it helps, I’m on the board of the Barristers’ Benevolent. You could always apply for funds to tide you over.’
‘I’ll be OK.’
‘You should prepare a statement for your solicitors. I’ll happily look it over for you. Natasha might have put something on social media.’
‘I expect she has. I don’t intend to hide anything. I’ll do what you advise. Whatever happens I’ll lose work.’
‘You’d be surprised. Solicitors and clients like a bit of excitement. After an acquittal your practice will bounce back. You’ll soon make up for the lost time.’ He stood up, ending the interview. ‘Thank you for coming to see me, Mel. I know we barristers can seem wrapped up in our own work. But Bridge Court has always had a heart. We all support you. Stay strong.’
He held out his hand. She took it and he placed his other hand on top of hers. The eyes that had seemed stern were now warm and kind. A lump rose in her throat. It occurred to her that if Bridge Court was her second family, Jeremy was the father she had lost.
Part Three
February
Chapter Thirty-seven
Mel
‘Good to see you again, Mel,’ said Alisha, smiling, her lovely dark eyes glinting through her heavy spectacles. It was February. There were two weeks to go before the trial and Mel hadn’t seen Alisha since the previous September. A fortnight’s window was nothing unusual, but the trial felt terrifyingly close. Alisha was busy with a successful practice and this was the first date that could be arranged. Mel’s savings were dwindling fast, but there was no way she would be granted Legal Aid. She was profoundly grateful to Alisha for agreeing to represent her for no fee.
‘Y
ou’re very kind to do this.’
‘You’d do the same for me.’
Mel smiled, unable to imagine the tables turned. She looked about her. Alisha had done well. Much as Mel loved her own chambers, Kings Bench Walk was in a different league. She thought about the threadbare carpets on the upper floors of Bridge Court, the ancient fittings in the kitchen and toilets, the references to premises at chambers’ committee meetings and the inevitable conclusion that refurbishment was more than they could afford. By contrast, King’s Bench Walk had an air of understated prosperity with its polished wood panelling, soft grey carpet, and recently painted walls.
From her seat next to Alisha’s desk, Mel could see through a window to the tops of plane trees, jagged fingers against a winter sky. If she walked over to the window, she guessed she would have been able to pick out the roofs and chimney pots of Middle Temple Lane, the distant outline of the London Eye and the curve of the muddy river as it swept towards Waterloo and Westminster. But the view was for the benefit of the barristers who worked here. She was a client now, waiting for the difficult questions.
On the few occasions they had defended together, Mel had studied Alisha’s measured court manner. Her own style was, she suspected, more animated. It was difficult to gauge. Colleagues would not necessarily tell the truth if asked for a critique. The chambers’ website published a few reviews. She had checked yesterday and the reviews were still there:
‘Melanie Goddard manages to combine professional detachment with a deep compassion for the family client.’
‘If you want a barrister who cares, go for Mel Goddard.’
‘Sharp on the law, and sharp on her opponent, Mel Goddard is much more than a safe pair of hands.’
As agreed with Jeremy, she had completed the important cases in her diary, avoided going into chambers and ceased working in early October. It had been four months now and solicitors who asked for her were told she was on ‘sabbatical’. It was the first time since her maternity break after Jacob’s birth that she had taken more than two weeks off work.