In Your Defence

by Sarah Langford

  Dawn began to break, pink streaks licking through the darkness, visible now that the curtains had at last been opened. A pair of officers took Rita from her home and went with her in a police car down to the station. Nick was taken too, in a separate car. The police interviewed Rita over the next two days, question after question, for hours and hours, as the duty solicitor sat silently beside her. She wondered whether she should answer ‘No comment’, as both her husband and Lee did, but she hoped that if she cooperated then they might let her go. Instead, at last, they charged her. Conspiracy to burgle and possession of firearms – offences so serious, the duty solicitor explained, that they could only be heard in a crown court. He told her it was irrelevant that she was not the one wearing the balaclava, prising open the windows, slipping into the houses. The prosecution said there had been a plan, an agreement to burgle the houses, and that she was part of it. And if a jury agreed, then there was no doubt: they would all go to prison for a very long time.

  The two medieval wooden gates into Temple are almost hidden among sandwich bars and cafés and shops lining Fleet Street. Cut into one of the gates is a small door, which opens on to a cobbled lane leading down to Middle Temple Hall. Flanking the courtyards that run off the lane are rows of barristers’ chambers, each using their address for their name. These courtyards are separated by a web of cloisters and tunnels and small pathways. The sensation of walking through them feels like tumbling back in time to some secret, long-forgotten kingdom.

  It was early evening on a Tuesday. With a sigh, summer had slipped into autumn, and leaves lined the path, catching in the wheels of my case. I stopped under the streetlight to shake them off, then heaved the case up my chambers’ stone steps, aware of a familiar sensation in the pit of my stomach. When I know a case is waiting for me apprehension and anticipation fuse together, almost indistinguishable. The phone call had come earlier that afternoon, when I was still in Portsmouth County Court in the middle of an all-day final hearing in a family case. By the time I had rung my clerk back on my way to the railway station the trial was already in my diary. There would be no way of changing it now, even if I had wanted to.

  My clerk had told me what I needed to know. A burglary conspiracy, which had been ‘floating’ – waiting for a court to become free – had just been called on at Salisbury Crown Court and the barrister who had held the brief was stuck in a different trial. A guilty plea, a missing witness or some other unexpected happening had meant that another trial had collapsed, so this one could begin. Tomorrow. It was due to take a week. Rita – my new client – had pleaded not guilty to all the charges. She had been in prison waiting for her trial to start for six months. Then last week, unexpectedly, she had been granted bail, as though the judge wished to tease her with one final shot of freedom. The papers were no more than an A4 file’s worth, my clerk reassured me, and were waiting on the marble mantelpiece in chambers. I was not to worry; there were other hearings listed for the next morning so there would be more than enough time to meet the client and prepare the trial.

  I took the papers home and began to read them on the nearly empty tube. There was little information from the barrister whose case it had been, just the endorsement on the brief, a flourish of blue ink recording Rita’s not guilty plea and her remand into custody. The statements were unmarked and unordered, the most recent ones simply filed on top as they had been sent through from the solicitors. I imagined he had suspected that his current trial would run on and did not want to waste time preparing a case for which he would not be paid.

  Once home, I read through statement after statement of anger and violation from those whose lives had been filleted of their treasures. The burglaries had been so prolific that when the police had spread out the haul in a large room and asked the victims to come to identify their belongings, some saw objects they had not even realized had been stolen, lighting on them with exclamations of astonishment. Almost all the stolen possessions had been found at Nick and Rita’s home. As I cross-checked the items lost against the items seized, I noticed something. I checked again, just to be sure. Out of the guns listed as stolen, only three had been found. Two at Nick and Rita’s, and one at Lee’s. I grimaced. There was nothing more likely to anger a judge than a stolen shotgun which then goes missing, slipped into the darkness of the underworld until, months or years later, it reappears, sawn off at the barrel, used to rob, to threaten, or to kill.

  In my notebook I began to chart the small pieces of forensic evidence. The burglars had been careful. All the houses had been cleaned, with no fingerprints or physical traces left. There were only snatches of evidence: a glove lift from a frame, tool marks on the edge of an unlocked window, the smallest thread hanging off a shard of glass. Footprints from the same pair of shoes had been found underneath a window sill, on a leather sofa, on kitchen worktops – although the shoes themselves had not been found. But then, at last, they had slipped. Underneath one of the windows, forgotten in the escape, was a screwdriver. At least three people’s DNA had been found on its handle. One of those people was Rita. A second fingerprint had been found on one of the guns in Rita’s house, and that too was hers. I winced as I wrote it down.

  I sifted through the statements again, trying to find the evidence against Lee, matching exhibit numbers with my list of stolen property. The police had searched every room in his house, but the haul was modest. A laptop, a camera, an Xbox. And a gun – an air rifle – stolen from the house on Hawthorne Drive. I sat back and looked at the chart I had made, links and arrows joining the dots, making sure I could trace the path between theft, seizure and identification. There was no doubting it: the evidence was very strong. Surely, I thought, the two men – when faced with the prospect of a trial in reality rather than in abstract – would relent and admit their part, lured by the discount the judge was obliged to apply to their sentence.1 But I could not count on this and so, glancing at the clock and working out how long I had before exhaustion set in, I switched on my laptop and began to prepare.

  I double-checked the order of names on the indictment.2 For some reason Rita was first. This was unhelpful. It meant I would be the first barrister to cross-examine the prosecution witnesses, Rita would be the first defendant to give evidence, and I would be the first defence advocate to make a closing speech. Coming second – or even better, last – held a huge advantage in a case like this. It meant being able to see what the prosecution witnesses were like in evidence, and where their weaknesses lay. It meant knowing if there were gaps in the evidence, missed by the barristers who had gone before me. It meant being the last voice of persuasion in the closing speeches that the jury heard before they went to their room to decide upon the defendants’ guilt. Going first meant I had to cover everything, for fear that those who followed may not notice – or care – about that part of the evidence. But, more importantly, going first gave the wrong impression to the jury. What I wanted was to be almost invisible throughout the trial, for the focus to be entirely on the men until right at the end when Rita, terrified, stood in the witness box and everyone looked faintly surprised, having almost forgotten she was there. It was a powerful tool, but now, simply because whoever had written the indictment had chosen to include her first, I was unable to use it. Instead of being at the back of the fray, watching and listening, she was going to be the first person from whom everyone in the courtroom would hear, and it could cost her dearly.

  ‘Oh, well, this is just excellent news …’

  The robing room at Salisbury Crown Court was busy and it was hard not to feel a blush of pleasure as Leo bellowed his delight. He was representing Nick – we were going to be in the same trial. ‘I mean it’s hopeless, hopeless. Don’t know why they’ve bothered with your girl, mind you, given that they never arrested Lee’s missus. But the boys are buggered.’ He paused, considering. ‘I just hope Nick knows we’re buggered. He should do, given how many times he’s been buggered before.’

  ‘I haven’t seen your guy’s previ
ous, Leo. Can I have a look?’

  ‘Of course, my dear, whatever you want. Here – have my copy.’

  I could tell from the weight of the paper that Leo was right. Nick had nearly forty previous convictions going back decades – burglaries, thefts, assaults, affrays. The only pauses in criminality had been forced by spells in prison.

  ‘Guess who this one was with …’ Leo’s short, plump frame pressed against the table as he leaned over to gesture at a burglary conviction dating back more than ten years, circled in red on the printout. ‘Yup. The pair of them at it again. I mean, if you’ve been nicked together once, why on earth would you do it again?’

  He turned as Fred walked over, swinging his robe bag from his shoulder and shrugging off his overcoat. He was a few years older than me: thin and wiry, with a kind face and retreating hairline. ‘Did you know that, Freddie? That our guys have been at it before? Although then they only got twelve months. Not so lucky this time, I imagine.’

  ‘You are kidding …!’ Fred came over to the table and peered at the closely typed page as Leo stabbed at the circle of red ink.

  ‘But remember, they didn’t do it this time …’ Leo sat down heavily on one of the chairs at the table, drawing a fat finger down the side of his nose. ‘This time it was all Harry.’

  Fred looked at him. ‘Oh God. Who the hell is Harry?’

  ‘It was all Harry, you see. It was Harry who broke in. It was Harry who stole the loot. It was Harry who used our house as a storeroom because he had nowhere else to put it. We’d plead to a handling, though, of course. Who’s prosecuting?’

  ‘Matthew Finch.’ I had signed in already – typed my name into the computer in the robing room set up for the purpose and seen Matthew’s name entered as prosecution counsel. Leo brightened. ‘Ah well, then I reckon I might have a crack. Although you’re in with a better chance, Fred – not nearly so much stash at your guy’s place as at mine. What are you saying, anyway, about where it all came from?’ He gestured at Fred, who was now trying to attach his starched white court band to his shirt, his chin stretched upwards.

  ‘What do you think? We bought it all at a car boot a few days before the house was searched, didn’t we? Must have been sold it by Harry, by the sounds of it.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell!’ Leo snorted. He turned to me. ‘So what do you think, Miss Langford? Shall we all go and lean on Matthew together? Or will that just scare him?’

  I stood up, sliding my file off the table, my wig balanced on top. ‘I’ll leave that to you, I think, Leo. I’m going to go and find my girl.’

  ‘Ah yes, you got bail didn’t you.’ Leo tugged on his cloak, his stomach straining against the buttons of his waistcoat. ‘Well, at least you’ll have some time to take instructions. Bet Serco won’t bother bringing our two along until the afternoon. Cuppa, Fred?’

  The two men, confident in their prediction that the van from the prison would be late, as it so often was, set off to the small café on the ground floor of the courthouse which served burning tea from white polystyrene cups. I followed them down the stairs and turned left into the busy court corridor, searching until I saw a small woman with frizzy blonde hair. Her face was without expression and she was standing completely still in the crowd outside the locked doors to the courtroom. I walked over, knowing she must be Rita.

  ‘They’re not really interested in her,’ said Matthew. He was sitting at his computer, looking at me as I leaned against the door frame. He motioned at his desk. ‘Your copy is in there, by the way.’ I took the distinctive beige, slippery-thin paper, stapled in the top corner. More disclosure, this time an attempt to link the footprints found in the case with a burglary of which Nick had been convicted years earlier involving a footprint with the same markings. I stood behind Matthew, scanning through the papers. I wondered if I should make a fuss, demanding an explanation for why I was seeing it for the first time on the day of trial, but decided against it. Matthew’s weariness suggested that Leo and Fred had been to see him while I was with my client and already said as much. There was no point sabotaging the possibility of any kindness towards my client by attacking him further.

  Perhaps sensing my judgement, he began to speak. ‘Look, if we got guilty pleas from the other two, then I’m sure we could come up with something for you. Handling stolen goods, something like that. They might even be persuaded to drop it completely. But without their guilty pleas it’s a full house, I’m afraid.’ He paused. ‘It’s the guns you see. The police hate missing shotguns.’ I nodded, tempted to share my frustration that the men had not yet admitted their guilt, but something pulled me back. A possibility that I was wrong? A fear, creeping in year by year, that I was becoming too sure of a defendant’s guilt before I had seen or heard them? A nagging possibility that, despite everyone assuming otherwise, maybe their story could be true?

  I sat with Rita in a corner of the corridor for most of the morning, only partially sheltered from the tussle of barristers, defendants and police all waiting for their turn. I took her through the evidence and interviews, trying to pull out answers to my questions. I told her that, if the other two pleaded guilty, then she would be able to walk away, possibly without charge. She hesitated, and I wondered what she was thinking – of her children, her family, her life? The moment passed. I realized the idea that she would deliver up her husband and his best friend to the prosecution by admitting their crimes because they would not was unthinkable. If they were not going to crack, then she could not crack for them, even if doing so could save her. I had to try another way. So, after lunch, with the trial finally about to start, I went up to Leo and Fred, chatting to one another as Leo leaned his bulk against the locked court door, waiting for the usher to open it.

  ‘Come on, Leo. You can’t really be running this? They’d let her walk, you know. If your guy did the right thing—’

  Leo cut me off. ‘You’re not entirely off the hook, you know. Remember,’ he pushed himself off the door and leaned towards me with a smile, ‘the only forensics in the whole case are yours. On the bloody tool and on the bloody gun. Ha!’

  ‘Oh come off it, Leo. I mean, what are they saying? That she packed his burglary backpack for him? Popped in the screwdriver along with a sandwich and a Scotch egg? She may, at some point over the years, have touched it, but that doesn’t mean she used it to lever her way into these houses. Your guys did that, and everybody knows it.’

  ‘And the print on the gun? You can see it, can’t you? He walks in the door, she’s cleared a space for the next load of loot, he passes her the bag of guns, she helps unpack them …’

  ‘Or—’

  He cut me off with a wave of his hand, starting to lose his humour. ‘Sorry, my dear, I’ve given him my advice, got my endorsement. If he wants a trial, he wants a trial.’ He turned as the key rattled in the courtroom doors. ‘And there’s not a lot any of us can do about it.’

  It was a boring beginning for the jury. The defence did not – could not – dispute that any of the burglaries had actually happened; just who had carried them out. And so all the evidence of smashed-up lives, sleepless nights and fear was delivered not by tearful, trembling witnesses, but in statements and lists read without expression by Matthew. I could see the jury’s interest waning. It is always hard not to look at them when they first file in, their names chosen at random by the court ushers, their turn to do their civic duty decided by a courtroom lottery. Even if they are resentful that they cannot escape, most are curious about the case that lies ahead of them, secretly thrilled by the possibility of blood and murder, lies and deception. This time, though, as the days passed and the prosecution evidence grew no more exciting than a police officer describing searches and forensic evidence, I watched the jurors fight heavy heads. For the time being the fireworks were reserved for us. The jury were protected from our lawyer’s arguments about whether they should be told of Nick’s old footprint, or of a recorded telephone call from prison to Lee’s wife giving instructions to get rid of
a pair of shoes, or of the defendants’ long list of previous burglary convictions, or of all the other secret evidence about which they would never know.

  ‘I’m going to have a go, I think.’ Fred looked almost apologetic.

  ‘Up to you, Fred. It’s your call.’ I wondered if I would have done the same: made a submission of no case to answer to the judge at the end of the prosecution’s case.3 If the judge agreed with Fred and decided that there was not enough evidence against Lee for a jury safely to convict him, then he would simply direct the jury to enter a not guilty verdict and end the case against him. If the judge did not agree, however, then Fred could risk looking like a fool, having annoyed him with a hopeless argument and wasting precious court time.

  It was the morning of the fourth day of the trial and the judge strode into court. He wore the purple robe and red sash of the circuit judge – a full-time crown court judge who had made his way from the Bar up to the judicial bench long ago. Some such judges have been made bored, impatient and bullish by their years on the bench, but not this one. He was kind without being sentimental, authoritative but without the desire to interfere in a case – trusting instead that those who appeared before him would act as he expected them to. He walked in and nodded without ceremony as we bowed to him and sat down.

  Fred’s submission was short, at least. ‘It’s a matter of knowledge and control, Your Honour,’ he said slowly. ‘My client asserts that in respect of the belongings found at the home of Mr and Mrs Johnson he had neither, and that the items found at his home had been legitimately bought by him at a car boot sale. No receipts, of course. But there is, I again repeat, no forensic evidence against my client whatsoever. The case is wholly circumstantial.’

  The judge stayed silent. I watched him, trying to read his face. He turned towards the prosecutor. ‘You, of course, oppose this application, Mr Finch?’