“Nonces? I’m in the same wing as the nonces?” I said.
“They’re not nonces,” Mr Jackson replied. “Well, not all of them are. But you don’t need to worry about them.” He paused, smiling grimly. “I don’t think you’re their type, to be honest. You look like you’d probably fight back pretty hard.” Damn right I would.
“We’re going off track,” Mr Jackson said. “My point is that you’re a target because you’re a Cat A prisoner, and there might be certain individuals in here who might want to make a name for themselves. Be the ‘Top Boy’ as it were.” He was starting to sound like a football hooligan and, looking at the size of him, he’d probably have made quite a good one. I’d have stood behind him on the terraces, back in the old days. Definitely behind him though, not in front.
“Okay, I’ve got that,” I said. “But what do I do?”
“Nothing. You do nothing.” He pointed at me with a stubby index finger. “Keep your head down, and your hands in your pockets.” His forehead creased, and any sense I’d had of him relaxing disappeared in an instant. “You won’t be here for long. In a few weeks, you’ll get sent back to Whitemoor where you belong.” He leaned further forward and pressed his index finger into my solar plexus. I resisted the urge to grab his finger and see how far it would bend backwards until it snapped. That wouldn’t end up well. “Until then, you answer to me. You call me sir. Not gov, not boss. Only sir. Understand?”
I spent the rest of the day in my cell, not really wanting to venture outside. One thing that disappointed me after the conversation I’d had with Mr Jackson was that I wasn’t on my own in the cell. Another problem was that I was starving, having decided not to venture out for scoff. What he had said earlier had rattled me. It was in part the thought of queuing up for food next to someone who might be a paedophile, or having a conversation with someone that started with the usual question ‘what are you in for’ and ended with the word ‘rape’. I didn’t know how I’d handle that, so decided not to find out. Going hungry was a small price to pay, in my opinion.
About ten minutes before the end of social, a shadow appeared at the door of the cell and a man dressed in the standard grey tracksuit walked in. I got to my feet slowly to greet my new cellmate. He was fairly small, at least compared to me he was, and a fair bit older. Anywhere between late thirties and early forties, by my reckoning. He had the face of a heavy smoker, and I caught the smell of roll-ups coming off his faded grey tracksuit. I nodded at him, and he smiled in response, showing me his yellow teeth with gaps between them that were way too big for a toothpick.
“Hello mate,” he said, extending a hand out for a handshake. “You must be my new roomie.”
“Yep, I am. I’m Gareth,” I said. When I shook his hand, he winced, so I relaxed my grip a touch. He looked young for arthritis, but that’s what his fingers felt like.
“I’m Pete,” he replied. “Pleased to meet you.” He followed this up with the standard question. “What you in for?”
“Fifteen for murder. Got sentenced a couple of months ago.” I watched as his smile faltered and he let go of my hand. “I’m here on appeal though. That’s what I got done for, but I didn’t do it. I know everyone says that, but in my case it’s true. How about you?”
“Shouldn’t you be in Cat A?” Pete ignored my question. I smiled, trying to put him at ease.
“I guess they didn’t want to be bringing me here every day from Whitemoor. My trial’s being heard here.”
“Maybe so.” He didn’t look convinced. “You from here then?”
“Yeah, about two miles that way.” I pointed out of the window. I didn't know which direction I was pointing, but it was good enough. “Thorpe St Andrew.”
“Right,” Pete said, turning away and sitting down on his bed. “So, you might be on the out soon then?” He used the standard term for anywhere that wasn’t inside a prison.
“I doubt it. Even if I get through the appeal for murder, they’ve still got me for attempted murder or grievous bodily harm at a minimum.” That’s what Laura had told me, anyway.
“How come?” Pete asked.
I sat on my bed and outlined what had happened. I had nothing to lose by talking to the bloke, it wasn’t as if he could grass me up for anything. He sat there and listened, nodding occasionally. When I got to the part about attacking Robert his eyes widened.
“Mate, that’s not murder,” Pete said. “That’s justice that is, right there.”
“Yeah, that’s not how the system saw it.” I went through the original trial and sentence in a couple of minutes, not wanting to go into any detail.
“Harsh mate,” Pete said when I finished. “Very harsh. Some countries they’d give you a medal for that, so they would.” The sad thing was he was probably right.
“So, what’s it like here then?” I asked him. “I was on remand here, but got shifted to Whitemoor pretty much straight away.”
“Could be worse,” Pete said. “I’ve been here for a year, got four for burglary. There’s the usual crowd of idiots. The youngsters who all want to be the boss, and lags like me who just want a quiet life. The screws aren’t too bad in the main, though. That’s the main thing.” The way Pete spoke told me that this almost certainly wasn’t his first time inside. One thing I knew he was lying about was the reason he was in this wing. Cons who’d been done for burglary didn’t get put in with the vulnerable prisoners.
A while later I was lying on my bed listening to Pete snoring. He’d gone to sleep about two minutes after he’d closed his eyes, which irritated the hell out of me. I tried to ignore the droning and get to sleep, but as usual, I couldn’t. With my hands laced behind my head, I let my mind wander back in time to when life was different. Before Jennifer died. Before I was put away for murder. It didn’t do me any good at all, it never did. I knew it was negative, but I didn’t really have anything positive to think about.
Not anymore.
31
The lawyers’ room in HMP Norwich was a lot nicer than the one in Whitemoor. It was much larger for a start, and it was freshly decorated. Instead of stained grey walls, it was painted in an off-white emulsion and I couldn’t see any graffiti anywhere. Mr Jackson and I were sitting in comfortable armchairs, instead of hard backed plastic chairs, and the table between us didn’t have a single cigarette scar. The room even had a window. You couldn’t see anything out of the window because of the reinforced glass, but it let in natural light which was always a bonus. We were waiting for Laura and Paul to arrive, and Mr Jackson had not said a word since we sat down. He sat opposite me and stared at the wall. That was pretty much the extent of how our relationship had developed in the week I’d been back in Norwich.
Mr Jackson sighed and looked at his watch, making it obvious that he had much better things to do than babysit me. I ignored him. There wasn’t anything I could do about that. After about ten minutes, the door to the lawyers’ room opened and a prison officer who I’d not seen before showed Laura in. There was no sign of Paul.
“Hi, sorry I’m late,” she said, out of breath. “I got caught up in traffic. There was an accident between a bus and a learner driver on Kett’s Hill. They've closed the whole road, and it’s an absolute nightmare.” She was dressed a lot less formally than normal, wearing a pair of jeans and a dark grey sweatshirt with a North Face logo embroidered across the front. Laura had jammed her briefcase under her arm and not for the first time I wondered what was wrong with the handle.
Mr Jackson got to his feet, and Laura took a small step backwards. He towered over her.
“Right then,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.” He looked at Laura and pointed to one of the top corners of the room where there was a small camera with a red flashing light. “We’ll leave that on, seeing as you’re here on your own with him. There’s no sound, but we’ll be watching.” He stared at me to make sure I got the message.
“Paul is on his way. He texted me a minute ago to say he was held up in the same jam.”
Laura looked at Mr Jackson. “Mr Dewar. He’s my boss at the law firm.” Mr Jackson nodded and turned to leave the room. As he walked through the doorway, he had to angle himself a touch to fit through it.
“He’s a big lad,” Laura said with a smile as the metal door banged behind Mr Jackson. I smiled back at her.
“He is, yes,” I replied. “Fine if you like the strong, silent type.” Laura laughed, covering her mouth and dimples with her hand as she did so. She sat down in the chair that Mr Jackson had been sitting in and put the briefcase on the floor next to her.
“So, Gareth,” she said. “Are you happy to be back in Norwich?”
“I am, yes,” I said. “There seems to be a problem with my visitors’ list, though. I spoke to Andy last night.” Laura frowned, and I realised that she didn’t know who Andy was. “Jennifer’s dad,” I explained. Laura’s frown disappeared, and she reached into her briefcase to pull out her notebook and a pen.
“What’s his full name?” she asked.
“Andy Elliott,” I said. “Can I give you the list of all my visitors?” Laura nodded in reply, and I gave her the other names. It was a short list. As well as Andy and Jacob, there was only Tommy and David on it. Laura dutifully scribbled down their names.
“I’ll ask Paul to sort it out for you,” she said. “He should be here in the next few minutes, anyway.” I didn’t tell her I’d already handed in the paperwork three times to Mr Jackson. I couldn’t see the point.
“So, Laura,” I said. If she noticed that I was copying her standard opening words, she didn’t give it away.
“How have you been? How’s Seb?” I asked her.
“Sorry, who?”
“Sebastien,” I replied. “Your boyfriend?” I could have imagined it, but was sure I saw a look of irritation flick across her face.
“He’s fine, we’re fine,” she said. Perhaps I was seeing what I wanted to see?
We chatted for a while, waiting for Paul to arrive. I told Laura about the journey from Whitemoor to Norwich and enjoyed watching her laughing as I told her about the Big Mac and fries. I liked it when she laughed. It wasn’t just the dimples, it was the way that her whole face lit up. One thing that was in short supply both in Whitemoor and Norwich prisons was people laughing, let alone a woman laughing. She was the only female contact I’d had since I’d been arrested, so she could have been twenty stone and a right munter and I’d still have enjoyed watching her laugh.
The sound of the heavy metal door behind her opening made Laura jump. She put her hand to her chest as the door swung open and Paul came through it. I could just see Mr Jackson over Paul’s shoulder. The prison officer was staring at me as he pulled the door closed behind Paul.
“My God,” Laura laughed. “I nearly jumped out of my skin.” I got to my feet to shake Paul’s hand, and to my surprise, he pulled me into a bear hug.
“Gareth, my dear boy,” he said, slapping me on the back. “Good to see you.” Paul smelt of soap and cologne. He released me, stepping back and putting a hand on each of my shoulders. “You’re looking well,” he said. It was nice of him to say that, but I didn’t think I was looking particularly well. Paul, by contrast, looked great. His face was tanned, despite the fact it was November.
“Have you been away?” I asked him.
“Only for a few days,” he replied. “I’m just back from a short golfing trip to Spain.” Very nice, I thought as we both sat down. I knew absolutely nothing about golf, and the idea of chasing a little white ball around a golf course didn’t appeal to me in the slightest.
“I do hope you two youngsters haven’t started without me,” Paul said, looking from Laura to me and back again.
“No, we haven’t,” Laura replied. “We’ve just been catching up.”
“Excellent,” Paul said. “Have you got the file?” Laura reached into her briefcase and pulled out a thick brown file. Written in large capital letters on the top of the file were the words ‘Crown versus Dawson’. Seeing those three simple words written that way brought home how important this all was. It also highlighted the fact that it was me versus a very large system. I looked at Paul and Laura for a few seconds. It wasn’t just me. It was the three of us and the other two members of my team were quite something, even if it was in very different ways. Laura opened the file and took a couple of sheets of paper from it, handing them across to Paul.
“Thank you, Laura,” Paul said as he straightened the pieces of paper on the edge of the table. “Right then,” he said in a businesslike tone. “Let’s get cracking.” I shuffled forward on my chair, eager to hear what Paul had to say. “I thought we would start with the batting order if that’s okay with you?” He looked at me, eyebrows raised.
“That’s fine by me,” I replied.
“So, prosecution goes first, as always. In this case, the first few days of the trial will be a re-hash of the original trial. The jurors will all have to be brought up to speed on the case, and that’ll take a while.” Paul paused, rubbing his hand across his widow’s peak and smoothing back an errant strand of white hair. “You won’t be directly involved in that part though, you’ll only come in to play when the prosecution’s done.” Paul looked across at Laura, who flashed him a brief smile. “It will be very, very tedious. I warn you now. I’ve been through a few of these, and they are as dry as anything. The prosecutor’s main challenge is usually keeping the jury awake.”
“Will there be witnesses, stuff like that?” I asked.
“No, nothing. It’s a read through of the trial,” Paul replied. “The second week is where it will get much more interesting. I’ll lay out my case and start with the first witness. That’ll be you.” I must have looked surprised at this news as Paul asked me whether I’d been expecting that.
“Not really,” I said. I wasn't called as a witness in my original trial, as Toby had thought there was no point. I explained this to Paul.
“Yes,” Paul sighed. “I might have done it differently, but I can see his rationale.”
“I’m not sure I do,” Laura said. Paul glanced at her before replying.
“Well, Wainwright was found dead with head injuries. Gareth had admitted lying in wait and hitting him around the head with a baseball bat. Based on the apparent circumstances at the time, the only difference was between murder or manslaughter. We’re back to the premeditation argument again.” Paul looked at me with a sad expression. “And there was no doubt it was premeditated, was there Gareth?” I avoided Laura’s eyes as I replied.
“Not when you put it like that, no,” I said.
“And of course, whether or not you intended to kill him is irrelevant. You attacked him in a premeditated manner, intending to do him harm, and he died as a result. Saying ‘Yes Your Honour, I did lie in wait and hit him with a baseball bat but didn’t mean to kill him’ isn’t a defence against a murder charge. Hence the murder conviction.” I looked at the floor, still avoiding looking at Laura. It was stupid really, she knew exactly what I’d done, but hearing Paul speak in such blunt terms in front of her made me ashamed.
“The question they would have asked themselves was what benefit they would get from putting Gareth on the stand. They obviously thought there was nothing Gareth could have said that would have helped their case. Have I got that right, Gareth?” Paul asked me.
“Yes, that’s a fair summary, I guess,” I said.
“But this trial is completely different,” Paul said. “This time the question is whether Gareth is innocent of both murder and manslaughter, and in order to prove to the jury he is innocent, we need them to not only see him but to listen to him. To believe him. To believe in him.” Listening to Paul talking that way made me wonder what he would be like in a courtroom, talking to the jury. I had a sneaking suspicion that he would be very good indeed.
“Okay, thanks, Paul,” Laura said. I finally looked up at her to see her looking at me with a wry smile on her face. I attempted to smile back, but my heart wasn’t really in it. Paul continued.
/>
“So, we put you up first. That’s a chance to introduce you to the jury, and to set—”
“Sorry, jury?” I interrupted him. “I didn’t realise that there would be a jury?”
Paul looked at Laura, and I realised that I’d probably dropped her in it again with Paul.
“But it’s a trial, Gareth,” he said. “You can’t have a trial without a jury.”
“I thought judges heard appeals?”
“Well they do, but this isn’t an appeal anymore. It’s a retrial. Has Laura not gone through this with you before I got here?” Laura opened her mouth to reply but I cut her off.
“No, no, she did. But I wanted to wait for you to get here. She started to tell me stuff about the trial, but I asked her to wait until you got here. I just didn’t realise it had gone straight to a retrial, that’s all. Sorry.” Paul looked at me, and it was impossible for me to tell whether or not he’d fallen for it. Despite my time in prison, I was still a sucker for a damsel in distress. To my relief, Paul seemed to swallow the lie.
“Okay, Gareth,” Paul said. “Now Laura here will go through some things with you before the actual trial. Things like body language, the way you speak. When you look at the jury and when you don’t look at them. She’s quite the expert.” He smiled at Laura before continuing. “In terms of what I’m going to ask you, we’ll start off with your relationship with Jennifer. How you met, your life together, that sort of thing. It’s important for the jury to see you in context.” I knew that part would be difficult, but I would have to get through it. “Then, we’ll move onto the night that Jennifer died. I’ll try and make it as painless as possible, but it will be hard for you. We have to do it, though.” Paul paused and looked over at Laura.
“The jury has to see you, Gareth, for who you really are,” Laura continued, and I wondered if they were tag teaming me. “The only thing they know about you when you step into that courtroom is that you’re a convicted murderer. That’s the opinion we need to change so they see you as a victim.” I nodded, staying silent. I understood where they wanted to go, but it would be very painful.
Gareth Dawson Series Box Set Page 21