Wig Betrayed (15 page)

So absorbed was I with my problems that I ignored phone messages left by Andrea to call her. Then one day, she turned up on my doorstep. I didn't invite her in.

Eventually, she said breathlessly, “I couldn't understand it, Charlie. You never rang back so finally I contacted the German office and spoke to Margery. She said you'd been suspended from duty but wouldn't give any details. I'd seen from the papers that an English judge in Germany was involved in some way in the death of a German girl and I was so worried that I felt I had to come over. I'm staying in a guest house so won't impose if you need to be alone, but if I can help...”

“No-one can help me anymore. Leave me alone, Andrea...”

She was crying and I longed to take her in my arms. Deep down, I still loved her but for her sake I had to drive her away for good. Even if it meant being brutal about it.

“Go away, Andrea. We've both had affairs now, so we're quits. Our marriage is over. Just think about what's happened. I killed a girl and must face the consequences.”

“I have to ask you this, Charlie, is it really true?”

“I had an affair with this girl and I wanted it to end,” I lied. “We argued and I lost my temper. Then I pushed her and she toppled over the dam. So I killed her.”

Andrea goggled at me.

“I don't believe that, Charlie. I
know
you – you're not capable of doing such a thing!”

“She attacked me, trying to scratch my face with her nails. I saw red, lost my temper and pushed her, quite deliberately, over the edge.”

“Oh God, Charlie – that means you murdered her, doesn't it?”

I couldn't prevent my lawyer's mind from kicking in for a second.

Not necessarily. It could be manslaughter which would mean a lesser sentence...

I dismissed the thought. Sentence wasn't relevant. What mattered was taking responsibility for Anke's death.

“Just go, Andrea,” I said savagely. “Stay away from me! There's no future for us. I'm going to prison because I killed someone. Life will never be the same again for either of us.”

“Charlie, you can't mean that! Even if you'd done this terrible thing, I would stick by you.”

I knew I had to twist the knife and make sure Andrea left me for good. I thought of a riposte which would cause a wound, incapable of ever being healed.

“Only after I killed her did I realize just how much I
really
loved her, Andrea. I never felt that way about you.”

She turned white and fled, in tears.

A few days later, a letter was delivered by hand from the Fortress, forwarded from the Attorney General's office in London. As I had anticipated, it explained that it would be more appropriate to issue a voluntary bill of indictment against me in London and I would be tried at the Central Criminal Court there. I had been right, trying me as a judge advocate by way of court martial would have proved difficult anyway and the civilian courts were deemed more suitable.

Andrea, presumably accepting that our marriage was over for good, had returned to Brighton immediately and I decided to go back to London myself and stay in the Wanderers until the court hearing. I heard on the grapevine that Meleager had requested again that I be kept in custody but that the Attorney General disagreed so I was free to return to England under my own steam.

Quite what would happen after the court hearing, I didn't know. I was determined to take responsibility for Anke's death, but to what extent I hadn't decided yet. Would an acceptance of manslaughter be enough to assuage my guilt or should I take the full rap for murder?

When I arrived at the Wanderers (which I had given as a forwarding address) I received a letter from the DPP's office enclosing a copy of the voluntary bill of indictment which contained, as it turned out, only one charge of murder anyway. A hearing date at the Old Bailey in London had been set down in a few days' time. I was advised to seek representation at the hearing, but decided I wouldn't bother. I would just accept the charge and perhaps the never-ending turmoil in my mind would cease.

So, when I turned up at the Old Bailey on the day of the hearing, I was completely on my own. As I walked towards the doors of Number One Court where I was due to appear, Giles Crossett approached me across the concourse.

“Charles, old chap, I felt I had to attend, especially when I heard you weren't even represented. An old mate from the DPP's office told me all about your case and that, as far as they knew, no lawyer had been instructed on your behalf. I can't believe what I read in the newspapers that you killed a girl by pushing her off the top of a dam. It's just too bizarre! But my chum also told me that you'd admitted it at the time and murder was the only appropriate charge. I take it that today you'll ask for an adjournment so that you can obtain legal advice?”

“I might just plead guilty and get it over with.”

“My God, man, you could go to prison for life! Now, when you go in, just enter a not guilty plea and ask for an adjournment. Your case is the talk of barristers and judges all over the country! What you need is a first-class QC. Indeed, Harris Fortescue is very interested in taking it on. He's probably the best criminal silk there is at the moment.”

* * *

I sat in the anteroom of Fortescue's chambers, listlessly turning over newspapers and periodicals whilst I waited for my conference with the QC to begin later that afternoon. I was trying to think as to what I should tell him, but I found myself unable to concentrate.

Coming from the same chambers as Hub Sheckleworth before he left the Bar, Harris Fortescue actually occupied the same room as his predecessor. I had a strange feeling of
déjà vu
as I entered, remembering the time I had gone there before hoping Sheckleworth would want to represent me at my disciplinary hearing and being so disappointed by his attitude. The furnishings of the room were much the same too, but a shiny, black laptop had now replaced Hub's leather blotter.

At first sight, the Bar's leading criminal silk didn't seem impressive. He was small, very neatly dressed in a dark blue suit and possessed a face with regular, almost feminine, features. However, his deep-set blue eyes, framed by thick, black lashes bore into me and his voice, light and slightly husky, was utterly compelling.

“I don't normally see anyone before they instruct a solicitor, but I was intrigued about your case from the start and felt I ought to meet you as soon as possible. It seems that you admit to killing this girl but won't go into any specific details. Is that the case?”

I decided not to answer his actual question.

“Referring to your first point, I intend to instruct a solicitor without delay and provide him with funds, after which he'll contact your clerk...”

Fortescue held up his hand.

“Don't worry about that. Any representation by me will remain entirely on a pro bono
basis. I'm not concerned about the money and wouldn't want you to meet my usual fees anyway. It also leaves me to probe what's really going on here more freely, which means simply I feel able to explore the background of this case and attempt to go behind your simple assertion that you killed this woman. However, I need to know a lot more detail, in order to advise you properly.”

“I've made it plain that I take full responsibility for her death. That's all I'm going to tell you.”

Fortescue shook his head.

“You're not helping me much, are you? Firstly, we must decide if your case amounts to murder or manslaughter, in law?”

“I repeat, I take responsibility for Anke's death and I accept that I must pay a price for that.”

“Accepting responsibility for what, though? You know the law, as it stands. It would only be murder if you intended to kill her or intended to cause her really serious bodily injury. Alternatively, if you only intended to cause
some
harm and her death was caused through your reckless actions it would be manslaughter.”

“I'm not prepared to elaborate further, sorry.”

I was determined to be stubborn. Fortescue sighed.

“But you still have to decide how you intend to plead: guilty of murder, full stop, or guilty of manslaughter, as an alternative?”

Would accepting that I was guilty of manslaughter alone be enough to salve my conscience
?
Of course
,
it would still
mean a sentence of, at the very least, five years' imprisonment.

“All right,” I said impulsively, “let's go for the lesser charge.”

“Good, although that's not to say that the prosecuting counsel will accept it and drop the murder charge, but the jury might still deliver a sympathy verdict.”

So that's how we left it. I duly went to see a solicitor and indicated that none of the police witnesses were required to give evidence in person. This meant the trial could be listed as soon as possible, and a few days later I received a summons to attend the Old Bailey again.

Now, I was back in Number One Court before a newly appointed High Court judge whose name I didn't recognize and presumably didn't know me either. Inside the court building, closeted in an interview room, I had a final conference with Harris Fortescue.

“I've spoken with my opposite number and the prosecution won't accept an alternative plea to manslaughter, perhaps not surprisingly. So, when the indictment is read out, you say, ‘
Not guilty to the charge as laid, but guilty to manslaughter
.' Then there will be a trial. In due course, you will need to give evidence yourself, of course, no doubt along the lines that you were having a row – perhaps on the basis that you wanted to end the affair – after which you lost your temper and pushed Anke, causing her to topple over the wall. The jury may well accept that it was manslaughter on that basis. You will end up with a much lighter sentence then – certainly not life imprisonment.”

The courtroom was packed. Many robed barristers sat in the well of the court, no doubt to witness this extraordinary event; a judge, appearing in Number One Court at the Old Bailey charged with murder. The press and public galleries were full as well. I entered the dock and stood waiting for the judge to enter. After he came in, he invited everyone to sit. There was then a brief consultation between him and the clerk of the court before the latter stood up with a copy of the indictment in his hand.

It was crunch time: Was I to say guilty to the charge as laid or enter a plea to the lesser offence?

Anke's actions, as she prepared to dive over the dam wall, flashed before me. The fact remained that morally I'd caused her death by allowing her to take LSD. If I proffered a plea to the lesser charge, it was essential that I gave evidence to the jury to explain why I wasn't guilty of murder. Otherwise, the whole exercise was pointless. But that would mean lying under oath about pushing her in the first place, and all my judicial instincts told me that I couldn't do it. Committing perjury, even if it meant a more favourable outcome, was simply unthinkable.

As if from far away, I heard the clerk of the court's voice reading the indictment to me, ending with the words, “How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

Fortescue had turned in my direction and was mouthing the reply we had rehearsed.

“Guilty,” I said firmly.

There was a deep hush in court. Fortescue shook his head and turned back towards the judge who sat staring at me, pen poised. He had obviously been briefed beforehand about the proposed plea. Trembling, I sat down. It was over. I felt a deep weight lifted from my shoulders. Now my conscience would cease to trouble me. I felt free, but that feeling would only last until after sentence was passed...

Then the full consequences of what I had done began to sink in.

“You are sentenced to imprisonment for life. I also recommend that you serve a minimum of 12 years before being eligible for parole.”

I put my head in my hands and began to sob.

The shower ran down my face, temporarily washing away the feeling of prison griminess, which was as psychological as it was physical. For once the water was just the right temperature too and I felt a tingle of comfort. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but tense my naked body. Only a week ago, I'd been attacked by a prisoner with a toothbrush which contained a sliver from a razor. It had just missed my face but slashed a gash, requiring stitches, down my arm and thigh.

Even though I'd been kept in the segregation wing since arrival, that prisoner had still managed to get to me. I anticipated something of the sort would happen when I heard the raucous shouts from the adjoining cells, to the effect that someone should ‘give the judge a slap', as rendering such an injury was euphemistically called.

But at least now I had found a protector. Dunc Fidge, who I had spared from prison some months earlier, had taken up this role. After the original trial, his ex-girlfriend's brother had chosen to pick a fight with him and had, as a result, come off considerably worse. So, Dunc was once more in trouble with the law and was now serving a sentence for inflicting grievous bodily harm. A model prisoner, he had soon been made a cleaner assigned to the wing and he recognized me immediately.

“You gave me a break, guv'nor, which I'll never forget. Ain't
your
fault I landed up in the nick anyway. But, like, it'll be the last time for sure!”

So now I had someone who would watch over me on the rare occasions when I was allowed to leave my cell, which included access to the showers and a 15 minute daily exercise break in the yard.

Later that day I was due to appear before the Governor of the prison who might give me some idea of where I was to be sent next. At present, I was being incarcerated in Canning Prison in London, a Category-A institution normally reserved for maximum security prisoners. My cell was cheerless to the extreme with a bed fixed to the floor below a shelf, and a small cupboard above. But at least I didn't have to share it.

Indeed, by now I had buried myself in the books lent out by the prison library and was impervious to my surroundings. My main job was to keep my thoughts at bay: W
hy had I pleaded guilty to something I hadn't done? Why hadn't I thought of the consequences? A life sentence with a minimum term of 12 years!

After returning to my cell, the senior officer of the wing came to fetch me.

“We're taking you to see the Governor now. Be prepared to answer his questions because he'll want to talk about your sentence plan – how you intend to handle the years you're gonna have to spend in the nick.”

I was well aware of my predicament. As a lifer, I'd already been given a sheaf of documents which spelled out how I could improve my lot within the prison system. It all depended on how I co-operated. The most important thing was to show contrition, which would greatly improve my chances of going to a prison with a more relaxed regime; even, ultimately, an open prison.

But how could I possibly show contrition for something I hadn't done?

The Governor, aged about 40, was much younger than I had expected. Dressed in a light grey suit, white shirt, and discreet tie, with a closely shaven head he looked more like a sales executive than a gaoler.

He came straight to the point, saying, “It's not my intention to go through why you were sent here in the first place, Mr Courtley. All that's been done in court. What I'm concerned about is how you progress through the prison system. But, as you pleaded guilty, I take it that you must regret your crime?”

I met his gaze levelly.

“I can't talk about that. But rest assured, as a prisoner I won't give you any trouble. Give me any job that's on offer and allow me to go on borrowing books from the library. That's all I ask.”

The Governor sighed with exasperation.

“It's not as simple as that. The offender's management people are required to work out a sentence plan for you. The attitude you show to your crime will have a profound effect on that right from the outset. For a start, we have to decide what kind of prison you'll be sent to. There's a basic principle to all this, are you a risk to the public? Those prisoners who maintain their innocence are usually assessed as being potentially dangerous, but as you accept your guilt, why not give a full explanation of what you did and show contrition?”

I looked down at the floor.

“I've nothing further to say. Now can I go back to my cell, please?”

The Governor shook his head and sighed.

“Have it your own way, then. In the meantime, however, I shall order a full psychiatric examination to be carried out on you, with or without your cooperation. In view of your attitude, you'll be staying in this prison for the foreseeable future.”

But I was hardly listening now as my mind began to drift. All I wanted was to escape into a dream world. I realized a wasted life stretched before me – too awful to contemplate. Withdrawal from real life was the only way I could survive and, ironically, prison was the ideal place to do it.

“Send me where you like, Governor. Just one small favour: please don't ask me to share a cell with anyone else.”

He shook his head.

“Don't count on it, Mr Courtley. Prison isn't like a hotel, you know. Where and how we accommodate you is entirely for us to decide.”

A cloud descended over my mind then. Total apathy overwhelmed me. By the time I was back in my cell, I felt as if I no longer inhabited my own body but had become a mere witness to my own existence...