“It was a bloody disgrace,” he blurted, before realising what he had said. “Sorry, my Lord,” he said to the judge.
“I’ve heard worse Mr Evans, but try to avoid swearing if you don’t mind.” The judge smiled wanly as he spoke.
The ex referee went on to explain that it was, in his opinion, violent conduct and he would have given Butler his marching orders. Byron teased a few more positive comments from his witness and then gave him up to cross examination.
At first opposing counsel flattered Gareth Evans and praised him for his contribution to the development of football refereeing. Then came the sting in the tail.
“Tell me Mr Evans, when did you retire from refereeing?”
“It was 1986 after the World Cup.”
“Almost twenty five years ago. A generation ago in fact. Mr Evans, has soccer changed since you retired?”
“Oh yes. It’s much faster now. The players are much fitter you see.”
“I do see Mr Evans, indeed I do. In fact because the game is played at such a great pace these days the chances of an accident happening on the pitch are somewhat increased, are they not?” The Welshman didn’t see the trap and gave an open answer.
“I suppose so,” he replied.
“And this is one such accident before us today.” Opposing counsel muttered loud enough for his Lordship to hear. Gareth tried to speak but counsel was already moving on. “Mr Evans I think it would be fair to say that you were a controversial referee, would it not.” Gareth conceded that he had been controversial from time to time. Then came the punchline, it was delivered harshly and quickly.
“The truth is Mr Evans that you were controversial twenty five years ago and you are determined to be controversial today in this very courtroom.”
“I am not,” Evans replied in his defence.
“Oh, I think you are, Mr Evans. Just a few minutes ago you described the tackle as..” counsel looked back at his papers. “A bloody disgrace, that is hardly the temperate language of an unbiased official, is it? It’s more like the rantings from the terraces, is it not.” Gareth Evans was steaming when he replied.
“That happens to be what I think,” he spat out.
“I’m sure it is, Mr Evans.” Counsel said condescendingly before he picked up the tails of his long black gown and sat down with the words, “No more questions, my Lord.”
Byron was on his feet again for re-examination. He steadied Mr Evans and had him repeat his view that the tackle was unfair and dangerous. The day’s proceedings came to a close.
CHAPTER 20
After running the gauntlet of the gathered media hordes, I walked along the Strand and towards my hotel. The Strand Palace wasn’t luxurious but it was conveniently sited for the theatre and eating out, though neither are much fun on your own. I checked in for two nights and took the stainless steel lift to my room on the fourth floor. Once I had showered and rested I rang home. In the space of an hour I spoke to Tanya, Sara and Aaron. Eventually I rang off and decided that I must venture out and find a restaurant.
The Strand was busy despite a fine drizzle that might have discouraged the citizens of any other English city from venturing out. This was London at its best, welcoming the world, as long as the world had money to spend. On the main street bright neon lights gaudily advertised the theatres, and Japanese tourists responded by queuing on the damp pavement ready to be entertained. I couldn’t face the prospect of eating at a steak house where the waiters spoke little, if any, English and so I went to TGI Friday’s, where one could at least have a conversation with the staff. I ate and drank my fill to loud music and impromptu dances by the staff, and then wandered back along the Strand. The rain had stopped and the crowds had thinned. I took my time, stopping to look at the theatre billboards and in shop windows. Had I been in a little more of a hurry I probably wouldn’t have noticed the man following me. The reflection in the shop window was quite clear and Mr Leonard Bray, Consulting Detective to Sportsec Plc. was on my tail. I ignored him. At least he wasn’t back home worrying Sara and Tanya.
************
We were late into court again, waiting as the judge dealt with some interlocutory matters, whatever they may be. At last we all rose to our feet and the Judge took his seat. As Christopher Byron led our second witness, Nicky Moxon, through his evidence in chief, I watched the judge. He was sitting up high on a podium and seemed to me to be asleep. For minutes at a time he would make no discernible movement and then all at once he would look up at the witness and begin writing notes on his pad. I had been told that, despite his apparent age, the judge was highly respected and was universally admired for his incisive judgements. I just hoped he was able to stay awake. I was probably thirty years younger and I found myself dozing from time to time.
Once again the video evidence was shown and Nicky, sharply dressed in a dark blue three piece suit, said clearly and unequivocally that the tackle was not only reckless and dangerous but also deliberate. As my barrister questioned him, Nicky described the principles behind the ‘over the ball tackle’. He told the judge, who looked on with some interest, that an over the ball tackle was intended to take out the player and not the ball. This was of course outside the rules of the game but if you couldn’t get the ball, at least you could stop the man getting to it. I thought that the judge might be shocked by this candid explanation of football’s worst tackle, by one of its main exponents, but I was wrong. Nicky did me proud and I would have liked to thank him at lunchtime but he still had to be cross examined by the other side and so was barred from talking to anyone during the break. I think the legal term is being ‘boxed’. So, while Nicky sat alone eating his sandwiches, we discussed how his evidence had gone.
“I think the old boy liked him,” Christopher Byron said, “despite his pierced ear and tattoo.” Junior counsel nodded his agreement.
“Do you think that the judge understands what Nicky meant by taking the man out of the game?” I asked. The barrister smiled.
“His Lordship played rugger for Cambridge against Oxford in the Varsity match in the early sixties I think. It is still remembered as one of the bloodiest battles on the playing fields of England to this day. Some of the Oxford forwards still walk with a limp. So, in answer to your question, yes. I think he understands perfectly well what it means to take a man out of the game.”
The cross examination got off to a flying start after lunch. Dean Butler’s QC. tore into Nicky immediately, there was no rapport building or friendly banter with this witness. In a few sentences the QC had described Nicky as a throwback to a more violent age of soccer. He quoted sports writers who had called the witness ‘Neanderthal, psychotic and vicious’. The QC quoted the soccer record books and recited to us all Nicky’s chequered history. More red cards than anyone else in soccer history, second highest number of bookings or yellow cards.
“You must have been disappointed with that, Mr Moxon.” Opposing counsel sneered sarcastically. Then, under his breath, “Still there’s time yet, isn’t there?” Christopher Byron had listened to enough of this badgering and as soon as he rose the judge upheld his objection. Opposing counsel nodded an apology and accepted the rebuke.
“Mr Moxon. You are a hypocrite, aren’t you?” Nicky was taken aback for the first time that afternoon.
“No sir, I am not,” he replied.
“Well, how would you describe a man who comes to this court room and condemns another footballer for doing no more than he himself has done? How would you describe a man who seeks to besmirch the character and personality of a man whose career has continually outshone his own, except in red cards and gross indiscipline? Is that man not a hypocrite of the worst kind?”
“I am not a hypocrite, I simply tell it how it is.” Nicky was firm.
“You tell it how it is in your own violent little world, Mr Moxon.” Counsel closed his notebook with a flourish and scowled at Nicky. “No further questions, M’Lord.”
It was almost four o’ clock and co
urt was adjourned for the day. I was due in the box the next morning.
************
I was proud of Nicky and I told him so in the pub over the road from the court.
“I wanted to strangle that cheeky toe rag of a barrister,” he said with an unfriendly smile crossing his lips. I laughed and we spoke about his family.
I don’t know why but I was surprised to find that he carried pictures of them in his wallet. The only one of them that I had met was Zoe, his wife. She was pretty and petite, no taller than five feet two. She was very different to many soccer wives. Zoe was flirtatious in an innocent way but for some reason she gave out an aura of solid reliability. On the odd times we had spoken, I had felt that I could quite happily tell her all of my problems. Even at five feet two she was the only person who truly frightened Nicky Moxon. His team-mates often recounted the story of Nicky turning up for training with a black eye and explaining that he had been involved in a pub brawl, only for Zoe to turn up at the training ground with a bar of his favourite chocolate to say sorry for thumping him.
Nicky took a taxi home and I went back to the hotel and made some calls. After a work out in the gym I had a light snack and went to bed. Tomorrow was to be a big day.
************
The courtroom looked bigger from the witness stand and everyone seemed to be staring at me. The witness box was to the right hand side of the court, on the judge’s left side. The elderly judge smiled at me. He was about four feet away and slightly elevated. I took the oath and stated my name, address and occupation for the record.
For over an hour Christopher Byron had me talk about my career at United, the England team captaincy and my relative success in both. He asked me about my family life generally and Tanya in particular. The Judge spoke to me for the first time.
“I imagine that at fifteen years old she can be a bit of a handful?”
“That’s very true, my Lord,” I answered, “but she’s worth it.”
“Yes.” His Lordship had a faraway look in his eye as he said softly, “I have a grand-daughter the same age.” Opposing counsel scowled.
I watched the video replays and talked the court through my reaction and the subsequent events. I recounted the pain and the treatment that followed. The court fell silent as I explained that the prognosis was not good and that I had little chance of returning to professional soccer. Christopher Byron sat down and we broke for lunch.
Counsel for Dean Butler stood ready for the afternoon session. The judge sat down and counsel deliberately closed his books and leaned casually on his portable lectern.
“I am told, Mr Carter, that after all of these years in the capital I have still not lost my accent.” It was true, there was a vague accent underlying the educated voice, “and so it will come as no surprise to you that I have been a lifelong United supporter.” He was wrong there. It came as a great surprise. “Even now I get to as many games as I can each season. As you might imagine, therefore, I have followed your career with great interest, and like many others I was terribly saddened by the accident in the quarter final. Mr Carter, having watched you play I would say that you control the ball as well as anyone I have seen.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind.” Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He continued.
“As an attacker it is your job to outwit defenders, is it not?”
“It is,” I replied simply, as instructed in the pre trial briefings.
“One of the methods you use is the ‘Doubleback’ isn’t it? In fact I understand that FA coaches refer to it as the Carter Doubleback?”
“I do use the double back, yes.” I wondered where this was going.
“For the judge’s benefit we might describe the move as follows." He picked up a small booklet and read from it. "‘The doubleback is designed to get the defender to commit himself. The attacker, if he were on the right wing and faced with a defender, pushes the ball with the outside of his right foot towards the byline. The defender moves to follow and the attacker feigns movement in that direction. The defender then moves his bodyweight onto his left leg ready to make a move for the ball. But before he can reach it the attacker drags the ball back left with the studs of his right boot, turning as he does so, leaving the defender wrong footed.’ Is that an accurate description, Mr Carter?”
“Yes it is,” I replied, still puzzling over this line of questioning.
“In effect this move, along with many other similar tricks, entices the defender into going after the ball even though it has already gone.” He paused. “In fact that is the strength of this particular move is it not?”
“Yes.” I had to agree. “In a manner of speaking.”
“So, Mr Carter, it might be argued that you invited Dean Butler’s challenge with your little ball tricks, some may say that you actively encouraged him to make the tackle. Those same people would then wonder why you should complain when he made the tackle that you enticed him into.”
“I only complain because the tackle was a dangerous one,” I retorted, unhappy at the way he was twisting words.
“Come now, Mr Carter. Have you never made a mistake?”
“Of course I have,” I responded.
“I mean on the football pitch. You know, a mistimed tackle, an overly enthusiastic attempt to reach the ball, that sort of thing?”
“Yes.”
“And were you sued as a result?”
“No, of course not.” I realised the gloves were well and truly off.
“How reasonable of the other players to restrain themselves,” he said sarcastically, pausing for thought. “Have you ever been injured on the football field?”
“Yes. Many times,” I replied, remembering some of the worst tackles.
“Did you sue any of those players, Mr Carter?” He still wasn’t referring to his notes.
“No I didn’t.” I could see why Nicky had wanted to punch this man’s lights out.
“How very forgiving. Why was that, Mr Carter?”
“Because none of those tackles were brutal, career ending, over the top tackles designed to cause injury.” I had to stop myself from getting angry. I couldn’t let him provoke me into saying something I would regret. I looked at Dean Butler and he looked down at his shoes.
“Mr Carter,” counsel sighed as if he were patiently instructing a child. “It is true, is it not, that the one and only reason you are pursuing this action is that your injury is serious?” As he asked the question I thought back to the day that I made the decision to pursue Dean Butler. My sole intention was to prevent someone else having to go through the same thing. I was able to answer honestly.
“No, sir. That is not the reason.” He didn’t listen to my reply and carried on regardless.
“It is not for the courts to provide a remedy for those who are injured in the normal course of events, Mr Carter. That’s why we have insurance companies. The truth is that you were injured by an everyday tackle, one that you enticed. Indeed it was a tackle such as those you have suffered many times before, a tackle no different, in fact, to tackles you yourself have made many times before.” He paused now and when he began again he spoke more slowly and in a deeper register. “Mr Carter, my client is deeply sorry that you were injured, as we all are, but the tackle was not unusually harsh. In fact, it went unpunished by the referee. You are the victim of unfortunate circumstance. Surely you do not wish to punish my client for a poorly timed tackle that went horribly wrong for you?”
“Sir, the tackle was violent and dangerous.” I wanted to go on but I knew that I was in danger of saying too much.
“In your opinion, Mr Carter, but obviously not in the opinion of other reasonable bystanders such as the referee. No further question, M’Lord.” He sat down.
In response Christopher Byron stood to ask me one final question. “If the tackle was simply mistimed or unfortunate and it ended your career would you have pursued Mr Butler in the courts?”
“No, sir. I would not.” I wa
s firm in my response.
“Thank you, Mr Carter, that is all.”
It was deemed too late for the defence to begin their case and so they would introduce their first witness on Monday morning, as the court was not sitting on Friday. Later that afternoon I dozed on the train as I looked forward to my long weekend.
************
My mobile phone rang out about fifteen minutes out of Birmingham New Street.
“Hi, Alex. How is it going?” It was Tony McDonald from Sky Sports.
“Not so bad, Tony. How are you?”
“Great. Alex, I realise you are on the mobile so I’ll be brief. Will you do a guest spot a week on Sunday? We’re covering United and Wimbledon that afternoon.”
“Sure, Tony. No problem. Usual fee?” I joked. He laughed. “Don’t joke about it Alex. I tell you, it costs us more for the limo than for your fee. I’m trying to do something about it.” The reality was that most players would happily do it for nothing.
“OK. Alex. I’ll send a car. And Alex, I need to speak to you about something else too.” I wondered what it could be but I was asleep again before I was able to work out the answer.
Friday was a frustrating day. Tanya was at school, Sara was working and Aaron was training. I wanted to get out and about but everyone was busy. In the end I settled for a Pizza and a movie with Sara, Judy and Aaron. It was good to see Sara again, I was beginning to miss her when she wasn’t around. Maybe when the case was over I would think about firming up our relationship. I decided to broach the subject with Tanya.
Final Whistle Page 24