by Silver Abi
Constance shrugged. “I just meant it was back-up; that’s all.”
“I don’t do back-up,” Judith countered, staring up at the ceiling and then down again. “I told you we’ll object. So, whilst you are onto the caller and the woman in the photo and the family, there’s also the prints outside the window I found and the feud with Mr Glover and, possibly, someone wandering around school, apart from Raymond, shouting and I don’t know what else,” she continued.
“Yes. I know, Judith. I am working on all of them.”
“I know you are. It’s just we have so little time.”
21
I AM ready.
It feels good to say the words, in my head of course. So I’ll say them again. I am ready. Wits sharpened, muscles toned, voice softened.
I have spent 226 hours preparing, rounded to the nearest minute. I suppose that only averages out at 5.25 hours a day (or five hours and 15 minutes). What was I doing for the other 18 hours and 45 minutes per day? Well that would be telling, although I did get plenty of sleep, eventually.
I’m not certain if they are ready though.
Constance Lamb? She keeps coming back and talking to me about the trial, how it will work, what to expect, not to worry. She is willing me to talk to her. Doesn’t she realise that I have what I want from her and I won’t speak again till it suits my purpose?
Some people would say it was a stroke of luck when she asked me if I needed anything when she came with my barrister, Judith Burton. But there is no luck where I’m involved. It was all part of the plan which I executed brilliantly, even if I say so myself. “Sprechen ist Silber, Schweigen ist Gold”.
I knew if I sat still for long enough that she would have to take out her mobile. I got the password straight away of course – Mike1! – so unoriginal, and it was not difficult to extrapolate that she uses that for all her accounts, personal and work. So, as I said, she has given me everything I need.
What have I given her in return? Only that clue on the first day and my spectacular performance. But she doesn’t need me to answer any of her questions anyway. She’s been to school, she’s talked to Jamie and the others. It’s all there, behind the stories they have all told her. It’s waiting expectantly for her to find.
Judith Burton? Genius or has-been? She’s been back too. Oh yes, she has powers of deduction worthy of Sherlock Holmes himself but, so far, she hasn’t put them to much practical use. She has those deep searching eyes, all the time seeking out my core, my foundation, my nucleus. She wonders why I am silent, she weighs up how I can remain in one position without moving, she considers if I am capable of plunging in the knife.
But the last time she came she looked tired, short on sleep. Perhaps it’s because of me. Or maybe she’s just too old for the job. So I’m not without compassion; I will do what I can to help her to help me. I have laid out a couple of pieces of tangible evidence (nothing virtual for old Judith) to set her off on the right track and I’m sure she’ll come across them soon.
Dr Gattley? She was interesting but as the session went on, her questions became patronising and so predictable. I was tempted to speak to her on at least two occasions just to ask her who she thought she was talking to. But self-control is paramount. Oh yes, she’ll write a long report… blah… blah… blah… “signifying nothing”. What did Judith say when they thought I couldn’t hear? “Use it in mitigation”? I am surprised she would even consider giving up so easily. Shame on her!
I am almost going to miss my friends in here – Howard, Brandon and the less frequent visitor, the painted Narinder –almost but not quite. I was bored the other day so I played a little game with them. I left my room at night; naturally, as I know the code, I come and go as I please when no one is looking. (I reconfigured the camera in the hallway the second day I was here, when Brandon left me standing there for five minutes and 22 seconds to go and have a cigarette outside. Now it just shows an empty corridor, day and night and no one has noticed.) I entered the kitchen and removed the milk from the fridge and deposited it on the table close to the radiator. Then I ate all of Howard’s Twix fingers, bar one (I felt nauseous afterwards) and moved the remaining chocolate to Brandon’s cupboard.
In the morning, well, you can imagine the commotion. Narinder accused Howard of leaving the milk out all night so it went sour. Howard accused Brandon, in his absence. Howard was sent out to buy more milk in the pouring rain and refused to speak to Brandon when he sauntered in at 10.37. Then when it came to Howard’s elevenses and he discovered the theft of his treats there was a huge fuss. Howard accused Brandon, called him a “thieving Scouse shit”, Brandon laughed in a nasty way and said Howard didn’t need any more chocolate and then suddenly Howard had tasered Brandon. Yes! Tasered!
They carried Brandon out on a stretcher, moaning and writhing around and Howard locked himself in the men’s bathroom to await the wrath of Narinder, his promotion well and truly deposited in the dustbin forevermore. It’s a shame, really. I nearly liked the guy and I may not get a chance to say goodbye now. But Brandon – I will not miss him. He’ll think twice before spitting in my food again, if he regains full control of his faculties, that is, and once they’ve removed those nasty barbs.
So, like I said, I am ready. Bring it on.
22
JUDITH SAT quietly in the courtroom waiting for the proceedings to begin. Judge Blake was seated at the front, resplendent in gown and wig. He was in his mid-50s – young for a judge, but already a well-seasoned traveller through the realms of murder trials –and his right hand was resting impatiently on a lever arch file of papers. He had given no indication as to whether he had deigned to read all or any of them. Judith was itching to ask but it was just not de rigueur.
Because if the answer was “yes”, the judge invariably took offence and then took offence later on again when it was found that he had not digested even the most basic point. And if it was “no” then either the parties had to sit through an excruciatingly detailed insight into how the judge had spent yesterday evening, resulting in his inability to read through the papers (through no fault of his own) or a fierce diatribe railing against the powers that be for allowing any documents to be filed only the day before a crucial hearing. Judith remembered this lesson, cruelly learned some years previously, and held her tongue.
“May it please Your Honour” – Mr Arkwright, counsel for the prosecution, spoke first.
He had recently been made a QC, and not before time. Although a solid advocate and a careful cross-examiner, his northern grammar school education, augmented even as it was by a First from Oxford, had left him languishing for some years without the deserved “silk”. Judith knew of him and knew people who knew him but she had not before had to argue a case against him. And she wondered if, like many she had known previously, the honour bestowed upon him, albeit earned honestly with blood, sweat and tears, would have changed the man.
In any event, he had gained at least two stone since she had last nodded at him amiably at some dinner or other, and his second chin surged and receded as he rose to his feet. She wondered if this evidence of his excesses with food would sit badly with the judge, reputed to be a fitness enthusiast and marathon runner of some note. Anything which would give her some element of advantage should be grasped with both hands.
Ray was seated in the dock, flanked by two police officers. She had to admit that Constance had achieved a remarkable transformation of the boy. Whilst little could be done about the pallor of his skin or the narrowness of his face, the short boyish haircut she had procured for him, with what might even pass for a quiff, deftly swept to one side, gave him a rakish air. In typical resourceful style, Constance had accomplished this awesome coup d’état only by calling in multiple favours from one of her old school friends who worked at a nearby hair salon, who had, at first, shrieked at the suggestion that she set foot in a prison. In the end, whilst Constance had not wanted to do this, she had felt compelled to remind Sheree how she had provided he
r with an alibi only three months earlier when her husband suspected her of straying. Sheree had, in fact, only been at a self-help convention for over-enthusiastic shoppers, but there was no way on earth she wanted her man to know that.
And again, even though he was thin, Ray’s narrow-lapel tailored suit gave his figure a well-defined air. This Constance had realised all on her own. She had always had an eye for fashion and was a dab hand with a sewing machine. A quick sizing up of Ray had yielded his basic measurements and she had purchased the suit from Marks & Spencer off the peg. The adjustments had been relatively straightforward, albeit she would have preferred at least two fittings before producing the final product. Of course, nothing could be done about Ray’s posture, which was the embodiment of the word “slouch”, but this was not necessarily a hindrance in the case of a boy keen to refute accusations of an energetic and vigorous act.
Judith turned to Constance and smiled broadly in recognition of her considerable achievement, but Constance was dutifully recording something of interest to her, head down, fingers flying over her virtual keyboard. She made a mental note to say thank you afterwards.
Mrs Maynard was in court, sitting upstairs in the public gallery. They had debated having her seated next to Constance, just behind Judith but, in the event, her propensity to gasp or make loud choking noises whenever death, blood or anything remotely related to either was mentioned had settled the matter once and for all. She was instead propped up between her daughter, Marnie, and her sister Ruth, with a large box of tissues to hand and strict instructions to remain as quiet and still as her temperament and awful predicament would allow. Marnie had secretly told Constance she would feed her mother a sizeable dose of antihistamine in her morning tea, to ensure she was calm for the day ahead.
Two rows from the front sat a line of six boys from Raymond’s year. Jamie Benson, finally drafted in as a prosecution witness, was not amongst them and Judith made a note to ask Constance to determine each of their names and their relationship to Raymond. She would not have expected them to be allowed to attend and thought about asking Mr Glover to remove them but she held back; there was just a chance that their reactions to the witnesses would provide some insight into the circumstances leading to Mr Davis’ death.
There were also a large number of journalists present, mostly watchful for now, and two court artists, already sizing up Raymond and planning on how to best portray him in today’s last edition.
“Yes, Mr Arkwright.”
“Your Honour, I appear for the prosecution in the case against Raymond Maynard. My learned friend Miss Burton appears for the defence.”
“Yes, thank you. Before you begin, Mr Arkwright, I will address a few comments to the court, the public and the accused,” the judge interjected. “Mr Maynard, please stand up.”
Ray remained absolutely still, cut off from the proceedings, evidently unaware that he was being addressed. The officer directly to his right nudged his arm and whispered to him gently. He appeared to snap out of his trance, lifted his eyes solemnly towards the judge and rose slowly and painstakingly to his feet. The judge acknowledged him with a shallow nod.
“Raymond Maynard. This is a very serious crime with which you have been charged. The charge is that on the 4th of February this year you murdered Mr Roger Davis, your teacher, that is, you killed him and that you intended to kill him or cause him serious injury, or that his serious injury or death was a virtually certain consequence of your actions. Do you understand the charges?”
“Yes, sir.” Raymond nodded once, speaking clearly and sincerely. Judith stifled her relief. Up until that moment she had had no idea if he would speak at all.
Judge Blake smiled coolly in return. He too was taken aback. He had expected a most uncooperative young man, given the fact of his refusing to answer any questions whilst in custody and the doctor’s report he had read. This boy appeared perfectly normal, so far, albeit rather dull. That took a weight off his mind. No judge liked to convict any person, let alone a child, of a serious offence, when there was any chance he might not have understood the seriousness of what he had done.
“Now, this is a public trial, you can see we are in court with lots of people here. These people to my left are the jury. They will reach a verdict on your guilt or innocence at the end of the trial.”
Raymond remained standing, his shoulders hunched slightly forward, his face sombre but composed, swaying lightly in the dock.
“Mr Maynard, when you come to give your evidence, you will be watched not only by the people in this courtroom but also by a special computer programme. This computerised truth verification programme is being rolled out countrywide after its great success in a local pilot scheme. There is no implication that the technology is being used because you are suspected of lying; the intention is for it to become common practice in serious cases like yours. I am not bound, as yet, by its decision but it will be highly persuasive of your innocence or guilt. Of course, as members of the public and the judiciary know, this may change in the future. Is that all clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do sit down and be comfortable. Thank you, Mr Arkwright, you can begin.”
Judith was visibly downcast. Naturally she had prepared her cross-examination of Mr Arkwright’s witnesses and she had some areas in which she could clearly throw doubt on Raymond’s involvement, but she was concerned it was not sufficient to absolve him from blame, not quite enough to raise doubts in the minds of the members of the jury. And despite huge efforts from herself and Constance she was still no nearer to discovering any facts which would link anyone else to Mr Davis’ murder.
And then there was Pinocchio. Yes, of course, Constance was right that it really ought to help, if Ray was truly innocent. Judith, perhaps more than any other lawyer, could attest to some of its greatest triumphs. But now she had had an opportunity to research its rapid rise from its modest roots to global superstar status, she could not help but worry that corners had been cut on the way. And so, despite Constance’s protestations, and without revealing her inside knowledge, she had invited Mr Arkwright to agree that Pinocchio should not be used for Raymond. Unsurprisingly, he had refused.
“Your Honour, before I open the case for the prosecution, there is one procedural issue about which the two sides are not in agreement, regarding the accused’s evidence. Perhaps, as Miss Burton has raised the issue, she should explain it to you,” Arkwright began. So, this was it. The culmination of their hurried email exchanges and one curt voicemail message.
“Yes, Miss Burton. You have been looking as if you were fit to burst for a few minutes now. Is there something you wish to say?” Judge Blake’s honeyed tones drifted into Judith’s ear and roused her from her musings. She rose to her feet.
“Thank you, Your Honour. May I just clarify that the ‘truth verification software’ to which Your Honour referred is the software colloquially known as ‘Pinocchio’?”
“That is my understanding, and yes, Mr Arkwright is nodding in agreement.”
“Well then, Your Honour, as set out in the email sent via your clerk yesterday evening, I should like to apply for the Pinocchio software to be disallowed in the case of the accused.”
“Yes, thank you. I read your email with interest. Can you explain, briefly, what your objection is?”
“Your Honour. Pinocchio certainly has a place in our justice system. It helps train the police for signs to look out for when they question witnesses, it helps us, as advocates, watch out for the same tell-tale signs, but those are just signs which lead us on a quest, a quest for evidence which will lead to the truth coming out. Pinocchio is not evidence of itself. It is merely a tool…”
Judith stopped. Judge Blake was holding up a finger and shaking his head gravely from side to side. He smiled condescendingly as she obeyed his direction.
“No, no, no, Miss Burton,” he reprimanded her. “I thought you were going to come up with something better than that, even though I commend your eloque
nce and passion. I am aware that you have not practised for some years. In the intervening period things have moved on. This isn’t the good old days where Archie Smith could lie through his teeth about where he had hidden the loot and take the secret to his grave. Instead we have a sophisticated lie detector tool in the form of this tried and tested software and I have been directed to use it in my courtroom. I do retain the final word and, you will both be pleased to know, I have had some training, so rest assured there will be no technical hitches.”
“Yes of course, Your Honour, but Raymond Maynard is a boy, not an adult. It is traumatic enough for him to have seen the body of his former school master who had been brutally murdered. However, he has since been accused of the crime and locked up. This experience has had a profound effect on him. I have provided Your Honour with a medical report by Dr Gattley, consultant psychiatrist at the Maudsley hospital, which explains that he may well be suffering from shock, perhaps a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Moreover, he may also suffer from a variety of conditions on the autistic spectrum, one consequence of which is that his facial expressions would be unusual, to say the least.
“To judge this boy, therefore, by a machine which monitors facial expressions must, ipso facto, be unfair. Of course Your Honour is correct that the latest incarnation of the Criminal Justice Act made provision for its use. However, our system is underpinned by principles of natural justice and I submit that it would be a breach of those hard fought-for principles to submit this boy to this unduly mechanical analysis.”
The judge sighed deeply and drummed his fingers on the table before him. Judith swallowed. She feared she had pressed just one moment too long; it was so difficult to assess. Some judges are with you from the off, others need you to coax them in and carry them some distance and some need to be dragged all the way to the finishing line. But here she had the added disadvantage of this judge nailing his colours to the mast from the outset. She knew judges hated having to climb down from the giddy heights of any clear-cut pronouncement, as would she. But Judge Blake was, to his credit, looking from Judith to her opponent and appearing to consider the point.