Present Tense

by William McIntyre

  Across the table from me, Cameron Crowe huffed and puffed at a line of questioning he regarded as inane, no doubt thinking it to be some feeble attempt by the defence to remind the jury of the accused’s darling daughters in the hope of securing a sympathy vote.

  ‘And can we expect any more little Howie girls?’ Fiona asked. She was in full flight mode, her presence filling the small courtroom, the eyes of every juror upon her. Crowe twitched slightly as though he might object then thought better of it. He knew how strong the Crown case was. Why not let the defence flap about like a fish on a beach for a few minutes longer? He had no idea that the prosecution case he’d so skilfully brought to life and paraded before the jury was about to breathe its last.

  ‘No,’ Howie said.

  ‘And why is that?’ Fiona asked.

  On the prosecution side of the battlefield, Crowe’s radar sprang to life, picking up danger signals to which he was swift to react. But not swift enough. Before he could rise to his feet, the answer to defence counsel’s question was already out and in front of the jury.

  ‘I had a vasectomy after the twins were born.’

  Fiona Faye pivoted on a stiletto and addressed the judge while Cameron Crowe sank slowly back into his chair, looking like the drink-driver who goes to bed happy, believing he’s got away with it, only to wake in the morning and find a dead pensioner on the bonnet of his car.

  ‘I think my learned friend might appreciate a short adjournment,’ she said.

  48

  Dead horses and the flogging of them was something of a specialité de la maison for Cameron Crowe, and yet even he couldn’t raise a whip to the deceased nag of a Crown case that had collapsed at his feet.

  How could he possibly go to the jury with the unchallenged evidence that the sperm found on the swabs taken from young Miss Ruby Maguire, the Mormon virgin bride-to-be, could not possibly have belonged to the blank-firing accused?

  The Crown’s motion for an interlude was granted. Howie was taken to a cell in the basement and his wife sent home to find her husband’s vasectomy certificate. Meantime prosecution and defence had a joint telephone conference with Professor Edward Bradley. The forensic pathologist confirmed that the purpose of a vasectomy was to avoid the release of sperm, yes, even one or two because that’s all it took. If the accused’s vasectomy had been certified successful, the Crown would have to look elsewhere for the person who’d deposited the sperm.

  I thought that was that, until one of the prosecution team mentioned something about naturally reversing vasectomies. This developed into a further discussion and a longish delay while a small glass jar was sent down to the cells and we waited for a man with a white coat and a large microscope to arrive.

  It was well after lunch before the first concrete signs of capitulation. I noticed the Crown team was no longer referring to young Ruby as the victim, but, rather, the complainer, and a short time later she was taken along with her parents and boyfriend, all of whom had been sitting in court watching proceedings, to a witness room for a chat with the advocate depute and a female PF.

  The defence team was standing in the corridor at the end furthest from the witness room when Crowe emerged minus the complainer or his female colleague, but accompanied by the sound of wailing from within.

  ‘We’re no longer seeking a conviction,’ he said, calmly, as though he’d decided against a bottle of Sangiovese with his veal cutlets that evening and was going to opt for plain old Chianti instead.

  ‘That’s it?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘We’ll ask the judge to have the jury formally return a verdict of not guilty,’ he said, and turned to leave.

  Joanna wasn’t finished. She strode down the corridor towards him. ‘What did she say to you in there?’

  ‘That’s confidential.’ Crowe closed the door to the witness room to dampen the sound of tears.

  ‘She nearly had that man sent down for six years!’ I’d never seen Joanna this angry before, not even when she’d belted the Bulldog.

  ‘She’s a child,’ Crowe said. ‘That makes it complicated.’

  What constituted a child in Scotland was certainly complicated. A sixteen-year-old like Ruby Maguire could join the Army, but not drive, was old enough to vote for Guy Fawkes if he stood as her local MSP, but not to buy fireworks. She could have sex so long as she didn’t smoke a cigarette afterwards, and if she sent her boyfriend a naked-selfie, they’d both end up on the sex register, she for distributing child-porn and he for possessing it. Yes, complicated summed up a criminal justice system that prosecuted you as an adult, but treated your photograph as a child.

  ‘What’s complicated about perjury?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘Look,’ Crowe said, ‘we’ve spoken to her, asked her to be honest with us and she’s admitted having made a terrible mistake.’

  ‘Mistake?’ Joanna almost choked on the word.

  Crowe’s mockery of a smile revealed no teeth. ‘When we spoke to her just now, she wasn’t under caution so we can’t possibly prosecute.’ He could be magnanimous when it coincided with Crown Office policy. ‘Your client should be happy he’s getting off.’

  ‘How can he get off with a crime he didn’t commit?’

  ‘Let it go, Jo.’ Fiona put an arm around Joanna’s shoulders. Having once served as one of his deputes, the QC was only too familiar with the surreal world inhabited by the Lord Advocate. If it was Scottish Government policy to convict more rapists, even if it meant diluting the law and rules of evidence that had stood for centuries, it wouldn’t do to advertise that sometimes women made false allegations.

  Joanna shrugged her off. ‘No, I’m not letting it go. I think my client and his wife deserve to hear the girl’s story, given that it will never be heard in court.’

  Fiona looked at Crowe. ‘Actually, Cameron, I think we’d all be interested in knowing what happened.’

  Personally, in my book, a not guilty was a not guilty whichever way you cut it. I was keener on heading back to Linlithgow to start turning my office upside down in the search for Billy Paris’s missing evidence.

  The prosecutor sighed. ‘Very well, but this better go no further.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It seems that, while the boyfriend was working offshore, Miss Maguire was at a party and had a little too much to drink. She met some boy and they well… I don’t have to paint you a picture. When she woke in the early hours and realised what had happened she thought she might be pregnant or that in some other way her boyfriend would find out she was no longer…’ He gave a little cough, cleared his throat. ‘She’s actually not all that bright—’

  ‘Bright enough to pin the blame on my client,’ Joanna said.

  Crowe bared his teeth at Joanna. ‘Quite.’ He turned to Fiona. ‘We’ll bring the judge on in five minutes and put this whole sorry mess to bed.’

  ‘So to speak,’ Fiona said, but her adversary was already floating off down the corridor in the direction of Courtroom 4.

  ‘It’s a disgrace,’ Joanna said, watching him go.

  ‘Never mind that wee trollop,’ Fiona said. ‘You should be thanking your lucky stars that we found out about the vasectomy before our man was convicted. Imagine if it had been discovered a few years into his sentence. Talk about inadequate legal representation? Did you never think of asking him?’

  If Joanna looked pretty when she was angry, she looked absolutely stunning now. ‘The man’s been in my office half a dozen times! I’ve gone over the forensic reports with him... I don’t know how often. We’ve talked about practically nothing other than sperm and sperm heads. How was I supposed to know his dad never told him about the birds and the bees? Forgive me if I credited the client with an ounce of intelligence.’

  ‘Best not too,’ Fiona said. ‘Not clients, and especially not men. But you’re young. You’ll learn.’

  I wasn’t quite sure how Joanna would take the QC’s patronising tone, only that it was my painfully gained experience that quarrels between women never ended well for any man who
sought to intervene. The two of them could hammer it out like schoolgirls in a playground if they wanted. Me? My sensible and mature decision was to make a tactical withdrawal, return to the courtroom and, while awaiting the formal verdict from the jury, gloat like a schoolboy across the table at Cameron Crowe.

  49

  There are a great number of shocking things one learns during a career as a defence lawyer. The one that comes as the biggest surprise is the ingratitude of clients.

  Take Keith Howie. Here was a man charged with one of the most repulsive crimes known to the law of Scotland. A man who, thanks to a good accountant, and the need to support a wife and three children, had had his legal expenses paid by the State. A man whose lawyer had set aside a trip to one of Europe’s most beautiful ski resorts just so she could see his trial through to conclusion. Whose lawyer had persuaded her boss to babysit his emotionally shaken spouse. A lawyer who had secured an acquittal that had sent him home for a Christmas in the bosom of his family, while she’d probably spend the big day eating a microwaved vegetarian meal off her knee in front of the telly. And what did this man give his lawyer to express his indebtedness? A limp handshake and a thanks very much for all your help, Miss Jordan, as though she’d given him a hand to hang up a few decorations in the front room.

  ‘You don’t have to be quite so melodramatic about it, Robbie,’ Joanna said, as we rumbled our way back to Linlithgow on the four o’clock train. Neither of us had managed to find a seat and we were crammed into the compartment by the doors.

  ‘I’m being perfectly rational,’ I said. ‘You can’t buy a cup of coffee without being expected to leave a tip. Get someone off a rape charge and—’

  ‘When did you last leave Sandy a tip?’ Joanna asked, laughing. ‘In fact when did you last pay for a coffee?’

  ‘That’s different. Sandy treats me like a savings scheme. He knows I’ll square him up some time.’

  ‘Or your dad will.’

  ‘Either way he knows the money will come in. That client of ours…’ I said, aware that other passengers might be listening. ‘You save him from six years in the nick and what do you get? A handshake and a less than hearty thanks very much. That won’t buy you much Christmas cheer.’

  ‘The look of relief on his wife’s face was all the thanks I needed,’ Joanna said. ‘And also, you have to see it from Mr How… from the client’s point of view. He’s been to hell and back. Through his eyes, me, you, Fiona, Cameron Crowe, we’re all just part of the system. Why should he be grateful for being acquitted of a crime he didn’t commit?’

  Sometimes I worried about Joanna’s objectivity. The knack of seeing things from both sides of an argument, was... well, there was something unlawyerly about it.

  We were swept off the train at Linlithgow in an avalanche of returning shoppers and folk who’d knocked off early from work. It was a five-minute walk from there to the office. Joanna’s car was parked en route, outside Sandy’s. In the near distance I could see Grace-Mary bustling down the road towards us. Another worker who thought the Christmas holidays had come early.

  ‘Can’t stop,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to catch the butcher. Turkey emergency.’ She showed me the palm of a furry mitt. No, really, you don’t want to know.’ She was right — I didn’t. ‘I’ve left you some phone messages. Your dad called to say he’s away late-night shopping in Glasgow and then going to Malky’s radio station for their drinks party. He’s staying overnight at your brother’s and will be back about lunchtime. I’ve to remind you about collecting Tina tomorrow. Oh, and I confirmed our booking for the Star & Garter. I’ve told them we’ll be there at one thirty. It’s a bit later than planned, but that way you’ll be able to pick up Tina and bring her with you.’

  I’d almost forgotten about the Munro & Co. Christmas lunch, and almost, but not quite, about the twenty thousand pounds nestling in the inside breast pocket of my suit jacket. I’d spent all day at the High Court. If I had Tina to collect from the airport tomorrow, followed by the office Christmas lunch, it wasn’t leaving me much time to carry out the root-and-branch search that I’d planned. I’d have to start now. I wanted that second twenty-grand instalment almost as much as I didn’t want a visit from Oleg.

  News imparted, Grace-Mary hurtled off to save her Christmas dinner.

  ‘Is it too late for you to catch a flight out to the Alps?’ I asked Joanna as she searched in her handbag for her car keys. ‘The court diary’s empty and I should be all right dining with Grace-Mary alone. I’ve done it before and this time I can ask Tina to chaperone if need be.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Me miss the Munro & Co. Christmas lunch just so I can slide down a hill on my backside?’

  ‘What about Christmas Day? If your family’s away, I take it you’ll be going to your boyfriend’s?’

  ‘Only if I can find one by then.’

  Joanna didn’t have a boyfriend? What kind of crazy world was I living in? ‘You’re welcome to come to my dad’s. I know Tina would love it. But I have to warn you, we will be eating dead things.’

  Joanna laughed. ‘No, I’ll be fine.’ She opened the car door and threw her handbag and satchel onto the passenger seat.

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ I asked.

  She looked at me. ‘Tonight? Nothing. Why?’

  ‘Care to work some unpaid overtime?’

  Joanna retrieved her baggage and slammed the car door. ‘Sure. Why not?’

  50

  By midnight we had emptied every single filing cabinet and searched every single case file. We had pulled the cabinets out from walls, looked down the back of them and combed through a disgusting mixture of dust, ooze, deceased insects and paperclips. After that had come the window blinds, then the pot of my desiccated umbrella plant in case something had been buried in the rock-hard soil. We had looked under the rug and behind the picture of Linlithgow Palace at sunset, painted for me by famous local artist Effie McIntyre and which hung on the wall behind my desk. Nothing.

  The sleeves of her blouse rolled up, Joanna turned to the last remaining item of furniture: my desk.

  ‘I’ve already searched it,’ I said.

  ‘And now we’re going to search it again. Properly, this time.’

  We started off with the desktop and everything lying on it: case files, mail trays, the angle-poise lamp, the box of tissues reserved for tearful clients; and from there moved onto the drawers. There were six of them, three down either side. They took us the best part of an hour to go through, taking them out, emptying the contents on the floor and sifting through them like a couple of Klondikers panning for gold. We found things I’d thought were lost, things I didn’t know I’d lost and things that I didn’t know I even owned. What we didn’t find was any sign of Billy Paris’s missing evidence.

  Joanna closed the final drawer and dropped into my chair. ‘Did he go to the toilet when he was here?’

  Not that I could remember; nonetheless, I searched in there as well, inside the wee white medicine cabinet, under the basin, down the back of the loo and inside the cistern. I met Joanna as I came out drying my hands on some paper towels. ‘Zilch.’

  ‘Same here,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had a good look through the waiting room.’

  That only left reception, where Billy might have passed through fleetingly when he called at the office to see me that Friday afternoon at the beginning of December.

  ‘And there’s Grace-Mary’s room,’ Joanna said.

  I doubted it. Grace-Mary’s inner sanctum where she did the cashroom work was always kept locked unless she was in it.

  ‘It’s too late now,’ I said. ‘I’ll come in first thing before I go for Tina and do both rooms.’

  It was after one when I locked up and walked with Joanna down the stairs and though the close, lit only by the orange glow of the sodium security light.

  ‘It’s really bugging you, isn’t it?’ she said at the door to the High Street.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe how much.’

>   ‘Let it go. Your daughter’s coming home tomorrow. Christmas is around the corner. Have some fun.’

  I smiled and nodded in fake agreement. How could I possibly let all that money go when come the New Year I’d be struggling to keep my business afloat? What if I didn’t find the evidence? What if Thorn’s second payment slipped through my fingers and Oleg the Russian returned to remove the first instalment and my kneecaps with it?

  Joanna read my mind. ‘The New Year will take care of itself. We’ll get by.’

  We? Would there be a ‘we’? With no legal aid money, I’d have to seriously cut my overheads for a start. Take on fewer cases. Be more selective in whom I acted for, namely, only those who could afford to pay. If the poor wanted access to justice they’d have to go somewhere else, to someone whose paper-pushing skills were better honed than my own. Yes, I probably could get by, but there’d be no room for Joanna.

  We stepped out onto the pavement. It had been raining and the frost had turned the walkway into an ice-rink. Joanna slipped. I grabbed her and as she steadied herself I gazed into those beautiful dark eyes. Was this what was really worrying me? That I would lose Joanna?

  ‘Watch your step.’ My attempt at a light-hearted laugh was more of a croak.

  ‘I don’t think I really gave you the credit for today’s result,’ she said, as still with a grip on my arm she let me guide her down the High Street towards Sandy’s café and our cars. ‘When you came charging into court at the end of the Crown’s cross-examination, I thought “here we go”, and could have strangled you. Then when I heard you tell Fiona about Keith Howie’s vasectomy, I could have kissed you.’

  I stopped, took Joanna’s other arm and gently turned her to face me. ‘Really? Then why don’t you?’

  She smiled. ‘Strangle you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Kiss me.’

  51

  ‘That was highly unprofessional of us,’ I said, waking up in the darkness of Christmas Eve’s eve, an arm around Joanna to stop her falling out of my single bed.