I was standing outside the hospital entrance smoking a cigarette I’d cadged off the drunk man with the bandaged hand when a police car pulled up. The same young policeman from earlier was driving, and when he saw me he nodded in my direction, saying something to the man sitting next to him.
“Mr Dawson? Gareth?” the passenger asked as he got out of the car.
“Yep, that’s me,” I replied. He walked toward me, hand extended.
“I’m Detective Inspector Griffiths. The senior officer in charge this evening.” He had a firm handshake, confident but brusque. “Please, call me Malcolm.” Under any other circumstances, I would have grinned at his name, but not tonight. He wore a suit, with a shirt and tie I recognised from Next. I’d almost bought exactly the same set for my wedding, but decided against it at the last minute.
We walked back into the hospital, and Malcolm led the way back to the relatives’ room. I followed him, wondering how often he had to do this sort of thing. He was quite a big man, not quite as tall as me but well built. The same physique as Tommy had, but the policeman was in much better shape. Malcolm opened the door to the room, and PC Turner stood up as he walked in.
“Sir, good to see you.” From the look on his face, he meant it.
“John, thanks for holding the fort up here,” Malcolm replied. “You couldn’t do me a massive favour, could you?”
“Tea?” PC Turner asked. “No problem. I’ve found out where the nurses hide the decent tea bags.” He hurried off, looking almost pleased to have something to do.
Malcolm sat down and I sat opposite, getting a good look at him for the first time. He had quite a craggy face, acne scarred from the look of his cheeks. I was sure none of the other kids took the piss out of him when he was younger, though. He looked like a serious bloke.
“So, what happened?” I asked, unable to hold back. Malcolm opened a small notebook and read for a moment.
“This is what we know so far,” he said, looking at me with tired eyes. “Your wife,” he glanced back down at his notebook. “Jennifer,” he nodded. “Jennifer left The Old Buck just after closing time. Her friend, er Lucy, wanted to go to a nightclub, but Jennifer was keen to get home and was walking to a taxi rank. No one saw what actually happened, but she was crossing the road and was hit by a car travelling down the Yarmouth Road, sustaining what the doctors have described as ‘life-threatening’ injuries.”
I looked at him intently, waiting for him to continue, but he said nothing for a minute or two. Finally, he continued.
“We’ve got a forensic team down there now, examining the scene, but the weather was horrendous at the time of the accident. There’s not a great deal for them to go on in terms of evidence. It was pouring with rain when the accident happened.” I remembered the thunder from earlier. I also remembered waking up. Had that been the time of the accident? Malcolm continued in a low voice. “We have arrested the driver of the car, though.” I should bloody well hope so, I thought. Some maniac mows down my wife, that’s the least they should do. Hopefully, he’ll get a good old-fashioned kicking in the cells by the coppers, but I doubted it. Malcolm said something else that I didn’t quite catch.
“Sorry, what was that?” I asked.
“The driver was over the limit,” Malcolm replied. “He’s been arrested for drink driving.” My fists tightened at this, knuckles whitening. I hoped he’d be put away for a long time. A very long time. Either in a hospital or a prison. Or even better, both. Malcolm looked at me closely, as if he was trying to decide whether to tell me something. “There’s more, though,” he said, deciding that he should.
“What?” I asked, clenching and unclenching my fists to try to ease the tension in my hands.
“According to Jennifer’s friend, the driver of the car knows your wife.”
“What?” I repeated. “How does he know her? Who was the driver?” Malcolm looked down at his notes one more time and then his gaze met mine.
“His name’s Robert Wainwright.”
My heart thudded in my chest, and I could feel my back teeth clench together as I absorbed this news. Robert. Robert fucking Wainwright. I could picture him hunched behind the wheel of his BMW, waiting for Jennifer to leave the pub. How had he known that she was in there? Jennifer had mentioned a couple of times that he was still hanging around, but I’d not done anything about it because she hadn’t wanted me to. She figured that he’d get the message and drop it, but obviously, he hadn’t.
“What did you say you’d arrested him for?” I asked Malcolm. “Drink driving?” Malcolm sat back on the sofa, looking spent.
“That’s what we’ve got him for at the moment, yes. He claims she ran out in front of him without looking and that there was nothing he could do. Before he realised she was there, he’d hit her.” I could tell from the look on Malcolm’s face he was thinking what I was. That story was bollocks. Malcolm looked at his notes again. “An unfortunate coincidence. That was the phrase he used when I interviewed him.” My teeth really started to hurt. “I’ve been a copper for too long to believe in coincidences,” Malcolm said. He paused for a second before continuing. “We’ll have him, don’t worry about that.”
“If you don’t, I will. I swear to God I will,” I replied almost in a whisper.
“Please, Gareth. Whatever happens, leave it to us,” he said, but with no real conviction in his voice. I figured he was just saying that because he was Old Bill and I glanced down at his wedding ring. What would he do if it was his wife in the operating theatre, I wondered? I stood up, shaking my head, trying to clear it.
“I’m going for a smoke,” I said. The drunk bloke in the waiting room had disappeared, so I ended up going to a corner shop and buying a packet. It was going to be a long night. As I stood outside the hospital smoking, I tried calling both Andy and Jacob, but neither of them answered.
When I came back inside, PC Turner had returned with two mugs of tea and was sitting on the sofa like a spare part before Malcolm dismissed him. We sat in silence, sipping our tea, waiting. About two hours and numerous smoking breaks later, there was a tentative knock at the door. Malcolm got to his feet and opened it, stepping back to let Dr Raout and Bridget into the room. Their faces were inscrutable, and I couldn’t read them at all. We sat, Malcolm shuffling to let Dr Raout sit next to him while Bridget sat next to me.
“Gareth,” Bridget said. I looked at her and a hammer hit me in the chest. I knew exactly what she was about to say. My heart thumped and bile rose in my throat as she continued.
“I’m afraid we’ve got some really bad news for you.”
With that simple phrase, my world tilted on its axis until it was upside down.
Andy, Jacob, and I sat on the hard, uncomfortable chairs at the back of the courtroom. I don’t know why they called it a public gallery as it was nothing like a gallery. It was just a row of seats with a small wooden barrier in front of it, set against the back wall of the courtroom. If I’d known the next time I would sit in the courtroom I’d be on trial myself, I would have been less bothered about the uncomfortable seats. Opposite the three of us on the other side of the room was the judge’s bench which was currently empty. We’d spent the last three days in this room, listening to the various legal arguments, only some of which I understood. The one thing I understood, beyond any reasonable doubt to use the legal term I’d heard, was that the man sitting on the left-hand side of the courtroom as we looked at it had killed my wife, Jennifer. Murdered her as far as I was concerned. The law didn’t see it that way, though.
It was three months since Jennifer had died. Three long months when I’d wished that every day was my last. There’d been a post-mortem, which I wasn’t happy about, but it wasn’t my choice. The minute Jennifer had died she’d become the property of the coroner, wife or no wife. I’d had no say in the matter. The only part of the trial I’d not sat in this courtroom for was when the coroner had given evidence about her injuries and the post-mortem. Andy had sat in for it, while I paced ou
tside the courtroom and smoked, Jacob watching me. When Andy came out to get us both and tell us that the coroner woman had finished, he’d aged ten years in less than an hour. He told Jacob and I when Jennifer had been hit, her head had hit the windscreen so hard that they had both shattered. I guessed that he was trying to tell us both she didn’t suffer, but it didn’t work. Not when he had tears streaming down his face.
Jennifer’s funeral had been held a fortnight after the accident. It was a small affair, not because she wasn’t popular but mostly because we’d put people off coming. The three of us had decided that it should be a family affair, which limited attendance to hardly anyone. A few of her closest friends had come, such as Lucy, but that was it. Just the way we all wanted it. Only the people who loved Jennifer, really loved her, put her to rest.
The last three months had been the worst time of my life by far. There was no doubt at all about that. The pain inside me was palpable. I could feel it every day like a malignant cancer in my chest when I woke up. The worst mornings were when I’d been dreaming about Jennifer. For a few tantalising seconds after I woke up, she was still alive and I reached across the bed for her more often than not. Then reality kicked in, and I would remember she was dead, bringing my entire world crashing back down as I lost her all over again. Happiness to despair in the blink of a tearful eye. They were the worst mornings. The only thing I could do to stop the dreams and numb the pain was to drink before I went to bed. It wasn’t working, though. I’d thought coming to the trial would help, provide closure but all it was doing was fuelling the anger.
Robert was being tried with dangerous driving. Not murder. That was all that the law allowed, so the British legal system said. Malcolm had been through it with us many times in the last few months. For a copper, he was a top bloke, but he came across as being just as frustrated as we were. The stakes were different for him, though. He’d given evidence in the trial, and at one point I thought he was going to leap across the witness bench and give the defence lawyer a well-deserved slap. As I thought about this, I looked across at Robert’s lawyer, a weedy looking man in his early thirties with glasses that sat halfway down his nose. He probably thought they gave him an air of gravitas, but they didn’t. They made him look like an idiot which, fortunately for Robert at least, he wasn’t. The lawyer was deep in conversation with Robert as I looked at them. I wondered what they were discussing and then started to wonder how many times I could punch Robert if I leapt across the barriers myself. He was flanked by a couple of burly court security guards, so it would probably only be one slap if that. It was nowhere near enough. Robert glanced at me briefly before looking away again immediately. He’d spent the last few days doing that.
“What the hell’s the judge doing back there?” Jacob said, unfolding his arms and rubbing his hands on his thighs. Andy stirred and looked at him. We’d been sitting here for the best part of an hour, waiting for the judge to come back out from his chambers. He’d disappeared into them a while ago after Robert’s lawyer had finished his final statement.
“Reading the paper, having a whisky? Maybe he’s leaning out of his window having a cigarette?” Andy’s attempt at humour fell on deaf ears.
“Do you think I’ve got time for another one?” I asked them.
“Jesus, Gareth,” Jacob said, frowning. “You smoke like a sodding chimney.” I looked at him, trying not to get annoyed. Both he and Andy were suffering as much as I was. It was just that they seemed to be dealing with it a hell of a lot better than me. I was getting worse with every day that passed. I’d even been to my general practitioner at Andy’s insistence and the doctor had referred me to a grief counsellor. The doctor had gone on about the stages of grief, and about how anger was normal. Apparently, I was supposed to move on to bargaining with God or some shit like that at some point soon. I’d got as far as making the appointment with the counsellor and then spent the afternoon in the pub.
We sat there for a few more minutes in silence, and I was just about to give in to my nicotine cravings when there was a knock on the door behind the judge's chair. The door opened, and a man dressed in black robes stepped into the courtroom and cleared his throat. He had an easy job as far as I could see. All I’d seen him do through the entire trial was what he was about to do. I was already halfway to my feet by the time he spoke.
“All rise,” the man barked as the judge walked through the door and took up his throne. I looked at him as the courtroom settled back down. He was maybe in his mid-sixties, with a kind face. I could see him as a favourite grandfather, the sort of man who was loved by almost everyone. Except for the criminals he put away, I supposed. As I watched, he shuffled his papers in front of him and looked around the room, waiting for everyone to look at him which we all did. Right at the start of the trial, he’d explained that although this was a magistrate’s court, he’d been brought in as a county court judge owing to what he called “unusual circumstances” in the case.
The door beside us opened, and Malcolm walked in and sat down next to Andy, nodding at the three of us as he did so. Just behind him, two serious looking men in suits also walked in. They sat down a couple of seats down from Malcolm, and I guessed that they weren’t with him. The two men looked like Old Bill to me, though. Short hair, both well built. But then as they sat down, I overheard them talking and realised they weren’t speaking English. I had no idea who they were, but they weren’t coppers.
“Mr Wainwright,” the judge said, directing his gaze towards Robert who sat up straighter in his seat for a second before slumping back down. His lawyer nudged him and waved his hand upwards, motioning to Robert to stand up. My wife’s killer got to his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. I concentrated on the back of his head, imagining putting an arm around his neck and strangling the life out of him. The judge spoke, his voice echoing around the courtroom. “Mr Wainwright, you have appeared before this court to answer to the charge of drink driving, for which you have pled guilty as charged.” The judge paused, looking down at his notes. “However,” he continued, “even after all the discussions in this courtroom, the pre-trial hearings, it is still beyond me why this is the only charge for which you have been brought to bear.” He had a way with words, and I had to concentrate to follow him. “It is often said the law is an ass, and in this case it most certainly is.”
He directed his gaze towards the defence lawyer, and the stare he gave him was a long way from a favourite grandfather. “Mr Daniels, you have done a fine job defending the accused. You have applied the law in a way that has served your client well. However, speaking as one lawyer to another, you should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself.” The defence lawyer became interested in his notes, looking down at his lap. The judge looked up, and I realised that he was looking at us.
“This case involves the death of a young woman in the prime of her life.” Jennifer. My wife, Jennifer. She wasn’t just a young woman, her name was Jennifer. As if he’d read my mind, the Judge continued. “Jennifer Dawson was cruelly cut down by your actions, Mr Wainwright. But she is not the only victim here. Her family,” he nodded in our general direction. “Her family are also victims of your actions and their pain must endure.” He was looking directly at me. “I suspect that for some it will endure for a very long time.” I could feel my throat tighten as he spoke these words.
The judge turned his attention to Malcolm. “I feel the police must share some culpability in this case. Their inability to prove any form of intent, discover any useable forensic evidence, or provide the Crown Prosecution Service with anything that could bring a higher charge is, quite frankly, disappointing.” I glanced across at Malcolm who was looking very uncomfortable. I felt for him. We’d become friends of sorts over the last few months, about as close as a copper and a former burglar can be friends. I knew how frustrated he was. He’d confided in me once, on the understanding it was only between him and me, that he thought Robert should be on trial for murder. But, and this was an enormous but, the O
ld Bill couldn’t prove anything. No one had witnessed the accident, the rain had destroyed any hope they had of forensic evidence, and Robert hanging around a couple of times didn’t prove that he meant her harm.
The entire defence had been based on what the prick of a defence lawyer had called “a hugely unfortunate series of coincidences”. Robert had, apparently, just happened to be driving down that particular road at the exact same time that Jennifer had run across the road in front of him. In the middle of a heavy shower. He hadn’t had time to do anything, the lawyer had said. Not even time to try to stop. Robert had hit Jennifer, my Jennifer, hard enough for her head to smash the windscreen of his BMW and when he had managed to stop, she’d been thrown straight onto the unforgiving surface of the road. That was the narrative that Andy had sat through when the coroner’s assistant had described Jennifer’s injuries. A terrible accident, the lawyer had said, but the only thing that his client was guilty of was driving while under the influence of alcohol. Not causing death by dangerous driving. Not murder. No proof. It was only a terrible accident, according to the law.
The judge put his notes down on the desk in front of him. He stared at Robert.
“Mr Wainwright, my intention is to sentence you with the maximum sentence available to me as a judge. I hereby sentence you to a driving ban of twenty-eight months. You will also complete one hundred and eighty hours of unpaid work during a twelve-month community order.” There was absolute silence in the courtroom. “You are also to pay eighty-five pounds court costs and an eighty-five pound victim surcharge.” My jaw dropped. Eighty-five pounds. Eighty-five fucking pounds. That’s what Jennifer’s life was worth. I stared at Robert as he turned to look me in the eyes for the first time in the entire trial. Then he made a huge mistake. He smirked.
Blind Justice Page 9