False Witness (10 page)

“W
E’RE NOT GOING TO PUSH HER,” SAID
D
AVENPORT
as he puffed away greedily at one of his toxic little cigarettes below a “No Smoking” sign in the corridor outside Court
8.

Manly had adjourned for five minutes. I wanted to talk to Justine, who stood by Davenport’s side. I wanted to invite her out
to an Italian restaurant. But my mind was awash with images of the frightened girl: the tattoo, the hair, the coarsely bitten
fingernails.

“Fawley, did you hear what I said?” Davenport said. “We’re leaving her evidence there.”

“Just too dangerous,” added a precise voice to my right. “Too distressing.”

“You do know Doctor Stone?” asked Davenport.

“Er—yes,” I replied.

“Jenny’s advising us on what you might call the ‘psychiatric’ aspects of this case.” With that, prosecuting counsel blew a
poisonous cloud in my direction.

I had first met Doctor Jennifer Stone about three years earlier when she was prison shrink at Wormwood Scrubs. She sectioned
off a client of mine who fervently believed that he was the lost son of God. But in fact he was just a bit bonkers. I imagine
that in her time Jenny Stone has seen more messiahs than all the Old Testament prophets combined.

“How’s life at the Scrubs?” I tried not to inhale Davenport’s smoke.

“I’m at Holloway now,” she snapped. She was one of the cold, distant people you meet now and then who seem to breeze in from
Siberia with a heavy dose of flu and a bad toothache. Her nondescript hair was tightly pinned back, her jacket buttoned right
up to the neck, and her mouth was thin and mean. “I have advised the prosecution not to press her,” she said. “The damage
could be permanent.” She ran a hand across her forehead, daring a single strand to be out of place. None had such courage.

Then Stone and Davenport put their heads together and whispered among themselves. The rotund silk licked his lips. I noticed
how dangerously close his tongue was to the psychiatrist’s unpierced earlobes. I used it as an opportunity to speak to Justine.

“You don’t agree with their decision?” I asked Justine.

“If Kingsley gets away with this one, who will be next?”

“I can’t say that I’ve thought about it,” I replied.

“Well, you should, Tom. You should think about it really hard. But you’re a barrister. A professional. Abuse happens to other
people’s daughters, not your own.”

I did not reply. I allowed a few seconds to pass for the tension to subside. It did not seem the time to invite her out for
some pasta.

“So how are you?” I asked, unable to think of anything more profound.

“Just fine, Tom. How’s your wife?”

I pretended not to notice the question. “Thanks for your note,” I said.

“Not here,” Justine whispered, looking around quickly.

“Why not?”

“Not here, Tom. Can’t we change the subject?” Justine asked.

I saw that Davenport and Doctor Stone had finished their conversation. As they approached, I asked Justine, “Who is Alex?”

Justine seemed furious. “Did Penny tell you?”

“No, she just told me to ask you. So?”

“So it’s none of your business,” Justine snapped as she stormed back into court.

“Try not to upset my junior, there’s a good chap,” Davenport said, putting his arm around my shoulder. He gazed at me through
a cancerous fog. “We won’t ask the girl to name your punter. Got the other filly up our sleeve. She’ll do the job—after a
spot of lunch.” He tried to smile, but conceit took over. “Just thought you should know.” He left me coughing smoke from my
throat.

Doctor Stone and I found ourselves alone together. It was a little embarrassing. As professionals in the same sort of game,
we should have had much to discuss. But I could not think of a single thing to say.

Finally, she could suppress her thoughts no longer. “Whatever happened to that funny little man?”

“Which one?” I asked.

“The one you represented.”

“I’m afraid I’ve got a lot of those.”

“You know the one. Got a message from—” she pointed to the heavens.

“Oh, you mean Ezekiel.”

“Ezekiel Smith, wasn’t it? You know, about as charming as an enema.”

His real name was Edward or Ernest, but he was a bit of a religious freak. I became suspicious when Jenny Stone showed an
interest in this client of mine. In fact, ex-client was more accurate. He sacked me. I was briefed to represent him on a nasty
affray in Essex, when he got a message. A message from God. “Sack your barrister and have faith in the Lord.” It had been
revealed to Ezekiel that he should defend himself. God told him he was sure to be saved. God, it seems, lied.

“He got two years,” I said. “What’s it to you?”

“When he sacked you, I had to see if he was sane.”

“And?”

“And I thought he was. Came in front of Judge Manly. He said Ezekiel couldn’t be completely mad if he sacked Tom Fawley.”

“How very touching.”

“Listen,” she said, tightly folding her arms, “you’re not going to traumatize that girl, are you?”

“Why ever do you say that?”

“Because I know your reputation. When you get blood in your nostrils, you’re like a dog after a rabbit.”

“I’m after bigger game, Doctor Stone.”

“You know, I’ve always wondered about you.”

“What?”

“Whether you could possibly be as neurotic as you seem. I’d love to examine you. You see, I’m doing a paper on anal fixation
and the criminal Bar and—”

Just then, Norman announced that we all had two minutes to resume our seats.

I headed toward Court 8. “Fascinating as it has been, Doctor Stone, I’m afraid my bottom is required in court.”

“Don’t traumatize that girl,” she ordered.

“I’ll do my best.”

“That is precisely what I’m afraid of.”

When she had joined the rest of the prosecution team in court, I realized that all around me were groups in animated discussion,
arguing about Kingsley’s prospects, debating how I would attack the girl in cross-examination.

People think that you plan such things months in advance. Often that is not true. You’ve read the papers, you know the facts,
but you haven’t a clue where to begin. At such times, I wished I worked in a bank, or had become an accountant, or even wrote
tales of titillation like Kingsley. I used to wish I was anything but counsel for the defense. You feel all eyes upon you—waiting.

There was only one thing to do. I headed for the toilet.

I was sure that the police had convinced the second girl to testify and that she was bound to be a far stronger witness, prepared,
no doubt, to name Kingsley. But when I reached the lavatory doors, there was a violent tug at my gown and a jab to the kidneys
with a well-practiced elbow.

“You’ve got to do it.” I recognized Emma’s voice without turning around. “I know what you’re thinking, Tom. But you’ve got
to do it.”

My head was beginning to ache. “Give me a break,” I said.

“Do you want to win this case? Or are you going to throw in the towel?” Emma adopted one of her attitudes which seemed to
say, Listen—this is your conscience speaking. “There is no option. You’ve got to do it, Tom.”

One of the newspaper reporters pushed past us with a bladder full of extra-strong lager. For a second I glimpsed the sanctuary
of the cubicle doors, and could hear Davenport whistling “
Nessun Dorma
.”

“Tom,” shouted Emma, firmly blocking my way and prodding me in the solar plexus.

“Look, there is no way in heaven or earth that I’m going to cross-examine that girl,” I said. “And I don’t care how many times
you violate my body.” I could see Emma fuming silently, so I added feebly, “Anyway, the girl hasn’t actually named anyone
yet.”

“Bullshit.”

I knew Emma was right. She grabbed the corner of my gown and led me along the corridor, past astonished onlookers, and into
the conference room near to the court.

I groped for the light switch.

“Leave it off,” she said.

“Emma, let me explain why—”

“Just listen,” she said. “The girl’s scared out of her wits. Right? But she’s mentioned the wheelchair. The police have the
knife and they’ve got Kingsley’s confession. We can’t get round it. You’ve simply got to destroy her, Tom. The jury’s ready
to lynch Kingsley.”

“Well, you tell me then. You’re so full of bright ideas. What do I say? Sorry, love. You’re mistaken. You didn’t see your
friend brutally hacked to death.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

My temples throbbed.

“There’s only one thing for it,” she decided, after pondering a while. “Put in her form.”

I could hardly speak. The jury had a lot of sympathy for the ordeal the girl had been put through: harassing her about her
previous convictions would make matters worse.

“You’ve got to dent her credibility,” said Emma.

“The jury will think I’m picking on her.”

“Her record is our best weapon.”

“It’s sheer lunacy.”

“Got a better idea?”

“Yes,” I said. “Plead guilty.”

“No chance. It’s too late now. The Crown won’t buy manslaughter. Not now. Why should they? They can get Kingsley on the lot.”

She was right.

“All we can do, Tom, is to go on the attack. What was it you once told me? Attack being the best form of—”

“It’ll add five years to the sentence.” I knew Manly would take it into account when recommending the minimum term of detention.

“It might get Kingsley off.”

“Do you
really
believe that?” I asked.

Emma paused. Her silhouette seemed hardly to move but her words were highly charged. “Look. I really believe we’ve got to
do what we can. If you leave it, Tom. he’ll definitely go down. We’ve got to try.”

I wondered just how far I could push the girl.

T
HE COURT BRISTLED WITH EXCITEMENT
. T
HE JURORS
sat in their box muttering in pairs. The shorthand writer was wrapped in debate with Leonard, the clerk. Only Norman seemed
unmoved. He sucked on a clear plastic biro, toying with the anagram at thirteen down.

Emma barred my route to counsel’s row. She had a puzzled expression upon her face. “Kingsley wants a word,” she said, gesturing
toward the dock.

One of the dock officers opened the door. The other continued to examine page three of the
Sun
and pretended not to listen as I entered the dock. Kingsley beckoned me closer still. How low he seemed, slouched in his
chair, his right hand clawing at the wheel. His breath was unusually cold on my neck.

“Tear her throat out,” he whispered. His mouth was smiling but his eyes did not move.

I had less success than Davenport. The girl did not answer my questions and I could establish virtually nothing about her
friends or links with Stonebury. Whenever she was cornered, she feigned confusion.

“You say you saw a wheelchair?” The girl stared back at me with narrowing green eyes. I took that as a “yes.”

She fidgeted a little, her hands at her sides.

“Well, what sort of wheelchair was it?”

Again, she didn’t answer.

“What sort?”

“The sort what’s got wheels,” she said.

Two of the tabloid hacks to my right sniggered audibly and scribbled away. The exchange would make good copy—maybe even the
basis for a cartoon.

“I’m suggesting you’re wrong about what you saw.”

“I know what I sees.”

“Don’t you mean, you
think
you know?”

I could hear disapproving tuts from the jury box. The witness was baffled and turned to the judge. It was far from my most
elegant question.

“What are you driving at, Mr. Fawley?” asked Manly. He tapped his red pencil impatiently.

I looked at him and then at the girl and I knew I had to press on. “Does Your Lordship have a copy of the 609?”

Emma pulled at my gown. “Leave it, Tom. Let’s forget it. You’ll wind up the jury.”

I chose to ignore her. It was too late.

Justine handed a pair of stapled white sheets to Norman. He passed them to Leonard who handed them to the judge.

Manly frowned profoundly.

“Are you an honest person?” I asked the girl.

“Mr. Fawley, I have to warn you,” scowled Manly. The jury was intrigued. “You understand the consequences of such a question?”

I understood the consequences of very little that I did in those days, but this was a legal matter. “I understand perfectly,
M’Lord.”

“Well, you have been warned,” he said.

“So it appears,” I replied, knowing that Manly was threatening to allow the prosecution to cross-examine Kingsley about his
convictions.

Emma tugged somewhat harder. “Can’t you leave it, Tom?”

“Did you hear my question?” I said to the girl. “Are you an honest person?”

The witness sniffed a little artificially and spotted a reply. “Honest like how?”

“Either you are honest or dishonest, aren’t you?”