“Your final decision should be based only on the evidence you have heard in this courtroom, and should not be influenced by the opinions of others, however close they may be to you, because they have not had the benefit of considering all the evidence presented in this court. Remember, you are the sole arbiters of justice in this case. Please take your time before reaching a verdict.”
He then invited the seven men and five women to retire to the jury room to consider their verdict. The court fell silent as the bailiff led them out.
“Now we must all endure the worst part of any trial,” said Sir Julian. “The interminable wait before we learn the jury’s verdict. My father always spent the time playing chess with his opponent.” He glanced across at Booth Watson, and said, “Fortunately, he doesn’t play the game.”
“What do you think the odds are of the jury coming down in our favor?” asked Clare.
“Trying to second-guess a jury is a fool’s game,” said Sir Julian. “Let’s just hope they’re all enjoying the caviar while they consider their verdict, because they’ll soon discover that a couple of jars wouldn’t be enough for ten people, let alone twelve.”
“What do you think of our chances, BW?” asked Faulkner as he stepped out of the dock and joined his counsel.
“No idea. One jury will go one way, one another. But they’re certain to take their time before they reach a verdict, so you’ll have to be patient for a change.”
“Then why don’t you join me for dinner at the Savoy? I’ve already booked a table.”
“Thank you, Miles,” said Booth Watson, but he didn’t add, Don’t bother to book a table for tomorrow night.
* * *
“How much do you think they’re worth, Mr. Davage?” asked Christina, as they made their way back into the drawing room.
“It’s difficult to put an accurate figure on such an important collection,” said the managing director of Christie’s, “but I’m confident they would fetch at least thirty million, possibly more. Not least because your husband has been in touch with all the leading auction houses to let them know that if any of his pictures should come under the hammer, he’s to be informed immediately.”
“That’s good news,” said Christina, as she poured him another coffee.
“If you are considering putting the collection up for auction, Mrs. Faulkner, Christie’s would of course be honored to conduct the sale.”
“Thank you. But I won’t be able to make a final decision until I know the outcome of my husband’s trial.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Davage. “We all hope and expect your husband will be found not guilty, and be able to return home with his reputation restored.”
“Not all of us,” said Christina, as the front doorbell rang. “Good timing,” she said, rising from her place. “That must be Mr. Nealon, who’s come to value the house.”
22
“Will all those involved in the case of the Crown versus Faulkner please return to court number one, as the jury is about to return?”
Sir Julian was doing up his fly buttons. Grace and Clare were having a coffee in the barristers’ room. Mr. Booth Watson was writing an opinion on insider trading for a client in Guernsey, while Miles Faulkner was exchanging phone numbers with a woman he’d just met in the corridor.
They all began to make their separate ways back to court number one to hear the jury’s verdict. The journalists didn’t care which way the decision went. The Evening Standard already had two headlines set in store: BANGED UP, and ESCAPED AGAIN, and two articles to go with them, both written by the same journalist.
Faulkner returned to the dock, while everyone else took their places and waited for the judge to reappear. An anticipatory silence fell over the court as Mr. Justice Baverstock made his entrance. Once he was seated, he nodded to the bailiff to indicate that the jury could return.
All eyes were fixed on the seven men and five women as they filed back into the jury box for the last time. They had chosen a matronly looking middle-aged woman as their foreman. She’d squeezed into a tightly fitted suit, wore no jewelry, and little makeup. Sir Julian studied her closely, but could deduce little from her calm and professional demeanor. A headmistress or a hospital matron, certainly someone used to making decisions.
Once they had settled, the judge nodded to the clerk of the court. He rose from his place, took a pace forward, and faced the jury.
“Will the foreman please rise?” The middle-aged lady stood up, and if she was at all nervous, there was no sign of it. “Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?” the clerk inquired.
“We have, My Lord,” she said, looking up at the judge.
“Do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty, of being in possession of an illegal substance, namely twelve grams of cocaine?”
Faulkner held his breath. Grace closed her eyes, while William stared directly at the accused.
“Guilty.”
Hawksby and Lamont shook hands while several journalists sprang from their places and quickly left the court in search of the nearest phone. Clare hugged Grace as William made his way toward the Crown bench to join them. But the majority of those in court remained in their places, impatiently awaiting the judge’s final pronouncement.
“Will the prisoner please stand?” said the clerk once a semblance of order had been restored.
Faulkner rose unsteadily to his feet and gripped the sides of the dock, as he waited to learn his fate.
“This has been a most unusual case, for several reasons,” Mr. Justice Baverstock began, “and I will require a little time to consider its full implications before I pass sentence. I would therefore ask all interested parties to return to this court at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, when I will pass sentence.”
“My Lord,” said Booth Watson, rising from his place. “Can I assume that my client will remain on bail overnight?”
Grace was about to leap up and object, when His Lordship said, “No, you cannot, Mr. Booth Watson. He will be remanded in custody pending sentencing, because if I were to grant your request, I am not convinced your client would reappear in court tomorrow morning to hear my judgment.”
Booth Watson sank back in his place without further comment.
“Take him down,” said the clerk of the court.
Two policemen stepped forward, gripped Faulkner firmly by the arms, and led him downstairs to the cells.
“All rise.”
William watched as Faulkner disappeared out of sight and could only wonder what must be going through his mind.
“Congratulations, Grace,” said Sir Julian. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Thank you, Father. And there are several reasons why I couldn’t have done it without you.”
They both smiled.
“I fear, young lady, that it will not be long before you take silk, and I will no longer be able to call upon your services as my junior. And thank you, too, Clare, even if I suspect that in future you’ll be known as Caviar Clare. But congratulations to both of you on a famous victory.”
“How long do you think the sentence will be?” asked Clare, as they made their way out of court.
“Pick a number,” said Sir Julian, “and you’ll get it wrong.”
* * *
“I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance you could influence the judge, BW?” said Faulkner, as he sat down on the thin, hard mattress. “You managed it last time.”
“No, I didn’t. It was the judge who influenced you,” Booth Watson reminded him as he pulled up a chair. “I have hinted to the Criminal Appeal Office that as our prisons are so overcrowded they might consider a heavy fine more appropriate than a custodial sentence in this case, but so far the idea has fallen on deaf ears.”
“If only I’d taken your advice, BW, and refused to be cross-examined, we’d be having dinner at the Savoy this evening.”
This was one of those rare occasions when Booth Watson didn’t offer an opinion, personal
or professional.
* * *
“Four million?” repeated Christina.
“Possibly more,” said Mr. Nealon. “I have two or three clients on my books who’ve been looking for a property like this for some time, and once it’s been advertised in all the glossy magazines and journals, who knows how much it might fetch?”
“That sounds promising,” said Christina.
“So, would you like me to put it on the market, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“Yes, but not until I’m no longer Mrs. Faulkner, which shouldn’t be too long now.”
* * *
“All rise.”
Mr. Justice Baverstock entered his fiefdom for the last time in the case of the Crown v. Faulkner. He placed a thick red-leather folder marked EIIR on the bench in front of him, sat down, and adjusted his red robes before looking down on the court and waiting for everyone to settle. He placed a pair of half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and nodded to the clerk.
“Will the prisoner please rise?”
Faulkner stood up and faced His Lordship. It was clear for all to see that he hadn’t slept the previous night.
The judge opened the red folder, looked down at his handwritten words, and began to deliver his judgment.
“There is no doubt in my mind, Mr. Faulkner, that you are a ruthless, unprincipled, and amoral man, who lacks any sense of decency or decorum, and who, because of your wealth and status, feels you are above the law. With this in mind, and remembering the seriousness of the offense, you are sentenced to serve six years in prison.”
Grace wanted to leap in the air, but somehow managed to control herself, while several of those around her could not. From the look on Sir Julian’s face it was clear that he did consider his daughter’s behavior appropriate, but didn’t comment.
“But, given the circumstances,” continued the judge once he’d regained everyone’s attention, “I have decided to suspend the sentence and fine you one million pounds, over and above any legal costs involved in this trial, which you will also bear.”
Faulkner wanted to leap in the air and cry hallelujah, although he was surprised to see his advocate didn’t appear to share his relief but continued to sit there, looking po-faced.
“However,” the judge continued, as he turned a page, “I have been reminded you are currently serving a four-year suspended sentence for a previous offense of fraud. Mr. Justice Nourse, who presided over the trial, made it clear that should you commit another crime during your probationary period, however minor, you would automatically be sentenced to serve four years in a maximum-security prison with no remission, and as I have no authority to override that decision, you will now carry out that sentence.”
Faulkner collapsed back into his chair, and placed his head in his hands.
“And because of that previous judgment, I am advised by the Crown Prosecution Service I have been left with no choice but to add the six years I have proscribed to the original four, so that your sentence will now be for ten years.”
Mr. Justice Baverstock closed his red folder and once again nodded to the clerk of the court. The uproar was such that few people heard the clerk say, “Take the prisoner down.”
* * *
Sir Julian uncorked a bottle of champagne and began to pour glasses for his victorious team.
“How many jars of caviar did you manage to retrieve?” asked Clare.
“The jury polished off both of theirs,” said Grace. “Claimed they needed to sample the evidence. Booth Watson’s has gone missing, and I don’t expect to see Faulkner’s again. But the judge kindly returned his.”
“That’s going to cost you more than you’ve earned as my junior on this case,” said Julian, handing her a glass of champagne.
“Won’t the DPP cover the cost?” said Clare. “After all, we did win the case, despite their learned advice.”
“Not a hope. But the good news is that Faulkner will have to stump up the Crown’s costs, as the judge ruled that all the legal expenses were to be paid by him.”
Glasses were immediately raised in an unlikely toast to “Miles Faulkner.”
“And a toast to Grace, who secured the verdict,” said Sir Julian, raising his glass a second time.
“To Grace!” they all cried, following suit.
“Coupled with the name of Adrian Heath,” said William, “who supplied us with the vital clue that brought the bastard down.”
“Adrian Heath,” they all repeated, as they raised their glasses a third time.
* * *
“Good news,” said Barry Nealon. “We’ve had an offer of five million for Limpton Hall.”
“Five million?” repeated Christina in disbelief. “But that’s way above the asking price.”
“It most certainly is,” said Nealon, “and the buyer’s solicitors have offered to pay a deposit of half a million if you’d be willing to take the property off the market immediately.”
“What do you recommend?”
“I would advise you to accept the offer. Not least because the buyer has agreed that if he doesn’t complete the purchase within thirty days, he will forfeit his deposit, so I can’t see a downside.”
“Who’s the ‘he’?”
“I have no idea,” said Nealon. “The transaction has been conducted by his solicitor.”
* * *
Within a week of his arrival at Pentonville, prisoner number 4307 had been moved into a single cell. After a fortnight, he had his own table in the canteen, and no one else was allowed to join him unless they were invited. After three weeks, he was taken off latrine-cleaning duties and appointed an orderly in the library, where he wasn’t troubled too much by the other inmates. By the end of the month, he had his own time slot in the gym, with a personal trainer who charged by the hour. By the time another month had passed, he’d read War and Peace, A Tale of Two Cities, The Count of Monte Cristo, and lost a stone. He’d never been fitter, or better read.
During the third month, the Financial Times was delivered to his cell just after eight every morning, along with a cup of tea, not a mug. But his biggest coup took a little longer to achieve: access to his own phone for fifteen minutes a day, thirty on Sundays.
His weekend visitors—he was only allowed two, like every other inmate—were not friends or relatives but business associates, as he had no time to waste on frivolous matters. Once a fortnight he was entitled to spend an hour with his legal adviser. He was the only one who could afford such a luxury on a regular basis. He instructed Booth Watson to put in an appeal for a retrial on the grounds that the original trial should have been thrown out as Adrian Heath was unable to give further evidence. Appeal rejected. His second appeal was against the length of his sentence, on the grounds that it was excessive for such a minor offense. He hadn’t yet heard back from the CPS. He then applied to be moved to an open prison, on the grounds that he had no history of violence. This, too, was rejected. He finally wrote to the Home Secretary, demanding that his sentence be halved for good behavior. He didn’t even receive an acknowledgment of his letter.
He had surprised Booth Watson at their first meeting, a rare feat, when he instructed him to put in an offer for Limpton Hall, with a solicitor he’d never used before.
“I didn’t realize it was on the market,” admitted Booth Watson.
“It isn’t,” Faulkner had replied. “And it will be off the market by next week. I also want you to get in touch with Mr. Davage at Christie’s, and make it clear you will be bidding for any of my pictures should they come up for auction.”
“What makes you think she’ll put them up for sale?”
“Christina won’t have any choice in the matter,” said Faulkner. “If she carries out her plan to buy the dream property in Florida, she’s bound to put her account in the red.”
“And the pictures?”
“The walls of Limpton Hall will be empty long before then, along with her bank account.”
Booth Watson was a man who knew when to s
top asking questions he didn’t want to know the answer to. He was relieved when SO Rose returned to tell him their hour was up.
If the prison authorities had been more diligent, they would have taken a greater interest in 4307’s reading matter, and in one particular prisoner who regularly walked around the yard with him—and the offense he’d been convicted for.
* * *
“Sign here, here, and here,” said Sir Julian, as he handed Mrs. Faulkner his pen.
“So, it’s finally all over,” said Christina once the ink had dried. “Frankly I’m surprised Miles agreed to part with his precious paintings, considering he’s always loved them more than me. Still, he’ll be able to buy them all back when they come up for auction, although I’ll make sure they don’t come cheap.”
Sir Julian raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll have a bidder in the room making sure they all go way above the auctioneer’s estimate,” explained Christina.
“In which case you will be breaking the law, Mrs. Faulkner, which I would strongly advise against.”
“How come?”
“You would have formed a cartel with no other purpose than to force up the price for your own advantage, and, be assured, your husband will have already worked that one out.”
“Ex-husband,” she said, looking at the recently signed papers.
“Not until he’s also signed the annulment,” said Sir Julian.
“What choice has he been left with, now he’s locked up in prison?”
“With hours to think about little else except what you’re up to. And nothing would please him more than for you to end up in jail for breaking a law you didn’t even know existed. In fact, I suspect this would be one of those rare occasions when Booth Watson would be happy to appear on behalf of the Crown.”
Hidden in Plain Sight Page 19
