The Man Behind Closed Doors

by Maria Frankland

  “It sounds like it was a difficult time but it’s good to hear a bit of background as to why she might have made subsequent life choices.”

  “Yes,” agrees Susan. “She did tend to go after men who were like her father and brother – I did think Paul was different though. In the end, I saw things I didn’t like but I don’t believe him capable of cold-bloodied killing. There has to be some other explanation.”

  “One final question.” Margaret speaks softly. “Given your opinion that Paul maybe wasn’t the perpetrator of this crime, do you think your daughter could have killed herself in the way that has been suggested by the defence?”

  “No.” Susan looks straight towards the jury. “Never. But if it wasn’t her and it wasn’t him, who was it?”

  “Mrs Duffy,” Simon speaks in a gruff voice. “Before I begin, I too, would like to express my sadness for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It must be an awful time both for you and your granddaughter who I understand you are caring for.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are obviously a devoted mother, one who has endeavoured to support her daughter at many times when you knew her to be in need.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Simon adjusts his tie. “Does this include the episodes throughout her late teens and early twenties, when she repeatedly self-harmed?”

  Susan looks uncomfortable. “That was a long time ago.”

  Simon continues. “Can you confirm you knew about your daughter, at that time, self-imposing lacerations to her arms, legs, stomach and buttocks, to release some of the mental anguish she was enduring?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know how often it was.”

  Despite the grim nature of it all, Paul feels slightly lifted. Trump card played.

  “Do you think, Mrs Duffy, that a woman able to inflict such sustained self-injury, is equally capable of causing herself the fatal injury, you are suggesting someone else has perpetrated?”

  “I’m not saying it was Paul, but it was someone.”

  “Answer the question Mrs Duffy. Given your daughter’s history of self-harming, was she equally capable of causing her own fatal injury?”

  Margaret stands up. “That is not for my witness to decide.”

  “Sustained.” Judge Lakin collaborates.

  “Did Michelle have any enemies that you knew of?”

  “No.”

  “That will be all.”

  Chapter Thirty Five

  The final prosecution witness steps up. Paul feels utter relief that it is the last person that is going to speak negatively about him. This is, however, coupled with trepidation of not knowing anything about her or what she might say. She is roughly the same age as Michelle, with stringy, ginger hair and a wan complexion. As she takes her position in the witness box, she glances around the court room without meeting anyone’s eye.

  “You are Monica Anne Redmond,” asserts Margaret after Monica has sworn her oath in a shaky voice. “Is that correct?”

  She nods earnestly. “Yes.”

  “Am I accurate in stating you are employed at St Margaret’s Catholic High School, as an office clerk?”

  “Yes.”

  “The same school where Michelle Jackson was employed as a part time school bursar, for nearly two years?”

  “That’s right.” Monica tucks some hair behind an ear. “We worked at the same school. She was my friend.”

  “Did you chat about things other than work?”

  “Yes, all the time.”

  “Did Michelle tell you anything about her home life?”

  “I know she felt a little left out from her husband and daughter sometimes, and worried constantly Emily preferred her father to her.”

  Good answer! Paul wonders if the prosecution witnesses might be more instrumental in securing his acquittal than the defence. They were all adding weight to the argument about Michelle’s state of mind. To his horror, Paul realises he’s smiling. He quickly straightens his face and hopes no one has seen him.

  “Why do you suppose she felt, as you put it, left out?”

  “Michelle used to say she was the parent who had to discipline Emily,” Monica says, moving closer to the microphone on the ledge of the box. “Whereas her dad spent all the ‘enjoyable’ time with her. Kind of like a ‘good-cop, bad-cop’ situation.”

  She doesn’t look bright enough to have that kind of insight, Paul thinks, bitterly. Someone has told her to say that.

  “Did she also discuss her relationship with her husband with you, or did she just talk about her daughter?”

  “All the time. It troubled her. She was convinced he was having an affair and constantly worried he was planning to leave her for someone else. I’d tell her not to be daft. After all, she was gorgeous. Men’d kill to have a wife who looked like her.”

  I can’t believe she said that – that’ll make the papers tomorrow, along with his mother in law’s testimony, Paul thinks to himself. Monica flushes to the roots of her red hair. A titter of disapproval echoes around the courtroom.

  “Did she confide in you any further than that?”

  “Just that they were rowing all the time. I could always tell when she’d had a bad night. She would come into work with puffy eyes.”

  “Did she ever mention any violence?” Margaret glances towards where the defence are seated, evidently pre-empting a reaction.

  She got one. “That’s a leading question!”

  “Overruled.” Judge Lakin cuts in. “The question is perfectly relevant.”

  “She sometimes had marks on her. They could have been finger marks.”

  Simon leaps up again. “They could have been finger marks! Surely that’s not credible evidence.”

  “Sustained,” agreed the judge.

  “After the police thing, her face was a right mess.” Monica gestures to her own face, demonstrating where Michelle had borne her injuries. “She knew she could stay at my house if ever she needed to. I mean, no woman should be forced to live like that, being scared and hurt by their husband.”

  Stupid woman. Paul thinks to himself. I was more scared of Michelle.

  “Usually, she wore trousers and long sleeves,” Monica continued, “even on scorching hot days. I often wondered if she was trying to hide something. If only I’d have known things were so dire for her.”

  What a performance. Paul wishes he could say something. She looks as though she is going to cry.

  “I’d have done something. Really, I would. I miss her.”

  All is still in the room apart from the continual tapping of the court reporter on her laptop as she logs the testimony.

  “Thank you,” Margaret smiles. “I know speaking about this hasn’t been easy for you, but you’ve been helpful.”

  “Perhaps,” suggests Simon in a booming voice as he approaches Monica. “Michelle Jackson wore long sleeves and trousers to cover the scars of the injuries she’d inflicted in her youth. Now you’re aware of her self-harming history, can you see how that might be more logical?”

  “I suppose so,” Monica agrees. “But she could have been hiding bruises caused by her husband.” Cautiously, she catches Paul’s eye.

  “But you’re forming assumptions. You’d never seen any bruises or been told about any bruises.”

  Monica drops her gaze. “No.”

  “No further questions.”

  “I think,” Judge Lakin repositions his wig, “we should take a brief recess. Shall we say fifteen minutes?” The question is put to the clerk who nods.

  Everybody darts gratefully in the direction of the exit. Paul remains seated, drained as he notices John ascending the steps into the dock.

  “I’d like a few words with my client.”

  The dock officer steps to the side. “Go on.”

  “How are you doing?” John squeezes Paul’s shoulder.

  “OK, I guess,” he stretches. “Knackered.”

  “We’re doing fine, you know.” John glance
s towards the public gallery which is now empty. “Simon’s doing an excellent job of discrediting the lot of them. I’m confident. Aren’t you?”

  “I’m still worried the jury will side with the prosecution. Their barrister knows what she’s doing too.” Paul and John look across the court room to where Margaret is deep in conversation with someone.

  “The bottom line is, it’s down to who the jury believe. And the defence witnesses haven’t been up yet, remember. Still - it might not come to that. Personally, I think the judge has called a recess as he’s considering the dismissal of the case.”

  “What!” Paul, sits upright, adrenaline coursing through him. “What makes you think that?”

  “It occasionally happens if the prosecution has a weak case, and I think they have. Simon agrees. I had a brief word with him before I came up to see you. He’s going to make an application. He’s gone to put an argument together.”

  “That’s brilliant! Do you really think he could be about to dismiss it? And free me?”

  “Don’t build your hopes up yet. Anyway Paul, you sit tight, we’ll be on again in a few minutes. I’m going to grab a coffee.”

  “I wish I could join you.” Paul’s shoulders droop. His backside is numb with the endless hours perched upon the solid seat. It is dubiously grubby compared to the other seats in the courtroom. His head throbs with tension and his tongue is like a dehydrated slug inside his mouth. It is nothing a gasp of fresh air and a cup of coffee can’t fix. But he is not to be afforded those privileges. Not yet anyway. Maybe soon. Perhaps in a few hours’ time, he will be back with his little girl.

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Paul watches as everyone files back into the courtroom, whilst making mental calculations of how long it might all take. Six more witnesses; including himself.

  Paul notices that the jury haven’t come back.

  “I would like to make an application, Your honour,” Simon begins, “for this case to be dismissed. In my opinion, the evidence presented against my client has been weak. All that has been put forward by the prosecution is either hearsay or explainable. I am of the belief that there is no case against Paul Jackson to answer.”

  A hush descends. This is it.

  After a few minutes, the clerk of the court coughs in readiness to speak. “Has the judge had the opportunity to deliberate as to whether the case should proceed with the evidence of the defence?”

  Paul closes his eyes, hardly daring to believe it might be about to be hurled out of court, enabling him to saunter into the luminous sunshine, tantalising him through the ceiling of the courtroom. The face of his daughter swims into his mind.

  “I have considered whether the case can be dismissed at this stage.” Judge Lakin speaks slowly. “And I have decided to hear the evidence of the defence in this matter, to come to an accurate verdict. So if we might reassemble the jury?”

  Paul’s hopes plunge with a resounding thud.

  Simon takes a gulp of water, as the jury file back in. After a few moments, he looks towards them. “Ladies and gentlemen, you will now hear the case for the defence. You will learn of the impossible circumstances in which Paul Jackson had to live throughout his relationship with Michelle Jackson. How he had to spend his life walking on eggshells, so as not to evoke his wife’s jealous anger which had the propensity to erupt in violence. How he fought to maintain peace in the face of extreme adversity.

  Paul was a devoted father and husband, who vowed to stand by his wife through bad times and good.

  On the night in question, her state of mind was impaired to the extent that Paul was temporarily forced to escape from her whilst she calmed down. He did so in the knowledge that his daughter was safely asleep, in her bed.

  Members of the jury, in my view; your job in this case, is not to deliberate as to whether this was a spur-of-the-moment murder, or pre-empted murder, as has been suggested by the barrister for the prosecution.

  Your job is to decide, based upon the facts you hear, whether Paul Jackson actually killed his wife. The evidence which will now be presented, I’m sure, will clearly show you that he didn’t.

  “The defence would like to call their first witness to the stand,” proclaims the usher. “Mrs Caroline Stratton, Deputy Head Teacher at Osbaldwick Primary School, York.”

  Paul flushes at the realisation that David is about to discover what became of the generous wedding present he gave them. The incident was the catalyst for Emily’s school becoming concerned about her welfare.

  He and Michelle had enjoyed a pleasant morning; they had cooked breakfast and cleaned the house from top to bottom. Glimmers of her former self radiated; she giggled as he crawled inside the duvet cover as they changed the bed. There was a feigned mocking of his attempts at ironing before she took over from him, and a joint pinning down of the dog to brush her, then he vacuumed the carpets.

  “I’ll be pinning you down later,” he’d said to her. “Housework always makes me horny.”

  “Maybe you should do it more often then.” She slid her hand under his t-shirt and tweaked his nipple.

  Rain was slashing the window panes but home, for once, was a secure, sheltered sanctuary.

  “I’m off shopping.” Michelle announced, yanking some carrier bags from the hallway cupboard. “I’ll pick up something nice for tea.”

  “How about a couple of salmon fillets? And we could watch a film. We could make a night of it.” Paul wound the wire on the vacuum cleaner. “I’ll take Carla and Emily for a walk while you’re out.”

  The constant whirring inside him had subsided and he was as close to happy as he dared to be.

  As he paced along the park with Carla, his steps became lighter. Emily bounced in puddles behind him, twirling her umbrella. Gazing into the clouds, he was certain the sun was trying to break through.

  They arrived back home with ratted hair and flushed cheeks. The scent of drying laundry reached out to tempt them in as they discarded sodden coats in the porch.

  “I think hot chocolate is in order.” Attempts to tug off Emily’s wellies, resulted in Paul dragging her across the floor of the hallway. Streaks of water followed her. Then Carla shook the rain from herself over them both.

  Emily giggled. “Only if I can have your marshmallows as well.”

  “No chance!”

  They sat laughing at each other’s chocolate moustaches, as they dried out in front of the fire. But suddenly, the door slammed with such vigour that they both jumped.

  Emily looked worried. “What was that?”

  “It’s OK love. I’ll help Mummy put the shopping away. You drink your chocolate.” He strode into the hallway. “Where’s the shopping then?” Michelle’s hands were empty.

  She stood in front of him, looking thunder.

  “I didn’t bother.” She flung her handbag onto the floor. “I bumped into your fancy piece at the supermarket.”

  “Fancy piece!” Paul massaged his temples. “What are you on about?”

  “You know precisely who I’m on about.” Michelle glared at him as she yanked her coat off. “Alana. Ignorant bitch completely blanked me. Looked at me as if I was something she’d stepped in.”

  “No, you’re wrong.” He walked towards her and held his hand out to take her coat. “Perhaps she didn’t see you.”

  “You’re defending her now.” She flung the coat at him. “How touching. What the hell have you been telling her about me?”

  “Nothing. I wouldn’t. We’ve had this conversation already.” Gathering up her coat where it had fallen at his feet, he hooked it onto a peg. “You know that.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think you’re carrying on with her.”

  Wearily, he dragged his fingers through his damp hair. “I thought we were past all this. You’ve been OK with me all week. Look let’s forget this conversation. Let’s not spoil things. We’ll all go shopping.” He picked up her discarded handbag and held it out to her. He would be having words with Alana.

  “Y
ou don’t love me anymore.” Michelle surveyed him with an icy stare, as they drove back from the supermarket.

  “Of course I do.” God, shut up! Fury threatened to erupt from somewhere inside him. He’d have probably shouted at her had it not been for Emily behind him.

  “But you don’t fancy me do you, not like Alana. I understand.” She folded her arms and pouted. “She’s very ‘Barbie-doll-ish,’ isn’t she?”

  “Leave it Michelle.” Paul jammed a CD into the stereo.

  “You do fancy Alana.” She pressed the eject button. “I knew it!”

  “Of course not!” Her constant accusations were not helping him to concentrate on the road.

  Michelle was winding herself up. “We’re not gonna last much longer, are we? I might as well find someone else. Someone who wants me!”

  “Michelle,” he cried out. “Stop it!” He couldn’t deal with this for much longer.

  She pulled down the passenger sun visor. “Look at me. I’m not surprised you hate me. Ugly.”

  “You’re beautiful. Please stop it Michelle.”

  “Yes, you’re beautiful Mummy.” A small voice sounded from behind them.

  “You don’t mean that.” Her angry eyes surveyed Emily through the mirror.

  “That’s enough.” Paul thumped the steering wheel. “Leave her out of this!”

  “You’re a dick!” In one swift movement she reached over the gearstick and yanked the steering wheel. The car swerved onto the kerb as Paul slammed his foot onto the brake. An image of his parents flashed into his mind. This was how his father would have slammed his foot onto the brake, eighteen years earlier. He was dizzy for several moments, as he fought to regain composure.

  “What’re you doing? Are you trying to kill us all?” Paul gasped as he spoke, feeling utter relief that no one had been walking along that stretch of footpath. Emily sobbed in the back seat, her arms wrapped tightly around her bear.