Guilty Not Guilty

by Felix Francis

  I had kept some of the more personal items for myself, such as some photos and mementoes of holidays that Mary had spent with Amelia and me. Plus I’d retained a few pieces of her best antique furniture, but the remainder had been taken away by a house-clearance company and sold for peanuts at a local Sunday-morning auction.

  I, meanwhile, made sure that I maintained a meticulous record of every transaction as I was certain that, at some time in the future, Joe Bradbury would accuse me of stealing.

  And, oh, yes, well, Mr James Fairbrother, MA (Oxon), TEP, had lived up to his billing as a trust and estate practitioner. He had proved to be a great help, first seeing off Joe Bradbury’s fatuous challenge to his mother’s will, and then applying on my behalf for a grant of probate from the Chancery Division of the High Court, in order that I could distribute the estate funds to the beneficiaries of the will, plus, of course, a sizable share to the taxman.

  As a result, I wasn’t too concerned yet at my lack of paid employment, not with a seven-figure bank balance suddenly to my name. And, at the very least, that had silenced the bank’s threats to foreclose on my property.

  At four-thirty on Thursday afternoon, the court rose after the fourth day of the trial, and I still hadn’t been called.

  No one apologised that I had spent two whole days sitting on a hard seat facing a blank wall. But at least the Crown Prosecution Service would pay expenses towards my unnecessary taxi journeys both ways from the far side of Banbury. Shame I couldn’t also claim for loss of earnings.

  ‘Be back tomorrow,’ the witness service instructed. ‘Court reconvenes at ten o’clock sharp.’

  My trusty taxi picked me up from outside the court building and we worked our way through the Oxford rush-hour traffic congestion and on towards Banbury.

  I had finally been cleared by the medics as fit enough to drive, but only for short distances and Oxford was too far, plus the problem of parking near to the court made a taxi the only sensible option.

  ‘How’s it going?’ the driver asked cheerfully.

  ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘All I’ve done so far is wait in a room. But I should be called tomorrow. I’ll need to be there by ten.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at half past eight,’ he said. ‘Same as today. Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Fine.’

  He drove on in silence. He knew I didn’t really want to talk.

  In spite of my loneliness, no amount of conversation with anyone other than Amelia seemed to make me feel any better. After eight months, I was trying to get my life back onto some sort of track, where I could look forward to a future rather than always backwards at the past.

  But it wasn’t easy.

  Everyone else had done their grieving. They spoke to me about Amelia as if she had somehow once been a character in a film, and one that had now been relegated to DVD, or some old-movie channel on satellite TV. But, for me, her role had been worthy of an Oscar and deserved to be forever in lights above the title for everyone to see.

  The taxi dropped me outside the house and I hobbled up the path to the front door.

  The trial had put everything in my life on hold and I had been advised by the police that it would go on for several weeks at least, and maybe for a month or more. Long gone were the days when even high-profile murder trials lasted less than a week.

  In October 1910, the infamous dentist Dr Crippen was tried, convicted and sentenced to death within the space of just five days, with the jury taking as little as twenty-seven minutes of deliberation to unanimously find him guilty. Within a month he was dead, hanged at nine in the morning at Pentonville Prison in London.

  Even forty-three years later in 1953, the trial of John Christie, of 10 Rillington Place fame, was over quicker still, in only four days, and a mere three weeks was to pass between the start of his trial and his execution on the same gallows as Crippen.

  And John Haigh, the ‘acid bath murderer’, was amazingly convicted of six murders in just two days, the 18th and 19th of July 1949, with the jury taking no more than seventeen minutes to find him guilty. He was hanged on 10th August.

  ‘Evidence tends to be far more complicated these days,’ DS Dowdeswell had told me. ‘What with forensics, DNA profiles, phone records and such. And modern juries are also much more sceptical than in the past. They need greater convincing. No one believes the police without question any more.’

  He had made it sound like a major failing on the part of the public, but there had been too many examples where police evidence at a trial was later found to have been fabricated in the misplaced desire to guarantee a conviction.

  I let myself in through the front door and wished for the millionth time that Amelia were here to greet me. The trial might provide me with some sense of justice, provided Joe was convicted, but it could never bring back what I’d lost.

  I popped one of my replenished supply of ready meals into the microwave.

  Four minutes at full power.

  While I waited for the timer to count down to zero, I again looked at the broken back-door lock and decided that I’d fix it after the trial was over, whatever the outcome.

  Life had to go on.

  34

  ‘William Gordon-Russell.’

  ‘Here,’ I said, struggling to stand up while not dropping the crutches.

  The court usher held open the doors for me as I made my way into the courtroom.

  It was eerily quiet as I went slowly past the massed rows of court reporters to the witness box, the only sound being the clink-clink of the crutches on the hard blue-carpeted floor.

  ‘Do you need a chair?’ asked the usher.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not to start with.’

  I was determined to stand, if only to demonstrate to Joe Bradbury that I was not the invalid he had tried to make me. I leaned the crutches up against the front of the wooden witness box.

  ‘Take the testament in your right hand and read from the card,’ said the usher.

  I did as he asked. ‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

  The usher took back the card and Bible, and I looked around the court.

  Slightly to my right and in front was the imposing red-robed and bewigged judge sitting alone behind his raised bench. On the rear wall, above the judge’s head, was a painted moulding of the Royal Coat of Arms of the United Kingdom – a reminder that all criminal cases are tried in British Crown Courts in the name of the reigning monarch.

  Beyond the judge, on the far side of the court, was the jury and I was facing them directly as they were me. Five men and seven women in two rows of six.

  I turned to my left and there he was – the defendant, Joseph Reginald Bradbury, sitting behind vertically slatted glass panels in the dock at the back of the court, opposite the judge, flanked by two uniformed security officers.

  The very sight of Joe staring at me with his cold eyes sent a shiver down my damaged spine.

  There was a slight pause and then the prosecuting barrister stood up from his place and turned to me.

  ‘Please state your full name,’ he said.

  ‘William Herbert Millgate Gordon-Russell.’

  ‘And are you the widower of Amelia Jane Gordon-Russell, the victim of the murder in this case.’

  ‘I am.’

  So it was now official, I was a widower.

  And there was no point in asking to be referred to as just plain Bill Russell. Even I could see that. The whole court atmosphere was extremely formal, from the judge in his red robes and horsehair wig, the barristers in their black gowns, also with wigs, and then the court officials in dark suits, some also with black gowns over. I was in my Sunday best, as was Joe Bradbury in the dock, both, no doubt, trying to make a good impression as honest and respectable citizens.

  Only the jury appeared to have been dragged in off the street in their leisure attire, which of course they effectively had. And they had clearly not rece
ived any memo concerning an expected dress code. Most of them appeared to be completely out of place in slogan-printed T-shirts and skimpy blouses. But perhaps their choice of apparel was more in keeping with the hot June weather than the heavy garb of the lawyers. One of the young men in the back row, I noticed later, was even sporting Bermuda shorts and flip-flops.

  But, I suppose, the jury could wear what they liked. They didn’t have to impress anyone.

  The judge might think that he was in charge, and he was in terms of the law, but the jury were the final arbitrators of the facts and it was they who ultimately pronounced on the guilt or otherwise of the man in the dock. They were the kings of the court and everybody knew it, the judge included, bowing down at their every behest, flip-flops or not.

  ‘Thank you for coming to court today, Mr Gordon-Russell,’ continued the prosecution barrister. ‘I hope the journey wasn’t too onerous for you, especially in your, shall we say, delicate condition.’

  He made it sound as if I were eight and a half months pregnant.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘The journey was fine, thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to sit down? The usher will bring you a chair.’

  ‘I may need to later,’ I said. ‘But I will stand for the time being.’

  If anything the poor man looked rather disappointed and I realised too late that, as DS Dowdeswell had suggested, the prosecution were attempting to use my physical incapacity as a lever to extract greater sympathy from the jury.

  ‘Now, Mr Gordon-Russell,’ he went on. ‘I intend taking you through the events of last October. We will try and keep everything in chronological order and I would appreciate it if you could tell the jury everything and anything that you consider might be relevant to them in making up their minds as to the circumstances of the case. I should warn you, however, against making any form of speculation or opinion. It is for the jury to make their own assessment of the evidence. Just confine yourself to the facts as you remember them. Do you understand?’

  I nodded at him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. So could you please tell the jury where and when you last saw your wife, and where you were, and how you discovered that she had been murdered.’

  I knew this would be where he would start. He had told me so beforehand. And I had tried to prepare myself but, even so, I found the next hour or so, while describing the events of that Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning, far more difficult than I had expected.

  I told the jury how I had left home, leaving Amelia in the garden and how she had waved at me as I drove away. I explained how I had called home when I’d arrived at the hotel and then gone to a charity dinner. I told them how I had been unable to contact Amelia on the Wednesday morning but hadn’t been overly concerned. Not, that was, until I had been informed by the police at Warwick Racecourse that my wife had been murdered.

  ‘Take your time,’ the barrister said to me as I took some deep breaths to prevent myself from bursting into tears – and I was determined not to do that.

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with your brother-in-law, the defendant?’

  ‘Hostile,’ I said. ‘Especially on his side towards me.’

  ‘Has it always been like that?’

  ‘Not at all. For many years we got on well. We visited each other’s homes. Joe was an usher at my wedding, and our families were close. Amelia especially loved her young nieces.’

  ‘So when did it all go wrong?’

  ‘About four years ago. When Amelia and Joe’s mother moved from Weybridge to near Chipping Norton. Joe seemed to become insanely jealous of the closeness between Amelia and her mother and he clearly set out to destroy it.’

  ‘Did that affect the bond between the siblings?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘They had been close as children, with Amelia often telling me that she used to look out for her little brother at school but, over the last three years of her life, Amelia grew to hate him over what he was doing to her. She couldn’t even stand talking about him and wanted nothing to do with him ever again.’

  ‘So she wouldn’t have invited him into her home on the day she died?’

  ‘No way,’ I said, glancing over towards the dock. ‘She wouldn’t have invited him anywhere, ever.’

  Joe was staring at me intensely through the glass and he moved as if to stand up, but one of the security officers put a hand on his arm and he slowly relaxed back into the chair.

  I turned back to the prosecutor.

  ‘And how would you describe your own relationship with your wife?’

  ‘Very loving,’ I replied. ‘Amelia was not only my wife, she was also my best friend. She was my constant companion, my confidante and my lover.’

  My voice almost broke and I fought back the tears once again. It was talking about her in the past tense that I found so distressing.

  ‘I think we will break for lunch now,’ announced the judge, looking up from his copious note-taking. ‘Mr Gordon-Russell, you may take the time to compose yourself. We will restart at two o’clock.’

  ‘All rise,’ shouted the usher, and everyone did. The prosecution and defence barristers bowed towards the judge and he returned the gesture, before departing through his own special door. Then the jury filed out through theirs. Joe was taken out of the dock by the security officers through yet another door, and finally I shuffled unsteadily across the court, out to the lobby, and back down to the witness services suite.

  At least, with all these separate entrances and exits, I wouldn’t run into my brother-in-law by accident, as had happened outside the Coroner’s Court.

  ‘Well done,’ said DS Dowdeswell, who was waiting for me. ‘Bit of an ordeal, isn’t it? Do you fancy a coffee or a bite to eat?’

  ‘Something to eat would be great.’

  He went to the canteen and returned with ham and cheese sandwiches, plus two cups of coffee.

  ‘Overly generous,’ I commented, somewhat flippantly.

  ‘Court expenses,’ he said, making sure he put the till receipt carefully in his wallet.

  We sat down.

  ‘It seems to be going pretty well so far,’ I said. ‘Have I said the right things?’

  The DS shook his head. ‘I can’t discuss your evidence with you, but it always does seem to go well when the prosecution are asking you the questions. But it will be a different matter when you get cross-examined. And you need to be very careful with this particular defence barrister. He’s a right slimy eel. He’ll do his best to tie you in knots and get you contradicting yourself. He’ll also try to convince the jury that you’re lying, so watch out. Never hesitate or he’ll jump at you.’

  It sounded like a barrel of laughs.

  ‘And if he asks you something you don’t know, say so. Don’t let him lead you off on a tangent, and then agree with him that he might be right – because he won’t be.’

  ‘I thought they weren’t allowed to ask leading questions.’

  He gave me a look that I took to mean ‘Don’t be so naive.’

  *

  ‘I remind you, Mr Gordon-Russell, that you are still under oath.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ I replied to the judge.

  We were all back in court after the lunch break, everyone in their allotted places.

  The prosecuting barrister briefly went back over the events that we had covered during the morning, as if to emphasise the horror of discovering one’s wife had been murdered, and to remind the jury of its significance.

  ‘Now, Mr Gordon-Russell,’ he said finally. ‘Let us move on to the events of the last Wednesday in October, exactly two weeks after the murder of your wife, the day on which the defendant also attempted to kill you.’

  The judge raised his eyes from his note-taking and gave the barrister a stare as if to admonish him slightly for his forwardness. But he said nothing.

  ‘Please could you describe to the jury what happened to you on that afternoon, specifically concerning your visit to the
Waitrose supermarket in Banbury.’

  I wanted to tell him, and the jury, that it wasn’t the first time Joe Bradbury had tried to kill me. I wanted to tell them that on the Saturday prior to the last Wednesday in October, Joe had tried to stab me with a carving knife and I had only escaped thanks to the timely intervention of his mother.

  But the CPS didn’t want that episode to ‘cloud the issue’, as they considered that there was insufficient evidence to charge him over it. I, however, felt that it was another prime example of Joe’s obsession with doing away with me.

  I also wanted to tell them that, prior to that Wednesday, I had been down to Weybridge to speak to Jim and Gladys Wilson, and I had found evidence that proved Joe had stolen a hundred thousand pounds from his mother. And I wanted to tell them that, on the Tuesday afternoon, Joe had just learned that I was no longer considered a suspect in the death of his sister and he mistakenly believed that killing me was a way of getting himself off the hook.

  But the CPS didn’t want me to bring any of those things up either.

  ‘Just answer the questions that you are asked,’ the prosecuting barrister had said to me in earnest during our pre-trial meeting. ‘And nothing else.’

  He was strongly implying that I shouldn’t try and answer those that I wasn’t asked.

  He told me they had good reasons for keeping quiet at this stage, and that these matters would be introduced later. Not that they were coaching me or anything. That would have been illegal.

  In addition, the CPS had made it perfectly clear that they would prefer it if I also didn’t mention anything about me having been arrested on suspicion of murdering Amelia.

  ‘But surely the defence will bring that up,’ I’d said.

  ‘They might or they might not. Depends on how desperate they are. If they do, then they will show themselves as trying to blacken the character of a bereaved widower. Juries tend not to like that. And we would have the last word in re-examination to confirm absolutely that you have an unbreakable alibi and that the police no longer have any interest in you as a suspect.’

  So I simply explained to the jury how I had driven my wife’s cream Fiat 500 from my home to Waitrose supermarket in Banbury on that Wednesday afternoon.