Queen of Green (Queen of Green Trilogy Book 1)

by V E Rooney

  “That’s correct,” says cuzzie bitch, looking a bit impatient herself.

  “Does Mr Kurulcik speak English, Miss Carter?” says Jenkins.

  Cuzzie bitch goes to speak, hesitates, frowns and speaks anyway. “He spoke some English.”

  “I see,” says Jenkins as she continues to flick through the sheath of papers. “What language did you converse in, Miss Carter? What language did you use to communicate your request to Mr Kurulcik?”

  Cuzzie bitch starts to shift about in her seat. “I spoke with him in German.”

  “Ah, German. Are you fluent in German, Miss Carter?” says Jenkins, her eyes beginning to sparkle a little bit.

  “I would say I’m reasonably fluent.”

  “Reasonably fluent. Define reasonably, Miss Carter.” Jenkins is standing with her arms folded in front of cuzzie bitch. Cuzzie bitch starts looking around the court room.

  “I would…I would say that I am intermediate to advanced,” cuzzie bitch stammers.

  Jenkins steps forward. She can smell blood.

  “Intermediate to advanced. And do you think that is a sufficient level of fluency to interrogate someone about an incident of this scale? An incident of this gravity, Miss Carter? Did you not consider at any point during your interrogation of Mr Kurulcik that you may need the services of an interpreter?”

  “I…I…this was a live operation…I…we didn’t have time to do that. I was confident that…”

  “Are you aware, Miss Carter,” says Jenkins, slowly, for effect, “that Mr Kurulcik is not fluent in German? Certainly not to your level of…fluency.” Jenkins is circling for the kill. I can sense it. Cuzzie bitch is stammering again.

  “Mr…Mr Kurulcik has lived in Germany for 10 years. I…”

  “Time of residency is irrelevant, Miss Carter. His level of language proficiency, I can assure you, is most assuredly relevant. Miss Carter, did you ascertain at any point during your interrogation of Mr Kurulcik his level of fluency in German?”

  “I…I…we were conversing in German. He gave comprehensive answers to the questions I asked him. There is no doubt in my mind that he understood what I was saying to him.” Cuzzie bitch sits back in the stand. She’s not going to let Jenkins steamroller over her like this.

  “Miss Carter. What is the German for ‘I will remand you into custody’? Could you impress the court with your German fluency, please?”

  Cuzzie bitch is still stammering, but she gives a German phrase.

  For a second, I swear I see Jenkins trying to stifle a laugh but she recovers. “Oh dear, Miss Carter. Oh dear indeed. Miss Carter, that is not the correct German for, ‘I will remand you into custody’. That is the German for ‘I will send you to prison’.” Jenkins is doing that crossed-arms things again. She’s got something here. She’s definitely got something.

  Cuzzie bitch goes to speak in German again but she’s faltering. “It means…it means the same thing. I…”

  Jenkins cuts her off. “No, Miss Carter. It most assuredly does not mean the same thing. The phrase, ‘I will send you to prison’ is definitive, is it not, Miss Carter? It tells the listener that they will go to prison. Not that they may go to prison. That they will go to prison. Is it not the case, Miss Carter, that Mr Kurulcik interpreted your poor grasp of the German language as you telling him that he was most definitely going to prison? Is it not the case, Miss Carter, that Mr Kurulcik, with his poor grasp of German, could have reasonably interpreted your statement as him being sent to prison? Without legal representation? Without a trial?”

  “Look, I…I didn’t mean that he would be sent to prison. I meant that he would be remanded in Police custody until…”

  “Regardless of what you meant, Miss Carter, that is not what you said. And that is what is at stake here, is it not? That you threatened an already terrified man, a man who has already fled persecution in his home country, with immediate imprisonment? Is that not the case, Miss Carter?” Jenkins looks like she’s about ready to throttle cuzzie bitch for her poor language skills.

  Cuzzie bitch looks like she’s about ready to combust. She knows she’s fucked up. She dries up. She’s looking at her fellow cuzzies in the benches, who are all whispering and muttering something to each other. They don’t look like happy bunnies, put it that way.

  “And that is not the only thing with which you threatened Mr Kurulcik, is it, Miss Carter?” says Jenkins, moving even closer to the stand. “Is it not a fact that you also threatened Mr Kurulcik with deportation to his country of origin, Turkey? Is that not a fact, Miss Carter?”

  By the look on cuzzie bitch’s face, she wishes a bomb would go off in this court room right now. Some of her colleagues in the benches drop their heads – a couple even hold their heads in their hands.

  “I…I…” cuzzie bitch stammers again.

  “Did you or did you not tell Mr Kurulcik that you had the power to tell the German authorities to deport Mr Kurulcik to his country of origin which is Turkey? Since when do you have the authority to order the deportation of a foreign national, who is a foreign resident of a foreign country, Miss Carter? Do you have that authority? I rather think that is overstepping the remit of your employment, is it not? Do you work for the Home Office immigration department? Are you in charge of deporting foreign nationals from this country, or indeed foreign nationals from foreign countries? Do you have that authority, Miss Carter?”

  “No, of course not. I meant…”

  “Were you aware, Miss Carter, that Mr Kurulcik fled Turkey after members of his family were tortured in Turkey by the political regime at that time? And that he fled Turkey for Germany, fearful that the same would happen to him? Were you aware of that, Miss Carter?” Jenkins bellows at cuzzie bitch.

  “No…I…”

  “And you threatened to deport him back to Turkey, did you not, Miss Carter?”

  Cuzzie bitch looks like she wants to throw up. I don’t blame her. I almost feel sorry for the cunt.

  So the gist of that is that Jenkins destroys cuzzie bitch in the dock. Basically pegs her as feeding the lorry driver all sorts of shit that she couldn’t possibly back up, entrapment on her part and all that. Even though Cotterill is jumping up and down every five seconds trying to do the objection thing, lady judge is having none of it. And then it gets better.

  It’s time for Jenkins to bring out the Customs surveillance photo of Richie and I sat in the car outside Felixstowe docks. Cotterill has already confirmed with cuzzie bitch that she can identify both Richie and I in the photo, it was taken from a distance when Richie and me were parked in the lorry station. Jenkins shows cuzzie bitch the photo again. Now, this photo was taken with a long-distance lens while our lorry driver was getting turned over inside Felixstowe port. There’s no mistaking Richie sat in the driver’s seat, but because it was raining that day, I still had my hood up – I’d just gone to the toilet, see, and I’d put my hood up on the way back to the car. And you can’t see my face in this photo because it’s mostly obscured by the hood.

  “Can you identify the female occupant in this photo, Miss Carter?” Jenkins asks.

  “Yes. That is Alison Reynolds, the defendant,” cuzzie bitch says, throwing me a sideways glance. Jenkins frowns.

  “Are you sure, Miss Carter? Because it’s not clear to me at all. The person in this photograph is wearing a hood, which obscures their face. How can you be so sure that this is Alison Reynolds?” Jenkins asks, cocking her head to one side. Oh, I could jump down from the dock and dry-hump Jenkins right now.

  “Well, when we compared the surveillance material we had with the Police surveillance material, we…”

  “That is not what I asked you, Miss Carter,” Jenkins says. “Had you had any foresight of what Alison Reynolds looked like before this photo was taken? How can you be so sure that the woman in this photograph is my client?”

  Cuzzie bitch is stammering again.

  “Look…the woman in this photo? Same height, same build as the woman in the Police phot
os.”

  “Miss Carter, I am positive that there are several million women in this country that have the same height and build as my client. Let me rephrase my question. Can you identify Alison Reynolds in this photograph?” Jenkins asks firmly, enunciating every word slowly like cuzzie bitch is hard of thinking. Cuzzie bitch hesitates.

  “Not clearly, no. But…”

  “No further questions, my lady,” Jenkins says to the judge before turning on her heel and walking back to the defence desk. Cuzzie bitch goes to say something else but the judge stops her. Both the Police and Customs are sat in the benches looking like their bowels are slowly sliding out of their arseholes.

  And when the Police surveillance photos are under scrutiny, it just so happens that the shots they got of Richie and me at Burtonwood are not much better. The way we were positioned in the car park of Burtonwood meant that my side of the car was partially obscured by an overhanging tree branch. You can see me crouching down in the passenger seat with the binoculars up to my face but the rest of my face is obscured by the tree branch. Thank you, God. And the Police can’t say for sure that it’s me either. The outfit I was wearing in that photo? Long since disposed of and the Police raid on my flat turned up nothing similar.

  I try to quell the optimism that’s gradually building within me. It could still all go tits-up. Don’t get your hopes up, Ali. That way you won’t be disappointed when you get handed a 20-year stretch.

  It’s Richie’s turn to get grilled on the witness stand. He gets led into the court and he won’t look at anything except his shoes. I can hear Sean stiffening up beside me and I know Sean will be glaring at Richie non-stop. The crew lads sitting in the public gallery at the back of the court are doing the same thing. It’s bad enough that he’s turned grass on us, and now he’s about to betray all of us in the worst possible way.

  Richie goes through the rigmarole of confirming who he is. Roper starts his routine of teasing the juicy stuff out of him. Asking him how he knows Sean and all that, trying to show the court that Richie and Sean are tighter than brothers and that because of that, Richie would have knowledge of the shipment. But Richie is being evasive. Saying things like he might have met Sean on a few occasions but can’t be sure, saying that if there was any plan to smuggle drugs into the country, he knows fuck all about it. The prosecution QCs are frowning at him and then each other. He’s not following the script they gave him. I can see the lads at the back of the court nudging each other and whispering. Something’s up.

  Then Roper shows Richie the surveillance photos of when Richie and I were at the Felixstowe lorry park and at Burtonwood Service Station.

  “Can you identify the woman in these photos, Mr Drysdale?” Roper says. And then Richie turns his head to look at Sean. Straight away, the judge is onto him.

  “Please answer the question, Mr Drysdale,” she says sharply. Richie turns back to Roper. He pauses, then juts his chin out.

  “Nah. Don’t know who she is. Just some prozzie I picked up,” Richie says, calm as you like.

  Roper, Cotterill, the Police and the Customs people are gobsmacked. They can’t believe it. The lads at the back of the court look even more gobsmacked.

  “Mr Drysdale, you told Police in your witness statement that this woman was the defendant Alison Reynolds!” Roper shouts. Then the lady judge steps in.

  “May I remind you, Mr Drysdale, that perjury is a very serious offence?”

  But Richie just shrugs.

  “Dunno who that bird is. Like I said, just some tart I picked up,” Richie says defiantly.

  There is uproar all around the court. Shouts and chants from the lads at the back of the court.

  Go on, Richie lad!

  Richie! Richie!

  Go on, Richie!

  Lady judge is faced with instant pandemonium. “Silence! Silence in the court!” Both the prosecution and defence briefs are sat there making goldfish faces. Oh, this is fucking delicious.

  Then Richie turns again to Sean. And Richie is almost in tears.

  “Sean! Sean! I’m sorry, mate! They made me do it!” he cries.

  Lady judge’s head is about to explode.

  “Mr Drysdale! You will not address the defendant!”

  But Richie carries on. “Sean! You’ve gotta believe me, mate! They made me do it! You know I’d never turn on you, lad! Sean, I’m sorry!”

  I don’t dare look at Sean but I can hear him twitching about in his chair even though he has every right to jump up and punch the air. He can’t believe it either. The lads at the back are clutching each other and hollering shouts of encouragement at Richie. The judge can’t take it any more.

  “Mr Drysdale! I find you in contempt of court!” she yells at him. But is Richie bothered? Is he fuck. He whips his head round to the judge.

  “Oh, stop talking through your arse, you fucking old bitch!” he spits. “Lads! I’m sorry!” he calls out. The lads are cheering him again.

  “Take him to the cells!” the judge screams. Richie is hauled out of the witness stand by the guards, shouting his head off all the way. The court is in total chaos.

  “I’m adjourning this trial for one hour. All barristers. In my chambers. NOW!” the judge shouts as she brings the hammer down on the gavel. Sean and I are led back to our cells, utterly disbelieving of what we’ve just seen and heard.

  The upside of all this, according to what Jenkins told my brief afterwards, is that the QCs were all in the judge’s chambers, ready to swing at each other. Jenkins and Maxwell were utterly outraged that a trial with such flimsy evidence from the prosecution side was ever rubber-stamped to go to trial at all. They were haranguing the judge and the prosecution barristers, telling them that this case was a farce, that it was an embarrassment to the Crown, and Jenkins in particular was very forceful in her assertion that their case against me was based on nothing more than supposition and speculation.

  Then Maxwell jumped in, saying that with Richie recanting his testimony to the Police on the stand, and the lorry driver effectively confessing under duress from cuzzie bitch, their case against Sean would totally collapse. Then the judge let rip at the prosecution QCs, screaming at them that unless they could turn up something concrete, something undeniably, irrefutably concrete against either Sean and me, she would have no option but to instruct the jury to acquit. The prosecution started going on about the phone wiretap evidence collected by the Dutch Police, but Jenkins jumped on them, telling them they knew full well that wiretap evidence collected on foreign soil was inadmissible as evidence in this country. The prosecution had nothing connecting us to the drugs and they knew it.

  Obviously, I didn’t know this at the time so when Sean and I are led back into the court one hour later, we don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on. Lady judge reinitiates the proceedings, sentencing Richie to 21 days in the cells for contempt of court. Then she turns to the prosecution QCs, gives them a look so withering it could reduce the biggest boner to flaccid lump in a second, and tells them that it’s a matter for the Crown Prosecution Service to consider whether to do Richie for perjury and perverting the course of justice. Then she turns to Roper.

  “Mr Roper,” she says with a sigh.

  Then Roper stands up and addresses the judge.

  “My lady. In light of developments today, the Crown wishes to withdraw its evidence against the defendants.” Cotterill has no choice but to echo him.

  And that’s it. To roars of disbelief all around the court, the case against us is dismissed, thrown out of court, and neither Sean nor I have any case to answer. We don’t even make it onto the witness stand. Sean and I are free to leave. I jump to my feet straight away and turn to my guard in the dock.

  “Take these off,” I say forcefully, nodding at my handcuffs. “Now.”

  As I leave the courtroom, I’m greeted with hugs and kisses by John and Alan and some of the crew’s wives and girlfriends, while my brief and my barrister Jenkins watch on.

  I extend my hand to
Jenkins. “Thank you,” I say sincerely. This woman has just saved my life. She looks at my hand like I’ve just wiped my arse with it Saudi-style. She shakes it quickly, saying, “Miss Reynolds, it is my fervent hope that you and I never come face to face again.” Then she strides off. Fair enough, love. Fair enough.

  I look down the corridor and there is Sean being bear-hugged by the lads but he’s telling them to settle down. We walk past him. Sean and I don’t acknowledge each other because just in front of him, further down the corridor, the Police and Customs are ready to kick seven shades of shit out of each other. They all know that this is a total calamity for the lot of them. And the repercussions will be felt for a long time. Me? I’ve just gained a very valuable insight into how Police and Customs gather surveillance on people like us. Very handy, that is.

  There is cuzzie bitch tearing strips off the Police. Oh look, her Scouse accent is back with a vengeance.

  “You’re fucking telling me you couldn’t get one clear photo? Are you lot fucking messing me?” she screams at them, eyes bulging out of her head. “All that work down the fucking toilet for nothing! You fucking stupid bastards!”

  But the Police are in no mood to take the shit for this one. “Don’t fucking give me that! You fucked up big time, love! Didn’t it occur to you for one fucking second that it might have been a good idea to fill us in on what went down at Felixstowe?” yells one of the Merseyside busies.

  My brief Robert puts his arm around me to guide me past them. He wants me out of this court as quick as you like. But I’ve got other ideas.

  You see, there’s a particular quirk of English law – the double jeopardy principle, which means that you can’t be tried for the same offence twice. And I can think of nothing else as I glide past cuzzie bitch. She sees me walking past and she looks like she’s ready to throttle me.

  I stop and turn around to face her. All the Police, all the Customs bods see me and her eyeballing each other and then a hush descends. I walk towards her, very slowly, never taking my eyes off hers. I stop about six inches in front of her face. My voice is low, steady and composed.