by G. F. Newman
39
ANXIETY ETCHED THE FACES OF each of the four defendants as they turned towards the jury filing back in, some of whom avoided looking at them. Pyle thought that was a good sign, but still his mouth went dry. The jurors weren’t looking at him either. What those four in the dock were going through he couldn’t guess, and didn’t care. They were villains so being fitted was an occupational hazard! Their faces were set with fear, but none cracked. He wondered if the gaoler had slipped them a stiff brandy – some of them had more feeling than sense!
When the jury was seated the clerk rose.
‘Who is the foreman of the jury?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ a woman said.
‘Have you reached a verdict in respect of each of the prisoners?’
‘Yes, we have – with the exception of Mr Coleman.’.
The exception meant further delay. Pyle glanced at Mr Justice Quigley, who showed his displeasure. ‘Then I may tell you at this point,’ he said like he was warning them, ‘that you may return to the jury room and arrive at a majority verdict, of ten to two.’ The judge sent them away with an impatient hand gesture.
The jury was out for another two and a half hours and Fred Pyle suffered the strain of waiting. There was no relief when the jury returned and were no further forward.
‘Is there any likelihood of your reaching a ten-to-two majority if you were given further time?’ the judge wanted to know.
‘No, sir; the woman said.
The judge’s humour didn’t improve. ‘Very well, let us hear the remaining verdicts.’
‘May I make an application for bail at this stage, my Lord?’ said defence counsel for Coleman, bobbing up.
‘You may not!’ Quigley snapped.
The barrister resumed his seat. This was a distraction, before Pyle’s thoughts came back to the possible verdicts of the others.
‘Count one charges John Francis Tully with attempted murder,’ the clerk said. ‘How do you find him, guilty or not guilty?’ Pyle held his breath.
‘Not guilty.’
How was that possible? He turned to Lethridge as if for some explanation as he heard the nervous excitement bubble out of Tully.
‘Oh, t’rific. That’s bloody t’rific.’
If that was the only surprise he was to get, Pyle decided, he’d live with it as the clerk went through all the other counts.
‘Count three charges Benjamin Michael Isaacs with conspiracy to commit robbery,’ the clerk continued in the formal, ritualised manner. ‘How do you find him, guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
Pyle shook his head in dismay as Isaacs giggled out loud now. He could well afford to giggle, having had a result on the two previous counts.
‘Silence in court!’ the clerk called as the excited murmur grew. Like Tully, Benny Isaacs got a result right the way through-the card.
‘This is like some bad fucking joke,’ Pyle whispered to his ds. ‘It makes no fucking sense at all.’ He shook his head again, feeling like someone had punched him in the stomach.
‘Count one charges John Albert Lynn with attempted murder,’ the clerk went on in his familiar monotone. ‘How do you find him, guilty or not guilty?’
‘Guilty.’
The reply at once lifted the di’s spirit, and Lynn’s response cheered him more.
‘What? Leave off!’ Lynn said, gripping the rail of the dock like he was about to leap out. The prison officer nearest him put a. hand on his shoulder.
The verdict of guilty on every count against Lynn caused a lot of comment from those in court. Throughout, Pyle watched Lynn, who stood frozen in the dock waiting for the reality of this to penetrate his thick skull. The result was ironical, he found, the one person not on the blag being convicted for it, while those who were walked.
He was sure it struck Lynn the same way, and just as sure he would learn more from this lesson than Lynn would. What it taught him was not to be so confident in presuming a conviction would follow guilt. Real evidence needed to be worked on with as much diligence as that which was manufactured. Still, it was done now. He would pass Tully and Isaacs back to Criminal Intelligence to keep tabs on.
‘I can’t offer you this court’s thanks,’ the judge told the jury. ‘You have by your verdicts shown how fallible juries are.’
The barristers representing Tully and Isaacs were on their feet one after the other asking for their discharge. The judge gave it with apparent reluctance.
‘Coleman will be taken back to prison to await a new trial. I will hear your application for bail afterwards, Mr Robbins,’ he told his barrister.
The freed blaggers dived out of the dock like they were afraid the jury could change its mind.
‘Tell them!’ Lynn appealed, as he swung round to watch them go. Then with greater urgency as they disappeared, ‘Tell ’em, you slags! Tell them I wasn’t fucking well involved!’
The clerk ordered silence.
Separating a file from several he had in front of him, the prosecutor rose and adjusted his gown like he was making himself comfortable for a long speech. Mr Justice Quigley glanced at him as he awaited the poison.
‘The prisoner has seven previous convictions, my Lord,’ Harpenden-Smith reminded the judge. If Pyle had had a deal with Lynn all the poison could have been left out, which in turn would have saved him a few years on his sentence. A deal might have been done for either a guilty plea or an earner.
‘I will hear the last three,’ the judge said.
The prosecutor went through the details. Eight years for robbery, his last conviction; three for conspiracy and two for stealing a motor vehicle. Lynn’s brief would struggle to say anything worthwhile in mitigation. Even the details of his personal life sounded somehow like an offence when the prosecutor put them before the court.
‘Thank you, Mr Harpenden-Smith,’ the judge said when the QC resumed his seat. ‘The Criminal Justice Act requires me to seek probation reports before I pass sentence. Are there any special circumstances- surrounding the prisoner which the court should be made aware of before I follow that course?
‘No, my Lord,’ he said, half-rising.
‘What about that lousy bastard fitting him?’ Dolly Lynn screamed from the public gallery. She was in tears. ‘You rotten, lousy bastards, it’s a fit-up!’
The clerk called for silence through the disturbance which followed Dolly’s removal.
‘Leave her alone, you fucking slags! Leave her be,’ Lynn shouted.
Soon after that the judge ordered him removed. He would be taken back to Brixton prison, where he would be assessed for sentencing. No one could believe there might be an alternative to prison, Pyle was thinking. Like everyone else, he would have to wait three or four weeks to find out when Lynn would be brought back to court for sentencing.
#
The arrogance Horace Macmillan displayed throughout the trial was gone when he returned to court to make his obligatory plea in mitigation on behalf of a much subdued Jack Lynn. Even his physical stature seemed to have diminished, Pyle noted, and he doubted this brief ever believed in his client’s innocence. Now the trial was long over and Lynn was back at the Old Bailey for sentencing, the QC abided by the rules of the game and accepted his client’s guilt.
‘I’m sure, my Lord, you will agree with me that the prisoner before you is a most unfortunate man. One who was given less than adequate means to equip himself for life, one who blundered forward for the most part, caught in a downward spiral of deprivation and criminality. No one has lost more as a result of his behaviour than Lynn himself. This said he is not a man devoid of all hope. There is a spark of humanity within him that needs but fanning to encourage it, rather than oppressive regimes to douse it completely. As you will see from the reports, Lynn lost not one but two parents at the age of four, when his mother committed suicide following his
father’s death and the young Jack was, with his three siblings, institutionalised. Not knowing the warmth of a family, and despite having only critics rather than examples in the harsh system within which he was raised, he did manage to marry a warm and loving woman and produce two considerate daughters, both of whom are devoted to their father, as he is to them. I’m sure this will carry some weight with you when you come to pass sentence. Just as I know you will not be prejudiced by the fact that he sought to defend himself against these charges rather than admit his guilt.’
Lynn gave no appearance of contrition in the dock, but shouted, ‘I was fucking-well fitted – I was, I tell you –’
Pyle glanced over at him and shook his head, wondering how the man was so stupid.
‘In the probation reports, my Lord,’ Macmillan went on, ‘you will I’m sure have seen one on the prisoner from Dr Ryder. Might I direct you to take particular note of what this psychologist said about him and about the possible effects of long-term incarceration on this man.’
‘I have read that report, Mr Macmillan,’ the judge told him. ‘The circumstances of this case are quite straightforward. I have no need to give special attention to this to help me make up my mind, but you are right to bring it to my notice. Mr Lynn seems to require more time than the average person to learn his lesson, so perhaps his previous sentences weren’t long enough.’
Glancing towards the dock again, Pyle noticed Lynn looked as if he was about to cry. If that was all he did when he was weighed off they’d have no problems.
‘John Lynn,’ the judge began, ‘you have been found guilty of attempted murder; robbery; conspiracy to rob, all crimes of a professional criminal out to further his own wicked ends. You were clearly the instigator of these crimes and therefore must bear the full consequences, as by your silence two of your confederates have gone scot free. You are someone who has lived his life by crime, and who, if free, might reasonably be expected to do so for the rest of his active life. For the sake of the public at large I must seek to curtail that activity. For the attempted murder of two police officers, you will go to prison for fifteen years. For armed robbery I am required to send you to prison for a minimum of fifteen years, and do so without hesitation. Those two sentences will, however, run concurrently. On the other charge, you will go to prison for five years. This sentence is to run consecutively with the previous sentence, therefore, you will go to prison for a total of twenty years. Take the prisoner below.’ The judge paused while Lynn was taken hold of by four dock officers, who seemed ready for trouble. There was none. Lynn was taken down without a murmur.
‘Throughout this unnecessarily protracted trial,’ the judge said, ‘there have been a number of allegations against the police. Allegations which, I am pleased to say, the jury appears to consider unsubstantiated. By this one verdict the actions of the police officers have been completely vindicated. Indeed, throughout this trial, under constant attack as they have been, I have found the conduct of the police exemplary. It would be a sad day for the police if such cavalier accusations were proven. For if the police are dishonest, there would be no security for the citizens of this country. I commend Inspector Pyle and his colleagues for their courage and for the diligence and the scrupulous manner in which they have conducted themselves.’
Pyle accepted the commendation without so much as a blush.
It was done, a result; not quite the one he expected, but as the judge said, the verdict was vindication, the end justified the means. Getting villains locked away was an achievement.
‘We got a bit of a result there, Fred,’ Lethridge said, as they emerged from the main entrance of the court into the warm evening sunshine.
‘Didn’t we just?’ Pyle said with no sense of guilt or remorse. ‘Be a long time before he does any more villainy. Still, it does make you wonder, Eric, those others getting a result.’
‘S’not enough anymore, being bang to rights.’
‘In future we’d better look extra hard, no matter how good the evidence seems.’
They went across the road towards the wine bar.
#
‘Them rotten bastards can’t do this, Jack,’ Dolly said through her tears. ‘You weren’t there. You was with me.’
‘They must have wanted me so bad. We’ll see what happens on appeal,’ Lynn told her. ‘That’s the next step. We’ll get it started. We’re not going to take this fitting. There’ll be murders inside if I don’t get a result.’ Despite this a part of him was almost resigned to his future.
‘I won’t stop screaming it’s a fit-up, Jack, I won’t.’
Dolly was in the corridor outside his cell, speaking to him through the grille. The warder was a kind soul to allow this visit while Lynn was awaiting collection to prison. He’d been told he would go to the Scrubs, and then on down to the Island.
‘It’s time to go, love,’ the warder said, appearing behind her.
‘Jack?’ Alarm came into her voice. ‘Look, I have a million things I need to say to him. I can’t just leave him, I can’t. I love him. Jack!’ As their fingers touched at the grille Lynn felt as if the breath was being sucked from his lungs.
‘Give the girls my love,’ was all he could think of to say. He wanted to tell Dolly how much he loved her, but didn’t, and later regretted not doing so.
‘Jack –’ she started away with the uniformed gaoler. Lynn pressed his face to the grille, desperate for one last glimpse of his wife.
‘Them lousy bastards!’ Dolly screamed along the corridor. ‘The lying sods. He didn’t do nothing! The police lied – ’
Soon her voice was lost with the slamming of a heavy door as she was shut on the far side.
Lynn was aware at that moment of the steel against his face. He felt desolate.
40
THE DARK-GREEN FORD TRANSIT VAN headed along the motorway at a steady fifty-five miles an hour. The midday traffic was light, but the driver seemed in no particular hurry. Lynn was in even less of a hurry to get to his destination. He saw the police motorcyclist ahead and soon the van driver made a left-hand signal for the slip road. Lynn glanced round and watched the police do the same.
‘We’ve reached the county border,’ one of the prison officers escorting him explained.
A new police escort of two motorcyclists was waiting to take over. He was a category ‘A’ prisoner so little expense seemed to be spared in getting him to prison. Right at that moment he couldn’t think of a single person in the world who might be interested in helping spring him.
The minibus with its horizontal barred windows tended to invite stares from the free people, who at once averted their gaze if he happened to catch their eye. He wondered if they did that out of guilt, or ‘there-but-for-the-grace-of-God’ sense of relief. He was the only one of the four occupants of the van who was looking out of the window, sitting on his own, staring unseeing at the passing scenery, his thoughts in turmoil as he considered the freedom of choice people beyond the minibus still had. There was no comfort in telling himself that most of the people out there were no less prisoners, nor the screws escorting him. They did at least have some choice. Four seemingly endless days ago he had been weighed off with twenty years and still it wouldn’t sink in. The three nights so far spent in prison did little to make it a perceptible reality. Sitting or pacing the whole time, thinking about his unjust sentence, left him numb and then feeling tired, which he was grateful for, but still the thoughts rolled around in his head, as if on a loop, making him murderous. Over and over in his mind he killed Detective Inspector Pyle, and then those three slags who knew he hadn’t been involved with them but did nothing to help him; next he bludgeoned that vindictive judge. It was only the burden of injustice he felt he was carrying for the entire wronged criminal fraternity that stopped him hurting someone in an attempt to ameliorate his own hurt. His wife’s protest as she was led away from his cell below the court tortured hi
m as it echoed in his mind.