Beyond Reasonable Doubt

by Gary Bell

  ‘And what about the crime the defendant is currently being tried for?’ Garrick went on. ‘What was it, exactly, that made it a racist or religious hate crime?’

  ‘The victim was, as we know, Middle Eastern, and killed, violently, on the evening of Good Friday. It would be fair to argue that the crime therefore fits into this category. The definition also states that the alleged perpetrator will most likely have previous incidents involving systematic, regular, targeted antisocial behaviour, which have escalated in severity and frequency.’

  ‘Could you tell the jury about those of Barber’s previous convictions that demonstrate a propensity to violence, including against women, and racism?’

  Judge Pike nodded to the superintendent and DeWitt clasped his heavy hands together like a man before a buffet.

  ‘Where would you like me to start?’

  ‘With anything you deem at all relevant,’ Garrick said.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he sniffed. ‘William Barber is a member of what we call the extreme right wing. This term indicates an activist who is motivated by politics, racism, extreme nationalism and fascism. In 2012, he was convicted of distributing a terrorist publication for a proscribed far-right organisation, contrary to the Terrorism Act, and sentenced to thirteen months in HMP Nottingham.’

  ‘Were you involved in that arrest?’

  ‘I was. The defendant had attended an underground convention for white supremacists on the twenty-third of April that year.’

  ‘That is St George’s Day?’ Garrick interrupted, with a pointed glance around the room.

  ‘Correct. The publication was, as I recall, entitled “A European Declaration of Independence”, written by Norwegian mass murderer Anders Breivik. It endorsed a violent, militant opposition to Islam, immigration and feminism. Barber also has at least eight convictions that I can think of for actual bodily harm, a dozen or so more for common assault, and has served another three years in Nottingham for the unlawful wounding of a former girlfriend.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Garrick replied gravely. ‘On that note, I believe you have some video footage to play for the court?’

  ‘I do,’ DeWitt confirmed.

  I hadn’t watched it, but Zara had warned me about it. I’d been putting it off because we had no argument to raise. It was a mouthful of bitter medicine we’d both known was coming sooner or later. I tried to look nonchalant, but suspected I was failing.

  They used to wheel videocassette players into the courtroom on stands; now there are flat screens fixed to the walls, with speakers hidden among the oak veneer.

  ‘This video,’ DeWitt said, ‘was uploaded to Mr Barber’s Twitter page in March of this year.’

  A fast, fretful glance shared with Zara. I must’ve been cringing by then, but it was nothing compared to what I did when the video started, and I was forced into a ball, like an animal cowed.

  It wasn’t merely a twenty-second video. It was a twenty-second suicide note captured by Billy’s own hand in that unflattering selfie-pose, with dozens more angry, white, middle-aged men cheering and waving St George’s crosses behind him. In the near distance, behind the rabble, I recognised the emerald dome of Nottingham’s Central Mosque, separated from the crowd by a line of uniformed officers.

  And led by Billy, to the tune of Sanders and Kelley’s ‘I’m a Little Teapot’, the mob began to sing:

  ‘We are the English, fierce and loud,

  This is our home, and we are proud!

  When we think of ISIS, hear us shout!

  KICK – THE FUCKIN’ – PAKIS – OUT!’

  When I dared to look round, through the bottomless quiet that followed, I could see heads visibly shaking across the jury. Many eyes had turned to Zara for a reaction, who happened to be the sole Asian in the room, who was pinching her eyes shut tight.

  ‘That was posted twenty-one days before the killing,’ DeWitt said, ‘at a rally outside the city’s Central Mosque. Worshipping families had to be sequestered inside for their own safety.’

  ‘Thank you, Superintendent DeWitt,’ Garrick said, brushing his palms together. ‘I believe the defence might have some questions …’

  ‘Such as might the indictment be put again to my client?’ Bowen muttered as I stood slowly, wearily, trying to rouse the razor-sharp vigilance that had served me so well through my younger years of competitive debating. The reserves were hard to find.

  Cross-examination is a rapid contest of individual moments that can change the course of a trial. It’s a lightning-fast back-and-forth of reactions and responses that might uncover a truth or lie to change everything. The human brain is, by design, a contemplative machine, preferring to reflect on confrontations over hours, forever imagining better retorts long after the encounter; cross-examination has little use for hindsight. A barrister might well have one chance to find the truth.

  And if a witness bares their teeth in the crossfire, then all the better for it.

  ‘Detective Chief Superintendent DeWitt,’ I started, bringing his glower onto me, ‘why did you go to William Barber’s home on the morning of the fifteenth?’

  ‘As I explained not twenty minutes ago, I was responding to a report of a domestic disturbance.’

  The pseudo-amicable demeanour on which we’d parted in Nottingham was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘No, I heard you,’ I told him. ‘It’s just that the report came from Ms Dickinson, the upstairs neighbour, and yet upon arriving, Mrs Barber didn’t corroborate the neighbour’s side of the story, did she?’

  ‘Little surprise there,’ he scoffed. ‘Mrs Barber has always remained dutiful to her husband, no matter the risk to her own personal safety, or the safety of her son.’

  ‘So, she denied the dispute?’

  His moustache bobbed from side to side. ‘She did, though it was immediately obvious from the state of her face that there had been a physical altercation’

  ‘Therefore, you took it upon yourself to arrest Mr Barber, despite his wife denying any incident?’

  ‘It’s my job to protect people, even when they won’t admit that they require protection.’

  I nodded, tugged at the silk around my wrists, straightening the flow of material. ‘You also said that the defendant was unconscious in the shower with the water running when you arrived. Tell me, DCS DeWitt, do you consider an unconscious man particularly threatening?’

  ‘An unconscious violent man is perfectly capable of waking up at any moment.’

  ‘So, one more time, if you wouldn’t mind,’ I pressed. ‘You, personally, went into the defendant’s home after the neighbour had heard some sort of unidentifiable ruckus, and found Mr Barber sleeping in his own bathroom. His wife denied any wrongdoing, but you decided to haul him into custody all the same?’

  ‘You seem to be forgetting that there were clothes, saturated in blood, burning in the garden. That gave me enough reasonable grounds to take him in.’

  A knowing waggle of the eyebrows, a reference to the past, to the night neither of us was going to mention.

  ‘For what? Murder? Are you a full-time police officer, Superintendent DeWitt, or do you occasionally moonlight as a clairvoyant?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I simply don’t understand how you could’ve arrested him for murder before the body had been discovered.’

  ‘Not murder then,’ DeWitt snapped, the cool slipping in his grasp, ‘but it was obvious that he’d been up to something.’

  ‘Six thirty on a Saturday morning,’ I said. ‘Do you personally respond to many domestic disturbances at the crack of dawn, in your role as Detective Chief Superintendent?’

  He wasn’t quite showing his teeth yet, but I could hear that they were gritted.

  I could’ve mentioned his peculiar drive in the centre of the city, but I’d only be throwing myself under the bus for my own suspicious actions, and part of me suspected that he knew that.

  ‘Mr Barber happens to be an intimidating, violent man, which he has proven time a
nd time again.’

  ‘His previous convictions have been admitted, those sentences served. He has never, however, been accused of killing anybody before now.’

  ‘Neither have most murderers,’ he bristled, ‘until they are. There’s history between us, and I know how to handle him better than some of the younger officers might. Otherwise, it would’ve most likely been Constable Louise Shepherd and, capable as she is, I took it upon myself to go instead; a precautionary measure for the safety of your client, his family and my officers.’

  I folded my arms above my gut. ‘Interesting that you use that word, “history”, once more. You have, as you boasted, personally arrested Mr Barber more times than you can count?’

  He shrugged. ‘If he stopped committing crimes, then I might stop arresting him for them.’

  ‘Alternatively,’ I countered, ‘one might argue that you have something of a vendetta against him. Do you, DCS DeWitt?’

  I was clutching at straws, filling dead air, looking for cracks in the lines of his poker face, but they were nigh on impossible to find.

  A cold, straight smile was all he revealed. ‘I’d happily see Barber spend the rest of his life behind bars, if that’s what you mean, but why would I waste my energy on a vendetta against a man like that?’

  ‘Fine words, Superintendent DeWitt, and yet you have wasted so much energy on it.’

  He straightened his tunic. ‘Do you enjoy cross-examining police officers, Mr Rook?’

  ‘Not half as much as you enjoy arresting the defendant, it would seem.’

  We stared, locked in stalemate. A minute must’ve passed.

  ‘If I may interject,’ the judge swept in slowly, ‘it is almost quarter past four. Perhaps now would be a good time to adjourn for the evening, and continue this examination at ten thirty tomorrow?’

  ‘Perhaps it would,’ I said, eyes fixed on DeWitt until long after the rest of the room had risen around us.

  ‘Ten thirty tomorrow morning,’ I said to Zara as we swept out of the courtroom. ‘That gives us eighteen hours.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To find an answer that’ll turn this trial around.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Something isn’t adding up here. DeWitt turns up at Barber’s home, alone, an hour before the body is discovered? He’s full of shit, and I can smell it on him from the other side of the well.’

  She nodded, clutching our case papers in a bundle. ‘So, what do we need?’

  ‘Proof. Suspicions and opinions are nothing without evidence. I need you to trawl the Net for anything you can find on him. There were allegations of misconduct a few years ago, I’d say that’s as good a place as any to start, but I’ll take anything, from which supermarket he uses to where he gets his bloody car washed.’

  ‘All right,’ she said tentatively. ‘I’ll do my best. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going back to Nottingham to talk to McCarthy.’

  ‘Tonight?’ she sputtered. ‘We’re halfway through the cross-examination!’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said, taking off down the corridor towards the robing room. ‘Eighteen hours, that’s all we’ve got! The clock is ticking, Miss Barnes. It’s time we got some answers.’

  31

  Despite all my haste I still found myself swallowed by the gridlock of rush-hour traffic, eyes on the unrelenting march of the clock above the steering wheel, as the sun set over England. It was already coming up to seven when Sean finally returned my frantic calls.

  Crawling along the lower half of the M1, I pulled in to the nearest service station to talk.

  ‘Now then, Rook,’ he said, as I came to a stop in the car park. ‘If you were ringing about that website, well, I hit a bit of a brick wall with the boys over in tech.’

  ‘That’s not it,’ I said, ‘but thanks for trying.’

  ‘No? So, what’s up?’

  ‘DeWitt. I need to know everything about him.’

  ‘DeWitt?’ He was quiet for a few seconds, and then I heard a slap, as if he’d just smacked his forehead with one palm. ‘You mean DCS DeWitt? As in, my fucking boss?’

  ‘There were accusations of misconduct before he came to Nottingham. What do you know? Your colleagues must like to gossip as much as anybody else.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Rook. I might not love the guy, but I can’t just roll him over and let the lawyers have at him! My life wouldn’t be worth living around the station! You really want me to kiss ta-ta to my uniform for this? I’d be lynched before the week is out.’

  I lit a smoke and checked the mirrors; a carful of teenagers with long hair and leather jackets had pulled in to the space behind me. They came clambering out of the doors in a clatter of empty cans before rushing for a piss-stop on what looked to be a boozy, cross-country drive. I was feeling edgy, and could see it in the reflection of my own eyes.

  ‘I’m on my way to Notts now,’ I said. ‘We should meet up somewhere and talk about it. Somewhere safe.’

  ‘I’m working all evening.’

  ‘Didn’t stop you before,’ I tossed back. ‘How about the country park? It won’t take long. Half an hour, tops.’

  He clicked his tongue down the line.

  ‘Look, I know you’re stressed, mate, but you can’t come storming up here out of the blue, hoping to get me to flip on another copper. It’s not happening. Not ever. Not for Billy.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said moodily, ‘cheers,’ and then hung up on him. I had no time to waste.

  I finished the smoke and went into the services. The stress tightening my head craved alcohol, but I had to stay sharp, and settled instead for a can of Red Bull. I went back to the car and smoked another two cigarettes so fast I felt sick from nicotine.

  Words were rattling around my head, banging off the inner surface of my skull; at first, I thought they were Rupert’s, and then I realised they were my own:

  When you defend, do so fearlessly, but honestly. Try and win your cases, but don’t ever cheat. Be friendly to defendants, but never forget one crucial point – they are not your friends. Don’t ever stick your neck out for them, no matter what you do.

  And what was I doing now? I wondered.

  What was I turning into?

  Unless I did something drastic, DeWitt was going to bury us tomorrow. That much was clear. It was also obvious that Billy was lying about his whereabouts on that night, his opportune amnesia, and I couldn’t shake the inkling I’d carried all along; I knew what it was to forge a life on lies and misdirection. Billy was hiding, doing so in plain sight, but from what I had no idea. There had to be a reason he wasn’t with his right-wing cronies that night, and, to my mind, the reaction of the prostitute in that bathroom had said it all. She’d known his face and known it well enough to set the whole house upon me.

  I glanced around the car park, wary of the open Wi-Fi network as I opened my laptop, wondering if my fellow travellers would be able to see my actions online. There were a few lorry drivers scattered around, noses buried in their phones and laptops, and I had to reason that I would be neither the first nor the last man to visit an escort directory halfway up the motorway.

  With that in mind, I went onto Red Sheets.

  My ill-conceived scraping of a plan was to message any of the working girls in the Cotgrave or Nottingham area and ask to meet up. After that, well, I’d just have to improvise.

  When it came to drafting my message, however, or choosing the right girl for the job, I didn’t know where to start. Had it really come to this?

  ‘Come on, you old bastard,’ I muttered to myself, slamming my face into my palms. ‘Think!’

  Minutes passed with few sparks in my head. I chucked the laptop onto the passenger seat, necked half the energy drink, and stared vacantly at the logo on the can. Two eponymous bulls were charging towards one another there, horns down and ready to maim. On the left, I could almost see DeWitt; the right was surely Billy, and where would I, the advocate, be in that situation?


  Standing in the middle, I supposed, waving a big red flag, ready to be skewered from either side.

  That’s when I felt my face crease into a frown.

  An image had come to mind, of standing with that red flag, baiting destruction from both sides. Only instead of standing in some torero’s ring, I was tattooed across the skin of a young man’s back.

  My hands had begun to shake when I went back to the laptop and changed the search filter from female escorts to the much shorter list of males. That’s where I found him.

  His face had been cropped, but he was shirtless in the photograph, bent over before a mirror, and on his naked back was the tattoo of a bullfighter, fluttering a great crimson flag.

  Underneath that was a banner in green: online and available for escort now!

  Sending an anonymous request to talk was, alarmingly, as simple as ordering from Amazon. I just had to sit and wait for a reply.

  I must’ve refreshed the page almost a hundred times in about six minutes. Then there was a knock on the glass beside me.

  ‘Rook?’

  The laptop closed so fast I thought I might’ve shattered the screen.

  Fraser Hayes, Billy’s solicitor, was standing beside the car with a cup of coffee and a doughnut from one of those gourmet cabinets.

  ‘Not running out on us now, are you?’ he joked as I lowered the window, apparently too anxious to back it up with a smile.

  ‘No,’ I swallowed, palms clamped tight over the laptop. ‘Following leads. Yourself?’

  ‘Going home,’ he sighed. ‘I can’t take one more night in a hotel when my missus is only a couple of hours away, even if it means setting off from Notts at daft o’clock in the morning.’

  I nodded, thinking of Jenny and how I probably should’ve done the same every once in a while, but the thought was stricken by the sound of a woman moaning with pleasure, a lewd message alert blaring out from the speaker of the laptop.