A Game of Proof (The trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  Terry arranged for the building workers to come in to the station and create a photofit.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  TIME PASSED. Summer faded into autumn. Simon played endless games of pool, and paced the prison landings. At night he dreamed of Jasmine’s face, cheek bruised, throat cut, her blackened lips opening silently. She wanted to tell him something; but what, he never heard.

  Sarah worked, defending shoplifters and petty thieves during the day. In the evenings she sat up late, poring over the details of Simon’s case. She talked to Bob when she could, and Lucy several times a week.

  Emily’s GCSE results came through, and she began her A levels at the sixth form college. She and Larry spied on David Brodie, passing on snippets of information to Sarah.

  Terry Bateson continued his slow, painstaking attempt to solve the Clayton and Whitaker cases. Forensics confirmed that the black trousers found in Simon’s shed were torn, and their fibres were consistent with those found in the mouth of Maria Clayton’s Yorkshire terrier; but there was nothing to show who had worn them. Terry’s attempts to trace the Irishman, Sean, were equally frustrating. No one had seen him for months; it seemed unlikely he was still in York.

  A judge was chosen for Simon’s trial, a date set. Lucy received copies of the prosecution evidence and, in agreement with Sarah, chose a barrister. He was the best they could get, a highly respected criminal silk, Sir Richard Haverstock, QC.

  She met him and his junior in Hull prison, two weeks before the trial. Sarah had wanted to come, but she was defending a car thief in Newcastle. It didn’t matter, Lucy had told her; things might go better without her. Sir Richard was a perfectionist, renowned for his analytical skills, but known to detest lawyers who became emotionally involved with a case. He was a great catch, but his status made it hard to arrange a meeting. He could manage today only because of an adjournment in the multi million pound drug smuggling trial he was defending.

  The two barristers wore expensively tailored mohair suits with a casual assurance which suggested that they never wore anything else. Lucy was dressed in her semi-formal clothes - clean blouse, black jacket, long black skirt to conceal her generous lower body, and Doc Marten boots for comfort. They shook her hand patronizingly.

  Simon had got thinner, Lucy thought as he walked in. The blue prison overalls hung off him loosely; she wondered if he was eating at all. He slumped into a chair and stared at the blue sky out of the window.

  ‘So, Mr Newby.’ Sir Richard began. ‘I’ve come to defend you. I need to hear your side of the story.’

  ‘Hasn’t Lucy told you that, already?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I have it all here in this file. But I need to hear it from your own lips, too.’

  ‘Why? To see if I’m lying?’

  ‘Not at all. Please understand, I’m not a policeman, Simon. I’m on your side. But I need to know what happened, exactly as you experienced it. It makes it easier for me to defend you.’

  ‘For the hundredth time.’ Simon sighed, and began to tell his story. But he wasn’t really concentrating. He kept gazing out of the window, away from the two elegant men who listened, making notes on their pads. What’s the matter with him, Lucy wondered. It’s as if he doesn’t care. Several times he missed out important details, and she had to prompt him.

  Sir Richard asked questions, teasing out aspects that Simon had skimmed or forgotten. But still Simon ignored him, as though he were unimportant, an irrelevance compared to the sunlight streaming through the window. It was a particularly bright day, and a sunbeam reached the foot of Simon’s chair. It fascinated him. He dabbled his foot in the pool of brilliant light.

  Sir Richard’s questions ended. He tapped his pencil thoughtfully against his notes, and looked up. ‘It has to be said, Mrs Parsons, that the prosecution do have a strong case. In the circumstances I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t warn our young client that at first blush, his hopes of outright acquittal are not particularly promising. Whereas for a plea of manslaughter, with diminished responsibility due to sexual jealousy, I could hold out far better hopes. But for that you would have to change your story, young man. Do you follow what I’m saying?’

  ‘No, sorry.’ Simon dragged his attention away from the sunbeam. ‘What do you mean, manslaughter?’

  ‘I mean, given the circumstances of your relationship with Jasmine Hurst, it would be easy to make a jury understand how upset and angry you were about her and this ...’ he checked his notes ‘... David Brodie. Especially given the way Jasmine kept coming back and, as it were, teasing you before going away again. I could play on the jury’s sympathy quite a lot with that. Then if you were to say, for instance, that you had an argument - that you asked her to come back but she refused, and as a result of that refusal you experienced an uncontrollable rush of emotion, a sudden violent loss of control in which you killed her without intending to do it or even knowing what you were doing, well ...’

  He threw open his hands, as though the conclusion was obvious. ‘... I could plead manslaughter, which carries a much lesser sentence than murder. In fact, the trial could be over in a day, with no jury at all. But that’s not possible with this story you’re telling at the moment, you see.’

  ‘What?’ Simon shook his head, bemused.

  ‘With the story you are telling now, I must warn you that our chances are not particularly good. And if you are convicted of murder you will go to prison for life. Whereas if, on reflection, you were to tell a different story, that you suffered a sudden loss of control and killed Jasmine in a moment of jealous passion, without meaning to, then everything changes. We can plead diminished responsibility. Do you see?’

  ‘But I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘I know you say that, Simon, I understand that fully, I assure you. But let me put this to you - I want you to think about this very carefully before we meet again, because it’s very important. There is such a thing as suppressed memory. There have been several cases recently where a psychological examination has established that a person who committed a terrible crime - a murder like, for example, this murder of Jasmine - remembered nothing about it at all. It was like a car accident, the shock erased the memory. Do you follow what I’m saying?’

  Simon nodded slowly, his face sullen, hostile, confused.

  ‘So they could quite truthfully tell a story - as you have done - saying that they didn’t do it, when in fact they had done it but couldn’t remember. Often these people went wandering off after the crime just like you disappeared to Scarborough. But later when it was proved they had suffered such mental trauma it was easy to claim diminished responsibility. Their barrister explained that their earlier stories were not lies at all, but simply the truth as they saw it because part of their memory was missing. Now I know a number of eminent psychiatrists and what I would like ...’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Fuck off, you slimy cunt.’ Simon leaned forward over the table, his face a few inches from Sir Richard’s. ‘Get the fuck out of here now, before I push your nose down your throat. Do you hear me? Go!’

  ‘Wait, just a minute, let’s calm things down ...’ Sir Richard sat back, waving his pen in Simon’s face. ‘OK, I see you don’t agree ...’

  Simon knocked the pen, spinning, out of his hand. Then he pulled Sir Richard’s nose, so that the barrister fell sideways, onto the floor. Simon spat and the phlegm landed in his ear.

  Then Lucy caught hold of Simon, wrapping both her arms around his so he couldn’t attack further, enfolding his slim hard trembling body in a massive soft motherly embrace. The junior barrister hit the alarm button and two warders came in. Simon was led away in handcuffs.

  On the way to the car park Sir Richard, dusting down his expensive mohair suit, said little. He touched his keys and the lights of his Jaguar lit up like a faithful dog. He favoured Lucy with what he hoped was a wry smile.

  ‘I seem to have hit the wrong note, rather. But put it to him a
gain, Mrs Parsons, will you? When he’s in a calmer mood. It was a serious point and may prove to be his only real defence. If he chooses to adopt it, that is.’

  He opened his car door, then another thought struck him.

  ‘Oh, and don’t worry. I’ve never yet stooped to suing one of my own clients for assault. Wouldn’t be very good PR now, would it?’

  ‘He did what?’

  ‘Pulled the man’s nose, dragged him to the floor, and spat in his ear. Then...’

  Lucy struggled to keep her voice neutral, but her emotions bubbled beneath the words. Officially she was, of course, appalled; but underneath she could not disguise her guilty delight. Lucy had always loathed being patronized by plummy QCs like Sir Richard; never before had she seen one so swiftly, comprehensively humiliated.

  ‘Sweet mother of God, Simon, what have you done now?’ Sarah hid her face in her hands, and peered at Lucy between her fingers. ‘He really did that? Pulled his nose and spat in his ear?’

  Lucy nodded. ‘Smack in the middle. He used his monogrammed hankie to clean it out.’

  ‘Oh. Oh dear me.’ Sarah began to shake. At first Lucy couldn’t identify the reaction, then she realized it was laughter. A wild, hysterical kind of laughter, but laughter all the same. And once Sarah had begun to laugh Lucy started too, as she’d been longing to do all morning. The two of them rocked back and forwards in their chairs, hooting helplessly. Lucy wiped her streaming eyes, and passed the tissues to Sarah.

  ‘So what now?’ Sarah asked, sobering suddenly. ‘Will he still take the case, d’you think?’

  ‘He was still speaking of Simon as his client, when he got into his Jaguar.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. But it’s hardly likely to increase his level of commitment, Lucy, is it?’

  Lucy frowned. ‘His feelings ought not to come into it. Sir Richard Haverstock is a professional, Sarah.’

  ‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ Sarah met her friend’s eyes with a deadpan grimace. ‘A Queen’s Counsel, no less. Not a spittoon.’

  ‘Look, I’ve spoken to him and he doesn’t hold it against you. He understands that you’re under a lot of stress and he’ll forget all about it and give you the best defence he can.’

  ‘How can he?’ Simon asked angrily. ‘He wants me to plead guilty. He thinks I did it.’

  ‘He wasn’t saying that exactly, Simon. He was saying the prosecution have a strong case.’

  ‘So he’s given up already. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  Simon, Lucy and Sarah were back in the interview room in Hull. It was less than a week before the trial was due to start. Sir Richard had not been back to see Simon again, but Lucy had had several long phone conversations with him. The man had been smooth, urbane, reassuring.

  ‘It’s his duty to give you the best advice he can. He said if he could present you in a sympathetic light, you might get eight years and be out in four. Which is a lot less than life.’

  ‘Eight years? Christ.’ Simon stared out of the window, while a warder watched through the door. Since his assault on Sir Richard, Simon was handcuffed during visiting.

  ‘Is that what you do, then, mum? Tell people to plead guilty when they didn’t do it?’

  ‘Sometimes, Simon, yes. If the prosecution case is very strong, I might advise a client to do that in his own best interests. But it’s always the client who decides, not the lawyer.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’m the client and I’m pleading not guilty, OK?’

  ‘I think you made that clear to Sir Richard when he was here,’ said Lucy. ‘And I’ve told him that over the phone. Naturally he’ll defend you on that basis if you insist, he said.’

  Simon looked down at his manacled hands. He was thinner and more subdued than she remembered, Sarah thought. She wondered if they were giving him some sort of calming drug. Or more likely, the impending urgency of the trial was getting to him.

  ‘Yeah, but what does he actually know about my case? He’s only met me once.’

  ‘I’ve sent him the papers,’ Lucy answered. ‘Four box files. He’s had them a week now.’

  ‘A week?’ Simon stared at her, anxiously. ‘Is that long enough?’

  Lucy hesitated. The truth, she knew, was that Sir Richard had probably not given the papers more than a cursory glance so far. His massive, complex, and highly lucrative drug smuggling case was due to finish tomorrow, and had certainly occupied all his mental energies for the past month or more. By comparison, Simon’s case was small beer. But if the drug trial did finish on time Sir Richard and his junior would still have a long weekend to familiarise themselves with the evidence.

  This was not unusual. Barristers prided themselves on assimilating large amounts of complex information swiftly. They were used to it. It was how the system worked. It was clients, rather than lawyers, who were unhappy with it.

  She explained all this to Simon, who began to sway his head from side to side, in a panic.

  ‘You mean, they still don’t know shit about my case? They’re going to read all this stuff that you and mum have spent months on in just three days?’

  ‘They’ve already read some of it, Simon, obviously. Otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to talk to you about it last week.’

  ‘He didn’t talk to me, the ponce - he told me to plead guilty!’ Simon got up, walked to the window, and rested his manacled hands on the bars. The guard peered in anxiously. ‘Christ! The miserable sod advised me to plead guilty and he hadn’t even read the case! I thought at least he’d done that!’

  ‘Simon, he knew the main facts ...’

  ‘Sod the main facts! He’s supposed to know everything about it, isn’t he? Specially if he tells me to plead guilty!’

  Panic was clear on his face. ‘This is the guy you chose to defend me? Mum? Lucy? Why?’

  ‘Because he’s a top criminal QC, Simon,’ Lucy insisted. ‘We were very lucky to get him.’

  ‘And that’s your idea of luck, is it? A guy who tells me to plead guilty before he’s read the papers? A guy who wants me to rot in here for four long years?’ He gazed for a while at the windblown clouds racing freely over the rooftops. Then he took a deep, sobbing breath and turned back into the room. ‘Well, I don’t want him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard, I don’t want a turd like that defending me. I’d rather defend myself.’

  ‘You can’t do that, Simon,’ said Sarah coolly. ‘Be sensible. You don’t know the first thing about the law.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ He focussed on her for the first time. ‘But you do, don’t you, Mum. Why don’t you defend me?’

  ‘Me? I can’t, Simon.’

  ‘Why not? You’re a barrister, aren’t you? And at least you know about my bloody case. You know everything about it, you do. You even saw Jasmine’s body.’

  ‘Which is exactly why I can’t defend you. I’m too closely involved. I’m your mother, after all ...’

  ‘True. And you believe I’m not guilty, as well.’

  ‘Yes.’ If there was a hesitation in her voice it was the tiniest possible one, so tiny that Sarah hoped only she herself heard it. ‘Yes, I believe you’re not guilty.’

  ‘Well then. That’s a thousand times better than Sir Richard Pissface. You should do it.’

  ‘I understand why you think that, Simon, but I can’t. I told you, I’m too closely involved. The whole point of hiring a barrister is to hire a professional, an expert in the law who can put forward your arguments in the best way possible without the liability of ....’

  She hesitated, words unexpectedly failing her for a moment.

  ‘Without what, mum? Without the liability of actually caring one way or the other, is that what you were going to say?’

  ‘Something like that, Simon, yes. It’s how the system works.’

  ‘Then the system stinks. It’s a load of shit.’

  For a while no one said anything. The three of them thought hard. Simon’s eyes were locked on Sarah’s. Lucy watched, a
fraid to speak. This wasn’t just a matter of legal advice now, she thought. It was between Simon and his mother.

  ‘Is that true, mum? You’re not allowed to defend me, really? There’s a law against it?’

  Sarah’s mind was racing - through everything she’d learned since she began to practise law. Simon had raised a question which, in all those years, had never actually come up.

  ‘I don’t think there’s a law against it exactly, Simon,’ she said falteringly. ‘It’s just the way it works.’

  ‘And you’re happy with that, are you?’

  ‘I didn’t say I was happy with it ...’

  ‘Mum, listen to me. All the time I was a kid, you were studying. You couldn’t go swimming with us, you couldn’t play football, because you had an essay to write or a book to read. Always. Then when you passed your exams and we thought it would get better, you got more exams, more essays. Remember? You were away for weeks, months on end. Study, study, study, that’s all you ever did. I never saw you. Your studying was more important than games and housework and cooking, you said, I’d understand that some day. You’d be a lawyer and I’d understand.

  ‘Well now you are a lawyer and I’m stuck in this stinking cesspit of a gaol, accused of a murder which I didn’t do - and I don’t understand. Not at all, not a bit of it. Why can’t you defend me? You’re a barrister, aren’t you - just as good as Sir Richard Filthy Ponceface - and you actually know all about my case, which he doesn’t and no other barrister does. I’m just asking you to use what you know. And you say you can’t because you’re my mother. Christ!’

  He turned away, gazing blindly at the clouds outside the window. Sarah was shocked. It was the longest speech she had ever heard him make.

  ‘That’s just cruel, Simon,’ she said faintly. ‘I didn’t abandon you when I studied. ...’

  ‘You may not have meant to, Mum ...’

  ‘I didn’t mean to and I didn’t do it! You know I didn’t! You were fed, you were clothed, you had friends and a father - Bob, he spent hours with you ...’

  ‘So why did you always have your nose in a book, then? Why?’