‘Except that’s precisely what it’s not,’ says the judge. ‘May I remind the jury that this is no TV show you’re about to witness. This is the stuff of real people’s lives and the decision you’ll be asked to make will have major consequences for both parties.’
It’s unspoken, but her subtext is crystal-clear. Shut up yacking, this ain’t no episode of The Good Wife.
‘If I may resume, Your Honour,’ Oliver Daniels booms to renewed hush around the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the matter before you here today is as straightforward as could be. My client, Mr Damien King of Castletown House in County Kildare, as you may be aware from the extensive press coverage, is sadly in the throes of a separation from his ex-wife, Mrs Katherine King. They’ve been living apart for some time now, until their divorce can be finalised. However, I’m sorry to say that as often happens in these cases – and in spite of an incredibly generous settlement in favour of his ex-wife – regrettably the matter became acrimonious.
‘Then during the month of April 2014, when relations between both parties were irrevocably broken down, Mrs Katherine King took unlawful possession of a painting, an end-period Rembrandt, no less, and point blank refused then and refuses now to give it back to its rightful owner, my client. We the Prosecution will show that Mrs King has been served with no less than three court orders to return this painting and is in breach of every single one of them.
‘Now I can assure each one of you that the last thing my client would ever have wished would be to resort to the courts to have his rightful property returned to him, but sadly that is what the matter has come to. The case against the Defendant is a grievously serious one; she is charged under section four of the Criminal Justice Act, for taking unlawful possession of what rightfully belongs to another, in this case, the King family trust. Throughout the police investigation and preliminary hearing, Mrs King was given every chance to simply return the painting and all charges against her would have been instantly dropped. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I have to tell you that the Defendant refused this offer, and so with deep regret on the part of my client, this is where we all find ourselves today.’
He gives us a moment to digest this and my eye wanders across the courtroom to where the Defendant’s legal team are sitting, all busily scribbling away and whispering to each other.
‘Oh my God,’ says that young, studenty girl who’s sitting just on my right. ‘Don’t tell me that’s Kate King, sitting behind all those lawyers? She’s so thin!’
And it’s only then that I see her. She must have been sitting at the back of the court all this time, only I was so flustered I never even noticed her coming into court. Tall, ghostly pale and so painfully skinny that I just want to take her home and give her a super-sized feed of steak and spuds. Kate King is hollow-eyed, almost haunted looking, there’s no other word for it. Even from here it’s obvious that she’s trembling a bit. Her blonde hair is neatly tied back and she’s wearing an expensive-looking cream cashmere coat, that famous angular face white as snow as she sits ramrod straight and listens to the case being outlined against her.
It’s really her, it’s really her. The one and only Kate King.
‘Now not for a moment am I asking the jury to magically become art historians overnight,’ Oliver Daniels goes on, pulling my attention back to him. ‘However, I will ask that you visualise the most priceless artefact you’ve ever seen in your life, multiply its value by about ten thousand and perhaps then you’ll come close to just how much this particular portrait is worth.’
He pauses here for dramatic effect and it works. There are a lot of impressed nods from around the courtroom and up here in the jury box too. But then the one and only time I’ve ever seen a Rembrandt up close and personal was on the cover of an Art History book back in secondary school.
‘My client Damien King,’ says Oliver Daniels, ‘as you’ll see throughout this court case and as you may perhaps be aware of from his public profile, is a wealthy man. You may hear stories of lavish spending and excess and here I must ask you not to be in any way swayed by this. Remember, Mr King works hard for every penny and personally built up his company, Globtech, from scratch into the world leader that it is today. His fortune is clearly his to spend in any way he chooses. After all, it’s no crime to be successful, now, is it?’
Clever ploy, I think, and out of the corner of my eye I can see a few more heads in the jury box beside me nodding along like they agree wholeheartedly. Everyone knows the King family are loaded and it’s no harm to pre-warn us not to get too pissed off when we hear tales of parties that cost two hundred grand, enough jewellery to put Liz Taylor in the shade and racehorses that go on to become Grand National winners.
‘However, into every life a little rain must fall,’ Oliver sighs, ‘and sadly such was the case with Damien King. We the Prosecution will show that throughout his fifteen-year marriage, not only was he a lavish and extortionately generous husband to the Defendant, but that when his marriage broke down, Mr King was equally generous to his now ex-wife, as befits a successful and wealthy businessman of his standing.’
Part of me is wondering how much Kate King walked away with – it had to be well into the high millions, surely. But Oliver Daniels’s booming voice cuts across my meandering thoughts.
‘However, may I remind the jury that you’re not here to preside over a divorce case. Far from it. The Kings had in place a cast-iron pre-nuptial agreement prior to marrying and I can assure you that Katherine King has been amply provided for and well-looked after. Damien King, as you’ll hear throughout the course of this case, is not an ungenerous man.’
And now my eye wanders over to the man himself, who’s sitting directly behind Oliver Daniels and who keeps passing notes back and forth to him. But then it’s hard not to stare at Damien King; he really is that good-looking. A total magnet for the eye. It’s weird though, I’ve seen his photo look back at me from countless papers and magazines, so many times that I almost feel I know him, with that illusion of familiarity you get with well-known faces.
He must be tall, I figure, as even sitting down he’s still head and shoulders above the whole team of barristers he’s surrounded by. Classically dark good looks too, although he’s greying slightly around the temples. And as you’d expect, he’s dressed in an expensive-looking suit and has an air of authority about him, of confidence even. Like this whole case is purely a formality to be got through before he can get back to running the world, or whatever it is that his company does.
In total contrast to his ex-wife, who’s sitting directly opposite the jury box with the nerves practically pinging from her. She’s twitchy and uncomfortable-looking and her barrister keeps having to whisper in her ear, presumably to tell her to relax and sit still.
Not that I’d be relaxed facing the combined forces of Damien King and Oliver Daniels myself. In fact to look at both men, you can almost imagine them chummily sitting together over a boozy lunch in some five-star restaurant where a starter costs about thirty euros, laughing this whole case away in supreme confidence that they already have it in the bag.
‘However, I very much regret to inform the jury,’ Oliver booms on, sounding more and more theatrical the more he warms up, ‘that during the course of her separation, Katherine King took it on herself to challenge this pre-nuptial agreement, claiming that in no way was it enough to sustain her in the manner to which she’s become accustomed.
‘Apparently,’ he tosses at us, really twisting the knife in, ‘her own penthouse apartment, a substantial monthly income plus all of the jewellery which had been lavished on her by her husband weren’t enough to satisfy her. Mrs King deems a two thousand square foot apartment insufficient for her. Not prestigious enough for a soon-to-be divorcee without children. If you can believe that.’
At that, there’s a ripple throughout the court and the judge has to shush us before Oliver can go on.
‘Greed, you’ll find, lies at the very heart of this case,’ he s
ays smoothly, eyeballing each and every one of us here in the box. ‘Financial greed, plain and simple. On the brink of divorce, Mrs King has taken it on herself to lay claim to the jewel in the crown, as far as my client’s assets are concerned, which of course is the Rembrandt painting, A Lady of Letters.
‘Now I would urge the jury to remember that name. You’ll be hearing a lot more about it as this court case progresses. The painting itself is currently missing and is not at Castletown House. A thorough police search of the property during the police investigation has confirmed that much. But Mrs Katherine King is aware of precisely where it’s being kept, she has admitted in preliminary statements. And to this day, she is refusing to reveal its location, or indeed to return it to its rightful owner.
‘Theft is a serious matter, ladies and gentlemen,’ he goes on in that newsreadery voice, ‘as is breaching no fewer than three court orders. By her own admission, the Defendant freely admits that she knows the precise location of the painting and we the Prosecution will contend that she is currently hoarding A Lady of Letters for herself, presumably to sell it on the open market as soon as she feasibly can. Oh, and just so you’re all aware,’ he tosses in lightly with his back turned to us, ‘Christie’s estimate is that the minimum reserve on a portrait of this importance would probably fetch upwards of one hundred million euros at today’s prices.’
An impressed murmur around the court; which he instantly hushes with an imperious wrist wave.
‘My client and I will prove beyond all reasonable doubt that this portrait is the rightful property of the King family trust and should be returned to them at once. And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, will present the case for the Prosecution.’
I actually feel like giving the man a round of applause. He’s just so clear and firm and authoritative and everything he’s saying makes perfect sense. I’m on the verge of thinking that it’s game over for Kate King, when her barrister, the spikey brown-haired lady sitting beside her who looks a bit like a younger version of Margaret Mountford from The Apprentice, rises to her feet.
Silence as we all wonder what in hell she can possibly do to wriggle her way out of this one. And the answer, it seems, is not that much at all really.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ she says, weaving her way around her desk and walking calmly over to the jury box. ‘Please let me introduce myself. My name is Hilda Cassidy and I’m here to represent Mrs Katherine King. Unlike my learned friend though, I have no desire to ramble on at length when there’s absolutely no need to,’ she adds, speaking slowly and simply and looking each one of us straight in the eye.
There’s no sense of nervousness from this woman at all. In fact the exact opposite; if anything she has an air of cool confidence about her, though how anyone expected to spar with Oliver Daniels possibly could is beyond me.
‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, you’ve heard a lot of fine rhetoric from the Prosecution, haven’t you?’ she goes on. ‘He presents quite a case, I’m sure you’ll all agree. You’re possibly even sitting there wondering why my client doesn’t just hand the painting back and have done with it. Am I right?’
Exactly what I was wondering, as it happens.
‘My client Mrs King and I have just one thing to say to you at this point,’ she says, and in spite of myself, I’m sitting forward now, all ears. Well, you never know, the scariness of Oliver Daniels’s opening speech might just have swayed Kate King to change her mind, plead guilty, hand the shagging thing back and just have done with it.
Pin-drop silence and every eye in the court is directed her way.
‘Just remember that none of this is how it looks,’ Hilda shrugs. ‘And in spite of the implications from my learned friend, my client has stolen nothing, has taken nothing and has done precisely nothing to merit her having to endure this. Under the clear and certain terms of her pre-nuptial agreement, Mrs King is entitled to keep all gifts given to her by her husband during the course of their marriage. And as A Lady of Letters was a birthday gift for her, this is clearly included under those terms.
‘An innocent woman is sitting in this courtroom today, ladies and gentlemen. A lady who has done absolutely nothing wrong. And we the Defence won’t rest until we prove it.’
And with that, she turns on her heel and goes back to her seat at the bench.
*
So my first day in court turns out not to be such a complete disaster after all. As soon as we’ve heard the opening arguments from opposing counsel, Judge Simmonds discharges us, telling us we don’t have to be back till ten o’clock tomorrow morning, when the Prosecution will open their case.
Which, to be perfectly honest, a small part of me is actually looking forward to. But then watching Oliver Daniels in action is a bit like how I imagine watching Laurence Olivier live on stage must have been over half a century ago. That same sense of transcending your whereabouts, you’re so completely mesmerised by the performance you’re witnessing.
Another shock: leaving the court turns out to be a big eye-opener too. We were warned that there might be ‘some media interest’ in the case and sure enough the minute we step outside the building, there’s a small cluster of photographers with lenses focused on the doors like trained snipers, waiting to snap either one of the Kings. Sure enough, I clock Damien King being ushered down the courtroom steps surrounded by what looks like a team of flunkeys, as a battery of flashes go off in his face. Meanwhile the rest of us slip past him, unnoticed and ignored.
Best of all though, because we’re released so early, I still get to meet with our wedding singer, Graham, who’s a tenor in the City College Choral Society. Bernard put me in touch with him ages ago so we could pick out some music for the actual church service, ‘Here, There and Everywhere’ by The Beatles for my walk down the aisle included. In spite of that interfering guy Will from jury service expressly warning me off it.
Mind you, I’d expected Graham to pitch hymns like ‘Panis Angelicus’ for the actual service, but this guy turned out to be more of a musical theatre aficionado, who kept suggesting arias from Les Mis and, God help me, Cats. If this fella gets his way, I’ll be the first bride in history to walk down the aisle to ‘Master of the House’.
And with time to spare, I even manage to squeeze in my postponed meeting with Hannah, the lovely trainee make-up artist from across the road who very kindly agreed to do a trial run on me before the big day. And OK, so her smoky eye make-up does actually make me look like a panda that’s just been in a fight with another panda over the last of the bamboo shoots, but seeing as how she’s prepared to do this for half nothing, I’m not really in much of a position to complain.
‘Mother of God, Tess, what did you do to your eyes?’ says Mum when I get back home later in the evening. ‘Have you been crying? Or did someone in that courtroom give you a black eye?’
‘No, Hannah across the road was practising on me.’
‘You mean you let that nutter near your face? Hannah, who goes around with a tide line at her neck and streaky fake tan all down her legs? And don’t get me started on those tattooed-on eyebrows of hers. They look like two caterpillars chasing each other across her face.’
‘She’s doing me a really good deal on the make-up,’ I say, examining myself at the mirror in our TV room and trying to blot down the worst of it with a tissue.
‘Are you mad? Tess, love, do you not think that’s taking the idea of a budget wedding a bit too far? You’ve got to look at these photos for the rest of your life, you know.’
I shush her down though and instead veer the conversation towards what happened in court today. Her reaction speaks volumes; all deeply satisfying.
‘You’re kidding!’ she says, mouth agape. And it says a lot for how excited Mum is about this that she actually live-pauses Coronation Street, so she can hear this news first hand.
‘Talk about lucking out. The King case? I’d kill just to be a fly on the wall in that courtroom. Can you imagine all the gossip you’re goi
ng to hear first hand? Like having a front row reserved seat at the best show in town. And you, you roaring eejit, you actually wanted to wriggle out of it? Madness. I’ve reared a total nutjob.’
‘I still do want out,’ I tell her, ‘but the judge was having none of it. Besides, apparently this will only take eight days tops, so even when it’s all over, it still gives me a few weeks before the wedding.’
‘So what was she like, then? Kate King. Does she look like she’s had a facelift? I’ll bet she has, you know. No one her age can possibly look like that without a bit of help from a scalpel.’
‘Skinny. And trembly. And there’s a lot more going on with this than meets the eye, if you ask me,’ I say knowledgeably, feeling like a court reporter sitting on a massive scoop. But then there’s just something alluring and seductive about knowing the ins and outs of a hot court case like this one before anyone else does.
‘Hang on a minute,’ says Gracie, coming into the TV room with a plate of beans on toast, picking up the remote control and immediately flicking over to Game of Thrones. ‘Should you even be talking about this? Don’t they warn you in court that you’re not allowed to discuss the case, even with your nearest and dearest?’
‘Well technically, yeah,’ I tell her, ‘but then what are they going to do? Come around here and bug the house?’
Besides, the list of things the judge told us we couldn’t do would almost make you laugh. Apparently not only are we supposed to keep our mouths zipped tight, but we were warned by the Court Registrar not to read anything about this case in the papers, listen to it on the radio or even Google it online in case it’s ‘prejudicial to the outcome’.
‘That’s a joke!’ I muttered to no one in particular when we were first told. ‘We’re not supposed to check it out online? In this day and age?’
‘Apparently it’s about making sure that we all come to the case with open minds,’ says Will, the guy who I was a bit snippy with earlier on. ‘But then I reckon they think we all live in caves without Wi-Fi or electricity and communicate with the outside world via carrier pigeon.’
All She Ever Wished For Page 11