White Lines

by Mel Stein

  ‘But you don’t. You’re going to be like all the rest of them. You’ll give me pity, but you won’t give me trust. You’re going to think I’m guilty even without a trial. I thought you were supposed to be innocent until you’re found guilty.’

  Mark was taken by surprise by the boy’s eloquence, but he’d obviously had time to think things through, to prepare himself for what he had to say, not just to Mark, but to everybody.

  ‘You’ve got to understand that there’ll be some back home who’ll say you’ve been proven guilty. Those tests nowadays are so sophisticated that they’re virtually error-proof.’

  ‘Virtually?’ Barry echoed, clinging to the word, like a drowning man holding on to a piece of timber.

  Mark shrugged.

  ‘We’ll do our best. Have the tests re-done, but …’

  He ran out of words of comfort and Barry rose to his feet in agitation and began to pace up and down the tiny cell, three strides taking him from wall to wall.

  ‘So, that’s it then. I’m washed up. Career over before it’s really begun. Thanks for the visit. Close the door behind you. There are a lot of dishonest people here and we don’t want any of them breaking in.’

  Mark raised his fist to knock on the judas window to get the guard’s attention, then thought better of it and turned to face Barry.

  ‘Hey, come on Barry. It’s not over. The fat lady’s not even warmed up yet, let alone sung. We’ll get you your re-test. We’ll get you the best lawyers.’

  ‘How am I going to pay for all this? I can’t see Hertsmere paying my wages if I can’t play.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it all out. We’ll do everything we can to prove your innocence.’

  Barry’s round, honest face lit up with childish naivety, as if Father Christmas had arrived just before breakfast on December 25th having been delayed with a puncture on his sleigh.

  ‘Promise, Mark?’ Barry asked.

  ‘I promise,’ Mark replied, knowing in his heart of hearts that it was a pledge he would find hard to keep.

  CHAPTER 25

  It was already cold in Zurich although it was not yet October. Snow on the mountains reflected on the lake and the citizens of the city had already taken their warm winter clothing out of storage. Compared to Bogota, anywhere was likely to feel cool to Mark both in terms of climate and existence.

  He had never been so glad to say goodbye to a country, although as the jet soared into the sky away from Colombia and headed towards home, he knew with a numbing certainty he would have to return. Yet, for the moment at least, Patti had been allowed to sit on one side of him, Barry Reed on the other. One had been set free, the other only released on bail after top-level diplomatic negotiations. Which was worth less? Barry’s so-called permanent freedom or Patti’s potential to be rid of the charges for ever? In the end both lawyers had performed their tasks well, although Mark suspected they had both made the results seem more difficult to achieve than they really were. Somehow or other they were both determined to justify their exorbitant fees.

  Lopez had negotiated a simple fine for Barry which, curiously enough, coincided with the exact amount of cash he had on his person, leaving the British Embassy to pick up the bill for Lopez upon the reluctant promise from the Football Association to reimburse them in due course. It was likely to prove a temporary financial burden as they had already fixed the date for Barry’s disciplinary hearing for a couple of days after Mark’s planned return from Zurich.

  In the face of the evidence, and the guilty plea that had been forced upon him as part of the price to gain exit from the country, the future looked far from rosy. Mark, who had already visited that bleak treeless landscape of unjustified guilt, truly felt for him. But he felt even more for Patti. He had never known her speak less than she had done throughout the long flight home, her silence suggestive of some catatonic state of shock.

  They had posted a million dollar bond in the end, utilising a large chunk of the assets they’d inherited from Leopold Schneider as security. If their old friend could see what was happening, then Mark hoped he would appreciate his bequest being put to some use. What had seemed to be a fortune in property terms was looked upon cynically by hard-nosed bankers who were advancing cash against what they perceived as a real risk. Mark had come close to screaming down the phone to the London bank when they had tried to entangle him in the red tape of mortgage documentation whilst Patti waited impatiently in her prison cell.

  Salazar’s first application had been successful but subject to the million dollar bail money being made available, and the time difference coupled with the bank’s insistence that the formalities be observed, had not made things easy.

  ‘You see, my dear, they do not expect you to return for trial. They get to keep the money and honour is satisfied.’

  ‘I’m telling you, Eduardo,’ Patti replied, ‘If they think I’m just going to walk away from them and our money then they’re in for a surprise. I don’t know how much of that million will go Branco’s way, but I’m telling you here and now, just like Arnie, I’ll be back. And when I come back I’m going to prove my innocence and then sue your fucking government for false imprisonment.’

  Salazar shrugged as if he had heard it all before, that this was all a ritual that had to be said and then forgotten.

  ‘Of course, I understand,’ he replied.

  ‘Don’t humour me, Salazar, or else I’ll find another lawyer, so help me.’

  ‘You can look, my dear lady, but I doubt if you will find another lawyer like me.’

  ‘Are you always right, Salazar?’ she asked, raising a watery smile, impressed to find a man to stand firm in the face of her invective.

  ‘Nearly always.’

  ‘Only nearly?’

  ‘There are a few people in here who would say that I have my failures, that they are my failures.’

  ‘And what do you say?’

  ‘That I told them they would be convicted.’

  The ‘in here’ to which the lawyer had referred was the central prison, to which she had been transferred whilst the negotiations were underway, and compared to the police station it was a four star hotel. Eduardro Salazar seemed satisfied with each small victory, although as far as Mark and Patti were concerned the spoils were minimal.

  ‘I have arranged for her to be in a cell on her own,’ he said proudly.

  ‘And that’s good?’ Mark asked sarcastically, annoyed with himself because he realised deep down that the lawyer was doing his level best.

  ‘Believe me, my dear Señor Rossetti,’ Salazar persisted in the more formal address, ‘this is good. The women in our prisons are as dangerous as the men, more so perhaps, because they have their nails to use as weapons. If a man wants to attack he must first conceal a knife on his person.’

  Patti had looked at her own bitten-down nails when Mark had told her and said, ‘Mine are more like a blunt instrument.’

  It was the first time she had attempted anything like a joke since her incarceration and it gave Mark the encouragement to battle on. Eventually, when all the documentation was in order, she was released on the understanding that she would have to reappear in court in December, even though Salazar had warned both she and Mark that there was nothing finite about the Colombian court calendar. Adjournments were the norm rather than the exception and the wheels of justice creaked slowly.

  ‘Is there anything we can do in the meantime?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Yes. Read Kafka’s The Trial. It will prepare you for what to expect over the next few years.’

  ‘Years!’ Mark exclaimed in horror. ‘They planted some drugs in her bag. What can take years about proving or disproving that?’

  ‘In matters of this nature there are many technical steps; preliminary hearings, reviews by the judge, applications, translations, interim orders, written opinions.’

  ‘It’s a drugs rap, not bloody Nuremberg,’ Patti muttered, but Salazar was in full flight and was not to be halted.

/>   ‘The prosecution will wish to ensure all their witnesses are fully prepared.’

  ‘What witnesses?’ Patti asked her voice rising in barely concealed rage. ‘There are no fucking witnesses. I got pulled at the airport and some bastard planted drugs on me. All because …’

  ‘Yes? Because?’ Salazar asked smoothly, although she had decided to say no more.

  ‘Because nothing. Because I’m English and a journalist and I asked the wrong questions about the wrong person. That’s it.’

  And neither Salazar nor Mark had been able to persuade her to say any more.

  Mark had been reluctant to leave for this trip to Zurich despite its obvious importance to Mo Halid. What had seemed like a life-time in Colombia in reality had been only a little over seventy-two hours, but it had taken its toll on Patti. When she returned to the Burrow she had gone straight into the bedroom, collapsed on the bed and remained virtually comatose as if only by sleep could she purge the memory of what she had been through. She rose only to scrub herself in the shower, rubbing her skin so brutally that she had to apply cream to calm down the red roughness that she had achieved with her own hands.

  She would not leave the room, let alone the flat, her eyes closing in a depressed weariness whenever Mark tried to talk to her. She had always been a good sleeper. He remembered when they had first met how she had told him that former boyfriends had said that she could ‘sleep for England’. But what she was achieving now was not natural slumber, but a descent into the deepest depths of exhaustion as if only there could she be safe from the dark force that had invaded her mind. He had tried to persuade her to see a doctor, maybe even a psychiatrist, but she would have none of it.

  ‘I’m not crazy, Mark, I’m just tired, so tired,’ and then she had drifted off for another few hours. She ate enough to keep herself alive, but no more, taking no pleasure in whatever Mark provided even though he tried to give her things that she would normally have wolfed down in minutes. It was when she pushed aside a Marks and Spencer cream slice that he knew he was on a loser and he would just have to wait for her to sleep her way out of it. She did not seem irrational and had insisted on him going to Zurich, even adopting a more conciliatory approach to his involvement with Ball Park and ESL.

  ‘Go, Mark, it’ll do you good. Colombia wasn’t much fun for you either, what with me and Barry. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything stupid. I wouldn’t give the bastards the satisfaction. Anyway, I’m not the suicidal type. I left that sort of thing to my mother.’

  He’d listened to her reluctantly, but now as he hurried towards the luxurious surroundings of the Dolder Grand Hotel, where all the business of the ESL was being conducted, he could not help but wonder who exactly was the suicidal type. Her mother had certainly been and with far less cause than the daughter. Yet, when he’d tried to think of somebody he could ask to keep an eye on her, he realised just how small their social circle was, how much they had tended to keep to themselves, and how badly they missed Leo Schneider. At the end he’d decided that the best he could do was simply to keep in touch with her by phone. But so far, five out of the six calls he’d made had ended with a message on her answerphone. Just when he’d despaired of speaking to her and had been considering calling the local police, she’d cut in on her message at his last attempt, her voice as drowsy as if she’d been woken from an afternoon nap.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Still a bit tired, but it’s getting better. Are you coming home soon? I miss you.’

  ‘I’ve only just got here,’ he replied, feeling a glow inside at the warmth of her voice.

  ‘Listen, Mark. Do what you have to do. I know you mean well, but I’ve switched the phone off in the bedroom so, unless I’m awake, I don’t hear it ringing. I’m fine, honestly. You don’t need to ring every ten minutes. Why don’t I call you later at the hotel and you can tell me how it’s going?’

  ‘You will call?’

  ‘I will, I promise. Ten o’clock your time. I’ll set my alarm. If you don’t hear from me then, send for the fire brigade.’

  He felt a sense of relief that he could push aside the responsibility for the rest of the day. Today was crucial. The presentations had been made yesterday and although they were assured they’d be taken into account, the four of them, Mark, Richard, Nick and Mo had all agreed over breakfast that the actual tenders themselves would be vital. As with everything else in life it came down to money and Mo assessed the situation with precision.

  ‘The presentations were merely a facade, a smokescreen. Just in the extreme case that the wrong applicant bids the most money it gives the committee a way out.’

  In fact, there had been five of them at the breakfast table, but Nabil Halid seemed to be in tow behind them, surplus to requirements. He said more to the waiter in ordering his food and drink than he did to the rest of them, which was hardly surprising as his earlier contributions had been summarily dismissed by his father. He wore a permanently sulky expression, avoided eye contact with any of them, and Mark suspected that his father had told him to listen, learn and behave himself, rather than waste everybody’s time with his interruptions. As they entered the hotel as a group, Nabil was last through the elegant swing doors and Mark wondered, not for the first time, whether Mo really wanted his son in the business or whether he was just going through the motions of what he thought a father ought to do. As ever with Mohammed Halid it was hard to tell. When a man so palpably enjoyed posing personality conundrums it was virtually impossible to solve them.

  Mark excused himself to visit the washrooms before the main session actually began. The soft carpet beneath his feet made him aware that he was in a city of wealth. The gnomes of Zurich were men with hearts of stone who even today wouldn’t easily yield the secrets of their Nazi gold. He thought of Leo. How many of his relations had deposited money here before the war, believing it to be safe for those of their family who follow behind, yet not knowing that so few of those descendants would survive to collect their inheritance? He was thinking of his old friend more and more nowadays and promised himself that when he got back to England he would visit his grave. He and Patti had paid for a headstone and had attended the stone-setting ceremony a few months before. But they had struggled to find the statutory ten Jewish men to form the minyan to enable them to say the mourning prayer, the kaddish. Patti had organised all that, just as in the past she seemed to have organised his life. But now the boot was on the other foot and he had to organise her.

  Mark did not notice the presence of the other man until he looked up from washing his hands to see him in the mirror standing beside him.

  ‘Mark,’ Nathan Carr said, the voice deep, the clear, precise enunciation, not quite concealing a native roughness in the tone. ‘I’m delighted to meet you again, even if it’s in less than social circumstances.’ He dried his hands carefully, caressing his skin with soap. One ring on the second finger of his left hand gleamed brightly, polished by the soap. It was solid gold carved into the shape of some mythical bird. He turned to Mark and extended his right hand gripping Mark tightly, sucking him in with the warmth of his personality.

  ‘Have you had the chance to think about the offer I put to you in Bogota?’

  ‘Afraid not. I’ve had other things on my mind.’

  ‘Of course. A double blow for you, girlfriend and protégé. If there’s anything I can do to help I hope you’ll let me know. All you need to do is ask.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m coping.’

  ‘I never doubted for a moment that you would. And Mo is being supportive?’

  ‘I never doubted for a moment that he would be,’ Mark replied.

  ‘Touché. But Mo never does the predictable. I can certainly testify to that. I never predicted he’d steal my wife.’

  He checked his collar and tie in the mirror, tweaked them straight and turned to go.

  ‘Well, we have to present ourselves to learn our fate. Why not give me a ring when we get back to London?’
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br />   He handed Mark a gold-embossed Jet Promotions card with the same emblem at the top as was on his ring.

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Well, Mark. I can call you Mark, can’t I?’ He didn’t wait for an answer and continued. ‘When I get the ESL rights maybe I might want to offer you a job.’

  ‘Isn’t it, if you get the rights, Mr Carr?’

  ‘Nathan, please,’ he said, then added, with a quiet certainty. ‘No. It’s when. I’ll see you around.’ And then he was gone as swiftly and silently as he had first appeared, leaving Mark with a sinking sensation of imminent defeat.

  CHAPTER 26

  If the men behind the ESL were going to be forced to jump through the hoops one more time then they were going to do it in style, even if the style itself was in doubtful taste. The huge banqueting hall of the hotel had been converted into a mini-football stadium. Green carpet simulated the turf, and there were goals at either end, mock floodlights and even turnstiles at the entrance. The audience had been treated to an hour of pre-match entertainment from a French chanteuse and a Swiss pop band, which had been almost drowned out by the chatter in the auditorium. The committee entered through a cleverly designed mock tunnel to the strains of ‘Nessun Dorma’, and the floodlights picked out the portly figure of Pavarotti at first miming to his own record then gradually taking up the words until his beautiful voice filled the room and finally brought a note of respectability to the proceedings.

  Those who would sit in judgment, who doubtless had already judged, filed up to the platform. There was both money and power behind this new league and in order to recover their money and maximise their power and influence they needed television. Mark could see Mo twisting his hands nervously. It had been his challenges in the court which had brought about the re-tender and he had every reason to worry as to whether or not that might affect the committee’s decision, even though he had been assured in writing that he would start with every other applicant on a level playing field.