Lover in Law (33 page)

The twelve-strong jury isn’t as HELLO as we’d have liked. There are a couple of women, probably in their late fifties, who look quite prim and closed, like they believe there’s no smoke without fire. There are a couple of blokes who are either tramps or have taken a left-wing, Marxist stance to the extreme. Whichever, they’ve probably never heard of Scott Richardson, never watched him and if they have then they probably wouldn’t like him or what he stands for. It’s the Judge, however, who’s the biggest concern. His name, Mr. Justice Smiley, is somewhat deceptive. This is a man so tight-lipped he looks like he’s either suffering from constipation or the worst case of piles ever. This is not the reason why he’s nicknamed, behind his back, Judge Smelly. It’s because he has the worst halitosis, which I found out first hand this morning. He called counsel for both sides to his chambers for a quiet word, to discuss evidence the Prosecution wanted to admit and he wouldn’t allow. We’d all grouped standing in a tight circle, when horror of all horrors, he coughed, blowing a stinky succession of bad breath rings bang in my direction. Pregnancy has heightened my sense of smell. On reflex my hand flew up to my nose, to guard against the putrid, stale stench. Anthony quickly pulled down my arm, gave me a stern look. I don’t think Judge Smelly saw and if he did, so what? Someone should TELL him. Anyway, in terms of leniency, Mr. Justice Smiley is not a great call. He’s a right-wing hang ‘em and flog ‘em man. You don’t get to pick the judge. If you did, you wouldn’t pick him. 

The Prosecution has presented most of their case. This was no car chase that went wrong. Scott Richardson, they claim, intended to murder the now-deceased Rupert Simons, husband of Elizabeth Simons, the woman with whom he was having an affair, and wanted to make it look like an accidental car crash. It was a murder of convenience, to get rid of the cuckold, whose very existence was an obstruction to the Defendant’s happiness. Rupert Simons, states the Prosecution, may he rest in peace, is unable to speak out, to tell us what really happened, but fortunately we’ve a few witnesses who can.

Anthony took charge of proceedings in the beginning. His cross-examination of the Prosecution’s forensic expert was flawless. Whilst my colleague conceded that Rupert Simon’s car had clearly been tampered with, the expert had been forced to agree that without any fingerprints, the man in the Dock could in no way be connected to the deed. “Thank you very much, no further questions,” Anthony had said. It was Elizabeth Simons who had taken the stand next, looking gorgeously demure in black, just as beautiful as Scott Richardson had described, an untouchable, with Jaqueline Bisset’s sexuality, Grace Kelly’s regality.  She’d been no real help to the Prosecution’s case, other than stating the facts that yes, on the night in question, her husband had found her in bed with the Defendant and yes, they had both driven off in their cars, her lover first, closely followed by Rupert. Then Anthony had taken over, firing off question after question in quick succession. “Was your husband a bad driver?” “Was he a difficult man to live with?” “Was he hot-tempered?” “Had he himself had affairs?” “Was he a man with a history of alcoholism?” “How did your affair with the Defendant begin?” “Did the Defendant help you through a difficult time?” She’d faced the aerial bombardment with grace and honesty, painting a picture of her deceased husband as a man few would want to live with, a boozer, a chauvinist, a bully who had been known to resort to physical violence. The man in the Dock was a Knight in shining armour by comparison. The jury appeared to be enchanted, bewitched by Elizabeth. Even the hard-nosed Marxist tramp seemed positively captivated by her story. By telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Elizabeth had been most sympathetic to our cause.    

Then Anthony had handed over the baton to me. Thankfully I managed to totally discredit the first of the Prosecution’s most compelling witnesses yesterday, a woman who’d been driving in the other direction at the time of the car chase. She claimed she’d slowed right down, seen Scott Richardson get out his car, deliver a series of volley blows to Rupert Simons. “He absolutely looked like he meant business,” she said. “He was really laying into him.” Anyway, turns out that this woman is blind as a bat, even with her glasses. I’d asked Anthony if he’d mind helping me out with a short demonstration. Mr. Justice Smiley had looked quizzical, as had Anthony, but everyone played along with it. Anyway, I’d sat Anthony down on a chair towards one end of the courtroom.

“How far away from the scene of the accident did you say you were?” I’d asked the eyewitness.

“I’d say about 30 yards,” she’d replied.

“Right,” I’d said. “Would you mind stepping out from the stand for a second?”

I’d walked the eyewitness, guiding her with a gentle hand on her back, towards a spot which I reckoned was about 30 yards away from where I’d sat Anthony.

“Would you agree you’re now about 30 yards away from my colleague,” I’d asked, pointing towards my handsome, debonair co-counsel.

She’d narrowed her eyes into slits.

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Right,” I’d said to the eyewitness, “if you wouldn’t mind staying where you are for a moment and tell me what you see happening between myself and my colleague.”

I walked slowly towards Anthony, whispered some stage directions in his ear. He pretended to be stuck in the front driver’s seat, I pretended to be struggling to set him free. Our arms were flailing, linking, trying to grab onto each other, until finally I managed to yank him out from behind the imaginary wheel, into safety away from the vehicle. By this time I was, quite frankly, panting from the exertion of it all. Heavily pregnant women aren’t designed to get into fights. I inhaled deeply.

“So,” I’d turned back to the eyewitness. “Can you tell me what you saw?”

“Well,” she’d said. “You were quite clearly laying into him.”

“Could you explain to the court,” I’d asked, still trying to catch my breath, “what your definition of ‘laying into him’ actually is?”

“Well, you were punching him, right in the face, time after time,” she’d said.

“Thank you very much,” I’d nodded towards the judge. “No further questions.”

I’d taken my seat with head bowed, to hide my smug smirk from the Prosecution, who did not look amused by my antics. Anyway, it’s Cameron Matthews in the box now. I take a breath, about to launch into my cross-examination, to keep the momentum going, when Anthony clears his throat, holds up his hand, gets to his feet, avoiding any eye contact with me, fighting to keep a straight face.

“Sorry to interrupt My Lord, but ‘Sven’ do you think would be a good time to recess for lunch?”

***

Mr. Justice Smiley, it so happened, thought that now would be an excellent time to break and had called an end to the morning’s proceedings. We’d all risen, watched him take his leave before doing the very same. Anthony holds out a palm expectantly as we leave the Old Bailey.

“I believe that’s ten pounds you owe me,” he says.

I laugh out loud, fumbling in my bag for my purse. All’s fair in love and bets. He’s earned his ten quid. Yesterday morning, sat in the outdoor corridor, waiting for our courtroom to open, he’d picked up a copy of the Daily Mail from the chair next door, closed his eyes, opened the paper randomly and landed his right index finger onto the recipe of the day, mince pies. He’d bet me five pounds I wouldn’t be able to get that into my cross-examination. I’d risen, or so I’d thought, admirably to the challenge, asking the blind as a bat eyewitness, pre the finishing coup de grace, didn’t she agree that men, or indeed women, might spy the same thing very differently. Men spy – mince pie. Anyway, Anthony disallowed it, saying because I didn’t run the words consecutively it didn’t count. So today I upped the ante, doubling the odds, closed my eyes, randomly opened the paper, landing my finger on the sports pages and the word ‘Sven’. Cue Anthony to interrupt the Judge, asking ‘Sven’ would be a good time to stop for lunch.

“That was very funny,” I say, handing over a ten-pound note. “Well done.”

Anthony doesn’t take the money.

“How about we use it for lunch. Fancy the Magpie?”

Across the road from the Old Bailey is this old pub, the Magpie and Stumps, where execution breakfasts were served until 1868, when mass public hangings outside the prison were finally stopped. They now dish up a mean steak and kidney pie. I stop and falter. It’s not that I don’t fancy a plate of stodgy meat and pastry. It’s not that I don’t feel like whiling away a couple of hours with Anthony. It’s that I do. I really do. It’s not enough that we’re sat side by side every day at the moment, but since Adam’s proposal, and especially since our lunch on Saturday, he’s started haunting me even when we’re not together. He’s in my dreams every night, in my thoughts every day. Wherever I am, I can’t shake him off. I’m sure it’s just pre-wedding and pre-baby jitters. I’m also sure that lunch, just the two of us, won’t help. “Sorry,” I say. “I think I’ll take a sandwich to chambers.”

Chapter 37

“Sahara’s got the best pair of tits on the planet. I’d like her to dangle them over my cock, come down on me, sucking it big and hard, then I’ll roll her over and have a good feed on her hairy mud pie. She’s top of the class, with that arse. Not like Scott Richardson, who’s no class, all arse. She can do better.”

The first thing I had Cameron Matthews do, when I started his cross-examination, was to read out, from the witness box, for all the court to hear, the message he’d posted on Sahara.com, way back when, when Scott and Sahara were still a couple. He recited it smoothly and without any hint of embarrassment, like his fantasy was the most natural thing in the world, despite Sahara sitting a mere fifty feet away. I was sideways on to him at this point, just about able to make out Sahara’s mask of blank indifference, even when he mentioned he’d like to have a good feed on her hairy mud pie. She clearly excels in front of an audience. Anyway, when I asked if he could confirm, at the end, that these were his very own words, he said yes. When I asked if he’d been responsible for sending it, he said yes.

Cameron Matthews is exactly as I’d imagined, despite his best efforts to look like a black and white film star.  Medium height, paunchy, bald save for a few strands on top, brown hair on the sides. The kind of man you wouldn’t look twice at in the street. The kind of man who’s two a penny. They’re all around, all equally as indistinguishable. There’s nothing about him that stands out, until now. His sexual frankness is to be applauded, as is the way he's taking this whole thing. The whole point of this message was to discredit him, to make him look like an idiot, to make him look like the kind of person the jury couldn’t possibly believe. Only the whole thing seems to have backfired. He hasn’t squirmed. He doesn’t appear in the slightest bit phased. His sexual appetite has ended up endearing him to the jury no less. When he’d finished his recitation, he turned to them, shrugged and said, “what can I do? I’ve a fertile imagination.” Half of them bloody laughed. This is not what I’d intended. The courtroom’s no place for jocular hilarity. This man is reading off the wrong script. Besides, what this witness does or doesn’t want to do to Sahara isn’t what matters to this case. What’s much more important is his comment on Scott Richardson. I’m trying to paint a picture of Cameron as a social misfit, of someone who’s been obsessed with my client since they were at school together, of someone who’s become so irrationally jealous that he’d resort to framing my client for the murder of Rupert Simons. Only it’s not going too well. For every question I’ve posed, he’s laughed his way out of trouble. 

“You attended Wellington College School with Scott Richardson for ten years. Is that right?” I asked.

I’d approached the witness box, hoping to put him off-guard.

“Yes,” he’d replied.

“And you were friends?”

He’d shrugged.

“As friendly as two people that didn’t really know each other could be,” he’d replied.

He appeared nonplussed by my proximity.

“What wasn’t to like?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him, it’s just we had nothing in common.” He’d turned to the jury at this point. “He got all the chicks and I didn’t, what can I say?”

He’d chuckled and a couple of the jury chuckled with him. I’d paced a little, back and forth.

“I put it to you that you didn’t like him then and you still don’t like him now. You were jealous of his popularity. I put it to you that that’s why you wrote on Sahara.com, ‘he’s no class, all arse, she can do better’.”

I’d talked casually, as if we were two strangers who just happened to be having a chat.

“The reason why I wrote ‘he’s no class, all arse’, is because I believe that to be true. And I think she can do better. I mean, just look at her.”

I didn’t just look at her. Instead, I’d straightened my wig at this point, not because it had slipped, but because I’d hoped, in resetting it, to reset my command, to strengthen my line of questioning. There had to be a chink in this man’s armour. I had to penetrate it. Only I haven’t. For the entire afternoon, he’s either matched my performance or upped it. The Prosecution case has rested largely on the testimony of two people. The first is the eyewitness I exposed to be blind as a bat with much aplomb. The second is Cameron Matthews, who, however many times I squish him splat like a cartoon, comes bouncing right back, sprightly. To recap, he’s an Accountant, at the same television network as Scott Richardson.  He said, in his statement to the police and when questioned by the other side, that he took Scott Richardson for lunch at the Oxo Tower, a restaurant on the South Bank, to discuss expenses at the beginning of the year. He’d been outside the cloakrooms just before they hooked up and overheard Scott speaking to someone on his mobile. Scott had said, according to him, ‘it’s going to be you and me, I promise, very soon. He won’t be around to interfere much longer. I’ll take care of it’. His tone of voice, said Cameron, had been spookily malicious. I’d shot up, shouted ‘objection’ at this point, because the witness had stated his opinion not a fact, but nevertheless, that’s what the jury heard, that’s what they took on board and that’s what counts. Anyway, when Scott later left his phone on the table, having been summoned to say an impromptu hello to a group of fans also dining in the restaurant, Cameron took the opportunity to check the call history. Apparently, the name of the last person Scott had been speaking to was Lizzy. Cameron, who’d heard through the grapevine that Scott and Elizabeth Simons (Rupert’s wife and Deputy Head at the network) had been having an affair, went to the police with his suspicions, that the two of them wanted Rupert dead. The police had later checked up on Scott’s mobile call log to confirm that he had, indeed, been talking to Elizabeth at the time.