by Grace Monroe
‘So there’s nothing to worry about then?’
Her voice was insistent.
‘Well, not this afternoon–it’s just a formality.’
She placed her arm around my shoulder; again her scent was delicate and sweet. Lightly she manoeuvred me over to the bench.
‘If there’s nothing to worry about–why do I keep pulling this card?’
Her fingers reached into the pack at random. It was done at lightning speed, as if she hoped that speed alone would save her. It did not.
In her left hand she held aloft the ‘Hanged Man’. I took the card from her; it was from a very old hand-painted pack. The workmanship was exquisite.
‘They’re from my mother–eighteenth century, hand-painted Italian. The only thing of use she gave me–the other thing she bestowed upon me was the name Bernadette. I know which has helped me more.’
I looked at the card again. The problem was, I couldn’t just dismiss Kailash’s fears because I look for signs and omens too. I was glad when the case was called again. Kailash and I looked at each other, at the card that I still had in my hand, and then reassembled back in court nine.
The jury sat in their box. Kailash was wedged between her guards and I sat in my appointed place. Even Joe was where he should be as we all waited on Lord MacDonald.
‘Is he taking instructions from somewhere?’ Joe’s voice was loud. As if we were in church, people turned to see who was making the noise.
‘Shut up or speak in a lower tone,’ I hissed.
‘But yer man–he’s no’ here.’
‘Court!’ shouted the Macer and we all stood as Lord MacDonald entered. Sitting down, he offered no explanation or apology for his lateness. It was approaching 3.30p.m. when he started to swear in the jury and I could see Kailash visibly relax as she realised her first day in court was almost over. At 4.20p.m. I started to tidy away my papers.
The voice came booming from in front of me:
‘Mr McVie, are you ready to call your first witness?’
In stark amazement, I looked at Hector, but a silent moment of understanding was passing between him and Lord MacDonald. In Scotland there are no opening speeches. The Crown call their witnesses and get on with the case, but they don’t sit late at night. Right now the alarm bells were ringing–the first witness being called at this time of day?
‘I am, M’Lord. The Crown calls Roderick Buchanan.’
The Macer went out into the passageways of the court and shouted, ‘Roderick Buchanan, Roderick Buchanan,’ like a town crier, over and over again.
Like a rabbit in the headlights of a car, Kailash turned to me, her eyes demanding an explanation. Shrugging my shoulders, I could offer none. That sly old bastard had pulled a fast one on me, and there was no way I could say anything now. To object would be to let them know that I had no intention of being an Amicus Curae.
‘Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’
Roddie’s hand was on a copy of the Bible as he answered yes. He looked as shocked and nervous as I felt.
‘Is your name Roderick Dougal Buchanan?’
‘It is.’
‘And do you reside at 653 India Street, Edinburgh?’
‘I do.’
My heart rate refused to slow down. I caught Jack Deans’ eye and he knew I had been ambushed. The list of witnesses and productions that had been delivered to me last night was incomplete. The new list of witnesses contained one additional name–Roddie. I had no idea what he was going to say, but whatever it was would be bad for me.
Fear caused my mouth to dry and every sound was heightened. I could hear Joe fiendishly writing away, noting everything Roddie said. I poured myself some water; it was lukewarm and fetid. I looked at Roddie through the glass. What the fuck was he playing at? From my first phone call to his wife we had fought to keep the firm free from the old scandal and now here he was where it was all bound to be dragged up again. Unless he’d been forced to come clean…
‘And are you aged fifty-five?’ Hector’s voice was calm and commanding
‘I am,’ replied Roddie. I wanted to shout that he was old enough to know better. I had no idea what game he was playing or what the stakes were.
‘Now, Mr Buchanan–do you know the accused?’
Roddie nodded, his voice failing him? Whoever was making him do this had tightened the thumbscrews. I almost felt sorry for him.
‘Would you mind pointing out the accused?’
Shakily, Roddie raised his finger and pointed.
‘Let the record show that Mr Buchanan has pointed to the accused, Kailash Coutts.’
I have always thought it was a ridiculous practice; of course the accused is the person sitting in the dock between the prison officers–who else is going to be there?
‘So, Mr Buchanan, would you mind telling the members of the jury exactly how you met the accused.’
Roddie looked at me beseechingly, his eyes flicking under his lids. The sweat was running down his cheeks forming glistening pools in his beard. I couldn’t bear it any longer.
‘Objection to the relevance of this line of questioning, M’Lord.’
A sigh escaped from Roddie’s lips that could be heard around the hushed courtroom. Hector McVie was on his feet. Pulling his gown straight, he looked directly at me as he spoke. I pulled myself up to my full height. I could not let this line of questioning be heard in front of the jury. My client would be lost as her reputation would be immediately impugned, thus making her a less credible witness. If the press got a whiff of what I was beginning to suspect Roddie was about to say then the firm was finished.
‘M’Lord,’ began Hector, ‘I’m asking for a little leeway here. Relevancy can be established.’
The first duty that a court lawyer has is to the court; it is important not to mislead a judge, and Hector McVie had an established reputation at the bar. If he was telling the judge that he could establish relevancy, then he was entitled to be heard. I could sense the decision going Hector’s way.
I jumped to my feet; it was like the last rash act of a dying man.
‘M’lord could hear the evidence without the presence of the jury and the press–under reservation.’
Lord MacDonald smiled, and I knew that I had played into their hands. Roddie relaxed measurably as the jury filed out of the courtroom as did the public gallery, including the press. The judge had told them they were not allowed to speak to anyone about the case. The sternest warnings were given to the press, they were not authorised to comment on any of the evidence or witnesses who had spoken today. Failure to abide by this judicial direction would result in their paper being fined tens of thousands of pounds for contempt of court. For the moment, Roddie and the firm were safe. All that mattered to me was that if the firm was protected then so was I.
Joe stood up to leave but I pulled him down. Lord MacDonald cast a suspicious eye over him. As the last body left the court, the Macer locked the door. The room felt horribly intimate. Lord MacDonald was the first to break the silence. I noted that we had already sat beyond the usual time, and I wondered how long we would be asked to stay on a Friday night. Or what the end of the evening would bring–someone would find their reputation in tatters.
I didn’t fancy the odds on whether it would be Roddie, Kailash or myself. But I knew I had enough of a survival instinct to at least try to make mine a little better.
THIRTY-FIVE
‘Mr McVie–if you are ready?’ Lord MacDonald raised his pen and nodded that he was anxious to proceed.
‘Thank you, M’Lord,’ replied Hector politely–court speech is always polite, even when you are knifing someone in the back.
Hector cleared his throat, and continued.
‘Mr Buchanan–if you’d like to tell the court about your relationship with Ms Coutts?’
It was obvious from Roddie’s demeanour that he wanted to do no such thing–and who could blame him?
‘Ms Coutts and I had an inti
mate…business relationship.’
‘So,’ said Hector, twisting the knife a little deeper, ‘you paid for certain services from Ms Coutts?’
‘That is correct.’
There were several embarrassed coughs going on around the court.
‘To the best of your ability, can you please give the court a job description for Ms Coutts?’
‘Ms Coutts is a professional Madam. A dominatrix.’
‘And does Ms Coutts have a place of business where she operates from?’
‘Well,’ stumbled Roddie, ‘sometimes she would be mobile–come to a hotel room perhaps–and at other times we would meet at her club.’
‘And what is the name of her club, Mr Buchanan?’
‘The Hellfire Club.’
The clock’s tick sounded particularly loudly now. I stared at a bee buzzing madly, hitting itself repeatedly off the windowpane. There was no escape for the bee, very little for Roddie, but how much could I bank on? The courtroom was warm and airless; suddenly I felt very tired.
‘The Hellfire Club. It sounds unique,’ oozed Hector, miraculously acting as the moral barometer despite the fact that he had probably been there himself. ‘Are the services offered there by Ms Coutts and her staff…special?’
I glared at him–wet yourself and get it over with Hector, I thought.
‘Other establishments offer BDSM.’
‘For those of us who are not familiar with this rather particular area of life, would you please explain what…’ Hector looked theatrically at his notes as if he could not remember the acronym from seconds before, ‘BDSM means?’
‘BDSM stands for bondage, discipline and sadomasochism, I believe,’ came the response of Lord MacDonald, helpfully clearing up the matter. Hector and I stole a glimpse at one another and I suppressed a smile. The judge flushed appropriately.
‘Thank you, M’Lord,’ Hector said seamlessly. ‘So, Mr Buchanan, are there other professional dominatrix in Edinburgh?’
‘Oh yes–there most certainly are!’ Roddie nodded animatedly.
‘Objection, M’Lord–my learned friend promised the court that he would establish relevancy. Unless he intends to publish a directory to the unwholesome aspects of Edinburgh night life, I fail to see what relevance this all has,’ I interrupted.
‘M’Lord–I crave the court’s indulgence for a few more minutes.’ Hector sounded like a virtuous supplicant.
‘Granted, Mr McVie–but do hurry up. Ms McLennan–your objections have been noted.’ Lord MacDonald was glancing anxiously at the clock, no doubt mindful of his evening appointments.
‘So, Mr Buchanan–if there are other professional ladies who offer these BDSM services, why did you choose Ms Coutts?’ Hector spat out the words as if they left a sour taste in his mouth.
Roddie shifted uneasily from foot to foot, and muttered inaudibly.
‘Tell the witness to speak up–I can’t make out one word he’s saying,’ Lord MacDonald hissed angrily, oblivious to the fact that Roddie found the next sentences mortifyingly embarrassing to repeat.
‘Kailash offered other services–special services that the other Tops don’t.’
‘Tops–what on earth are Tops?’ Lord MacDonald was obviously tired and hungry for he was getting testier by the minute. As well as that, his knowledge of S&M seemed to have run dry.
‘Sorry, M’Lord–a Top is a person who is dominant in sex and a Bottom is someone who is subservient,’ Roddie added helpfully.
‘And I take it from this that you are–a Bottom?’ Lord MacDonald looked pleased with himself at mastering this new idiom.
Retrieving his examination from the judge, Hector asked the next question.
‘And what services did the accused offer that others in this city would not?’
‘Objection, M’Lord–all the witness has said is that the other ladies did not offer the service, not that they refused,’ I added.
‘Well, did they refuse?’ the judge asked, curiosity showing in his eyes.
‘Yes, they did,’ Roddie answered.
I had just shot myself in the foot. Basic golden rule–if you don’t know the answer to a question, don’t ask it.
‘And why did these other ladies refuse?’ Hector threw me a smile, in recognition of my unwitting help.
‘They said no because it was too dangerous. The practice is not recommended–unless the provider has medical knowledge and specialist equipment.’
‘And does Ms Coutts have these?’ Hector was looking round the court, very pleased with himself.
‘Yes. Kailash has what they call a…a white room…a room where…’ Roddie took a coughing fit and grasped for a glass of water. Without putting the glass down, he spoke hurriedly.
‘Where pseudo-medical procedures are carried out.’
‘And what pseudo-medical procedure did Ms Coutts carry out for you?’ Hector winced with all the drama of a third-rate soap star in pantomime.
‘She–erm–she injected a saline solution into my testicles causing them to swell.’
Even Lord MacDonald was shifting uneasily on the bench. I could hear Joe, and a lot of other men in the room, cross, and uncross legs.
‘Does this mean that Ms Coutts has knowledge of anatomy, and physiology?’
‘Oh yes, she has an extensive education on the arteries and blood supply in the body–it would be dangerous if she nicked either of those during her…procedure,’ assured Roddie. We were all satisfied that Kailash knew exactly how to inject bollocks with saline, but I knew precisely what was coming next.
‘So when Ms Coutts set out to kill Alistair MacGregor, the deceased, she knew–or ought to have known–that severing the carotid artery would lead to death. Furthermore…’
‘Objection, M’Lord–the witness is not a professional and cannot speak as to Ms Coutts’ knowledge at the time of the incident.’ I was on my feet, shouting.
‘Furthermore, her knowledge of the body is such that she should have been able to save him had such an accident occurred.’ Hector continued to speak over me. I was still on my feet trying to drown him out, but the damage had been done.
‘Your objection is upheld, Ms McLennan,’ Lord MacDonald nodded in my direction, indicating that I should now sit down.
‘Very well, M’Lord, my last question is withdrawn.’ Hector looked unrepentant. The information was out there. I looked around the courtroom–everyone was an insider and this was a secret kangaroo court.
‘Before we move on–does this procedure have a name?’ asked Hector.
‘It’s called “ball torture”.’ Roddie shook his head in embarrassment.
‘So would it be safe to assume that a woman who would carry out such–ball torture…’ Hector stopped and pointed directly at Kailash. ‘Would it be safe to assume that such a woman hated men in general or just one man in particular?’
‘Objection, M’Lord. My friend is leading the witness. Furthermore Mr Buchanan is not a professional witness, and is unable to speak to the state of mind of the accused.’
‘Objection upheld–Mr McVie, I must ask you to contain yourself to the evidence that the witness can speak to.’ Lord MacDonald was smiling at Hector McVie all the while he was giving him this reprimand.
My mind was spinning.
Why had Roddie agreed to give evidence in the first place? Because the court knew they could rely on me to keep it a secret? They knew that I would try to stop Hector impugning Kailash’s reputation. And if I did that then I was not an Amicus Curae.
I was the one who had moved to throw the jury and the press out. I was the one who had created this clandestine court. Inadvertently, I had fulfilled Eilidh Buchanan’s command to keep it hush-hush.
‘M’Lord, no doubt my friend will point out that the accused lacks motive to kill in this case, and so I would bring the court’s attention to Crown Production number thirty-four.’
I looked up my new production list, and in particular the last item.
Number thirty-four…a Noki
a mobile phone.
My heart stopped. The Macer handed Roddie a blue and silver mobile phone. I thought I recognised it, but hoped I didn’t.
‘Do you recognise the number of this phone?’ asked Hector, holding it up and pushing a piece of card with the number printed on it towards my beleaguered colleague.
‘Yes,’ answered Roddie, looking mystified.
‘Well, would you like to tell the court whose phone it is?’
Again Hector’s expansive arm movements addressed the public benches–he seemed to have forgotten that no one was there.
‘It’s the number I used to contact Kailash on–to arrange our…trysts.’
‘Trysts?’ repeated Hector. ‘How wonderfully romantic.’ Sensing my objection coming and Roddie’s discomfiture, he quickly went on.
‘Now, you can see that there is a text message on the screen. Would you like to read the message to the court, and the date it was received by the accused?’
Roddie took his half moon gold-rimmed spectacles out of their case and placed them on the end of his nose. They made him look like everyone’s favourite Grandpa–if they just hadn’t heard of his bollock debacle. Clearing his throat he began to speak.
‘“Meet u as arranged. Alistair” received on 15 August.’
‘The text message was received the night Alistair MacGregor was killed by the accused.’ Hector’s voice was pounding and suitably dramatic.
Kailash turned and looked at me accusingly. The last time that she had seen that phone, it was in my possession at Cornton Vale. The only conclusion she could draw from it was that I had handed it over to the Crown. It was an incorrect assumption–the last time I had seen it was when I placed it in a locked drawer in my office.
Roddie refused to meet my eye. He must have stolen it. What else had he taken? I could not object to this evidence because the moment it came into my possession I should have handed it over to the Crown. Failure to do so was perverting the course of justice, a criminal offence for which I had known police officers get four years. Glasgow Joe was poking me on the back urging me to get up and say something. I was being massacred. My own actions were coming back to haunt me.