“So, what happens next?” I asked through the lump in my throat.
“You’ll be charged and remanded in custody until the case comes to trial. If they charge you with murder, then you won’t get bail. I’d say you’d be looking at a trial in about three months.” I could feel tears pricking at my eyes, but I didn’t want to start blubbing like a baby in front of Toby.
It was maybe another ten minutes before Malcolm came back into the room, followed again by his sidekick, Gemma. Toby moved back to my side of the table, and I watched as Malcolm started the recording machine up again and went through the motions for the tape. I glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room and could see the red light flashing again. Then I listened as Malcolm charged me with the murder of Robert Wainwright, reading from a sheet of paper. He got to the end and looked at me.
“Do you have anything to say, Gareth?” I shook my head from side to side. “For the tape, please?”
“No,” I whispered. “I don’t have anything to say.”
21
It took three months to get to trial, just as predicted. Three months spent on remand at Norwich Prison. Toby had tried very hard to get me bail, but with the seriousness of the charges hanging over my head, that was never going to happen no matter how much money Andy promised to stump up. Looking back at it now, although being on remand was different from being in a proper prison, I was still locked up. There were more privileges, I had more rights for what that was worth, and I had more visitors. The only problem was that most of the visits were about either me being on trial for murder and how shit my situation was, or preparing for the inevitable long prison sentence after the trial. It was almost as if everyone was preparing me for a long time away, which they were.
As the trial itself approached, I was looking forward to it in a sense. At least it would end the limbo I was in. I would know one way or the other what my future held. The first two and a half weeks in the courtroom went past me in a complete blur. It was almost as if I was watching a film, but one with me as the lead character. I knew just beyond the doors to the courtroom was the heart of the old city. Riverside walks, mediaeval ruins, the world’s supply of churches and a cathedral that even I had to admit was impressive were a few hundred yards away. They might as well have been on the other side of the world for all the good they did me. There was also a fantastic pub just near the courtroom. The Wig and Pen I think it was called. I’d been in there once when I went to court with Tommy to watch him get fined for theft. I can’t for the life of me remember what he’d nicked that time though, it was all so long ago.
I was sitting in the courtroom dressed in a tailored suit that Andy had bought me for the occasion. Either side of me were prison officers, and we waited in silence for my future to be decided by twelve of my peers. The jury was being guided by Judge Watling, the same man who had let Robert Wainwright go with no more than a slap on the wrist. Throughout the trial, the judge had seemed disinterested, almost as if he knew this was an open and shut case and all everyone was doing was going through the motions. At the back of my mind were his closing statements at Robert’s trial when he slammed the legal system that forced him to let Robert go. He still let Robert go, so his statements were meaningless anyway.
The prosecuting lawyer was maybe halfway through her closing statement which had started first thing that morning. I’d spent the previous couple of hours listening to her destroy me and my reputation, not that I had much of a reputation left by then anyway. Miss Revell her name was, with an emphasis on the second syllable but absolutely not the first, was an absolute witch. She had to be in her late thirties, maybe early forties. It was difficult to get a sense of her size given the flowing black robes she was wearing, but my best guess from the look of her hands and face is that she was stick thin underneath them. She had half-moon glasses on her face and she peered over the top of them so often that I wondered what was the point of her wearing them in the first place. Some small tufts of hair poking out from under her wig told me she had blonde hair. No wedding ring. Married to the law perhaps? I looked at her now, scribbling in her notebook as we waited for the jury to come back in after a short coffee break.
The only thing left once she had finished damning me was a verdict from the jury, so I had no idea what she was writing about. On more than one occasion, I’d wished that she was on my side. First thing this morning, once the judge had called the court to order, Miss Revell had got to her feet and torn me apart.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are now approaching the end of my summary, and I will be shortly handing over to my learned colleague in the defence corner.” Her voice was an octave or two lower than it should have been, looking at her. This, along with the crow's feet around her eyes and wrinkled mouth, hinted at a fondness for cigarettes. “They will attempt to persuade you that the defendant didn’t mean to kill Mr Wainwright. Earlier in the week, we discussed the legal definition of murder and the difference between murder and voluntary manslaughter to which the defendant has pled guilty.” I had indeed pled guilty to manslaughter because I had no choice. “But as we discussed, the defendant has admitted planning the attack on Mr Wainwright. He has admitted an elaborate attempt to establish an alibi which failed almost immediately.” She paused and took a breath before continuing. “He has admitted lying in wait for the victim, approaching him when he was defenceless, and striking him with a weapon he had bought specifically for the purpose. Striking him time and time again until Robert Wainwright was dead.” It was all true, apart from the very last part. She didn’t need to be as good as she was, it was almost all true.
“The defence will no doubt focus on the most unfortunate circumstances leading up to the defendant’s decision to do Mr Wainwright harm.” The judge leaned forward slightly as the prosecutor said this, listening to her with a frown. “But these circumstances do not mitigate against the charge of murder. There was no loss of control, no sudden and immediate decision. This was a considered desire for cold revenge, nothing less.” I tuned her out, aware that she was not only crucifying me but also taking apart the defence’s case before they’d even said a word apart from their opening statement. Toby leaned across and whispered in my ear.
“Just relax, Gareth. You’re not helping yourself here. No matter what she’s saying, don’t react at all. That includes the look on your face.” I wasn’t even aware that I had a look on my face, but I attempted to relax.
Toby had been an absolute star throughout the whole of this mess. The lawyer who was doing the talking on my behalf was a partner from Toby’s firm, an older chap closer to the judge’s age than mine. Apparently, Toby was too junior to be the lead, which was something I’d argued against. But I’d lost that argument, overruled by Toby’s boss. I’d not been that impressed with the partner from the opening arguments. He was as dry and boring as he looked, quoting various legal references at the jury until their eyes glazed over. In contrast, the prosecutor was much more animated, and more of a storyteller.
“So, ladies and gentlemen, those are the primary reasons why you must find the defendant guilty of murder.” Miss Revell turned the heat up at the end of her summing up. “You have no choice according to the law of the land, as I’m sure you’re now aware. No matter how compassionate you may be feeling toward the loss of his wife, the law is unequivocal. He has, while of sound mind, unlawfully killed another human being in a premeditated and planned attack. The only option available to you is to find him guilty as charged.” She paused, and even though she had her back to me I knew she was looking each juror in the eye before delivering her final blow. “Of murder.”
I looked over at my defence lawyer as the prosecutor finished her closing statement. He sat with his robes pooled around him, polishing his glasses. To be fair to him, he didn’t have a lot to go on, but he’d spent the previous week trying to prove that I was a broken man. Ruined by the death of my wife, he painted me as a desperate individual, hanging on to my sanity by a slim thread. T
he thrust of his defence was that the sight of Robert enjoying himself on a night out had provoked me to the point of taking action. The routine was pretty much the same for every witness he called. He would question them, try to make his point, and then sit down again while the prosecutor tore to shreds whatever argument he’d been trying to make.
At one point, he was trying to prove how distraught I’d been when Robert was sentenced for his crime. He’d called the previous court usher as a witness and was pointing out I was so upset at the verdict, I’d had to be restrained by Andy and Jacob. When my lawyer had finished, he sat down and the prosecutor got up to ask the usher some more questions.
“Did the defendant say anything when he was being restrained?” she asked in a quiet voice. The usher nodded before speaking.
“Yes, he did,” he replied. I hung my head, not wanting to look at the jury. I knew what was coming. “Your Honour, do you wish me to paraphrase?” I looked up to see the usher looking at the judge, and the judge looking at me with a dour face.
“No, there’s no need,” the judge said, looking down as the usher continued.
“The defendant shouted ‘I’m going to fucking kill you myself, you bastard’. I apologise for swearing, Your Honour.”
I had sat with my head down, not daring to look up at any of the jurors. I imagined them all sitting there, staring at me. Maybe a few of them were shaking their heads in disgust? I raised my head just so that I could see my defence lawyer. He had got to his feet and was standing with his hands on the table, stooped over it and looking down. His mouth opened and closed like a fish before he finally looked up at the judge.
“Does the defence have any more questions for this witness?” Judge Watling asked. The defence lawyer, the man with my life in his hands, looked up at the judge. Even though I couldn’t see his face I could hear the defeat in his voice as he replied.
“No more questions, Your Honour.”
“All rise.”
In response to the court usher’s shrill call to action, I rose to my feet along with everyone else in the courtroom. The two prison officers on either side of me were both smaller than me, and I stooped slightly as I’d been told to do by Toby and his team so I was closer in height to them. Something about being less threatening to the jury.
The door at the back of the courtroom opened and Judge Watling stepped through it, looking around his little empire as he did so. I watched as he settled into his seat, shuffling papers in front of him as he always did. He then looked across at me and nodded. Just as he had done every day we’d been in the courtroom. The first time he’d done it, it’d thrown me. Why had he done that? I asked Toby during a break what it was about, and he’d said it was the judge’s way of recognising the situation I was in. Thinking back to Robert’s trial, I tried to remember if he’d nodded at Robert. I didn’t think he had done, so maybe the judge’s nod was only for those really in the shit.
“Please bring in the jury,” the judge said to the court usher, who hurried away to the back of the courtroom.
It was now lunchtime on Friday, three weeks after the trial had started. The jury had retired to consider the verdict yesterday afternoon, and the judge’s summing up was bleak, to say the least. He didn’t exactly tell the jury to find me guilty of murder, but he might as well have done. There was a real sense of deja vu when he was speaking. I was reminded of the end of Robert’s trial when the judge’s hands were tied by the law. The judge had focused in on the length of time between Robert killing Jennifer, and me killing him, suggesting that it made it difficult to prove that I’d just snapped. There was a lot of talk about intent, with the judge saying that if the jury believed that even if I only intended to cause grievous bodily harm to Robert, then they should return a guilty verdict for the murder charge. I’d followed Robert into an alleyway with a baseball bat. It was obvious to me that this would be seen as intent to cause grievous bodily harm. They only had to find me guilty or not guilty of murder, anyway. I’d already pled guilty to voluntary manslaughter, so if it was not guilty then I’d be sentenced for that charge anyway. No matter what they found, I knew I was going to prison.
I looked at the other side of the courtroom where the jury had filed back in and returned to their seats. Seven men, five women. I’d been watching them enough throughout the trial to work out that while there were some who were sympathetic, most of them weren’t. I didn’t fancy my chances with them no matter how good my lawyer was. The foreman was a hard-looking bloke who’d listened intently from day one. He was the only one who I’d never seen looking bored, tired, or disinterested. He sat there, ramrod straight, taking in every word. I thought he was maybe military from his short haircut and the way he held himself. If he wasn’t on the jury I’d maybe have him down as a copper, but Toby had told me they weren’t allowed to serve on juries.
The judge was in his usual position and looking over the top of his glasses at the jury foreman.
“Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’ the judge asked. “Please answer yes or no.” The foreman nodded in response.
“Yes, we have, Your Honour.”
“What is your verdict? Please answer only Guilty or Not Guilty.” The foreman looked at me before speaking. I sat there, waiting, and I had never heard a more deafening silence in my entire life. It could only have been seconds, but it felt like a lifetime before he replied.
“Guilty.”
22
Three months after I was sentenced, Paul Dewar came to see me for the first time. I was sitting in the recreation room watching television. I’d been transferred here, Her Majesty’s Prison Whitemoor in Cambridgeshire, the same day I’d been sentenced. The prison was Category A, reserved for the worst of the worst. It had been dark by the time the van got here that evening, so I had no idea what the outside of the prison looked like and didn’t really care. I wasn’t going to be looking at it from the outside anytime soon.
The warder had only just reinstated television privileges after a fight between two prisoners over which channel to watch. One of them had wanted to watch Britain’s Got Talent, the other one wanted to watch The Voice. I’d missed the fight itself as when it happened I was just sitting in my cell, not having the slightest bit of interest in either program. By all accounts the fight turned nasty pretty quickly. Blood was spilt. The warder’s rules were clear. Any public disorder offences resulted in punishment for the whole wing. Most of the time this had the desired effect in that it was the wing population that policed itself, but the two prisoners who’d been scrapping were two of the biggest lads on the wing. No-one had fancied getting stuck in the middle of them.
There was a second-rate soap opera playing on the television. I was only watching it for something to do, not because I was that fussed about it, when I was interrupted by one of the prison officers.
“You’ve got a visitor, Mr Dawson,” he said. I looked up, surprised. It was Mr McLoughlin. I didn't know what his first name was, but he was one of the more approachable guards. He was older than most of the guards, maybe mid to late forties, but he had a kinder face than most of them did, and I quite liked the bloke.
“Are you sure? I’m not expecting anyone today.” I didn't really get that many visitors, not helped by the fact Whitemoor was an hour and a half from Norwich on a good day. It was only Andy or Jacob, and occasionally Tommy and David, but I always knew they were coming as they had to book the visits in advance. Big Joe had even been once, but never been back. According to Tommy, he still felt bad about having to roll over to the Old Bill with the phone messages. I’d tried to get a message to Big Joe via Tommy to say I was fine about it, that I would have done the same thing in his position, but he hadn’t been back yet.
“Your visitor’s a lawyer, so we let him in even though he’s not booked in,” Mr McLoughlin replied. “Not from your firm, though. His name’s not on the list.” He handed me a business card. I took it from him, turning it over in my fingers to read it. The card was very
smooth, made from some sort of posh cardboard with a dimpled surface. The text on it read ‘Paul Dewar’ on one line, with ‘Phoenix Trust’ underneath. Both lines were written in a copperplate handwriting font, but as I examined it I could see that it wasn’t from a printer but proper handwriting. That was it. Just a name and a firm. No phone number, no e-mail address, no website.
“You’re sure he’s here to see me?” I asked again. “I’ve never heard of him or the Phoenix Trust.”
“He’s definitely here to see you. Even gave us your prisoner number to make sure he’d got the right guy.” I got to my feet, figuring that talking to someone from the outside was much more preferable than vegetating in front of the television.
“Okay, lead on Mr McLoughlin.”
The prison officer walked me to the visiting area, which was arranged like an examination room in a school, but with seats either side of each desk. He handed me a bright orange vest to put on as we walked through the door. Peeling magnolia paint covered the walls of the visiting area like most of the wing, and signs reminding everyone of the ‘No Touching’ rule were all over the walls. Not that many people took much notice of the rule, anyway. Another of the warder’s punishments was a hard enforcement of this rule, along with strict searches. Everyone knew this dried up the inflow of life’s little essentials on the inside, and it was one punishment that most of the prisoners dreaded. Personally, I wasn’t bothered. I didn’t do drugs and had no real need for anything from the outside world apart from the odd bit of cash to buy more cigarettes with. I was still off the smokes, but they were useful as currency on the inside.
“We had to put him in the visiting area as he’s not on the approved lawyer list,” Mr McLoughlin said, nodding toward a man sitting alone at a desk in the far corner of the room. I looked across at the man who was sitting calmly with his hands crossed on the desk in front of him. A battered leather folio sat by the legs of the table. He seemed completely unfazed by being in a prison.
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