Judge Walden

by Peter Murphy

  ‘Do we know why?’

  ‘Yes. In most cases the difference is attributable to the user of the card asking for cash back, in the amount either of twenty-five or fifty pounds.’

  ‘Are there some other discrepancies also? What is shown in column five?’

  ‘Yes. In column five I have drawn attention to the purchase of items for which Mrs Jones would have no obvious need, and the value of those items.’

  ‘Could you give the jury some examples of these?’

  ‘Yes. On page eighty-five, two pairs of white trainers; on page ninety-one, an item described as a gym bag; on page one hundred and two, a geometry set and a French dictionary. There are a number of others, as the jury will see if they flick through the pages – items of clothing and school supplies and the like, which seem to be inappropriate to Mrs Jones’s condition in life.’

  ‘What conclusion, if any, did you draw from column five?’

  I see Roderick twitching. If he objects, I might have to stop DC Benson from saying it quite so directly. But Roderick knows that if he makes Susan drag Muriel Jones back to court, just to confirm that she had no reason to buy white trainers or geometry sets, the jury aren’t going to like it. Wisely, he contents himself with twitching.

  ‘I drew the conclusion that these were items that Mrs Catesby had purchased for her children, or in some cases, herself.’

  ‘Officer, did you then add up the figures to produce a total of the cash backs, and a total value of the inappropriate items, and do those totals appear on the final page of the schedule?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct, Miss.’

  ‘And is there a grand total of both cash backs and inappropriate items, for the entire period of about four years, slightly in excess of eight thousand pounds?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘Thank you, Officer. Turning now to Exhibits two and three, I want to ask you about one or two specific matters. First, have you marked certain withdrawals from Mrs Jones’s savings account, one in the amount of one thousand pounds, and three in the amount of five hundred pounds each?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In Mrs Catesby’s account, have you marked entries that appear to correspond to withdrawals from Mrs Jones’s account?’

  ‘Yes. In the case of each withdrawal from Mrs Jones’s account there is a corresponding payment into Mrs Catesby’s account, for exactly the same amount, on the same day or the day after the withdrawal.’

  ‘Officer, did you find anywhere in Mrs Catesby’s account, or her husband’s account, any evidence of a payment for a privately funded medical treatment or surgical operation?’

  ‘No. I did not.’

  ‘Did you find any evidence of a payment of school fees to a school called St Cecilia’s, in Surrey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or, for that matter, any private school?’

  ‘No, Miss.’

  Susan nods. ‘Thank you, Officer. Please wait there. I’m sure there will be some further questions.’

  ‘Very few, I’m sure you will be glad to hear, Officer,’ Roderick says, rising slowly to his feet. ‘You were never in Mrs Jones’s kitchen when she gave Mrs Catesby instructions for the shopping, were you?’

  ‘No, sir, I was not.’

  ‘So you don’t know what instructions Mrs Jones may have given?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘If Mrs Jones, out of appreciation for Mrs Catesby’s kindness to her, ever invited Mrs Catesby to take a “little something” for herself when she went shopping, you wouldn’t know about that, would you?’

  ‘Again, sir, I would not.’

  ‘If she authorised Mrs Catesby to buy something for her daughters, Emma and Sophie, you wouldn’t know?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘If she decided to make a gift of money to Mrs Catesby or her daughters, you would have no idea of that, would you?’

  ‘No, sir. I would not.’

  ‘And finally, Officer, you got Mrs Jones’s bank accounts from her son, Ronald, didn’t you? Not from Mrs Jones herself?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘Did Mr Jones tell you that his mother kept no bank records at home, and that he had to go to the bank himself to get them?’

  ‘As I recall, sir, yes.’

  ‘Mrs Jones had electronic banking set up, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But like many elderly people, she was having some trouble coping with it?’

  ‘That’s what her son indicated to me, yes, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Officer,’ Roderick concludes, resuming his seat.

  The remainder of the prosecution case takes us up to lunchtime, and is remarkably concise. Susan and Roderick have helpfully agreed a number of facts, which are placed before the jury in writing. These include the facts that Emma Catesby has never had a surgical operation, if you discount a slightly difficult birth; and the fact that both she and her sister Sophie have always been educated in the state system, latterly at the Wood Lane Comprehensive School in Bermondsey, and have never attended St Cecilia’s, or any other private school.

  DS Gordon, the officer in the case, gives evidence about the investigation in general, including Laura Catesby’s interview under caution at the police station following her arrest. As foreshadowed in Susan’s opening speech, Mrs Catesby told the police exactly what one would expect, namely: that Mrs Jones had given her permission to take ‘a little something for herself’ whenever she did the shopping; that the payments in counts two to five were outright gifts from Mrs Jones to Emma and Sophie, gifts made for no better reason than she liked the girls and wanted to help them; and that there was never any mention of loans for surgery or school fees.

  And so to lunch, but not today to an oasis of calm. As I’m entering my chambers to take off my wig and robe, I encounter Stella almost running along the judicial corridor. She’s obviously in a hurry, her short straw-coloured hair bobbing up and down, and for Stella, who’s usually a model of stoic calm, she seems almost frantic.

  ‘Oh, Judge,’ she says breathlessly, ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you. Can you come with me, please?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Stella. What on earth is the matter?’

  ‘There’s some kind of disturbance going on in Judge Jenkins’s chambers?’

  ‘Disturbance? What do you mean?’ We set out together to walk the short distance to Marjorie’s chambers. ‘Judge Drake called, and said he heard raised voices. He didn’t want to intrude, so I went myself, and I heard some shouting, and then I put my head around the door and thought I should come and find you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call security?’ I ask. ‘Judge Jenkins may be in trouble.’

  Stella looks at me and shakes her head. ‘It’s the Grey Smoothies,’ she says.

  ‘The Grey Smoothies?’

  We are now outside Marjorie’s chambers, and I can hear the raised voices for myself. I look at Stella and she looks at me, and we barge in together. Marjorie is standing behind her desk in a defensive posture. Standing in front of her desk is Meredith, our cluster manager – so-called in Grey Smoothie-speak because she manages more than one Crown Court – sporting the usual armful of coloured bracelets over her right grey suit jacket sleeve, and a streak or two of green in her hair. With Meredith is a young man I haven’t seen before, wearing thick black glasses, and contrastingly dressed in worn blue jeans and a white T-shirt bearing the legend ‘Don’t Mess with Mr Megabyte’. Our entry produces a temporary lull in hostilities.

  ‘Can I help at all?’ I ask, with what I hope is a calming smile.

  ‘These fascists won’t give me my computer back,’ Marjorie growls. ‘They want to keep me locked out.’

  Meredith shakes her head. ‘I have instructions from Sir Jeremy, Judge,’ she says. ‘It’s required in this kind of case.’<
br />
  Sir Jeremy Bagnall is a senior member of the Grey Smoothie High Command, on intimate terms with both the Minister and the Lord Chief Justice. He was knighted in a recent New Year’s honours list for services to the court system: and no, that’s not an attempt at humour on my part – it’s one of those things you couldn’t write for television and which make satire redundant. To any Grey Smoothie, any instructions given by Sir Jeremy are to be taken seriously and followed. But they’re obviously not going down well with Marjorie. I need to find out what’s going on.

  ‘What do you mean, “this kind of case”?’ I ask.

  ‘You should ask Shaun, Judge,’ Meredith replies, indicating Mr Megabyte. ‘He’s one of our computer security gurus. It’s his case. I haven’t seen the evidence.’

  ‘The evidence…?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s a 32B,’ Shaun replies, as if to suggest that the mere mention of 32B makes everything obvious, and requires no further elaboration.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘Judge Jenkins told me she’d got an error message. But we were expecting you to come and sort it, if you couldn’t do it over the phone. Haven’t you been able to find the problem?’

  ‘It’s a 32B,’ Shaun insists again, in that irritating tone computer nerds use to express their contempt for anyone to whom their technical ramblings don’t immediately make perfect sense.

  ‘Well, for the benefit of those of us unfamiliar with the technical terminology,’ I ask, probably with a bit of an edge, ‘would you mind explaining in layman’s terms what a 32B is?’

  There is a silence.

  Shaun looks at Meredith. ‘Do you want to tell him, or shall I?’

  Meredith looks down and exhales heavily. ‘An Error 32B message indicates the presence of pornography on a computer,’ she explains. ‘It’s a code our security staff use to avoid being specific about it, for obvious reasons.’

  I see Stella’s eyes open wide, as I’m sure do mine.

  ‘What…?’ I manage to stammer, eventually.

  ‘As I say,’ Meredith continues, ‘I haven’t seen the evidence. I’m not cleared for it. Only Shaun and his supervisor, Paul, have actually seen it. What has to happen next is for them to show the evidence to Sir Jeremy, so that he can assess it and decide what to do. But Sir Jeremy is in urgent meetings with the Minister today and most of tomorrow, so after court Thursday would be the earliest he could look at it. It has to stay locked down until then.’

  Marjorie has sunk into the chair behind her desk.

  ‘What do you mean, decide what to do?’ I protest.

  ‘The procedure we follow in these cases,’ Meredith continues with some show of reluctance, ‘is that if Sir Jeremy concludes that there is pornographic material on the computer, there will have to be an investigation. The judge in question is asked not to sit pending the investigation, and the police are informed.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I say, almost to myself, after some time.

  ‘Sir Jeremy has no intention of calling the police until he sees the evidence for himself, but he has asked Judge Jenkins not to sit until it’s been resolved.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ I exclaim. Now I’m just as worked up as everybody else. ‘I’ve known Judge Jenkins for years, and this is complete nonsense. Besides which, she’s in the middle of a trial.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Judge,’ Meredith replies, and I sense that she means it.

  Marjorie looks up for a moment. ‘It’s all total bollocks, Charlie,’ she says. ‘But you won’t budge them. They won’t show me what they’re talking about, and I’m not saying a word until they do. I want to see the so-called evidence, and I want to make quite sure that no one can fiddle with my computer – including Mr Megabyte here.’

  ‘That is bang out of order…’ Mr Megabyte protests, but to her great credit, Meredith immediately puts him in his place, pointing a stern finger.

  ‘That’s enough, Shaun,’ she insists. ‘You will not talk to a judge like that, ever, whatever the situation. Understood? Now, answer me this: is there any way for anyone other than you and Paul to get into the computer?’

  Shaun shakes his head sullenly. ‘It’s locked down tight,’ he replies, equally sullenly.

  ‘In that case, it can stay where it is for now. We will come back with Sir Jeremy on Thursday after court.’ She turns, not unkindly, towards Marjorie. ‘I’m really sorry, Judge Jenkins. Let’s hope we can sort this out quickly, and that it’s just a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Thank you, Meredith,’ I say.

  After they have departed, I turn to Marjorie, but she briefly holds up both hands, then springs to her feet, quickly seizing her handbag from the bottom drawer of her desk. She’s still angry, and there are tears in her eyes.

  ‘I can’t do this any more now, Charlie. I have to go home and call Nigel. He will want to rush back from Geneva, I imagine. I suppose I should call a solicitor as well.’

  ‘Try not to worry about it too much, Judge,’ Stella says. ‘I’m sure it’s just some kind of mistake – isn’t it, Judge Walden?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I agree. ‘It’s all nonsense. I’m sure we will get it sorted tomorrow.’

  After Marjorie has left, Stella and I linger for some time, gazing at the locked computer.

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to contact the parties in Judge Jenkins’s case and tell them she can’t sit for a day or two,’ Stella says.

  ‘Yes, but for God’s sake, no hint about what’s going on. Tell them she’s not feeling well, or something.’

  ‘I’m not worried about that,’ she replies. ‘But if Sir Jeremy thinks there may be pornography on her computer, then what are we going to do?’

  ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ I suggest. ‘I’m not prepared for that yet. I just don’t believe it. It’s not possible.’

  ‘I agree, Judge,’ Stella says at once. She hesitates. ‘On the other hand, Judge Jenkins did make a good point. I wouldn’t trust Mr Megabyte further than I can throw him.’

  I nod silently for some time. ‘I wouldn’t mind a quick preview of whatever is in there,’ I muse aloud.

  Stella gives me a look. ‘Well, you do have that sentence in Greene tomorrow afternoon, Judge,’ she replies. ‘Just a thought.’

  ‘So I do,’ I reply.

  I make my way to the judicial mess to snatch a quick, belated lunch. I tell Legless and Hubert that Marjorie isn’t feeling well and has gone home for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Tuesday afternoon

  Roderick has asked me to sit without the jury so that he can address me about something. Usually, when counsel asks to address the judge in the absence of the jury at the close of the prosecution’s case, it can only mean one thing: he’s about to make a submission of no case to answer. In other words, he’s about to argue: either that the prosecution hasn’t adduced enough evidence to sustain the charge; or that the case is so weak that it would be dangerous to leave it to the jury. Either way, he would then invite me to withdraw the case from the jury and direct them to return a verdict of not guilty. But we’re not even close to that scenario here. Susan has produced more than enough evidence to sustain a conviction, and Laura Catesby undoubtedly has a case to answer. I’m intrigued. But Roderick isn’t terribly enlightening.

  ‘Your Honour,’ he begins, ‘it’s not my practice to waste time, as I hope your Honour knows. But Mrs Catesby has asked if she might have this afternoon to reflect on the evidence, and decide whether or not she wishes to give evidence and call witnesses. We have made good progress with the prosecution case, and if we resume tomorrow morning, we will finish the case without undue delay. I would be most grateful.’

  I glance at Susan. She doesn’t seem inclined to intervene. It seems odd. Roderick certainly isn’t a time waster. There’s obviously something going on behind the scenes. The husband isn’t here today, I not
e. It may be that Mrs Catesby is giving Roderick a hard time and proving impervious to advice. If her appearance is anything to go by, that is quite plausible: she’s turned out in much the same way she was yesterday, and I’m sure the jury are taking note of it. If she’s not listening to Roderick about her appearance, she’s probably not listening at all and knowing Roderick as I do, that’s likely to lead to an uncomfortable relationship. He’s worried, and he needs some time. I wish he’d told me earlier, but trials don’t always work like that. Roderick has good judgment, and I am happy to trust him. I agree to his request, and ask Dawn to tell the jury they’re free for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning

  Roderick calls Laura Catesby to give evidence. She’s still wearing the smart, well-to-do suburban professional woman’s suit, with the pristine blouse, the pearls, the rings and the watch, and as she makes her way to the witness box, I note for the first time the expensive-looking shiny black shoes with just a hint of a heel, their colour and tone exactly matching her handbag. I notice something else, too. The husband is back, now sitting in plain view in the front row of the public gallery. Sitting next to him for the first time are two girls, who must be the daughters and whose school uniform identifies them as pupils of Wood Lane Comprehensive. Sitting next to the daughters, in black clerical garb, sits a woman minister – presumably the Reverend Mrs Amy Lock, successor in unfortunate circumstances to the Reverend Mr Joshua Canning as vicar of the church of St Mortimer-in-the-Fields in the Diocese of Southwark. They all seem to be staring intently at the defendant as she puts her handbag down and raises the New Testament in her right hand to take the oath.

  ‘Are you Laura Catesby?’ Roderick begins. ‘Are you the defendant in this case? And are your husband, Larry, and your two daughters, Sophie and Emma, with you in court today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mrs Catesby, what do you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m the business manager for a firm of accountants. Our offices are in Tower Bridge Road.’

  ‘Not far from this court, and indeed, not far from where Mrs Jones has her flat?’