Blind Justice

by Nathan Burrows

“Just relax, Gareth. You’re not helping yourself here. No matter what she’s saying, don’t react at all. That includes the look on your face.” I wasn’t even aware that I had a look on my face, but I attempted to relax.

  Toby had been an absolute star throughout the whole of this mess. The lawyer who was doing the talking on my behalf was a partner from Toby’s firm, an older chap closer to the judge’s age than mine. Apparently, Toby was too junior to be the lead, which was something I’d argued against. But I’d lost that argument, overruled by Toby’s boss. I’d not been that impressed with the partner from the opening arguments. He was as dry and boring as he looked, quoting various legal references at the jury until their eyes glazed over. In contrast, the prosecutor was much more animated, and more of a storyteller.

  “So, ladies and gentlemen, those are the primary reasons why you must find the defendant guilty of murder.” Miss Revell turned the heat up at the end of her summing up. “You have no choice according to the law of the land, as I’m sure you’re now aware. No matter how compassionate you may be feeling toward the loss of his wife, the law is unequivocal. He has, while of sound mind, unlawfully killed another human being in a premeditated and planned attack. The only option available to you is to find him guilty as charged.” She paused, and even though she had her back to me I knew she was looking each juror in the eye before delivering her final blow. “Of murder.”

  I looked over at my defence lawyer as the prosecutor finished her closing statement. He sat with his robes pooled around him, polishing his glasses. To be fair to him, he didn’t have a lot to go on, but he’d spent the previous week trying to prove that I was a broken man. Ruined by the death of my wife, he painted me as a desperate individual, hanging on to my sanity by a slim thread. The thrust of his defence was that the sight of Robert enjoying himself on a night out had provoked me to the point of taking action. The routine was pretty much the same for every witness he called. He would question them, try to make his point, and then sit down again while the prosecutor tore to shreds whatever argument he’d been trying to make.

  At one point, he was trying to prove how distraught I’d been when Robert was sentenced for his crime. He’d called the previous court usher as a witness and was pointing out I was so upset at the verdict, I’d had to be restrained by Andy and Jacob. When my lawyer had finished, he sat down and the prosecutor got up to ask the usher some more questions.

  “Did the defendant say anything when he was being restrained?” she asked in a quiet voice. The usher nodded before speaking.

  “Yes, he did,” he replied. I hung my head, not wanting to look at the jury. I knew what was coming. “Your Honour, do you wish me to paraphrase?” I looked up to see the usher looking at the judge, and the judge looking at me with a dour face.

  “No, there’s no need,” the judge said, looking down as the usher continued.

  “The defendant shouted ‘I’m going to fucking kill you myself, you bastard’. I apologise for swearing, Your Honour.”

  I had sat with my head down, not daring to look up at any of the jurors. I imagined them all sitting there, staring at me. Maybe a few of them were shaking their heads in disgust? I raised my head just so that I could see my defence lawyer. He had got to his feet and was standing with his hands on the table, stooped over it and looking down. His mouth opened and closed like a fish before he finally looked up at the judge.

  “Does the defence have any more questions for this witness?” Judge Watling asked. The defence lawyer, the man with my life in his hands, looked up at the judge. Even though I couldn’t see his face I could hear the defeat in his voice as he replied.

  “No more questions, Your Honour.”

  “All rise.”

  In response to the court usher’s shrill call to action, I rose to my feet along with everyone else in the courtroom. The two prison officers on either side of me were both smaller than me, and I stooped slightly as I’d been told to do by Toby and his team so I was closer in height to them. Something about being less threatening to the jury.

  The door at the back of the courtroom opened and Judge Watling stepped through it, looking around his little empire as he did so. I watched as he settled into his seat, shuffling papers in front of him as he always did. He then looked across at me and nodded. Just as he had done every day we’d been in the courtroom. The first time he’d done it, it’d thrown me. Why had he done that? I asked Toby during a break what it was about, and he’d said it was the judge’s way of recognising the situation I was in. Thinking back to Robert’s trial, I tried to remember if he’d nodded at Robert. I didn’t think he had done, so maybe the judge’s nod was only for those really in the shit.

  “Please bring in the jury,” the judge said to the court usher, who hurried away to the back of the courtroom.

  It was now lunchtime on Friday, three weeks after the trial had started. The jury had retired to consider the verdict yesterday afternoon, and the judge’s summing up was bleak, to say the least. He didn’t exactly tell the jury to find me guilty of murder, but he might as well have done. There was a real sense of deja vu when he was speaking. I was reminded of the end of Robert’s trial when the judge’s hands were tied by the law. The judge had focused in on the length of time between Robert killing Jennifer, and me killing him, suggesting that it made it difficult to prove that I’d just snapped. There was a lot of talk about intent, with the judge saying that if the jury believed that even if I only intended to cause grievous bodily harm to Robert, then they should return a guilty verdict for the murder charge. I’d followed Robert into an alleyway with a baseball bat. It was obvious to me that this would be seen as intent to cause grievous bodily harm. They only had to find me guilty or not guilty of murder, anyway. I’d already pled guilty to voluntary manslaughter, so if it was not guilty then I’d be sentenced for that charge anyway. No matter what they found, I knew I was going to prison.

  I looked at the other side of the courtroom where the jury had filed back in and returned to their seats. Seven men, five women. I’d been watching them enough throughout the trial to work out that while there were some who were sympathetic, most of them weren’t. I didn’t fancy my chances with them no matter how good my lawyer was. The foreman was a hard-looking bloke who’d listened intently from day one. He was the only one who I’d never seen looking bored, tired, or disinterested. He sat there, ramrod straight, taking in every word. I thought he was maybe military from his short haircut and the way he held himself. If he wasn’t on the jury I’d maybe have him down as a copper, but Toby had told me they weren’t allowed to serve on juries.

  The judge was in his usual position and looking over the top of his glasses at the jury foreman.

  “Have you reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed? Please answer yes or no.” the judge asked. The foreman nodded in response.

  “Yes, we have, Your Honour.”

  “What is your verdict? Please answer only Guilty or Not Guilty.” The foreman looked at me before speaking. I sat there, waiting, and I had never heard a more deafening silence in my entire life. It could only have been seconds, but it felt like a lifetime before he replied.

  “Guilty.”

  Three months after I was sentenced, Paul Dewar came to see me for the first time. I was sitting in the recreation room watching television. I’d been transferred here, Her Majesty’s Prison Whitemoor in Cambridgeshire, the same day I’d been sentenced. The prison was Category A, reserved for the worst of the worst. It had been dark by the time the van got here that evening, so I had no idea what the outside of the prison looked like and didn’t really care. I wasn’t going to be looking at it from the outside anytime soon.

  The warder had only just reinstated television privileges after a fight between two prisoners over which channel to watch. One of them had wanted to watch Britain’s Got Talent, the other one wanted to watch The Voice. I’d missed the fight itself as when it happened I was just sitting in my cell, not having the slightest bit of interest
in either program. By all accounts the fight turned nasty pretty quickly. Blood was spilt. The warder’s rules were clear. Any public disorder offences resulted in punishment for the whole wing. Most of the time this had the desired effect in that it was the wing population that policed itself, but the two prisoners who’d been scrapping were two of the biggest lads on the wing. No-one had fancied getting stuck in the middle of them.

  There was a second-rate soap opera playing on the television. I was only watching it for something to do, not because I was that fussed about it, when I was interrupted by one of the prison officers.

  “You’ve got a visitor, Mr Dawson,” he said. I looked up, surprised. It was Mr McLoughlin. I didn't know what his first name was, but he was one of the more approachable guards. He was older than most of the guards, maybe mid to late forties, but he had a kinder face than most of them did, and I quite liked the bloke.

  “Are you sure? I’m not expecting anyone today.” I didn't really get that many visitors, not helped by the fact Whitemoor was an hour and a half from Norwich on a good day. It was only Andy or Jacob, and occasionally Tommy and David, but I always knew they were coming as they had to book the visits in advance. Big Joe had even been once, but never been back. According to Tommy, he still felt bad about having to roll over to the Old Bill with the phone messages. I’d tried to get a message to Big Joe via Tommy to say I was fine about it, that I would have done the same thing in his position, but he hadn’t been back yet.

  “Your visitor’s a lawyer, so we let him in even though he’s not booked in,” Mr McLoughlin replied. “Not from your firm, though. His name’s not on the list.” He handed me a business card. I took it from him, turning it over in my fingers to read it. The card was very smooth, made from some sort of posh cardboard with a dimpled surface. The text on it read ‘Paul Dewar’ on one line, with ‘Phoenix Trust’ underneath. Both lines were written in a copperplate handwriting font, but as I examined it I could see that it wasn’t from a printer but proper handwriting. That was it. Just a name and a firm. No phone number, no e-mail address, no website.

  “You’re sure he’s here to see me?” I asked again. “I’ve never heard of him or the Phoenix Trust.”

  “He’s definitely here to see you. Even gave us your prisoner number to make sure he’d got the right guy.” I got to my feet, figuring that talking to someone from the outside was much more preferable than vegetating in front of the television.

  “Okay, lead on Mr McLoughlin.”

  The prison officer walked me to the visiting area, which was arranged like an examination room in a school, but with seats either side of each desk. He handed me a bright orange vest to put on as we walked through the door. Peeling magnolia paint covered the walls of the visiting area like most of the wing, and signs reminding everyone of the ‘No Touching’ rule were all over the walls. Not that many people took much notice of the rule, anyway. Another of the warder’s punishments was a hard enforcement of this rule, along with strict searches. Everyone knew this dried up the inflow of life’s little essentials on the inside, and it was one punishment that most of the prisoners dreaded. Personally, I wasn’t bothered. I didn’t do drugs and had no real need for anything from the outside world apart from the odd bit of cash to buy more cigarettes with. I was still off the smokes, but they were useful as currency on the inside.

  “We had to put him in the visiting area as he’s not on the approved lawyer list,” Mr McLoughlin said, nodding toward a man sitting alone at a desk in the far corner of the room. I looked across at the man who was sitting calmly with his hands crossed on the desk in front of him. A battered leather folio sat by the legs of the table. He seemed completely unfazed by being in a prison.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Mr McLoughlin said, walking off to join one of his colleagues on the other side of the room.

  “Thanks,” I called after him before crossing the room to meet my unexpected visitor. As I approached him, I examined him in more detail. He had to be in his late fifties, early sixties perhaps. Grey hair swept back straight across his head, with a sharply defined widow’s peak. He was wearing a suit. No surprise there. I’d never yet met a lawyer who didn’t wear one, but as I got closer, I could see that it was a fine suit. Since Andy had bought me one to wear for my trial, I’d become quite the expert, and one of my idle daydreams was how many tailored suits I would buy when I got out. This Paul Dewar chap had a three-piece, double-breasted, finely dotted pinstripes over a navy-blue material. Very nice. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

  The lawyer looked up as I pulled the chair out from under the table on my side. He got to his feet, extending a hand.

  “Mr Dawson, I presume?” he asked in a clipped South Coast accent. Not a local boy, then. I must have been mistaken about him being familiar as I didn’t recognise his voice at all. I shook his hand, figuring that as he was a lawyer the prison officers wouldn’t be too bothered about the rules.

  “Yes, that’s me,” I replied. He had a firm handshake, and I had to resist the urge to stroke the material of his suit with my other hand. “You’re Paul Dewar, I’m guessing?” He smiled at my reply, showing a row of perfect white teeth. They might have lived in a jar by his bed at night, I had no idea, but they gave him a reassuring smile. He was around my height, slightly less broad but still well built. As we sat down, I complimented him on his suit.

  “Thank you,” he replied. It was a retirement present to myself a few years ago. Holts of Saville Row.” I didn't know who Holts were, but I’d heard of Saville Row so nodded to show my appreciation. “Except I never really retired properly, of course,” he continued. If he had retired a couple of years ago, he had to be in his mid to late sixties, unless he had taken early retirement. I reassessed the man, impressed at the way he held himself. He looked like he could still pack a punch, that much was for sure.

  We sat opposite each other for a few minutes in silence, him smiling at me and me looking back at him.

  “So,” I said, curiosity getting the better of me as I ended the little game we seemed to be playing. “What can I do for you?” He smiled again, the skin around his brown eyes wrinkling. “I’ll be honest,” I continued, putting his business card on the table between us. “I’ve never heard of you or the Phoenix Trust.”

  “No,” he said, relaxing back in the chair and putting his hands flat on the table between us. I glanced down at what looked like a very expensive watch hiding under one of his cuffs. He splayed his hands on the table and I noticed a thick gold wedding band on his ring finger. I’d taken mine off to put in Jennifer’s coffin the day we’d buried her and had regretted it ever since. “You don’t know me, and very few people have heard of the Phoenix Trust.” He steepled his fingers on the desk, his cuffs sliding back a couple of centimetres. Was that a Rolex? “They’re rather, ah, what’s the best term? Secretive? Yes, that’ll do for the moment. They’re rather secretive.”

  “So, what do they do? And what do they want with me?” I asked.

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves, Gareth. May I call you Gareth?” he replied.

  “Of course you can,” I said, smiling at the formality of his request. “It’s my name.”

  “Perhaps you could humour an old lawyer and talk me through where you are with your case? It’ll all become clear, I promise.” I looked at him, wondering where he was going with this. What the hell, I figured. It wasn’t as if I’d got much else planned for the afternoon, and there was something quite endearing about the chap.

  We spent the next thirty minutes going through my trial and the events leading up to it. Paul didn’t take any notes. In fact, he hardly spoke at all except to ask the odd question when something wasn’t clear to him. I opened up to him more than I had to anyone for a long time. I finished by telling him about the final stages of the trial, and about how my defence lawyer kind of fell apart and gave up at the end. Paul nodded as I said this.

  “Yes, I thought so too,” he said.

  “Yo
u were there?” I asked, surprised. The penny dropped. That’s where I knew him from. He’d been in the public gallery for the last couple of days of the trial. “You were there,” I repeated, this time not as a question. “Why?”

  “Call it professional curiosity, my old chap,” he replied. “One thing I do like about Norwich is that there aren’t many murder trials here. So when one came up,” he paused for a second. “When your trial came up, I listened in to a bit of it.”

  “What did you think?” I asked him.

  “About what? The trial, your defence lawyer, the verdict?”

  “Well, all of it?”

  “I didn’t see the full trial, but I know the judge of old. He’s a good man. Very wise.” Paul looked over my shoulder and beyond me. “Your defence? Not good, but public defenders often use cases such as yours to build their way to better things. Sad, but true.” He looked at me directly, frowning. “And the verdict? Yes, in the eyes of the law it was the correct verdict. Assuming you did kill him.”

  His last statement threw me. What did he mean by that? I’d been convicted of murder. I was just about to ask him what he meant when he looked at his watch, nodded, and reached down for the briefcase. Assuming he was about to leave, I put a hand on his arm.

  “Wait, please.” I could see Mr McLoughlin frowning at me from his position on the other side of the room, so I removed my hand. “Don’t go.” Paul looked at me, balancing the briefcase on his lap and unbuckling it.

  “Oh, I’m not going, my dear boy.” He opened the case and reached in for a single sheet of paper. “But we need to change tack. Do you sail? Or rather, did you sail?”

  “Er, no,” I replied, confused by the sudden change in the topic.

  “That’s a shame. The Broads are lovely at this time of year what with the trees turning and everything.” He put the piece of paper down on the table and returned his briefcase to its original position next to his leg. “Now, let’s talk about the Phoenix Trust.”