“I shouted that I would kill him,” I said. Paul shuffled through his paperwork until he found the piece of paper he was looking for. He looked down and then back up at me.
“For the record, and I apologise for the language I am about to use, you said ‘You’re dead, Wainwright. You’re fucking dead. I’ll fucking kill you myself’. Is that correct?” I nodded my head, still keeping my eyes downcast and away from the jury. “Gareth, please answer the question for the court transcript,” Paul said.
“Yes, that’s correct,” I replied in a small voice. When we’d discussed this part of the questioning before the trial, Paul and Laura had explained how the prosecutor might try to use those words against me at some point. Paul wanted to get them in front of the jury, but in a way in which they would be sympathetic. It was better that they were brought out now.
“Why did you shout those words, Gareth?” Paul asked. The prosecutor shuffled in her chair, and I looked across at her to see if she was going to object. When she remained silent, I continued.
“I shouted those words because I had just watched the man who murdered my wife get away with it.”
“Please, Your Honour.” The prosecutor rose to her feet. “Robert Wainwright was not convicted of murder. The only convicted murderer—”
“Miss Revell,” the judge warned.
“—in this courtroom is the man on the witness stand,” she concluded, almost shouting over the judge as she did so.
“Miss Revell, that’s quite enough.” Judge Watling had what Jennifer would have described as ‘a right face on’. He frowned at the prosecutor as she sat back down. “I will sustain your objection, but with a warning. The jury is to disregard the witness’s last statement, and that of Miss Revell as well.” Paul had said that something along those lines would happen. The prosecutor could object until she was blue in the face, but I’d still said what Paul wanted me to say. The jury might have been told to disregard it, but they couldn’t un-hear it.
Paul continued through my story, and every low point in my life at that time was highlighted in painful detail. The gradual slide toward rock-bottom was laid out for the entire court. The only part of it that I’d not told anyone about was the night I’d thrown up on the carpet watching our wedding video. That was just between me and Jennifer, and I wasn’t going to tell a soul about it. My half-hearted attempts to get help for my drinking were described, and Paul deftly brought me to the next key stage of my testimony. The decision to attack Robert Wainwright.
“Now at this point in time, Gareth, you had already started making steps towards your own recovery. Am I correct?” Paul asked, sounding like a psychiatrist. I’d never seen a shrink in real life, but I imagined that this is what they would sound like.
“Yes, that’s correct. I’d cut back on my drinking and had started running again to try to give me a different focus.”
“But yet you decided to attack Robert Wainwright. What prompted this decision?
“I had gone out for a run out one evening, and I saw Robert driving his car. The same car that he had used to kill Jennifer.” I looked across at the prosecutor who was stirring into life. “Sorry, the car that was in the accident.” She looked at me through half open eyes as if she was daring me to continue. “I knew he was still banned, but he was driving anyway.” I took a deep breath, remembering that evening. “Seeing him just driving around like nothing had happened just tipped me over the edge.” I locked eyes with juror number four. “So, I decided to do something about it.”
Over the course of the next hour, I described how I had planned to attack Robert even though the prosecutor had been through all this already. Everything from finding out where he lived, establishing his pattern of life, to buying the baseball bat at a car boot sale so it couldn’t be traced. Paul walked me through the plans I’d put into place to avoid getting caught, and I hoped that if there was a God up there, He wasn’t listening. It wasn’t the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but an amended version of it. I knew I had to protect Tommy, David and Big Joe, so I told the jury that I’d threatened them all. With Paul’s help, I tried to paint a picture of me as a desperate man, so desperate he would even threaten his closest friends to get the revenge he so badly wanted. The few times I looked up at the jury, they were all listening, so I thought I’d got away with it. I didn’t dare look up at the public gallery in case I caught Big Joe’s eye if he was sitting up there. I knew he wasn’t happy about having to ‘confess’ to being threatened by someone like me, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that.
Paul got to where I’d laid in wait for Robert for the first time.
“What was your intention at this point?” Paul asked.
“I wanted to hurt him.”
“To kill him?”
“No, that was never my plan. I just wanted to hurt him, to make him suffer for what he’d done,” I said. “I never wanted to kill him. Only to pay him back.”
“So, Robert Wainwright left The Griffin public house, and you followed him along Yarmouth Road?”
“Yes, I did. I was just plucking up the courage to go after him when someone else beat me to it.” Paul slowed things right down and we went through what happened in the wasteland in excruciating detail. I told the jury about Robert getting to his feet and walking off after being beaten up by the two strangers.
“So you don't know who the two men who attacked Robert were?” Paul asked.
“No, I don’t think I’d ever seen them before. I didn’t get a good look at them, anyway. It was dark, and I didn’t want them to see me, so I couldn’t get too close.”
“Would you recognise them again if you saw them?”
“No,” I replied. “I don’t think I would.”
Paul paused for a moment, scribbling something on his notes. I knew that this was a deliberate ploy to let the unexplained attack on Robert sink into the jurors' minds, so I waited for him to continue. Paul lingered until he saw the judge shuffle on his chair.
“Your Honour, I now intend to go through the attack on Mr Wainwright in some detail.” He stopped for a few seconds and looked up at the public gallery. I followed Paul's gaze and saw the elderly couple I’d seen earlier getting to their feet and making their way towards the door to the gallery. I wondered who the couple was as we waited for them to leave the court. Paul had obviously arranged this with them in advance, and my best guess was that they were Robert’s parents. Seeing as I was just about to describe how I’d attacked Robert, it made sense for them to leave. I remembered the look on Andy’s face when he had listened to Jennifer’s post-mortem reports during Robert’s trial and how that had affected him. No matter how much I hated Robert, if they were his parents, I couldn’t blame them one bit for not wanting to hear the next part of my testimony.
Once the door had closed behind the couple and they were out of the courtroom, Paul returned to his questions.
“Gareth, please describe what happened next?”
“I saw Robert leave the pub and make a telephone call. I figured he was phoning for a taxi. He then went down the alleyway to the side of The Griffin pub, so I crossed the road and followed him down the alleyway.”
“On the CCTV footage of you crossing the road, you can be seen pulling the baseball bat out of your pocket at this point,” Paul said. I paused, unsure whether that was a question. “Which hand did you use to pull out the bat?”
“My right hand.”
“Why?”
“I’m right handed.”
“Thank you. So, you pulled the bat out with your right hand and followed Robert Wainwright into the alleyway.” I nodded in reply. “What was he doing in the alleyway?” Paul asked.
“He was having a…” I stopped and paused. “He was urinating. I had the baseball bat in my hand, so I waited for him to finish and turn around.”
“You waited for him to finish urinating?” Paul said.
“Yes. I couldn’t hit him while he was, er, urinating. That didn’t see
m right and besides, I wanted to look him in the eye.” I glanced at juror number four, who was leaning forward and listening. “When he turned around, I hit him on the side of the head with the baseball bat.”
Paul paused, letting my comment echo around the courtroom for a few seconds.
“What happened then?” he asked me.
“He dropped like a stone.”
“How many times did you hit him?”
“Once.”
“Once? You only hit him once?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I only hit him once.”
“What happened next?”
“Well, I looked at Robert lying on the floor. To tell the truth, I was horrified. Absolutely horrified by what I had done.” I took a deep breath before continuing. “I dropped the bat and knelt down by his side.”
“Can you describe any injuries you could see?” Paul asked me.
“I couldn’t really see any injuries as such. He had a few drops of blood coming from his nose, and a red mark on the side of his face where I’d smacked him, but there was nothing else.”
“A nosebleed and a red mark? Those were the only injuries you could see, is that right?” Paul asked.
“Yes, that’s correct,” I replied.
“What did you do next?”
“I rolled him onto his side, so he wouldn’t swallow his tongue or choke.” I looked down at Laura, but she was busy scribbling something on a pad. I wanted her to look up at me, to acknowledge that even though I’d hit Robert with the baseball bat, it wasn’t as bad as it had been made out. “He’d dropped his phone when I hit him, but it was still working, so I figured he could call for someone when he woke up.”
“How did you know his phone was still working?”
“I could see the photo on the home screen. There was a crack in the glass, but it wasn’t shattered,” I said. “There was a photograph of him and Jennifer on the screen. From back when they were together.”
“And then?” Paul asked after stopping for a few seconds to let that sink in with the jury. I knew he was going to use the phone later on, somehow, so went with it.
“I got up and left, back down the alleyway and toward the road.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Paul turned to the jury, “there is CCTV evidence that clearly shows my client entering the alleyway after Mr Wainwright and leaving again a short time later. The defence does not contest this evidence as it is obviously my client and is consistent with his version of events.” Paul turned back to me. “What time was it when you attacked Mr Wainwright?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Ten o’clock maybe? Sometime around then, anyway.”
“Your Honour, may I introduce Exhibit A, which is a map of the immediate area.” Judge Watling nodded his head in response. Laura got to her feet holding a large rolled-up sheet of paper that had been resting against the defence table. She walked to the middle of the courtroom and was met by the usher who was carrying an easel. Laura unrolled the paper and pinned it to the easel before stepping back and adjusting it so that the jury and the rest of the court could see the map. The only person who couldn’t see it was Judge Watling. Paul and Laura exchanged places and Paul put a large round red sticker on the map.
“This marker, ladies and gentlemen, is The Griffin pub where the attack took place. Could you describe the route you took from the pub, Gareth?”
As I described the route I had taken, Paul ran his index finger along the roads on the map to show the jury where I had gone.
“I stopped in the park just off Laundry Lane for a few minutes to get my head together.” Paul pointed at a green patch on the map to show the jury where the park was.
“How long did you stay in the park?” Paul asked. I shrugged my shoulders.
“I’m not sure, maybe ten minutes or so. I went straight from there to The Heartsease, along St William’s way.” Paul turned back to the map and placed another red sticker on it.
“This sticker marks the location of The Heartsease pub, ladies and gentlemen. There is CCTV footage which shows my client arriving at the pub at 10:26 pm.” He reached through his robes into an inside pocket and pulled out a thick black marker pen, using it to write 10:26 onto the red sticker over The Heartsease pub.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am approaching the end of my examination of my client. It will shortly be the turn of the prosecutor to cross examine him, but I would ask you to consider this. My client has been one hundred percent honest with this court today. That honesty has been brutally difficult for him. He has hidden nothing from you whatsoever.” Paul returns to the judge. “I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honour,” Paul said with a nod of his head.
The prosecutor got to her feet, slowly. She remained behind her table, and put both hands onto the surface of it, leaning on them with her palms flat on the table.
“Mr Dawson, first may I say how sorry I am for the death of your wife.” I wasn’t expecting her to say that, and as I looked at Paul and Laura, I didn’t think they were either. “That must have been a particularly hard time for you.” She paused for a few seconds before looking up at the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll be pleased to hear my cross examination won’t take long.” She took her hands off the table and stood up straight. “Mr Dawson, let me see if I understand this correctly. You decided to attack Robert Wainwright, and then planned this attack over a period of some weeks. You purchased a weapon that you thought could not be traced, you stalked Mr Wainwright to maximise your chances of successfully attacking him undetected. You put into place an elaborate series of measures that were designed to mislead the police. And finally, you followed Mr Wainwright into a deserted alley and struck him around the head with a baseball bat, rendering him unconscious.” She looked at me, her eyebrows arched.
“Yes, that’s correct,” I said in a quiet voice, looking at my lap. There was nothing else for me to say.
“And then you hit him again, and again, until he was dead.” My head shot up, and I stared at her.
“No,” I said forcefully. “No, that’s not true. I only hit him once.” I could feel my voice getting louder and saw Laura looking at me. I met her gaze, and she gave me a warning look. I swallowed and tried to recover my composure. The prosecutor said nothing else, but just stared at me for what felt like ages.
“I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honour,” she said.
“The defence calls Detective Superintendent Malcolm Griffiths,” Paul said in a monotone voice.
I watched as Malcolm made his way to the witness stand, taking a copy of the Bible from the usher as he entered the small wooden enclosure. The policeman was wearing a smart fitted dark grey suit with a maroon shirt and a slightly darker coloured silk tie. He looked sure of himself, and I wondered how many times he’d given evidence in court. He’d been a copper for a while, so it must have been hundreds of times. Not for the first time, I thought it would have been useful to get some coaching from him before the trial if he wasn’t on the other side.
Malcolm handed the Bible back to the usher and sat down in the witness stand. Age wise, he looked exactly the same as he had the last time I’d seen him. He’d been promoted to Superintendent since then, which is something I hadn’t known until Paul had used his full title just a few seconds ago, and he had a nicer suit on than he was wearing last time around. Other than that, he looked no different apart from perhaps a few extra pounds around the middle.
Paul led him through the preliminary questions, establishing who he was, how many serious crimes he’d investigated as a policeman, and what his role was in my particular case. I’d thought Paul would go over everything with Malcolm in the same way he had done with me, but that wasn’t his plan at all.
“Detective Superintendent Griffiths, please could you tell the court how you came to regard my client, Gareth Dawson, as your prime suspect in the murder of Robert Wainwright.” Paul was straight to the point, no messing about.
Malcolm lo
oked surprised, and I figured that he’d been expecting to go through the case chronologically. He shifted in his chair before replying.
“Er, well,” he said. “I knew Mr Dawson from prior to the events of the night in question. I was the Senior Investigating Officer following the accident in which his wife died.” Malcolm was talking in the stiff, formal way I remembered from the last trial. He was every inch a policeman. “As soon as I found out who the victim was, Mr Dawson became a person of interest straight away given his previous relationship with Mr Wainwright.” I don’t know I’d have called it a relationship.
“So, you went to see him?” Paul asked. “Popped round for a chat?”
“Yes, we went to interview Mr Dawson to ascertain his whereabouts during the evening in question,” Malcolm replied.
“Did you have any other suspects at this stage? Any other persons of interest, as you put it?”
“Not at that stage, no. But we were actively pursuing several leads. Door to door interviews, appeals for witnesses, that type of activity.”
“Then why were there four of you?” Paul asked.
“I’m sorry, when?”
“When you went round to interview him. Why were there four of you?”
“Well, er, that’s standard procedure.” Malcolm was looking uncomfortable.
“Really? So when the police interview someone informally, it’s standard procedure to send round four policemen, and hide one of them at the back of the property.”
“Not every time.” Paul paused, obviously thinking carefully about what to say next. “It depends on the risk assessment. In Mr Dawson’s case, we considered that he could be a flight risk, so we took precautions against that situation developing.”
“A flight risk?” Paul repeated. “But why would you think that? This is a man with no criminal record, no history with the police at all. Whatever would make you think he was a flight risk?” Malcolm paused for a second before replying.
“Experience, more than anything else,” he said, looking uncomfortable.
“Did you have any other suspects at all? How many other people of interest did you interview?” Paul stared at Malcolm, unblinking. It was quite a few seconds before Malcolm replied.
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