Law & Order

by G. F. Newman

  Standing in the dock at Bexley Magistrates’ Court listening to the mumbled motions for his remand in custody, a despairing kind of nausea rose from the pit of his stomach. Apart from court officials there were few people present, the detectives involved in the case; and his brief, who was about as good as nothing. How had Dolly chosen such a wanker? There were no reporters, not even local hacks, or he would have let them know the filth were fitting him. There was but one way this remand hearing could go.

  ‘Do you have any legal representation, Mr Lynn?’ the magistrate asked, not looking up.

  Lynn’s solicitor jumped up. ‘I represent Mr Lynn, sir.’ Popping up at the right time, and not upsetting anyone, was the best his brief could do.

  ‘How long a remand is being sought?’

  ‘One week, your worship’, the Crown Prosecution Service barrister said. ‘Because of the complicated nature of the investigation, there are a lot of statements to be prepared.’

  ‘I take it there are objections to bail?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Lynn listened as the CPS man listed the objections: serious nature of charges, fear he would abscond, or interfere with witnesses. Having gone through it all, the beak asked if there was an application for bail, like he would be giving it serious consideration. His brief didn’t even try.

  The magistrate said, ‘Remanded for one week, in custody.’

  ‘To the twelfth of December,’ the clerk of the court informed them.

  Lynn was tempted to give them some verbals as he was led out, but knew there would be a better opportunity later, when there was a jury to impress.

  The remand was to Brixton prison. At first, he thought it was going to be Abbey Wood nick, while the filth continued to question him about what must have been every unsolved blag in London over the past two years. He guessed Brixton was more convenient to the Squad detectives than Abbey Wood. About the only thing that could be said for Brixton was that it was warm in the winter, a fact less to do with the heating system than the body temperatures of the inmates packed in there.

  Although while on remand he kept all his options barring his liberty, he was considered a potential category ‘A’ prisoner, so he was watched more than regular remands. In theory, he could have as many visits during the day as he wanted, but all would be restricted, and as with other potential category ‘A’ prisoners, availability of officers to supervise them would limit the visits to just one a day.

  Dolly came down to see him every day, bringing him a change of clothes, as he was permitted to wear his own clothes. She also brought food, as he could have all his own meals sent in, and tobacco to trade or give to others inside – money wasn’t permitted.

  His brief came down to see him but the visit didn’t endear Lynn to the man any more. The visit served to confirm his opinion of the solicitor, and made him feel more depressed.

  Since his last stay here, Brixton had changed little. The cells were more crowded, with prisoners threed-up, some even four to a cell. There were newish extensions around the place, more for greater security than comfort. What was different were the visiting rooms for solicitors and police. These were now housed in a new building in the courtyard. The room he drew was about ten feet by eight feet and on the first floor, with separate rooms for the screws. The prisoners were brought in through a double-locking security hatch at one end of the building, while visiting briefs and cid came in through a similar hatch via the metal stairway to the courtyard at the opposite end.

  His brief was sitting at the table holding open his briefcase before him, a neat, obsessive man in his late forties, whose main preoccupation seemed to be positioning his pen in precise symmetry to his large, unwritten-upon notepad, Lynn noticed as he paced around the room.

  At once, he saw where this man was coming from, even before he said, ‘In view of the vast amount of evidence the police seem to have against you, Mr Lynn, I think your best course might be to plead guilty.’

  Lynn wheeled on him. ‘You got to be fucking joking, pal. What the fuck d’you think all that is I been telling you? They are fitting me.’

  ‘We could seek to get the charges reduced for a guilty plea.’

  ‘They are fitting me,’ he repeated like he was talking to an imbecile.

  ‘I don’t think that attitude is going to help much,’ the solicitor said.

  ‘What attitude, for fuck sake? It’s getting near Christmas and I’m stuck in this pisshole. How do you expect me to react? I want to be out, where I’m entitled to be. I want you to go back to court, get me bail, so I can spend Christmas with m’ family. Blank the magistrate, go into a judge.’

  ‘That’s absolute nonsense,’ the brief protested.

  ‘About all you’ve done so far is fill out the Legal Aid form, and I could have done that. What about what I told you?’ Lynn demanded, staring down the table at him. ‘Are you going to stick up in court that I was fitted?’

  Uncertainty seemed to increase in this solicitor and he avoided his look. He realigned his pen. ‘I’ll discuss all that you’ve told me with counsel when I brief him. I can’t pretend that it’s a very sound basis for a defence.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fucking t’rific,’ Lynn said in dismay. ‘So what d’you reckon? I gotta take my fitting and be grateful? Not only that, I gotta go up the steps and fucking well plead to it?’

  ‘If you have some evidence against the arresting officer, we can make an official complaint.’

  Lynn looked at the brief in amazement. ‘Never in a hundred years would I have the kind of evidence that would satisfy you, pal. You’re worse than the fucking police, you are. You’re doing their fucking job for them.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Mr Lynn.’

  ‘Fair? You’re about as good as fuck all. You’d better fuck off, you prick. Go on, fuck off! ’Fore I break your arms – I’ll find someone else.’

  Anger was boiling over in him and he might have hit the solicitor but for the screw stepping through the door – so much for the rooms being soundproof.

  Other visits for potential category ‘A’ prisoners weren’t so convenient as those for briefs and the police. There was no way to have a private conversation, no opportunity for physical contact. Jack Lynn ached with need of that when he saw Dolly behind the screen in one of the cubicles of the visiting area. She was already seated when he was brought in. The screw escorting him was a reasonable sort of guy, one who would do anything for a couple of quid, but as much as he seemed to want the earner Lynn offered him, he said there was nothing he could do to get him together with his old lady. Visits were controlled by the gate officers who phoned through and told him where to take the prisoner.

  Lynn sat on his side of the partition and put his hands on the shelf in front of him, his knuckles white. He felt tense and didn’t attempt to speak for a few moments. He wondered what was going through Dolly’s mind. She looked tired and he guessed she was, but he wouldn’t speak about it, he was almost afraid to speak about it, fearing she might reach the conclusion that enough was enough. Perhaps she could no longer face the prospect of his going away for another five or ten years, and there was a good chance he could draw such a sentence.

  ‘How are you, Jack?’ she asked, reaching out and putting her hand on the glass that separated them. There were microphones in the side panels which made it possible for them to talk to each other without shouting.

  ‘I’m okay. How are the girls?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Asking when you’re coming home. That Sandra doesn’t stop asking. Runs home from school, she does, expecting to find you home.’ Her words trailed off.

  He looked away, feeling gutted.

  There was a long silence between them before she said, ‘There’s clean clothes and a bit of food in the parcel. How long’s it look like being, Jack?’

  ‘Too fucking long,’ he said, his anger rising again. There was
no point in getting angry with Dolly. It would only get her upset, but he couldn’t stop the words.

  ‘What did that brief say about bail?’

  ‘That prick’s been sacked. I have no fucking chance with him. I should think the filth must have straightened him. He reckoned I ought to plead guilty.’

  ‘The rotten bastards,’ she said, with much vehemence. ‘I mean, you know you didn’t do it. It makes my blood boil just thinking about what those wicked sods are doing. I’d like to see them all dead. They ought to die of cancer, that’s what they deserve. They deserve to die as slow as possible.’

  ‘Oh, I ought to know better than to waste my time with a brief on Legal Aid. I mean, look who’s paying him. It’s the state. Why wouldn’t he tell me just to plead to it?’

  ‘What are you going to do, Jack?’

  Anxiety was aging her. He knew she felt responsible for having landed him with such a useless solicitor. He didn’t want to blame her but couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Find another one. One who’s gonna do a bit for me.’

  ‘Why are they doing it, Jack, the police? Why you? I’ve been asking myself that ever since they arrested you.’

  ‘It’s my turn. That’s what the filth said when I tried to have a deal with him. I was well overdue is what he said. What chance has someone like me got?’

  ‘Jack?’ Dolly said in a calmer tone. ‘You didn’t do nothing, did you? You weren’t at it?’

  He had told her he wasn’t and assumed she had believed him, but now doubts were creeping in. The thought of her turning against him was terrifying.

  ‘Course I wasn’t. You know where I was,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘They won’t put you away. They can’t.’

  ‘There’ll be a lot of aggro ’they do, I tell you. I’ll wind up topping someone.’

  ‘They won’t, Jack,’ she insisted. ‘What’ll I tell the girls?’

  ‘I dunno. Tell ’em… tell ’em…’ He was lost for words. ‘Give ’em my love. Tell them I’ll see ’em soon.’ He rubbed his forehead in an agitated fashion, as if going through the process of thinking. ‘I’m gonna have to get myself another brief,’ he said again. ‘If I’m gonna have any chance of chucking this I gotta get one working for me. How much you got tucked away in the post office, Dolly?’

  ‘I don’t know. About four thousand, I think.’

  ‘A fella in here told me about a brief, a right good ’un. Gladwell. Go and see him. Alex Gladwell. Got a firm over King’s Cross way. Go and see him, see if he’ll do a bit for me – he’s s’posed to be a bit near the mark.’

  ‘What if he can’t take your case?’

  ‘Well, I don’t fucking know,’ he snapped, not having considered the possibility. He studied his wife for a moment, realising she was getting upset, guessing how hard a time she was having. Someone had said it was always the wives who did the time, the husbands were merely locked up. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said. ‘What a way to top up just before Christmas, I don’t know. Go and see this Gladwell. See if he’ll have some of it. I don’t know if what you’ve got tucked away is enough. Tommy’s holding a few quid for me, so there shouldn’t be no problem. Tell him he can have something on top of Legal Aid. It’ll all be all right, Dolly. You see.’

  There was an awkward pause. He could see she wasn’t reassured.

  ‘I could use a little taste, Doll,’ he said with a smile, and was amused by her embarrassed reaction.

  ‘Jack,’ she said in a censuring tone.

  ‘Yeah, they’d probably rush in and fit me while I was at it.’ He brushed his index finger against the glass like he was brushing her cheek. ‘I was told this Gladwell is well bent. He might even be able to go and arrange bail for me so I’m out for Christmas. Tell the girls – it’ll be all right, you see.’

  Now he was becoming more cheerful, almost like he believed his liberty for Christmas was possible.

  However, he couldn’t rely on some brief he didn’t know to secure his release. He was going to have another go at Tully and his mates, to see if he couldn’t persuade them to give him an out.

  ‘How come they fitted you like they done, Jack?’ Tully asked.

  Lynn was out visiting around the prison. Association as it was called was permitted with other category ‘A’ prisoners. Tully shared a cell with two others. He had all the home comforts here which helped cushion the impact of what could be the start of a long prison sentence. None of them made you forget for a moment where you were or what your prospects were. Noises echoed through the labyrinthine remand block with a sense of unreality for most of the inmates who were all in a virtual state of limbo over their future. Cell doors and gates banged and prisoners called to one another, while the prison officers’ protests were feeble – far too many of them were taking too many earners off prisoners for them ever to be effective or uncompromising. Brixton was no foretaste of what might be coming after sentence, Lynn knew from experience.

  He considered Tully where he lay on his bunk and wondered if by his questions he was having a go at him.

  ‘They’ve gone and booked me for the fourth man on that other little firm.’ As a matter of prudence he wouldn’t say whose firm. Even though Tully wasn’t leaping to help him, he wouldn’t look to put him in further trouble. ‘Maybe someone just stuck me up.’

  ‘S’not just that, though, is it?’ Tully said, like he was trying to mitigate his own part. ‘Look at all the other stuff they done you for.’

  ‘They want me put away, s’what it’s all about. The thing is, they ain’t got fuck all without that one at Abbey Wood.’ He believed that was an accurate assessment of the situation.

  ‘A right get-up,’ Tully conceded.

  ‘I mean, I know who that was down to, John. And you know it wasn’t down to me, right?’

  ‘Oh, no doubt about that, Jack.’

  ‘The thing is, if they nick the fourth man, then they ain’t got no case against me, have they?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said so,’ Tully obliged.

  ‘So what’s the chance, d’you think, John, of getting me a bit of help?’

  ‘I dunno. I mean, I wish I could help you out, but I can’t I mean, there’s no way I can help you out without putting myself in. I mean, I’m not pleading to it. Nor are the others. I don’t suppose number four’s gonna put himself on offer. I’m sorry, Jack. I’d like to help you out, but I can’t. Sorry.’

  Lynn remained standing by the closed cell door for a long while. He could have killed John Tully for that blank. Instead he nodded. He was sorry too.

  34

  THE SENSE OF PURPOSE AND positivity that Alex Gladwell tried to create when visiting villains in prison paid dividends. Visible to see was the confidence it restored to Jack Lynn, making believe he could get a result, and one that would exact a high toll on those fitting him.

  Gladwell wore an expensive chalk-stripe suit and shirts from Jermyn Street which made him look every inch a member of the legal profession. Being in his twenties he wasn’t concerned that his complexion and baby-blue eyes made some people think he was still in his teens. It was clear his apparent youth surprised Lynn. Gladwell liked surprising people, especially with the results he sometimes got. He created an air of efficiency, listening so as not to miss a single point in Lynn’s story. Pausing to glance over his notes, he could feel anxiety coming off the villain and knew the reason for this unease was the possibility that he might not believe him. Gladwell would show him how to say things with such confidence that everyone believed him.

  Looking up, he said, ‘It’s all interesting stuff what you’ve told me, Jack, all within the realms of possibility. Be honest, do you expect to go out with that story, and not only have the court believe it, but support that belief by acquitting you? Is that what you expect?’

  ‘It’s the blinding truth what I told you,�
�� Lynn said. ‘I am being fitted by the filth.’

  ‘Do you expect to go to the Old Bailey and have the judge support you in that contention? That’s what I’m asking.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re driving at,’ Lynn said. ‘No, I don’t suppose I do. I mean, that’s part of the fucking system. It’s always favoured Old Bill, the flicking liars! Courts don’t wanna believe for a moment that they’re at it, fitting people. They know all right but never fucking well admit it, do they?’

  ‘Only sometimes, Jack. What we have to do is make them accept that fact this time. Make them acknowledge that the police are as corrupt as you and I know them to be, that what they do is fit people up, that they are fitting you. Easier said than done when we don’t have much going for us. Your form doesn’t help us, or the other defendants being shtum. None of them will help you walk clear.’

  ‘No,’ Lynn confirmed. ‘Means sticking up the other man, dun’ it?’

  ‘Then we need someone smart to put your case in court. Someone who knows what he’s about, and is prepared to accept that the police get up to the sorts of things we know they get up to, a brief who isn’t going to support the status quo.’ He hesitated and looked at the prisoner. ‘The only thing is, Jack, the man I have in mind won’t come cheap. In fact, he won’t take the brief just for a Legal Aid fee. If we can get him he would be worth every penny, I promise you.’

  ‘Well, the thing is my liberty’s at stake.’

  ‘Your wife said she has got about four thousand pounds. She told me you have access to some other money.’

  ‘M’ brother-in-law’s holding a few quid for me.’

  ‘What I’ll do is offer counsel five thousand pounds the other way to take the brief. I’m sure we can find an area for talking around that price.’

  Gladwell explained how QCs wouldn’t take on cases like his as a Legal Aid brief, cases that were neither spectacular nor newsworthy. Cash inducements were a regular practice among the learned professions.