“Ladies and gentlemen, if it pleases the court I would like to establish some facts.” He paced slowly up and down in front of the jury as he continued speaking. “It is a fact that my client, Gareth Dawson, planned an attack on Mr Robert Wainwright in May of this year. It is a fact he struck Mr Wainwright with a baseball bat. It is a fact he attempted to mislead the police following the attack.” Every time Paul said the word ‘fact’, he raised his voice and emphasised it with a gentle punch of his right hand into the palm of his left. It was a very effective mannerism, and one which I was sure was well practised. Paul stopped pacing halfway along the jury’s bench. He looked across at me briefly before continuing. “And finally, it is a fact he was convicted of murder by twelve men and women just like you in this very courtroom. They found that Gareth Dawson had murdered Robert Wainwright, and they were certain of that fact beyond…” The final three words of his sentence were delivered with an exaggerated pause between them. “All. Reasonable. Doubt.
If I may, I would like to focus in on the last part of that sentence. All reasonable doubt.” Again, the same pause between the words. “That is the standard of proof which must be upheld in order for this murder conviction to stand. Now, an appeal such as this is normally launched within twenty-eight days of the original conviction. In order for an appeal to be heard outside that twenty-eight-day window, there are certain criteria which must be fulfilled. One of those criteria is, and I quote from the legal text itself, new and compelling evidence.”
Paul walked back to the defence table and picked up one of the files that Laura had placed there earlier. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Paul said as he stood a few feet in front of the jury’s bench. “I do not believe Gareth Dawson killed Robert Wainwright.” He raised the manila file in his hand. “I do not believe Gareth Dawson could have killed Robert Wainwright, and the evidence which I will present to you over the next few days will leave you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, with exactly the same belief. And if you do not believe Gareth Dawson killed Robert Wainwright, if you have any doubt whatsoever that it was not him but somebody else, then it is your duty to find him not guilty of murder and to quash his conviction.”
I looked at the jury. He had them eating out of his hand. The third juror, Ella with the brightly coloured floral dress, was fascinated by the manila folder in Paul’s hand. I had no idea what was in the folder. It could have been this morning’s newspaper for all I knew, but Paul used it as a prop to great effect. He tapped the folder with his free hand, drawing the rest of the jury’s attention to it. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is not even a case of beyond all reasonable doubt. It is a case of having no doubt at all that Gareth Dawson, the young man sitting over there, is innocent of murder.” He paused in front of them for maybe ten seconds, almost as if he was expecting any of them to ask him a question or perhaps challenge him in some way. He walked back towards the defence table, pausing to nod at the judge as he passed him. “Thank you, Your Honour,” he said. As he walked towards the table, Paul looked at me and gave me the briefest of winks.
The rest of his face remained deadpan as he took his seat.
33
The first week of the trial was, just as Paul had said it would be, a complete run through of the original trial. As Miss Revell talked them through it, all the jurors were given a large black folder with a number on the front, identical to the ones that the man and the woman sitting behind the lawyers had. Within the folders, it soon became obvious, was a complete transcript of the trial right down to copies of the original crime scene photographs. Before the prosecutor got into the meat of the case, she made a short speech about what the purpose of her presentation was. It was simple. The point of it was for me to be found guilty all over again.
I watched the jurors as they flicked through the folders. Mark, who was the closest juror to me in terms of age and size, glanced up at me a couple of times as he leafed through the pages but none of the others looked at me, concentrating instead on the contents of the folders.
“If you could turn to page three of your folders,” Miss Revell said to them, “we’ll start with the statements of those witnesses who were not called to the trial.” Within minutes, I was bored and this boredom increased tenfold over the next few days. Not because I’d heard it all before, and it wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in what was happening, it was just that Miss Revell was going through the entire folder. Page by page, line by line, almost word by word.
The court soon settled into a routine for those first few days. Miss Revell would start the day with a recap of what had been covered the day before, and then the jurors would turn to whichever page they were starting on that day. Then they were led through it like a school class being walked through a Shakespeare play, with Miss Revell playing the part of the teacher. Every so often she paused the narrative to explain one of the finer points to the jurors even though it wasn’t clear whether or not they understood it. Paul wasn’t joking when he’d told me it would be tedious. The only things that punctuated the days were the breaks for lunch and the occasional coffee break when the judge thought the jury was flagging. The public gallery, full on the first day of the trial, got emptier and emptier until by the end of the week there was no-one left. Even Andy and Jacob had found better things to do. Every evening, the judge dismissed the jury, and I was taken straight back to the prison just as Paul had told me I would be. By the time I’d had scoff at the prison, I was exhausted. They were long days, just sitting in a courtroom watching other people reading.
The worst day, or at least the worst day from my perspective, was the Thursday. This was the day that the prosecutor walked the jury through the attack on Robert. As it had done at the first trial, it sounded pretty bad. How I’d planned the whole thing right down to the last detail. What made it worse was that it was all true. The pre-meditation behind the attack on Robert was laid out to the jury with no gloss whatsoever. There was no way it could be sugar-coated, and that wasn’t the intention of the prosecutor anyway. Throughout the entire piece, I kept my head down even though I could feel the eyes of the jury on me. I looked up at Paul and Laura a couple of times, and Laura gave me a brief smile at one point, but that was the only positive thing about the whole day.
By Friday lunchtime, I’d had enough. The prosecutor had just finished describing the moment that the original jury had come back with their guilty verdict. It was about the most animated that she’d been for the entire week, and about the only time she showed any degree of showmanship. I guessed that for the rest of the week she hadn’t felt the need to, but on Friday morning, she put on an affronted air as she told the new jurors how their predecessors had found me guilty. Not only had they found me guilty, she told the new jury, but the verdict was unanimous.
“The jury from the last trial, ladies and gentlemen,” Miss Revell had said, “they came back with their verdict, their unanimous verdict, within two hours. That is how certain they were that this man,” she waved a bony finger in my general direction without looking at me. “That this man was guilty of murder.”
I spent the journey back to Norwich prison that evening deep in thought. The jury would be thinking about that last day for the entire weekend which must have been why Miss Revell had finished on what for me was a very negative note. I tried to shake myself out of it, but I couldn’t help go over it in my head. By the time I got out of the van and back into the prison, I was in a foul mood. Mr Jackson led me back to my cell without us exchanging a single word. My cellmate, Pete, was nowhere to be seen although it didn’t take me long to work that one out. To be honest, I was pleased that Pete wasn’t about. With almost an hour of social time left, I hoped that I’d have some peace and quiet. Being on display all day, consciously thinking about every movement I made or expression I wore, was exhausting. As I sat down on my bed, I saw something on the pillow. It was a postcard, picture side down with no writing on the side I could see. I picked it up and flipped it over, and my heart dropped.
I’d
never been to Romania, but the postcard I was holding had the text ‘Grüße aus Rumänien’ written across it in a gothic looking font. There were four pictures on the front, one in each quadrant of the postcard, and as I looked closer at it I could see that they were hand drawn scenes of landmarks I didn’t recognise. Two of them were churches of some sort, and the other two were just random tourist areas. I flipped the card over, my heart thumping in my chest, but there was nothing written on the other side apart from the text which told me what the landmarks were. There didn’t need to be anything written on the card for me to get the message, though. It was pretty clear. Grezja knew exactly where I was.
I jumped as Pete walked into the cell, and I almost dropped the card on the floor.
“Alright mate?” Pete said in his heavy smoker’s drawl. “How did today go?” I looked at him, my eyes wide. He faltered when he saw my expression. “Er, you okay?”
“What’s this?” I took a step towards him, waving the card in his face. “Some sort of sodding joke? Who got you to put this on my pillow?” Pete took a step back toward the cell door as his gaze flicked from my face to the card and back again.
“I don’t know nothing about it, mate,” he said. “It was on your bed when I got back from scoff earlier. I left it there for you. Never even touched it, honest.” I doubted that, but it didn’t matter. I looked at Pete and saw real fear in his eyes. Realising that I was scaring him, I put my hand out, palm down.
“It’s alright mate, sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “It just put the frighteners on me, that’s all.”
“But it’s only a postcard,” Pete replied, relaxing. “That’s all it is, a postcard. There’s not even anything written on it, it’s just a bunch of old buildings.” I sat down on the bed and took a deep breath. How did he know it was pictures of buildings if he’d not touched it? I told myself that it didn’t matter, so what if he had picked it up and looked at it? It changed nothing.
“It’s a long story mate,” I sighed.
Pete sat down on his bed, and we faced each other. I held my head in my hands and thought for a few minutes. What did I have to lose by talking to him? When I finally realised that the answer to that question was absolutely nothing, I told him the full story of the visitors to my cell back at Whitemoor. The money that Robert owed and the transfer of the debt over to me. The full story took maybe ten minutes, and Pete remained silent throughout.
“What do you think?” I said when the full story was done. Pete looked at me, frowning and playing with a piece of skin on one of his nails. He took a few moments to reply.
“I think it’s bollocks,” he finally replied, his watery blue eyes staring at me. “It makes no sense. You don’t owe them anything. Just because you killed the bloke that did, that doesn’t make sense.”
My eyebrows went up before I had a chance to consider my reaction.
“I mean, just because they think you killed him,” Pete continued quickly. “I’m not saying you did, I know you didn’t because you said so. But I mean, not being funny like, you got done for killing him. That’s what they’ll think, isn’t it?”
“It’s okay, I get you,” I sighed. “It doesn’t seem to matter to them, whether I’m innocent or guilty that is.” Pete nodded as I said the word innocent, but stopped nodding when I got to the guilty word.
“Can’t you talk to them?” Pete nodded his head toward the door.
“Who? The screws?” I replied.
“Yeah,” he said. “Why not?”
“What can they do?” I thought about Mr Jackson. He might be a big lad, but I didn’t think even his size could help me with my problem.
If this gang could just walk into my cell unchallenged in a Category A prison like Whitemoor, finding me here would be a piece of cake.
34
“I swear by Almighty God, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I spoke as clearly as I could before I handed the battered Bible back to the court usher. He was standing next to the witness stand with his hand outstretched like a homeless person begging for money. As I put the Bible in his hand, I wondered how many people had said those same words and of those people, how many of them had actually meant them. I hadn’t been in a church for years, so the words themselves didn’t mean that much. The sentiment behind them was something else, though. As I sat back down, I looked around the courtroom. It was Monday morning, and I’d had a crap weekend, wondering if I’d get another visit to my cell. Pete was a nice enough lad, but he didn’t strike me as a fighter.
Laura pushed her chair back so she was sitting away from the defence table. I shook my head from side to side, trying to concentrate. The next few minutes, few hours perhaps, would be vital and I couldn’t afford to get this bit wrong. Paul got to his feet, taking his time and shuffling pieces of paper into some sort of order. I looked again at Laura. She had her left hand on her leg, hidden from everyone except me and the prison officers, except they were paying no attention at all. She extended three fingers across her upper thigh. Juror number three. That was Ella, who today was wearing the same dress she had on the first day of the trial. Loud as anything, bright red and covered in ugly blue flowers. Perhaps she had a dress for each day, and just rotated them?
Laura changed her hand into a fist and then put her fingers and thumb across her leg followed by her index and middle finger. Juror number seven, Albert, the old guy with the stick. I watched as she repeated the movements to give me juror number six, who was a tiny woman I’d nicknamed Minnie as she reminded me of a mouse. She was a small tousled haired woman, maybe mid-thirties, who looked as if she would cry if anyone spoke to her. She was sitting next to Albert, skinny arms folded across a non-existent chest, and I watched as Albert leaned over and whispered something in her ear. These three jurors were the ones I should play to during the first part of Paul’s questioning. These were the ones that Laura thought would be most affected by this stage, so they were the jurors I should concentrate on. I sat in the witness box, running a finger around my shirt collar, which was tighter than it had been earlier. I could feel a trickle of perspiration making its way down my back, and every time I moved I could smell my own sweat.
“Mr Dawson, Gareth,” Paul said in a sombre voice. “What I would like to explore this morning is your relationship with Jennifer, your wife.” Across the courtroom, the prosecutor got to her feet.
“I must object, Your Honour. How is this relevant?” she said.
“Really? Your honour?” Paul said. “I’ve only just—”
“Yes, thank you, Mr Dewar,” Judge Watling said, cutting Paul off. “Miss Revell? Please proceed?”
“Your honour,” the prosecutor replied. “I fail to see how Mr Dawson’s relationship with his wife has any bearing on his innocence or guilt in this matter.”
“Mr Dewar?” Judge Watling looked at Paul, who was looking affronted.
“Your honour, my client’s relationship with his wife defines him, it is at the core of his nature. To even attempt to re-try this case without considering this relationship will do him a grave injustice indeed.”
“I agree,” the judge said after thinking for a few seconds. “Please do continue.” Miss Revell sat back in her chair, expressionless. I couldn’t tell whether she was annoyed at losing the opening skirmish or not.
“Thank you, Your Honour. Now please, Gareth, could you tell us about the night you met your wife, Jennifer?” Paul said.
I glanced up to look at Andy and Jacob in the public gallery before I told the jurors my story. Starting with the night that Jennifer and I had met, I told them all about the first time I met Robert Wainwright. As I spoke, my gaze flitted between Ella, Albert, and Minnie, as instructed by Laura. I turned to face the jury, and I told them all about the first time that Jennifer and I met. How she and Robert came into the pub I was drinking in and how they then ended up in an argument outside.
“Gareth, if I may ask. Why did you intervene in their discussion? It had nothing to do with y
ou, surely?” Paul asked, as I knew he would. We’d been through his outline script, so I knew the direction he was heading in.
“I’m not sure, I’ve asked myself that so many times you wouldn’t believe it.” I continued, shifting my attention to Minnie. “She looked like she needed my help, and I didn’t want her to get hurt.”
“Was there any suggestion that Mr Wainwright would hurt Jennifer?” Paul asked.
“I didn’t know, but I wasn’t going to take the chance.”
“Did you assault Mr Wainwright that first evening you met Jennifer?” I remembered my hand around Robert’s neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Laura’s hand move on her leg. Glancing down, I saw four fingers extended across her thigh.
“We had words,” I lied, not thinking I’d burn in Hell for that small one. “I may have got in his face, but I didn’t hit him, or hurt him.” My attention shifted to juror number four, Mark. The closest one to me in terms of age and size. He was fiddling with a wedding ring on his left hand as I caught his eye. “I wanted him to leave Jennifer alone, that was all. That’s what most men would have wanted to do, I guess.” I looked back across at Minnie, who was sitting with a thin hand clutched to an equally thin chest, her jaw slightly open. Laura was good, there was no denying that. Minnie looked just like a woman who needed a big strong lump like me to protect her.
“Gareth?” Paul said.
“Sorry,” I replied, breaking my gaze away from Minnie. I was drained already. Talking about Jennifer, back in the early days, had taken more out of me than I’d thought it would.
“Your Honour,” Paul said, looking up at Judge Watling. “May I suggest a recess for lunch? I’m intending on going through what I suspect may be a particularly hard part of my client’s testimony next, so perhaps starting after lunch may be better.” I saw the prosecutor roll her eyes in response, but Judge Watling didn’t appear to agree with her.
Gareth Dawson Series Box Set Page 23