by Nick Stone
‘No further questions.’
‘You may step down,’ the judge said to Murphy.
The barman walked away, shaken.
There was a buzz of voices from the press and public gallery.
I shot VJ a quick look. He was impassive, but the big guard behind him was fighting back a gale of laughter.
‘Mr Carnavale, see me in chambers. Court is dismissed until tomorrow morning at ten.’
The judge banged his gavel and it sounded like an explosion.
81
Day 5 (a.m.)
VJ couldn’t hide his happiness at the way things were going, at that glimpse of freedom coming out from under the horizon like a blessed sunrise after a long night. He entered the cramped meeting room in a top of the morning good mood.
His jolliness fell away in big chunks when he heard our news:
‘Ahmad Sihl may be testifying against you today,’ Christine said.
‘What?’
‘The prosecution wants to call him as a witness.’
We’d only found out an hour ago, when Carnavale had told us.
‘Why?’ VJ said, staying on his feet.
‘The prosecution contends that Ahmad Sihl paid off women on your behalf – women you allegedly battered. They’ll use it to bolster their argument that you believe your wealth puts you above and beyond everybody, that you’ll always be able to buy your way out of potential trouble.’
‘Well that’s obviously not the fucking case, is it?’
‘Focus, Vernon, focus,’ Christine said. ‘This is happening whether you like it or not. I’m going to need any ammunition you can give me. Stuff I can throw at Ahmad, to undermine his credibility.’
We lost the legal argument. The judge ruled that Ahmad Sihl could give evidence. He’d be heard this afternoon.
After the public had taken their seats, Carnavale called his first witness.
‘Dr Louis Martindale.’
‘Who’s that?’ I whispered to Redpath.
‘Vernon’s doctor.’
‘His doctor?’
‘They entered his medical records into evidence.’
‘When?’
‘June.’
When I’d been grounded and kept out of the loop.
Martindale was a tanned slip of a man in his forties. He’d come to court in a double-breasted pinstripe suit with a crisp, bright white handkerchief capping the breast pocket. The heaviest, bulkiest thing about him was his hair, which was so thick and helmet-like I wondered if it wasn’t really a wig.
‘How long have you been practising, Dr Martindale?’ Carnavale asked.
‘Just shy of twenty years.’
‘Is your practice public or private?’
‘A bit of both.’
‘How long has Vernon James been your patient?’
‘Fifteen years. We met when he was in the City.’ The doctor’s voice was deep and family-tree posh, his manner respectful yet relaxed, perfectly at ease in his surroundings.
‘And is he a private patient of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘How often do you see him?’
‘A minimum of twice a year. Mr James has a full body check-up every six months.’
‘Is he in good health?’
‘Generally, yes, although he occasionally suffers from anxiety attacks.’
‘Can you please describe – in general terms –what you mean by “anxiety attacks”?’
‘Sudden onsets of tension, worry, irritability. Symptoms also include an accelerated heart rate, heightened blood pressure and headaches.’
‘What triggers these attacks?’
‘From what I understood from him, it was work-related. It’s a fairly common condition in the world of finance.’
‘Did you prescribe any medication to Mr James?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Flunitrazepam.’
‘Does it have a more common name?’
‘Rohypnol.’
Collective whispers fizzed and hissed around the public gallery like jets of steam waking a nest of snakes.
‘Would you usually prescribe Rohypnol to someone suffering anxiety attacks?’
‘No. I’d choose a milder sedative.’
‘Why did you prescribe Rohypnol to Mr James?’
‘He requested it. He told me he’d had a similar episode in America a few months before, and that he’d been given Rohypnol by a doctor there. He said it solved the problem.’
‘When was this?’
‘In 2007.’
‘Was it the only time you prescribed Rohypnol to Mr James?’
‘No. There were two other occasions. In 2009, and in February of this year.’
Carnavale asked for Exhibit 21 to be shown to the witness.
The court clerk passed the doctor a small white cardboard box in a clear sealed evidence bag.
‘Let the record show that the witness has been handed a box of Rohypnol tablets recovered from the accused’s office during a police search of the premises on March 17th. The item was found in the bottom drawer of his desk. There were originally twenty-four tablets in the box. Three were missing,’ Carnavale said. ‘Dr Martindale, is that the Rohypnol you prescribed to the accused in February?’
Martindale turned the bag over and looked at it.
‘Yes. It has the address of my surgery on the back.’
The clerk passed the bag to the jury. The crime writer had a good look at it.
‘Did you have any reason to believe your patient was lying when he said he had anxiety issues?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘So when he said he specifically needed Rohypnol, because he’d been prescribed it before, you believed him?’
‘I had no reason to disbelieve him.’
‘Did you subject him to a check-up of any kind, before prescribing the drug?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘He showed me the Rohypnol he’d been given in America. It was a legitimately prescribed item.’
‘Thank you.’
Carnavale sat down.
I helped Christine to her feet.
‘You said anxiety attacks are not uncommon among people working in the financial sector. By that I take it you’ve treated others working in that field?’
‘I have, and I continue to do so.’
‘What other common ailments have you treated them for?’
‘Depression, insomnia, stress disorders.’
‘Have you ever prescribed Rohypnol to these patients?’
‘On a couple of occasions, yes.’
‘Why did you prescribe them Rohypnol specifically?’
‘I’d tried milder sedatives which hadn’t worked. Rohypnol is stronger and acts faster.’
‘So, in that context, Mr James’s request wasn’t odd – or uncommon?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Rohypnol isn’t illegal, is it?’ she said.
‘As long as it’s on prescription, and used for its intended medical purpose.’
‘But it’s also classified as a Class C drug.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there only one variety of Rohypnol available?’
‘There are three. The commercially available variety is 1mg in strength and is a green tablet, which gives off a blue dye and is harder to dissolve in liquid. This was introduced by the manufacturer as a safeguard to prevent the drug being used to spike drinks,’ he said. ‘There are also the laboratory variants, which come in either liquid form or as white tablets which dissolve very quickly and leave no physical trace. They’re also twice the strength.’
‘And which variety did you prescribe Mr James?’
‘The commercial kind, of course. I wouldn’t have access to the lab variants.’
‘So, the green tablet?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was he given the green tablets in America?’
‘Yes.’
Christine let a few moments pass befor
e she asked her next question.
‘Dr Martindale, does Rohypnol cause blackouts?’
‘Memory loss is a common side-effect, yes. Especially when the drug is mixed with alcohol.’
‘Do these memories return at all?’
‘Generally, yes. Depending on the individual, of course. It’s common for rape victims to wake up with little to no initial recollection as to what happened. Then, when the drug wears off, their recall gets better and better.’
‘How long does it take for the drug to wear off?’
‘Rohypnol is at its most potent in its first four to six hours. Then its effects start diminishing.’
‘No further questions.’ Christine sat down.
Dr Martindale left the witness box.
Carnavale was only calling one escort as a witness, as opposed to the three originally listed. He was making way for Ahmad Sihl, obviously confident in his testimony.
When Rachel Hudson walked into the courtroom, I immediately thought of how Fabia might’ve looked with blonde hair. She was the same type. Tall, long-haired, attractive but forbidding with it. She’d make your head turn and poke your eyes out for looking.
She was wearing a loose grey flannel suit that only slightly hinted at her curves. Her hair was scraped back tightly from her high forehead, exposing her full face, with its unlined brow and thin dark eyebrows. Before she took the oath, she stared right at VJ. I couldn’t quite fathom her look. Fear, loathing or gloating?
‘Ms Hudson, when did you first meet the accused?’ Carnavale asked.
‘In 2007,’ she said.
‘How did you meet?’
‘I was working for an escort service called Essence.’ Her voice was soft and demure.
‘Can you please explain for the record what being an escort entails?’
‘An escort service is a glorified dating agency,’ she said. ‘They set people up on dates.’
‘When you say “people”, you mean men?’
‘Usually, but not exclusively.’
‘Women also used the agency?’
‘Couples, occasionally. Husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends.’
The middle-aged female juror winced. The foreman smiled. He was going to be dining out on this as well.
‘The way it works is that the agency introduces the client to the escort. The escort meets the client for a pre-agreed fee. If they get along and the escort chooses to, she’ll sleep with a client. Almost like a standard date.’
‘How did the accused find out about you?’
‘Via the agency’s website.’
‘Did you use your real name?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Everything about escorting’s fake. And you never know who you’re going to meet.’
The jury was riveted. The witness was good. Classy, respectable, obviously educated – not what they were expecting. She was the last person in the world you’d think was an escort. And listening to her now, she could be talking about any profession in the world except the oldest one going.
‘Please tell the court about your first meeting with Mr James.’
‘It happened in the bar of the Franklin Hotel in Docklands. We talked for a couple of hours.’
‘How did the meeting go?’
‘Very well. He was charming, funny. I was attracted to him. Genuinely.’
‘Did you have sex with him that night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he pay you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m an escort, not a prostitute.’
‘He didn’t pay you?’
‘No.’
‘You slept with him for nothing?’
‘An escort is paid for her time, not her body.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘If we have sex with a client, it’s at our own discretion.’
‘So you’re saying you’re not a prostitute?’
‘A prostitute guarantees sex, an escort does not. I slept with Mr James because I wanted to.’
Carnavale looked at his notes.
‘You weren’t expected to have sex with the client?’
‘If I charged for it, I’d charge a lot more than £500 an hour,’ she said.
Some laughter. Disapproving frowns from both female jurors. Smirks from the younger men.
‘Did you receive money directly from the man in the dock?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He gave me cash gifts.’
‘After you had sex?’
‘Yes. Sometimes before.’
‘How much?’
‘The first couple of times it was £1500. And then it went up – no pun intended.’
That earned her a few laughs from the press.
‘How many times did you meet the accused?’
‘Eight times.’
‘When?’
‘Between 2007 and 2008.’
‘Did you sleep with him on every occasion?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘How would you describe your sexual relations with the accused?’
‘He was into rough sex.’
‘By “rough”, you mean violent?’
‘Yes. He slapped and choked me.’
‘He slapped and choked you? You mean he strangled you,’ Carnavale said.
‘Yes.’
There was absolute silence in the courtroom, as if the whole place had caught and held its breath as one. Not even the wood creaked.
I scanned the jury. The foreman glanced at VJ, the Asian woman bit her bottom lip, the writer looked from the witness stand to Carnavale, and then at us – at me. We locked eyes for a second before he flicked his eyes to the judge.
‘Did he do this to you every time?’ Carnavale asked.
‘Yes. The first few times he didn’t slap me that hard. They were more like heavy taps to the face. They stung a little, but that was it. Nothing serious,’ she said, batting her hand quickly back and forth, swiping the air. ‘But then it got worse. We’d agreed a safety word, something I’d say or shout if he was going too far. But he ignored it. Or said he hadn’t heard it. He went further and further, hitting me harder and harder, until he started giving me bruises and black eyes, and split my lip.’
‘But you kept on seeing him?’
‘He’d compensate me when he went too far. He’d give me £500 more. “To pay for the damages,” he’d say.’
‘You said he also choked you?’
‘Yes.’
‘From that very first date?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did he choke you?’
‘With his belt. He’d put it around my neck and pull it tight, when he was taking me from behind. Again, we’d agreed a safety sign, which he ignored. The last time I saw him, he almost killed me.’
‘In choking you?’
‘Yes. I kept signalling for him to stop. I thought I was going to die. I blacked out.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I came to, on the floor, gasping for air, dizzy and in a lot of pain.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He asked if I was OK. I told him to get out and never contact me again,’ she said. ‘Then I took pictures of all my injuries with my mobile and went to hospital. He’d slapped me around that time too, even worse than before.’
‘Did you contact the police?’
‘No. The hospital did. The police came to see me, the next day.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘I told them what had happened.’
‘Did you give them the accused’s name?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you know his name? Did he tell you?’
‘No. He used to change it every time we met. It was a joke we had – at least at the beginning.’
‘How did you find out who he was?’
‘I knew he worked in finance.’
‘How?’
‘Escorting’s a very small world. I knew other women who’d been with him, who he’d done the
same things to,’ she said. ‘And once, while he was asleep, I went through his wallet. Not to steal, you understand, but to find out who he was.’
Carnavale took a pitstop there, had a quick consultation with his junior.
‘Mr James was never arrested in connection with the assault,’ Carnavale said. ‘Why was that?’
‘I withdrew the charges.’
‘Why?’
‘I hadn’t told the police I was an escort.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I didn’t think they’d take me seriously,’ she said. ‘I also weighed up what might happen on the off-chance there was a trial. I’d be in the public eye and my reputation would be ruined. Everyone would know what I did for a living. And it would follow me around. That’s when I thought of pursuing the matter out of court.’
‘In other words, you decided to get a pay-off from Mr James?’
‘An escort’s career is short. You don’t find too many over thirty. I’m now thirty-three,’ she said.
‘Is that a “yes”, Ms Hudson?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you contact Mr James?’
‘By email. I sent him the pictures I’d taken of myself after his assault.’
Carnavale asked the court clerk for Exhibit 26 – Rachel Hudson’s photos.
‘Let the record show that these photographs came not from the witness, but were recovered from the accused’s laptop.’
She confirmed that they were of her, and that she’d taken them.
The photos were passed to the jury.
They saw Rachel Hudson’s heavily bruised face, one eye swollen and closed to a slit; the bruises all over her arms and legs and back, the black rectangular patches and bloody scratches on her neck, no doubt made by the belt.
The jurors were all horrified. One young man went pale. The Asian woman gasped. The writer couldn’t look.
‘Did he reply to your email?’
‘No. But I got a phone call from someone a few hours later – a man with a London accent. He said he was calling on behalf of the person I’d emailed. He offered me £10,000 in cash. I negotiated. We settled on £100,000. It was going to be paid in staggered amounts over a two-year period. If I agreed, I’d get half upfront, the rest over the next two years.’