Silks (28 page)

‘Are you saying that someone else took this?’ he said.

I nodded at him. ‘Last November,’ I said. ‘Do you remember me calling you about that hole in your jumper?’

‘Vaguely,’ he said, still staring at the picture.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I just don’t want these people coming here to trouble you again, that’s all.’ Iwas trying to play down the matter and make light of it so as not to frighten him unnecessarily.

‘But why would they want to?’ he persisted.

‘Because,’ I said with a forced laugh, ‘I have no intention of doing what they want me to do.’

Steve Mitchell’s trial started at ten thirty sharp on Monday morning in court number 1 at Oxford Crown Court with a red-robed High Court judge parachuted in from London for the purpose. This was a murder trial with a celebrity, albeit a minor one, in the dock and nothing was to go wrong.

As expected, I had received no call over the weekend from Sir James Horley QC asking me to request an adjournment and had, in fact, been advised by Arthur in an e-mail that Sir James was now doubtful of making it to Oxford at any time before Thursday at the earliest. I thought that he was in danger of being severely reprimanded by the trial judge, but, as they were probably old golfing chums, that wouldn’t have amounted to much.

The first hour of any trial is taken up mostly with court procedures. The jury members have to be selected and sworn in, the judge needs to become acquainted with counsel, the clerk of the court has to be happy that the right defendant is in the right court, and so on. Boxes of papers are sorted and everything has to be just right before the judge calls on the prosecution to start proceedings proper by outlining the case for the Crown.

Without exception, all criminal proceedings in the English Crown courts are prosecuted in the name of the reigning monarch. The court papers in this case were headed by
R.
v.
Mitchell
, meaning in this case Regina, the Queen, versus Steve Mitchell.

Criminal cases under English law are adversarial. There are
two sides, the prosecution acting for the Crown and the defence acting for the defendant. The two sides argue against each other with the judge sitting like an independent and neutral referee in the middle. The judge is solely responsible for ensuring that the law, and its procedures, are correctly followed. The jury, having heard all the arguments and also having listened to the answers given by the witnesses called by both prosecution and defence, then decide amongst themselves, in secret, what are the facts in the case before pronouncing on the guilt, or otherwise, of the defendant. If the verdict is guilty, then the judge determines the sentence, in theory following guidelines as laid down by the Sentencing Advisory Panel.

The system has operated in this way for hundreds of years and the spread of English-style administration around the world in the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries carried this legal system with it. Consequently it remains the practice in much of the world, including in the United States and in most of the old British Commonwealth.

However, in most of continental Europe the courts follow a different pattern known as the inquisitorial system where the judge, or a panel of judges, investigate the facts in the case, question the witnesses, determine the verdict and then pass sentence, all without the use of a jury. Exponents claim that it may be more precise in finding out the truth, but there is no real evidence to say that one system is more accurate than the other in reaching the correct conclusion.

Number 1 court at Oxford was set out for the adversarial system, as was every other Crown Court in the land, and both the prosecution and the defence teams were laying claim to their space. In our case, the defence consisted solely of Bruce Lygon, his secretary and me. I had asked him to bring his secretary to
court so that we didn’t, as a line-up, appear too thin on the ground. To be fair, we also had Nikki Payne at our disposal. Nikki was an eager young solicitor’s clerk from Bruce’s firm, but she wasn’t in court at the start of the trial because she was busy in London trying to discover the answers to some questions I had set her the previous evening.

The prosecution, meanwhile, had seven players in situ. A top QC from London was leading, with a local barrister as his junior. These two sat in the front row, to our right, and also slightly to the right of the judge’s bench as we looked at it. Two CPS solicitors sat behind them, with two other legal assistants in the row behind that, plus a cross between a secretary and a gofer in row four. If they were trying to impress and intimidate the defence by weight of numbers, it seemed to be succeeding.

‘They look very well organized,’ Bruce said to me quietly.

‘So do we,’ I replied. ‘So appearances can be deceiving.’

Members of the public and the press were admitted, taking their respective places on the right-hand side of the court. The press were represented in force, both front-page and back-page reporters of the national dailies filling all of the green upholstered seats in the press box. This trial was going to be big news, and the thirty or so seats reserved for the public were mostly full as well.

Mr and Mrs Barlow, Scot’s parents, were both seated in the front row of this public area, which, in Oxford, was not an elevated gallery as at the Old Bailey, but on the floor of the courtroom alongside the press.

Next, Steve Mitchell was brought into court from the cells by a prison officer in uniform. Both the prison officer and Steve sat in the glass-fronted dock at the back of the court,
behind the barristers’ benches. I turned round and gave Steve an encouraging smile. He looked pale and very nervous but was dressed, as I had suggested, in the blazer, white shirt and tie that I had bought for him in Newbury the previous Saturday. Courts are formal places and most of the trial participants were in legal dress or lounge suits. Only juries and the public galleries were casual, and seemingly more so each year.

‘All rise,’ announced the clerk. Everyone stood and the judge entered the court from his chambers behind. He bowed. We bowed back. And then everyone sat down again. The court was now in session.

The court clerk stood up. ‘The defendant will rise,’ she said. Steve stood up.

‘Are you Stephen Miles Mitchell?’ said the clerk.

‘Yes, I am,’ Steve replied in a strong voice that was partly muffled by the glass front of the dock that ran right to the ceiling of the court.

‘You may sit down,’ said the clerk, so he did.

‘Are you leading for the defence, Mr Mason?’ the judge asked loudly, making me jump.

I struggled to my feet. ‘Yes, My Lord,’ I said.

‘Do you not think that your team needs strengthening somewhat?’ he asked.

It was his coded way of asking whether I thought that a QC might be more appropriate, as he clearly did.

‘My Lord,’ I replied. ‘Sir James Horley is nominally leading for the defence in this case but is unable to be here today due to another case in which he is acting having run over time.’

‘You have not asked for an adjournment,’ he said, somewhat accusingly.

‘No, My Lord,’ I said. ‘Sir James and I have made the preparations
for the case, and my client is content for the case to proceed today with me acting for him.’ I couldn’t exactly tell the judge that my client had been ecstatic that Sir James was not here when I’d told him earlier in the cells beneath the court.

‘I need to make it clear to you, and to your client, that this will not be grounds for an appeal if the case goes against you.’

‘I understand that, My Lord,’ I said. ‘And so does my client.’

Steve Mitchell nodded his agreement to the judge from the dock.

‘Very well,’ said the judge. ‘I have, in fact, spoken to Sir James this morning when he called me to present his apologies.’

Then why, I thought, did you ask me in the first place, you silly old fart?

The prosecution team were all looking at me and smiling, confidence oozing out of their every pore. I simply smiled back.

‘The defendant will rise,’ the clerk said again.

Steve stood up in the dock.

‘You are charged,’ the clerk said to him, ‘that on the seventeenth of November 2008, you did murder Hamish Jamie Barlow, also known as Scot Barlow. Do you understand the indictment?’

‘Yes,’ Steve replied.

‘How do you plead?’ the clerk asked him.

‘Not guilty,’ Steve said strongly.

Next came the selection and swearing in of the jury.

Everyone watched as a mixed bag of individuals entered the court and sat on more green-covered seats on the other side. There were eighteen of them in total, drawn randomly from the electoral roll and summoned to attend the court, whether they
wanted to or not. Unlike in the United States neither the defence nor the prosecution had any prior knowledge of who they were or where they lived. We were not allowed to ask them any questions and, since 1989, the defence has not been able to object to a juror simply because they didn’t like the cut of his coat. Objections to jurors now had to be based on firm grounds and, even then, the judge was most likely to dismiss the objection.

Twelve of the eighteen had their names drawn from a box by the court clerk and each one, in turn, took their places in the jury box to my left and were sworn in, on oath, promising to try the case according to the evidence.

The six people, four women and two men, who had not been selected looked decidedly disappointed as they were excused by the judge back to the jury rooms upstairs, maybe to get luckier in one of the other courts.

And now we were ready to begin in earnest.

The court clerk stood up and read out the indictment to the jury. ‘That on the seventeenth of November 2008, Stephen Miles Mitchell did murder Hamish Jamie Barlow, known as Scot Barlow, contrary to common law.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ the prosecution QC was on his feet almost before the clerk had sat down. ‘You will hear, in this case, of a bitter feud in the world of horse racing that was so acrimonious that it led to the gruesome killing of one jockey at the hands of another. A story of rivalry and revenge that goes far beyond the accepted limits that exist in any competitive sport.’ He paused briefly to draw breath, and also to find a sheet of paper that he picked up from the desk and consulted, not that he probably needed to. It was simply for show. ‘Members of the jury, you will hear how the defendant
did premeditatively murder the victim by driving a metal-pronged pitchfork deep into his chest, deep into his heart, and how the defendant now claims that he is innocent of the charge and is being framed by person or persons unknown. But the evidence presented to you will convince you, beyond a reasonable doubt, that the defendant is, in fact, culpable of the murder, and that his claims of being framed are meaningless and unfounded, nothing more than the last refuge of a guilty soul.’ He replaced the paper onto the desk.

He was good, I thought. Too damned good. He was also far too melodramatic for my taste but it was working. I could see some of the jury members glancing at the dock with distaste.

In all, it took him more than an hour to fully outline, in considerable detail, the case for the prosecution by which time every one of the jury members was eyeing Steve with contempt. As was always the way with the English legal system, the prosecution had first go in the jury persuasion stakes. The defence would have their turn, in time. I just hoped that something would turn up by then that I could use to help me.

The judge adjourned proceedings for lunch. The slow pace of trials, especially murder trials, was becoming clear to both the jury and the defendant. The rest of us knew already.

I went straight down to the cells to see Steve.

‘My God,’ he said. ‘Did you see the way the jury was looking at me? They all think I’m guilty. I’ve got no bloody chance. I wanted so much to call that lawyer a bloody liar.’

‘Calm down, Steve,’ I said. ‘It’s always like that at the beginning of a trial. We’ll get our turn later.’ I didn’t add that it might get worse when they started calling their witnesses. ‘Have some lunch. I’ll see you in court when we resume, and try to keep calm. Remember what I said to you earlier – don’t say
anything, ever. It will not look good to the jury, and it will antagonize the judge. Just bite your lip and keep quiet. You will get your turn. Do you understand?’

He nodded. ‘It’s bloody difficult, though.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But it’s very important. I’ll see you later.’

I went up in the lift and made some calls on my mobile.

There was no reply from Nikki’s phone, so I tried Arthur.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘Same as always at the start of a trial,’ I said.

‘That bad, huh?’ he said.

‘Worse. Have you heard from Nikki Payne?’ I asked him.

‘Who?’ he said.

‘Nikki Payne,’ I said again. ‘Solicitor’s clerk from Bruce Lygon’s firm. She said she would pass a message to me through you.’

‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Hold on.’ I could hear him rustling papers. ‘Apparently she’s got something from the embassy and she’s chasing the lead. Does that make sense?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Good. And thank you for my hotel. Very amusing.’

‘Thought you’d feel at home,’ he said, laughing.

Arthur had made reservations for me in Oxford at a hotel conveniently placed just a few hundred yards from the court building. And the reason he amusingly thought that I would feel at home was because the hotel had been created by converting the old Oxford Prison, which had housed a different clientele as recently as 1996. My room was in what had been ‘A’ wing of the prison, with galleried landings and rows of old cell doorways. It had all been tastefully converted but it still looked just like the interior of an old Victorian prison, except, of course, for the carpets. The hotel had obligingly left one cell
as it had been in the prison days so the hotel guests could see how miserably the other half had once lived. I was amused to notice that porridge was on the breakfast menu.

‘Tell Nikki to call me later if she calls you again,’ I said to him. ‘I want to hear how she’s doing.’