Cut_Throat Defence

by Olly Jarvis

  Jack had already heard about the appeal because it had originally been a Manchester case, involving local solicitors and counsel.

  ‘I was the solicitor for the successful appellant’s original trial,’ said Ken, gravely. ‘The complainant had been on a camping holiday with his family. He’d alleged that the father of four in the next tent on the site, my client, had buggered him in the shower block. The man was quickly convicted by the jury. Only recently the complainant walked into a police station and told them that, in fact, my client had never been anywhere near him – it was his stepfather who had been raping him. My client was just a dad on holiday with his kids.’

  Ken sat down in his chair, exhausted by the story. He gestured at Jack and Lara to do the same, which they did.

  ‘I won’t pretend I wasn’t shaken by all of this, because I was, but I know we did a good job for this defendant at trial. We did our best to secure an acquittal, so I can sleep at night. The system let him down, not his legal team. If you two are lucky enough to have long legal careers, you’ll get a couple of ex-punters released years later on appeal. If you’ve given all your clients a proper service, in accordance with your professional code of conduct, you’ll have nothing to worry about.’

  Jack and Lara took in these words of wisdom as Ken headed to the door with his file under his arm, tightening his tie as he walked. Jack realized that Ken’s irritation with Jack’s performance in Billy Birt’s bail application was nothing personal, it was pure professionalism. He just expected the best possible representation for his clients. For the machinery of justice to work, all the cogs had to be well oiled, however small.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Ken turned, remembering something. ‘You didn’t tell me about the new lead you were following up.’

  Jack reached into his pocket and took out his iPhone. He’d emailed himself the photograph of Boyle and Wolfy so he would have it to hand. He showed it to Ken, who commented immediately, ‘It’s Elvis Boyle, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘We do, but we think the guy behind him in the suit might be Marpit’s handler, from the NCA. He fits the description.’

  Ken put on his glasses, peering closely at the small image on the screen. ‘He’s not NCA. It’s Clive Walsh, a solicitor. A one-man band with an office in Longsight. Bent as a nine-bob note. Been Boyle’s brief for years – ever since Boyle was selling wacky backy on the landing at Strangeways.’

  Jack and Lara looked at each other, utterly perplexed by the revelation.

  ‘Anyway, hope that helps,’ Ken went on. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to shoot. Walsh’s details are in the office address book. Good luck,’ he shouted as he trundled outside into the Manchester drizzle.

  Lara was still thinking through the implications of what Ken’s identification meant. ‘I suppose we don’t know whether Marpit made the whole thing up about the NCA, or if Walsh was pretending to be NCA.’

  Jack cringed, remembering what he’d put to Officer Finch about his alleged association with Marpit. ‘What we do know,’ he said, ‘is that the whole abuse-of-process angle that I have been running all week is complete rubbish. Wolfy isn’t NCA, that’s for sure. Marpit wasn’t a CHIS. At best, he thought he was.’

  Whatever the truth of it was, they had no client to take instructions from.

  Lara picked up Ken’s address book and flicked through. She dialled the number.

  A female voice answered. ‘Hello, Walsh and Co.’

  Lara put the call on loudspeaker.

  ‘Hello, can I speak to Mr Walsh please?’

  ‘I’m afraid he is not here at the moment. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No, I’d like to speak to him about a new instruction in a serious criminal matter. When will he be back?’

  ‘He’s away on holiday all this week. He’ll be back in the office on Monday.’

  ‘I don’t blame him. Escaping the Manchester weather?’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think he has gone abroad, he’s…’ The receptionist suddenly stopped what she was saying. ‘Who is this please?’

  ‘Thank you, I will call back on Monday.’ Lara hung up. It was obvious to them that Walsh was lying low until the trial was over, or at least until all the evidence had been heard. There was nothing more they could do until Monday.

  ‘Monday is too late, isn’t it?’ Lara asked, hoping to be put out of her misery. They both almost wanted it to be the end, to have reached a point where there was nothing more they could do – to have discharged their duty.

  Jack sighed. ‘Unless the defence cases of Rako and Purley took up the whole of Friday, then I wouldn’t have to close my case until Monday morning. I can’t see them spending that long in the box though, even if they choose to give evidence.’

  Lara opened her bag and pulled out the file that Jim Smith had given her. She stared at it for a moment and then opened it.

  ‘What are you doing? I thought you were going to wait for the right time?’ enquired Jack as he cosied in over the documents.

  ‘Suddenly, now seems as good a time as any,’ she replied.

  * * *

  The file contained a mishmash of documents from various sources. There was the post-mortem report on Michael Panassai, a few newspaper cuttings, a police photograph of the scene of the crash and a number of scrawled notes, with names and telephone numbers ticked off. The biggest surprise was how a journalist could have got his hands on so many confidential documents during an ongoing police investigation.

  Sifting through the documents, Lara was visibly moved. She took out a piece of paper – a carbon copy of an original, from the days when copies were made in that way. It was the police search record of the vehicle: her father’s car. Numerous items were listed, from vehicle registration documents, right down to glass fragments and other debris.

  One entry stood out. Lara placed a delicate, manicured finger below it so that Jack would read, ‘Dinner jacket – back of driver’s seat’.

  ‘Does that mean my father was so drunk he left the party in someone else’s dinner jacket?’ she said. ‘Or is your dad mistaken? Or something else?’

  Jack desperately wanted to give Lara an answer to her questions. He didn’t have one.

  ‘I don’t even know what I’m looking for, Jack. I’m afraid the answers I need won’t ever be in a file.’

  Jack wondered about putting his arm round Lara’s shoulder and giving her a squeeze.

  He thought better of it. ‘I’m going to the hospital to see Maisie.’

  ‘No, Jack. They don’t want you there. She’s a client, that’s all.’

  ‘I just want to see if she’s OK. You coming?’

  ‘All right. But we leave immediately if Angela kicks off?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Chapter 57

  Angela saw them first. She left Maisie’s bedside and met them at the entrance to the ward.

  ‘How is she?’ asked Jack.

  ‘How d’ya think?’ came the frosty response.

  ‘What happened?’

  Jack and Lara were confused by Maisie’s appearance. They moved towards the bed for a closer look. She was asleep, on a drip. Her face was bandaged.

  ‘They came to the flat. I was out. I don’t know who did it to her.’

  ‘Did what?’ asked Lara.

  Angela’s composure broke up at the thought of it. ‘Cut off her nose.’ She shook her head, beginning to weep.

  ‘What?’ Jack felt his body vibrate. Shock. ‘Who did? Why?’

  ‘D’you not know,’ said Angela, cynically, ‘what they do to grasses?’ She prodded Jack’s chest. ‘You never did say why you came to the flat that night. She told you stuff, didn’t she?’

  Jack and Lara exchanged glances. It was sinking in.

  ‘This is all your fault. Fucking lawyers,’ Angela sobbed. Her hand became a fist. She pounded Jack’s chest. ‘Get out. Leave us alone. We don’t want you.’

  ‘Angela, I’m so—’

  ‘Get out!’

  They backed out of the ward as t
wo nurses came in, having heard the commotion.

  Jack couldn’t handle it. ‘She’s right, it is my fault.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. Listen,’ said Lara, trying to catch him up. ‘We had a job to do. We are not responsible…’

  Jack stopped and rounded on Lara. ‘I don’t even know who you are.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He lashed out again. ‘I don’t know a thing about you. Not really. Where you go at night? Or who with?’ Jack’s mind was racing now. Was it just nervous exhaustion?

  ‘Jack, please. You’re upset. You don’t know what you are saying.’

  ‘Story of my life.’ He laughed sardonically. ‘Come to think of it, only two people knew what Maisie told us about Boyle ‒ you and me. And I certainly didn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘You could have taken my Archbold. And you know where my dad lives.’

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Yeah. And about time – if I want to survive in this game, I need to think.’ He staggered off down the corridor.

  Lara didn’t try to stop him.

  * * *

  Jack retreated to chambers. He hoped working on the case would take his mind off Maisie. Why couldn’t he have just left her alone? And then he thought of Lara. How he’d upset her, accused her like that. Was it just fatigue making him paranoid? He’d lost his most important tool ‒ his judgement. He didn’t know what to think.

  He picked up the RIPA forms disclosed by Otterwood earlier in the trial and read them over and over again. These few pages were different from all the other thousands in the case ‒ Jack’s cross-examination had forced their disclosure. Was there something in them? Was he missing something?

  He couldn’t see the case clearly. He was blinded by rage ‒ and guilt. He folded them up and put them in his pocket.

  Chapter 58

  Friday morning. No sleep. Jack headed across town, deep in thought. He crossed the tracks on Shudehill, oblivious to the tram missing him by inches. Passing the bars around Piccadilly, he watched the rain wash away the excesses of the night before and then cursed as he felt his shoe filling up with water.

  He stopped off in chambers to check his pigeonhole. No cheques, no briefs.

  Rafe Gallimore put his head round the clerks’ room door and surreptitiously gestured for Jack to follow him, then crept off into a conference room. Simon Huntsman and the clerk, Bob Murphy, were already there, looking all conspiratorial. Bob spoke first: ‘Lionel Katterman’s on the warpath. He’s had a meeting with Miss Dale. He’s making all sorts of accusations – about you and your conduct in the trial.’

  ‘What? My conduct?’

  Simon took up the story. ‘He’s saying that you are running amok with no case; that you are putting things in cross with no foundation, either in evidence or from your instructions.’

  Jack’s distress was turning to anger. ‘That is total bullshit. He’s just trying to muscle me out of the case. It’s a cut-throat for God’s sake!’

  Simon faced Jack, gripping his shoulders for a moment to make him focus. ‘We know that, Jack. He’s told Sarah. Hang on, I’ll rephrase that. He has demanded that Sarah tell you to withdraw. He’s saying that it’s her duty as Head of Chambers – you are clearly incompetent, too junior in call, et cetera, et cetera. He’s threatening to report you and chambers to the Bar Standards Board.’

  ‘What is Sarah saying?’ asked Jack.

  ‘You have to understand that she doesn’t really know you, or your abilities. Katterman is a top silk.’

  Jack shook his head. He thought he knew what was coming.

  ‘Now hold on, Jack. Listen to Simon,’ chided Rafe.

  ‘She’s a tough cookie, and she backs her barristers. Most importantly she doesn’t like being told how to run her chambers by the likes of Katterman. She’s holding her nerve for now. Obviously, she wants to see you. Don’t fuck it up. Convince her, rationally, that you know what you are doing. OK?’

  Jack took a deep breath and nodded.

  The door swung open. Sarah. ‘What’s going on in here?’

  Simon and his henchmen filed out silently, leaving Jack alone with his Head of Chambers.

  She wasted no time. ‘Well, they’ve obviously told you Lionel Katterman’s been in?’

  ‘They have.’

  She looked Jack up and down quizzically, as if only noticing him for the first time. ‘Lionel’s not the sort of man you want to piss off. Don’t you agree?’

  Jack was ready for this. ‘Katterman might be a great advocate, but he’s a bully. I know what I’m doing, Sarah. I am entirely satisfied with my conduct. I will not withdraw on the orders of co-defending counsel – that would be ethically quite wrong.’

  Jack watched Sarah’s change of expression.

  She changed tack. ‘Katterman is putting Purley in the box today. He says you shouldn’t cross-examine him. What you put to a witness is not evidence. Jack, you don’t have a defendant to call, to lay the foundation for what you will have put to Purley.’

  ‘I know the rules of evidence, Sarah. I have some instructions from Marpit – that’s why I remained in the trial. I have a duty to put his case. If Purley gives evidence, I will cross-examine him. I’m sure it won’t save Marpit, but I will cross-examine. Throw me out of chambers if you want, Sarah, but I am going to finish this case.’

  Sarah said nothing.

  Jack left the room in a determined fashion, astounded at his newfound confidence. Or was it just anger?

  He returned to the clerks’ room with no idea if he’d won her over.

  Chapter 59

  The robing room was even busier than usual.

  Katterman burst in, glancing around with his usual supercilious air. He watched Jack for a few seconds, shaking his head in disapproval.

  Jack found it unnerving.

  Katterman positioned himself in front of a wall mirror to put his bands on but also so that he could continue observing Jack. He talked into the mirror, but loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘I hope we’re not going to see any more of your Bar School antics today. It’s not a moot, you know. It is a real court of law. Your cross-examinations have been quite unethical.’

  The robing room fell quiet.

  It took a while to work out who Katterman was addressing since he was facing the mirror. Gradually, people could see it was the novice in the corner.

  Jack, feeling everyone’s eyes upon him, was determined not to get involved in a slanging match with the silk. There was no point; he would lose.

  A voice came to the rescue: Simon Huntsman’s. ‘That’s funny,’ he said, ‘Because I’ve always found Jack to have good judgement. I should know, I taught him!’

  Jack could have hugged his friend for sticking up for him in front of such a large crowd.

  Katterman turned on Huntsman. ‘I forget why you never took silk, Huntsman? Ah yes, I remember. Lacking in judgement.’

  Simon laughed it off – but the comment had wounded him. He retorted, ‘People have been commenting lately, Lionel, that your poisonous wit is becoming more poisonous and less witty. They may be right.’

  Jack made his way out of the room. Simon followed, winking at the gathering crowd.

  Katterman had become aware of the watching advocates. Simon’s comment had struck a chord with them. Nobody at the Bar liked to hear a colleague insulted in that way.

  The silk tried to save some face. He shook his head solemnly. ‘Dreadful advocate. Of course, they’re just not given the training nowadays in some sets. The Circuit really must do more to help the Young Bar.’

  Chapter 60

  Jack saw Lara waiting outside court. ‘I’m sorry, Lara. I was out of order.’

  ‘Yes, you were. Completely.’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t do anything like that. It’s just the pressure of this case. I’m losing it.’

  She softened a little. ‘No wonder you haven’t got any work. Accusing your instructing solicitors of corruption!
’

  Jack was embarrassed.

  ‘What’s your new evidence, Jack, to have changed your mind about me?’

  ‘None. I just know it in here,’ he said patting his left breast. ‘I fucked up.’

  She gave a sceptical nod. ‘All right. It’s forgotten.’

  ‘Thank you. Come on, let’s go in,’ he said, relieved and surprised that she appeared to have forgiven him so easily.

  The court was assembled.

  Were the barristers going to call their clients? That was the question on everyone’s lips. A big decision, tactically, in any trial.

  Humphrey Bingham, QC, rose to his feet. ‘My Lord, I do not call any evidence on behalf of Mr Rako, and in particular, I do not call Mr Rako.’

  The judge went through the standard direction. ‘Have you advised your client that the stage has now been reached at which he may give evidence and, if he chooses not to do so, the jury may draw such inferences as appear proper from his failure to do so?’

  ‘He has been so advised, My Lord.’ Bingham sat down.

  Bingham knew that if he put Rako in the box, Otterwood would use Rako as a platform not only to put the Crown’s case, but to explain it in real detail to the jury. Bingham had undoubtedly made the right decision.

  ‘Mr Katterman?’ enquired the judge, turning to counsel for the second defendant.

  Katterman unfolded. ‘My Lord, I call the defendant, Mr Anthony Purley.’ Unlike Bingham, Katterman could not resist calling his client; he knew a good performance could seal victory.

  Katterman’s announcement caused a reaction in Bingham’s team.

  As Bingham turned to whisper to his junior, Jack saw that the QC had a face like thunder. Had Katterman double-crossed a fellow silk? Surely not. It was odd that they had taken different stances on giving evidence when they were apparently running the same defences. The fact that Purley was now going to give evidence would highlight Rako’s refusal. Had Katterman agreed with Bingham, ‘counsel to counsel’, not to call Purley? If so, it was unthinkable that he should go back on that agreement.