The Witness

by Naomi Kryskle

  He looked at her. She was wearing a black velvet trouser suit with silver beads and sequins around the neckline. Beaded earrings dangled from her ears. “What are you playing at?” he snapped.

  “Why are you mad at me?” she asked.

  Too late, he realised that he’d misread her, and he was angry with himself. He played hard when he wasn’t on a mission. The women in the clubs had come on to him, and he’d welcomed them. This one hadn’t done. “Sorry, love. Don’t take offence.” He wanted to tell her to be careful. If she said something like that to a bloke on the outside, he’d shove his tongue down her throat and scare the bloody hell out of her.

  She slept late on New Year’s morning. When she woke, she missed her mother’s cinnamon rolls, which had long been a family tradition at home.

  Later that day Colin called by. As she told him how much in his debt she felt, she took his hand. “From the very beginning, you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. You’ve kept in close touch with my parents. I know it hasn’t been easy, giving them bad news, but I’m sure they appreciate your attentiveness, and I do, too.”

  Colin didn’t answer right away but the silence between them held no tension. “In the beginning I wanted to make certain the protective team behaved appropriately. I made a promise to your parents, and I still feel bound by it. More important, I made a promise to you. Having you upstairs made it easier for me to evaluate how things were going.” She was still holding his hand, and he had to make a conscious effort to keep his tone light. “I’ve come to enjoy being here. There’s food in the fridge, and something’s always on.”

  “If you think this flat is interesting, you must really have a dull life,” she teased.

  He smiled. “Nonetheless, when you’ve made all your court appearances, I hope you’ll consider staying on for a bit. You’ll be free to go, of course, but I’d like to take you on some tours without postcards.”

  She looked down and realized how natural it felt, holding his hand. “I haven’t thanked you enough for the watch.” She held out her arm, admiring it, but it was the delicacy of her wrist that attracted his gaze. “I don’t know what I’ll want to do. Such frightening things lie ahead of me.”

  “I have a quote for you then. King George VI said it on Christmas Day in 1939: ‘I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year / “Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.” / And he replied, “Go into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God / That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.”’ It bears thinking about—every year, Jen.”

  He had called her Jen. This elegant, formal man had spoken to her in an affectionate way. She felt a sense of peace and contentment steal over her. She leaned up against him, and he put his arm around her, the soft weave of her sweater warm against his skin. They sat that way for a long time, neither saying anything.

  CHAPTER 47

  The Happy New Year wishes had barely faded when everything about Jenny’s world changed. After months of having the men censor the media for her, Colin brought her the Evening Standard, untouched, and opened it to one of the news sections. The headline read, “Scott Defence Team Confident.” There was a picture of Scott, smiling. “Oh,” she said with horror, “it feels like it just happened yesterday, and there he is, looking—benign. I’m all right,” she said, as much to reassure herself as Colin. “I’m all right.”

  After that he brought her the paper every night and told Sullivan not to clip the columns about Scott from the morning editions. The press coverage increased exponentially, with long articles about Scott’s background, childhood, education, and early adulthood. His world-wide travels and participation in charitable events were detailed. The stories left her shaken. Clearly he was a press favorite. “Will they be writing about me?” There had been references to a witness “the police were keeping under wraps,” but nothing more.

  “No,” Colin answered. “They are not allowed to print anything that could lead to your identification.”

  There were photographs of the six murdered women, however. All had lived or worked in London. Two were close to Jenny’s age or younger. Only Marilyn had been married. Several had had boyfriends, and all were mourned by their families. Their facial features weren’t anything alike, ranging from Patsy’s round cheeks and mischievous smile to Clarissa’s lean, elegant face, but each one was attractive, and most had dark hair.

  Still, it wasn’t until she read the descriptions of their deaths that they became real to her, that their one-dimensional portraits donned flesh and blood. All had had massive internal injuries, but Barbara had been the first to die. Had Sally been stripped, too, with no clothing other than her soft curls? What had Emma thought when she awakened in that little room? Jenny felt a kinship with them, and she put their pictures next to the framed family photos in her bedroom.

  She asked Sergeant Casey about the men he’d served with, who had been killed.

  “It won’t help you to know that,” he said.

  “Do you remember what they looked like? Did their deaths strengthen your resolve?”

  “Your resolve is what matters now.”

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  Sergeant Casey wanted her to feel more confident physically, so the new year also saw the beginning of her lessons on self-defence. “There are ways a woman can disable a man. Even a very small woman. It’s a matter of knowing what to do and acting quickly and decisively.” The first exercises were mental, Casey insisting that her mindset had to be right before they moved to any physical manoeuvres. “People either hesitate or are tentative in their responses,” he said. “They want to believe that if they cooperate, they won’t be hurt, but that’s a lie.”

  She learned that she had two fears to conquer: the fear of offending the other person, perhaps from misreading the situation, and the fear of being injured.

  “It’s better for you to anger or annoy someone than to be hurt, and it’s far better for you to be injured than killed,” he said.

  “Terrible choices,” she commented.

  Casey created endless scenarios, all designed to teach her which actions she should be aware of and what her reaction should be. “If you’re ever threatened, there’s no time to think, but you shouldn’t have to. It’ll be second nature, I hope.”

  If she had considered the mental exercises challenging, she found the physical drills even more daunting. She did not want to square off against Sergeant Casey. “Are you going to come at me?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  They discovered together, however, that she couldn’t do it. His sudden moves unnerved her. Finally he adapted his instruction, slowing his offensive and guiding her responses. “Every man has vulnerable points: his eyes, his bollocks, and his knees. Strike hard and fast in any of those places, and you’ll be a free woman.”

  She didn’t recognize the B word, but his gesture made the meaning clear. “Sergeant, what should I have done?” she asked. “With the monster, I mean. Could I have gotten away?”

  He had known the question was coming. “You couldn’t have anticipated being drugged at the bus shelter. It was broad daylight, and they had only to bump into you, which most people wouldn’t consider a suspicious or aggressive move. When he entered the cellar, you were still under the influence of the drug. If you hadn’t been, you could have been waiting for the door to open, ready to rush him. You wouldn’t have been successful, but you had nothing to lose.”

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  Meetings with the instructing solicitor, Edmund Halladay, began. He worked for the Crown Prosecution Service, and it was his job to prepare Jenny for the trial. Sergeant Casey told her the session would take place in a London hotel. “Look about all you like, but don’t ask any questions during transport. No chit-chat. It’s not a social outing.”

  Brian rode in the front seat with the driver, and Sergeant Casey and Danny flanked her in the back,
so it was difficult for her to see much. And it was a gray day, which she thought was grossly unfair. She hadn’t seen London in the daytime since before the attack, and she didn’t want it to look drab. When they stopped, she wasn’t sure they’d arrived anywhere, but the men guided her through a back entrance and up several floors to a suite at the end of a corridor. There were two sofas, both with a scrolling leaf pattern on a champagne and cream background, separated by a walnut coffee table with a glass top. The Persian rug beneath them had all the color—it was chocolate brown with shades of yellow from saffron to ripe corn: food hues.

  She’d dressed for the cold weather, with dark corduroy slacks and a long-sleeved blouse and sweater, but she felt colder indoors than she had during the drive, and that scared her. She didn’t know what the prosecution lawyer would be like, but she wanted him to have confidence in her.

  Mr. Halladay set his briefcase on the dining room table and nodded curtly at her when they were introduced. Colin took off his overcoat, but Mr. Halladay also wore a hat, scarf, and gloves, which he removed and then carefully folded. He was a middle-aged man with small features and short greying hair, neatly combed. His moustache was also meticulously trimmed, and his nails were buffed.

  He seemed a little uncomfortable at first with the presence of the protection team. He eyed the firearm each man wore and positioned himself on the opposite side of the table from them. Danny had volunteered to take the first watch outside, and Brian was thumbing through the magazines on the coffee table. Sergeant Casey hadn’t seated himself yet. “Is it entirely necessary that these men be present?”

  “I don’t feel safe without them,” she answered. She remembered her misgivings when she’d first met Sergeant Casey and Brian. She’d been intimidated by the sergeant’s fierce expression and Brian’s size. Now she saw strength and gentleness. Besides, they were all in street clothes today, not the black uniforms that had added to her fright.

  “Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “Most judges don’t allow armed police in court.”

  Casey frowned. The defence would know that as well.

  Halladay addressed Jenny. “I gather your current arrangement won’t allow you to meet with anyone from the witness service.”

  “It’s not possible,” Colin answered for her.

  “A case of this magnitude,” Halladay said, “is always heard in one of the Crown Courts. There’s a backlog at the Old Bailey, as usual. Your particular case has been assigned to Judge Thomas, who presides in one of the newer Crown Courts, St. George Crown Court. On the wall above his bench you will see the Sword of Justice, and above that, the coat of arms. The dais is raised so he will have a clear view of the entire courtroom, including the gallery.”

  He put on his glasses and took a legal pad from his briefcase. “I’ll draw you a diagram,” he said, turning the picture in her direction. “In Thomas’s courtroom, the court recorder and usher sit here, in front of the bench. The witness-box is to the judge’s right and faces the jury.” He continued to fill in the drawing. “From where I sit, prosecuting counsel occupy centre right and defence counsel, centre left.”

  “Where will the monster be?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Scott,” said Sinclair.

  “Ah. Yes. The accused will be seated here,” he made a mark on the diagram, “at the back of the courtroom under the gallery. He will be escorted by two police officers who will remain with him during the entire proceedings.”

  “He doesn’t sit with his attorney?”

  “We say, ‘lawyer,’ or ‘counsel,’” corrected Halladay. “No, he’s in the dock.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A wooden enclosure. There’s a railing round the top.”

  She found Halladay’s precise speech mildly annoying, but his illustration and attention to detail gave her a clear picture of the courtroom.

  “The prosecuting and defence counsel still wear the traditional wigs and robes, but they function in a contemporary environment, as exemplified by the polished wood panelling and clean lines of the furnishings.”

  “May I keep this?” she asked.

  “By all means.” Her question had disrupted his dialogue, and he frowned. “After you enter the witness-box, you will be asked what religious denomination you ascribe to and if you prefer to swear an oath on a holy book or to affirm.”

  “Will they have a Bible?”

  “Yes. You will take it in your right hand and hold the card with the oath in your left as you read it.”

  Halladay then removed a stack of papers from his briefcase, and she saw the heading “Formal Statement” on one of them. She bit her lip. In spite of her continual exposure to the press coverage, she was not desensitized to her own experience. His questions were probing and specific, and he waited resignedly when she broke down.

  They heard a knock. “Lunch,” Andrews announced. Colin and Mr. Halladay ate their sandwiches at the dining table, but the other men had to make do with their laps, a real problem for Brian since his legs were so long that his lap wasn’t horizontal. She took hers into the bedroom, where Sergeant Casey couldn’t see how little she ate.

  Then it was time to begin again. In the hospital, she had thought that Colin and Barry would never finish interviewing her, but Mr. Halladay’s exacting methods took longer, and he recorded everything by hand, repeating her responses under his breath as he wrote. When he reached the end of her statement, he took off his glasses and looked at her severely. “Miss Jeffries, we have physical evidence that two of the other victims fought strongly against the accused. You did not. Why is that?”

  “The attack was so sudden. Later I hurt so badly—there wasn’t much I could do.”

  “Highly unsatisfactory,” scowled Halladay.

  She heard a rustle from the sitting room and turned to see Brian’s hand on Sergeant Casey’s shoulder. It wasn’t a gentle gesture; Brian’s fingers were digging into the sergeant’s shirt.

  “May I ask you some questions?” she asked Halladay.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Will I be asked about that in court?”

  “I’m afraid so, yes.”

  “Will there be reporters in the courtroom?”

  “Members of the press are allowed to attend, but no cameras are permitted.” He replaced all the papers in his case and stood. “I won’t trouble you any further today.”

  “Stand by,” Sinclair told Halladay. “They’ll depart first.”

  Casey flipped open his mobile, and she heard him give instructions to the driver. She rose, gathered her coat, and met them at the door. When they were well away, Casey rang Sinclair, and only then did he and the “weaselly bastard,” as Casey called Halladay, exit the hotel.

  CHAPTER 48

  Several days passed before Jenny’s next meeting with Mr. Halladay. To prepare her for what lay ahead, Danny rented DVDs of Kavanagh, Q.C., which followed the cases of an eminent fictional barrister. Queen’s Counsel was a designation conferred by the government, and barristers with that status wore silk gowns in court. Many of the scenes occurred in courtrooms, and they helped her visualize the elements of the court which Halladay had described.

  Once again Mr. Halladay’s pedantic approach made the time pass very slowly. It was difficult for the men also. They had no way to distract themselves, and the man who had been on watch the night before had to stay just as alert as the others. Their first session had been difficult but informative. The second was simply boring. She was surprised when a third session was scheduled.

  As usual, she and the men arrived first. She hadn’t slept well the night before, and the bed in the hotel room tempted her. The heavy curtains made the room dark, and the maid must have turned down the matelassé coverlet the night before and not replaced it. She suddenly remembered with a pang coming home from college and finding that her mother had turned her bed down in anticipation of her visit. She had taken her mother’s love for granted then.

  Mr. Halladay
began by giving her some general instructions about effective testimony. “Mr. Benjamin, the barrister, will want you to be honest but concise. He will endeavor to keep his questions clear, and where possible, not require long answers from you. He’s a Q.C.—quite capable, as we say. Little joke of ours.”

  A very little one. “Why are you telling me about him? Won’t I be meeting him?”

  “Absolutely not! There must be no personal contact whatever. Otherwise, charges of bias could be made.”

  “That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard! Isn’t he supposed to be on my side? How will I even know who’s who?”

  “The judge will address him by name,” Halladay said. “May I continue?”

  “Isn’t he my ally?”

  “Not exactly. You are a prosecution witness. It is his job to present the case for the prosecution in an objective manner. I assure you, Mr. Benjamin’s preparation has been more than thorough. He has met with Detective Chief Inspector Sinclair on a number of occasions, as well as with the other investigating officers on the case.”

  Halladay was oblivious to her dismay.

  “Listen carefully. You are required to respond only to questions, not to statements. If you don’t understand a question, you may request that it be repeated. Take as much time as you need to answer clearly. We do not want you to be unduly stressed by the legal process.”

  “How can I not be? It’s intrusive, it reminds me of a terrible time in my life, and the man who caused it all will be only a few yards from me.”