Guilty One

by Lisa Ballantyne

  Back in the interview room, Daniel inhaled the stale air of yesterday’s questions as he waited for Sebastian. Sergeant Turner’s eyes were bleary. The older man pulled gently at his collar and straightened his cuffs. Daniel knew that the police had been given a verbal report from forensics confirming blood on Sebastian’s clothes, which had been positively identified as belonging to Ben Stokes. The CCTV film had been scrutinised by police who had yet to confirm a sighting of the boys.

  Sebastian was tired when the officer brought him in. Charlotte followed, removing her shades only when she sat down, her fingertips trembling.

  Sergeant Turner went through the routine of identifying himself, stating the date and the time. Daniel took the lid off his pen and waited for questioning to begin.

  ‘How do you feel this morning, Sebastian?’ said Sergeant Turner.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ said Sebastian. ‘I had French toast for breakfast. It wasn’t as good as Olga’s though.’

  ‘Olga will make you some when you come home,’ said Charlotte, her voice rough, almost hoarse.

  ‘You remember we took your clothes, Sebastian, to send them to the lab for testing?’

  ‘Of course I remember.’

  ‘Well, we have a verbal report from the lab which says that the red marks on your shirt were actually blood.’

  Sebastian pursed his lips, as if he might kiss someone. He sat back in his chair with one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Do you know whose blood might have been on your shirt, Sebastian?’

  ‘A bird’s.’

  ‘Why, did you hurt a bird?’

  ‘No, but I saw a dead one once and I picked it up. It was still warm and its blood was all sticky.’

  ‘Did you see the dead bird on the day that Ben was killed?’

  ‘I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Well, as it turns out, the blood that was on your shirt didn’t belong to a bird. It was human blood. It was Ben Stokes’s blood.’

  Sebastian surveyed the corners of the room and Daniel was sure he saw the boy smile. It wasn’t a large smile, more a small curving of his lips. Daniel could feel his heart beating.

  ‘Do you know how Ben’s blood might’ve got on to your shirt, Sebastian?’

  ‘Maybe he had cut himself, and when we were playing it kind of rubbed on to me.’

  ‘Well, the special doctors that looked at your shirt are able to tell a lot of things about the kind of blood that’s on your shirt. It turns out that the blood that is on your shirt is what’s called expirated blood. That’s blood that was blown out of Ben’s mouth or nose …’

  Charlotte covered her face with her hands. Her long nails reached up her forehead into the roots of her hair.

  ‘There’s also an aerial spatter of blood on your trousers and your shoes. That’s blood that’s been dispersed as a result of force …’

  Now both of Sebastian’s eyebrows were raised. He looked up into the camera. For a moment, Daniel was transfixed. It was the sight of the pretty young boy looking upwards into the eye of authority; all the unseen people watching him, upstairs, looking at his childlike expressions and trying to find cause to blame. Daniel remembered the saints that Minnie had prayed to, her soft, full fingers fervently twirling the beads of her rosary. There had been arrows to assail St Sebastian, yet he had lived. Daniel could not remember how he had died, but it had been a violent death. Even as the police officers produced further evidence of Sebastian’s guilt, Daniel felt a stronger need to defend him. The witness had come forward to say that he had also seen Sebastian fighting with Ben much later in the day, in the adventure playground, after Sebastian’s mother said he returned home, although the sighting was not confirmed on CCTV. Daniel was not intimidated by this, or the forensics. He had undermined such evidence often enough.

  Daniel could sense the police officers’ excitement as they persisted with their questions. He was waiting for them to step over the line – almost wanting them to go too far so that he could put a stop to it.

  ‘Can you explain how Ben’s blood might’ve got on to your clothes, Seb?’ Turner asked again, his jowls heavy. ‘The scientists tell us that this kind of blood on your clothes might suggest that you had hurt Ben and made him bleed in this way.’

  ‘Might suggest,’ said Sebastian.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The blood might suggest that I had hurt him. Suggest means you don’t know for sure …’

  Daniel watched a ripple of anger cross Turner’s face. They wanted to break the boy – that was the point of the lengthy questioning – but Sebastian was proving stronger than they were.

  ‘You know for sure, don’t you, Sebastian. Tell us what you did to Ben.’

  ‘I told you,’ Sebastian said, lower teeth protruding above his lower lip. ‘I didn’t hurt him. He hurt himself.’

  ‘How did he hurt himself, Sebastian?’

  ‘He wanted to impress me, so he jumped off the climbing frame and hurt himself. He banged his head and his nose was bleeding. I went to see if he was all right, so I suppose that would have been when his blood got on to me.’

  Despite the temper, this new information seemed to please Sebastian. He sat up straighter and nodded a little, as if to confirm its authenticity.

  At seven o’clock on Wednesday, they brought dinner to Sebastian and his mother, which they ate in the cells. It depressed Daniel to watch them. Charlotte ate little. Daniel followed her when she stepped outside for a cigarette. It was raining again. He turned up the collar on his jacket and put his hands in his pockets. The smell of her cigarette smoke turned his stomach.

  ‘They just said they’re going to charge him,’ said Daniel.

  ‘He’s innocent, you know.’ Her large eyes were imploring.

  ‘But they’re going to charge him.’

  Charlotte turned from him slightly and he could see her shoulders shaking. Only when she sniffed did he realise that she was crying.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Daniel, feeling almost protective of her, ‘shall we tell him together? He needs you to be strong right now.’ Daniel was not sure why he said that – he kept a distance from his clients – but part of him kept on remembering being a young boy in trouble with a mother who was unable to protect him.

  Charlotte was still shaking but Daniel watched her straighten her shoulders and take a deep breath. Her ribcage became visible through the V of her sweater. She turned and smiled at him, the skin around her eyes still wet with tears.

  ‘How old are you?’ she said, her long nails on Daniel’s forearm suddenly.

  ‘Thirty-five.’

  ‘You look younger. I’m not trying to flatter you, but I thought you were in your twenties still. You look good; I wondered if you were old enough for this … to know your stuff, I mean.’

  Daniel laughed and shrugged his shoulders. He looked at his feet. When he looked up he saw that her cigarette was getting damp. Warm raindrops clung to the stoic lacquered curls of her hair.

  ‘I like a man who looks after himself.’ She wrinkled her nose at the rain. ‘So they charge him and then what?’ She sucked hard on her cigarette and her cheeks hollowed. Her words were harsh but Daniel could still see her trembling. He wondered about the husband in Hong Kong, and how he could leave her to deal with this on her own.

  ‘He’ll appear in youth court first thing tomorrow morning. The case itself’ll probably go to the Crown Court so there’ll be a plea and case management hearing in about two weeks …’

  ‘Plea hearing? Well, he’s not guilty of course.’

  ‘The only thing is that they’ll ask for him to be taken into custody through all of this, probably a secure unit. It will be a few months until trial. We’ll obviously ask that he be granted bail, but in murder cases the judge tends to rule for custody, even for a child.’

  ‘Murder. Cases. Murder. We can pay, you know? Whatever it costs.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ll get a good barrister for you and they’ll argue, but we have to prepare ourselves for him b
eing in custody for some time before the trial.’

  ‘When will the trial be?’

  ‘It all depends. I would think by November …’

  Charlotte covered her mouth as she gulped. ‘And his defence?’

  ‘We’ll be contacting potential witnesses for the defence, and instructing expert witnesses, in this case psychiatrists, psychologists …’

  ‘Why on earth?’

  ‘Well, they’ll assess Sebastian – whether he’s fit or sane enough to stand trial.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s perfectly sane.’

  ‘But they will also talk about the crime itself and assess whether Sebastian is mature enough to understand the offence he is charged with committing.’

  She sucked hard at the last of her cigarette. It was a stub tweezered in her manicured nails and yet she sucked at it. Daniel saw the lipstick stains on the butt and the cigarette stains on her fingertips. He remembered his own mother’s yellow fingertips and the line of her skull appearing when she inhaled. He remembered the bite of hunger, watching as she swapped a tenner for drugs. He remembered lollipops for dinner: crunching them too fast.

  He closed his eyes and took a breath. It was the letter, he knew, not Charlotte, which had provoked these memories. He shook his head as if to release them.

  It was seven o’clock in the evening. The interview room was calmed by the sweet smell wafting from Sebastian’s hot chocolate.

  Sergeant Turner cleared his throat. Written notice of the charge was given to Charlotte and Daniel, as Sebastian’s appropriate adult representatives.

  ‘Sebastian Croll, you are charged with the offence stated below: murdering Benjamin Tyler Stokes on Sunday 8 August 2010.’

  ‘Fine,’ Sebastian answered. He held his breath, as if he was about to take a dive.

  Daniel felt his throat tighten as he watched the boy. Part of him admired the boy’s gall but another part of him wondered what it was masking. He glanced at Charlotte and she was rocking gently, holding on to her elbows. It was as if she was to be charged instead of her son.

  Turner faltered for a moment at the boy’s response. The boy turned to his mother. ‘I didn’t do it, Mummy!’

  Charlotte put a hand on his leg to calm him. He began to pick at his fingernails, his lower lip out.

  ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  ‘I didn’t do it, you know. Mum, I didn’t,’ said Sebastian.

  He began to cry.

  Daniel was there at 08:55 the next morning when the Reliance van drew up and opened its doors to receive Sebastian. Daniel stood with his arms folded as the boy was led from his cell, his thin wrists cuffed, into the cage in the back of the van. Shades on, Charlotte cried. She gripped Daniel’s forearm as the cage doors were closed and locked.

  ‘Mummy,’ Sebastian called from inside. ‘Mummy!’ His screams were like a nail coursing along the metal casing of the van. Daniel held his breath. He had watched this happen to so many clients: people he was willing to fight for, people he admired; people he despised. This moment had always been calm for him. It signalled the beginning. The beginning of his case; the beginning of the defence.

  Watching the doors close on Sebastian, Daniel heard his own childhood cries in the boy’s desperate pleas. He remembered being Sebastian’s age. He had been troubled. He had been capable of violence. What was it that had saved him from this fate?

  When the doors were locked, Daniel and Charlotte could still hear Sebastian crying inside. Daniel didn’t know if the little boy was innocent or guilty. Part of him believed that Sebastian had told him the truth, another part of him was concerned about the boy’s strange interest in blood and his tantrums that seemed worthy of a younger child. But Sebastian’s innocence or guilt was inconsequential. Daniel did not judge his clients. They were all entitled to a defence and he worked as hard for those he disliked as those he admired. But juveniles were always difficult. Even when they were guilty, as Tyrel had been, he wanted to keep them out of the prison system. He had seen what happened to juveniles inside – drug dependency and re-offending. The help that Daniel felt they needed was considered too expensive; politicians used the criminal justice system to win political points.

  Daniel sat in his office overlooking Liverpool Street. He had the radio on low as he made notes on Sebastian’s case.

  He had placed the letter in the front pocket of his briefcase; the paper was crumpled now, from being read and reread. He took it out and read it again. He still had not called the hospital. He refused to believe Minnie was dead, but read the letter again as if he had missed something. It was a cruel ploy, he decided. All her phone calls over the years asking for forgiveness, and then tiring of that and just asking to see him one more time.

  Daniel wondered if the letter was another attempt to have him back in her life. She might well be sick, but trying to manipulate. He folded the letter and pushed it away from him. Just thinking about her made his stomach tight with anger.

  The office was warm, delicate rays of sunshine shot through the sash windows and illuminated dust. He picked up the telephone.

  After all the things he had said to her, she would still call every year on his birthday and sometimes at Christmas. He would avoid her calls, but then lie awake at night arguing with her in his head. It seemed that the years did nothing to calm the anger he felt towards her. The few times that they had spoken, Daniel had been clipped and distant, not allowing her to tempt him into conversation, when she asked how he was enjoying work or if he had a girlfriend. He had mastered detachment long ago, but Minnie had helped him to perfect it. It was because of her that he didn’t want to let anyone in. She would talk to him about the farm and the animals, as if to remind him of home. He was only reminded of how she had let him down. Sometimes she would say again that she was sorry, and he would cut her off. He would hang up the phone. He hated her justifications even more than what she had done. She said it had been for his own good. He didn’t like to remember, and mostly he did not, but the pain of that still took his breath away.

  He had not called her for over fifteen years.

  Not since their disagreement when he told her that he wished she was dead.

  It hadn’t seemed enough. He remembered wanting to hurt her more.

  Nevertheless, he dialled without checking her number or struggling to recall it. The phone rang and Daniel took a deep breath. He cleared his throat and leaned forward on the desk, eye on the door of his office.

  He imagined her prising herself out of the chair in the living room, as her latest pound-mongrel raised its eyebrows at her. He could almost smell her gin and hear her sighs. Hold yer horses, I’m comin’, I’m comin’, she would say. The phone switched to answerphone. Daniel put the receiver to his chin for a moment, thinking. He didn’t have time for this. He hung up.

  Outside the window, he saw a runner, lean and wiry. Daniel watched him navigating the traffic and the pedestrians. He could see from his style and the length of his stride that he was making a good pace but from this distance it seemed as if the man was running slowly. The trees shimmered at Daniel from behind the glass. He had been at the office since early morning and had not stepped outside since to feel the grace of the sun on his skin.

  ‘You busy?’ said Veronica Steele, Daniel’s senior partner, popping her head round the door.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Veronica sat on the arm of the couch, facing him. ‘Just wondering how you’re holding up.’

  Daniel threw a pencil down on to a pad that was covered with scribbles. He spun to face her, hands behind his head.

  ‘I’m all right.’ Daniel sat back in his chair.

  ‘You’ve decided to stay with it?’

  ‘Yes.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Not the best career decision, I’m sure. I know it’ll get messy. Half of me feels totally out of my depth an
d the other half wants to try and … save him?’

  ‘He’s pleading not guilty?’

  ‘Yes, sticking hard to his story. The mother is backing him up.’

  ‘Was it Highbury Corner you were at on Thursday?’

  ‘Yup, bail refused as predicted, so he’s been sent to Parklands House secure unit.’

  ‘God, that’s bleak. He’ll be the youngest one in there.’

  Daniel nodded, rubbing a hand across his jaw.

  ‘Who’s your silk – Irene’s a QC now, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she got the nod. Made the silk list in March.’

  ‘I remember I wrote to congratulate her.’

  ‘I was surprised she took this on, but she was even at the youth court. I’m so glad she did, though. We have a chance.’

  The telephone rang and Daniel picked it up, hand over the receiver, apologising to Veronica.

  ‘Steph,’ he said, ‘I asked you not to put through any calls.’

  ‘I know, Danny, I’m sorry. It’s just it’s a personal call for you. He says it’s urgent. I thought I’d ask if you wanted to take it?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘A lawyer from the north. He said it’s about a family member.’

  ‘Put him through.’ Daniel sighed and shrugged at Veronica, who smiled and left the room.

  Daniel cleared his throat again. The muscles in his body were suddenly sprung.

  ‘Hello, is that Daniel Hunter? My name’s John Cunningham, solicitor for Mrs Flynn. Daniel, I’m sorry. I have some bad news for you. Your mother has passed away. I don’t know if you’ve heard … but she has left instructions …’

  ‘She’s not my mother.’

  Daniel couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.

  There was silence on the line for a minute. Daniel could only hear his heart beating.

  ‘I understand Minnie … adopted you in 1988.’

  ‘Look, what is it? I’m actually about to go into a meeting.’