Jenny Parker Investigates

by D J Harrison

  ‘Get off, you bitch,’ I feel like smashing her face with something solid but everything within my reach is soft and cuddly. Hitting her with a Care Bear would not have the effect I want. ‘Leave us alone,’ I scream at her. ‘Get away from me, you bitch.’

  ‘Jennifer Parker, I am arresting you,’ she begins.

  ‘No, no you can’t. You scared me. You can’t arrest me for shouting at you.’

  ‘I have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of money laundering offences in contravention of Section 329 of the Proceeds of Crime Act. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say …’

  The words fade into the background noise as I realise that they haven’t come for Tim, they are here for me, to arrest me. All the smashing down doors is to get at me. My legs are weak and won’t hold me up any more. I manage to sink down gently to avoid hurting Toby. We half sit, half lie on the floor, he is still crying but a distressed whimpering has replaced the frightened screams.

  Tim pushes into Toby’s bedroom and stands over me.

  ‘Give him to me,’ he instructs and I have no power to prevent him scooping up my child and taking him away.

  ‘You can get dressed before we take you down to the station,’ the grim-faced one intones. I obey mechanically, strip off in my bedroom and dress in yesterday’s discards. As I walk out I can see several more policemen pulling out drawers, moving furniture, searching. The computer in the study lies naked and skeletal, the innards revealed. Everywhere my home is being violated, dismembered so that choice bits can be bagged up as souvenirs. I realise I’m crying, deep forlorn desperate tears. I know I will never feel safe again and the deep sense of loss is almost unbearable.

  22

  It is hot in this pokey room. Sitting in here for half an hour has soaked through the armpits of my blouse and left dark stains. If sweating is a sign of guilt then they’ve an easy decision to make about me. I was told to be at the court at nine so I made sure I was early, kicking my heels on the steps for ten minutes, feeling the chill of the drizzle on my face. How I wish I could have that cool relief now.

  ‘Sit in here,’ the lady in the uniform said. I wonder whether she wears the garb of the prison service or else some similarly attired but less sinister organisation. At least the door isn’t locked, I’m spared that. I can walk back out and stand in the rain any time I like. I just want the whole thing to be over and done with. It’s taken nearly two months for them to arrange a court hearing. In that time I’ve been feeling frustrated with an underlying deep despair. At least I’ve been able to spend time with Toby, lots of time, so much time with him that I’ve begun to think and feel like a toddler. My mind is a useless mush of meaningless sounds and cartoon characters.

  As soon as I was arrested Eric left a message on my phone telling me not to come to work until it had all been cleared up. A formal letter confirming this instruction arrived the next day. When I eventually managed to speak to Eric he sounded cold and unhelpful, despite his reassurances that it was just procedure and nothing to worry about. At least today will provide an end to the uncertainty, though I still worry how my career with Landers Hoffman will be affected. I know that Paul is now sitting at my desk and that vision gives me a gnawing anxiety in my gut.

  I put my jacket back on to hide the damp patches. I know I’ll sweat even more but I don’t want my lawyers to see me in such disarray. I have to be calm and in control and direct them firmly.

  One of them arrives. It’s Anthony, my solicitor. His thick neck protrudes from a slightly grubby collar that pinches into his flesh like a thick belt.

  ‘Ha.’ He flops down opposite me, the flimsy chair buckling under the assault. ‘Good, you’re here.’ He slaps down a lever arch file in front of him and begins to leaf through it, occasionally glancing up at me with an alarming look of puzzlement. After a couple of long minutes he stands, pushing the chair back with his legs so that it makes a screeching noise.

  ‘Sorry, wrong file, I’ll get yours from the car.’ I wonder if all this haste is a sign that we’re going to be late and feel fearful of the consequences of keeping a court waiting. He arrives back, breathless and sweating.

  ‘Okay,’ he pants, ‘got it. Parked a way away,’ he puffs, ‘saves the parking charge – £4.80 a day soon mounts up.’ He draws a steadying breath. ‘No need to pay it when you can park for free a few streets away.’

  He returns to his file. I notice that this one is much slimmer than the last and hope that this is a good sign.

  ‘Mr Hunter will be with us shortly, I saw him on his way to the robing room,’ he announces.

  ‘Who’s Mr Hunter?’

  ‘He’s the barrister I’ve instructed for this hearing. As it’s Crown Court, I can’t speak on your behalf, it has to be a barrister. Don’t worry, I’ve told him everything he needs to know.’

  I look at my watch; it shows 9.40. ‘Are we late?’ I ask. ‘You told me to be here for 9.00 and it’s nearly 9.45.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He doesn’t look up. ‘We won’t start at 10.00, the judge is hearing some arguments on another case before he gets round to us. We have plenty of time.’

  The door opens and admits a tall angular man wearing a long black gown and a small wig pushed forward over his forehead. The room hardly accommodates his large frame and he has to move to one side to allow the door to close before sitting down. The heat is now almost unbearable and I have sweat oozing from every part of me, my make-up is washing away and is soaking into what used to be my crisp white collar which is getting pinker by the second.

  ‘This is Mr Hunter; he’ll be representing you in court today.’

  Mr Hunter’s eyes twinkle darkly as he looks at me. I take in his strong presence and feel the authority it commands.

  ‘Mrs Parker, Jenny isn’t it? May I call you Jenny?’

  I nod. ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘Now we need to make sure that we are all comfortable with these proceedings. It’s a Crown Court, you understand, Jenny; there will be a judge with a wig and gowns similar to these but,’ he smiles, ‘much more elegant. Don’t let the dress put you off, we’re all ordinary people doing our jobs. The gowns are only to distinguish those of us who are acting as advocates.’

  ‘How long do you think it will take?’ I ask, warming to this island of competence amid a sea of turbulent fools.

  ‘Now that depends on our plea.’ A painful stab of alarm pierces my chest. ‘If we plead Not Guilty as I believe you wish …’

  ‘Of course I’m not guilty,’ I blurt out, losing what small residue of decorum I have left.

  ‘Quite, quite, I understand. As I was saying, a Not Guilty plea means we’ll be in and out in just a few minutes. The court will adjourn for a trial, the date for which will be fixed later.’

  ‘I’ve already waited two months, won’t I be tried today?’

  ‘Certainly not: neither side is prepared for trial today. There are witnesses to arrange, statements to prepare, lots of things to do before we can run a trial.’

  ‘So how long will I have to wait?’ I’m feeling panicked now. I can’t face the prospect of living in limbo any longer, I have to get my life back; I need to work, to progress, to get the hell away from Tim.

  ‘Oh, it depends on the court’s timetable and the judge’s availability. I don’t think there will be any possibility of getting a slot before next summer and realistically I would expect it to take a fair bit longer.’

  ‘Another year!’ My heart sinks at the prospect.

  ‘Unlikely to be less than that,’ he confirms.

  I put my head in my hands to hide my tears and feel the slippery texture of my forehead.

  ‘However, it shouldn’t come to that,’ Mr Hunter continued. ‘I strongly suggest you consider pleading Guilty.’

  ‘But …’ I protest meekly.

  ‘I’m afraid I can hold out very little prospect of su
ccess with a Not Guilty plea. With the evidence from your PACE interview, the prosecution have an almost insurmountable case.’

  ‘PACE?’ I ask.

  ‘Police and Criminal Evidence Act – PACE for short; it’s the taped interview held in the police station on the day you were arrested.

  ‘I tried to explain about the money,’ I say.

  ‘I know. You were being honest. However, you did admit quite freely to the charges. You also refused to tell the police where the money came from and who gave it to you.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I told them about the threats, I explained the sort of people they were. They’d do much worse things to me than the police could. They’d probably kill me if I identified them.’

  ‘That is a problem for us. You’ve effectively admitted guilt; it would be a long uphill struggle to convince a jury of any alternative now. Refusing to cooperate with the police in their enquiries is also unhelpful to your situation. I understand that you’re frightened but I suggest that you give that serious thought. It’s not too late and it is a major factor against you.’

  ‘No.’ My reaction is instant. I can’t risk the prospect of putting Toby at risk of losing his mother or even being harmed himself. I felt the ruthlessness in Casagrande’s voice. I know he is capable of harming me more than this legal system ever can. I can’t believe that all this grief is caused by a man leaving some cash in my hotel room. I didn’t rob anyone, injure anyone, burgle anyone, but here I am in court surrounded by be-wigged lawyers. It’s so bloody unfair. All I want to do is to provide for my Toby, to live a simple life with him.

  ‘What do you think will happen to me?’ I ask.

  ‘Under the circumstances, if you plead Not Guilty and are convicted you can expect a custodial sentence. I don’t think that could be avoided.’

  Prison! My body goes into shock at the prospect.

  ‘But I can’t go to prison. What about Toby, what would happen to him?’

  ‘I’m afraid that cases like yours are dealt with severely. That you have a young child is only a mitigating factor and unlikely to make much difference.’

  The door opens and hits the back of the barrister’s chair. The female who put me in the room announces, ‘The judge is ready now’, and closes the door. Panic wells up inside me. I feel sick, without the energy to retch up my breakfast.

  Anthony looks sweatier and more anxious. Mr Hunter is regally unperturbed. It crosses my mind that keeping a judge waiting might not prove as costly to a barrister as it might to a defendant. I’m trying to focus on the calmness in front of me.

  ‘If I plead Not Guilty what do you think will happen?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing is certain, of course. In the event of your being convicted after a trial I would be surprised if the judge didn’t apply a custodial sentence of at least six months, it could easily be two years. Indeed your case could be said to require one. If a custodial sentence was not given, the prosecution might appeal and that appeal might well be successful.’

  I cannot believe what I’m hearing. Jail … this man is telling me I will be put in jail. Toby will have his mother taken away! What will become of us? I try unsuccessfully to hold back the tears but my envisioned grief pushes them through. Mr Hunter takes a white linen handkerchief from his top pocket and passes it to me. It is much too nice, too clean, too crisp and too perfect for me to soil. I pass it back and fumble in my bag for tissues.

  ‘I can’t go to prison,’ I manage between sobs, ‘I can’t leave my child.’ I glare at Anthony who keeps his eyes away from mine. ‘You told me I’d be okay, that I would probably get off; even if I didn’t you said it would be a slap on the wrist, a fine at the worst.’

  ‘Look,’ Anthony finally meets my eye, ‘I gave you my best advice based on the cases I’ve dealt with before. It’s not a lot of money; I honestly thought you would be fine.’

  ‘Your solicitor’s advice is quite understandable,’ Mr Hunter intervenes. ‘But these cases are viewed very seriously when a professional person is charged under the Proceeds of Crime Act. You are charged under Section 328 for concealing criminal property, under Section 329 for its acquisition, use and possession and, most significantly, under Section 330 for failing to disclose in your capacity as a finance professional. The maximum sentence this court can impose is fourteen years’ imprisonment; the least you can expect would be six months. As I say, the law is very harsh in this respect. The Act was set up primarily to combat drugs and terrorism but, as often happens with the law, it is being used much more widely.’

  ‘All I did was to hide some money in my wardrobe!’ I can’t stop the feeling of dread. My body starts to heave and shake.

  ‘There is one ray of hope, perhaps. I spoke with my learned friend in the robing room, purely hypothetically of course, and without prejudice. It seems to me that the prosecution have no desire for a trial. It would mean much effort for them and take up valuable court time. Were it possible to spare them that effort I am convinced they would not press the judge for a custodial sentence.’

  My mind unfreezes enough for me to answer, ‘So if I plead guilty I won’t go to prison?’

  ‘There is no guarantee, it will depend entirely on the way the judge sees it. However, with no submission from the prosecution and a decent mitigation from us, I doubt very much that you will do worse than a suspended sentence. You are aware of what that means aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it means I don’t go to prison as long as I don’t do it again. And don’t you worry, I won’t.’

  I have no choice: Not Guilty means waiting a year then going to jail, maybe for a long time; Guilty means I don’t get put in prison – I will be out of a job, though, and a convicted criminal.

  ‘Okay,’ I gasp, ‘I’ll plead Guilty if it means not going to prison.’

  Mr Hunter smiles and rises in a deliberate manner. Somehow, despite the oven-like atmosphere and the thick wig, he retains an air of cool control as he leads the way out of the claustrophobic hole.

  Inside the court I meet an air-conditioned chill which is hugely welcome until the cold begins to penetrate my sodden garments. I am placed in a slightly raised area on my own while the lawyers continue down the steps to occupy the right half of the benches in front of me. The left side is already taken by what I imagine to be the prosecution legal team. Their barrister looks younger than I am, barely thirty at a guess.

  There is an order to ‘Stand’, and the judge comes in from a side door and sits down directly opposite me and at my eye level. He looks old and uninterested but he is heavily disguised by a lighter, more generously proportioned wig than Mr Hunter’s. His robes are trimmed with scarlet which relieves the uniform blackness of the rest of the legal attire.

  The lady who called us in begins to read the charges. I listen to them in disbelief that they apply to me. After each one she pauses and asks me how I plead. Hardly able to speak or stand from terror, I blurt out ‘Guilty’ each time, feeling a noose tightening around my neck.

  Mr Hunter makes an impassioned plea for mercy. When I hear him speak I have no doubt that everything will be fine. I begin to regret my guilty pleas. An advocate of his quality would surely have made mincemeat of any prosecution case. The judge appears to agree with everything Mr Hunter tells him about me, including the bits about being a devoted mother and that unnecessary suffering that might be caused to an innocent child. When he finishes I half expect the judge to immediately let me go with a warning, but instead he asks the prosecution if they’ve anything to say.

  Their young barrister rises to his feet and reads out some sentencing guidelines. To my horror, all these involve long prison sentences. I want to shout out that they aren’t supposed to do this – that they promised Mr Hunter – but I am frozen with fear.

  Finally, the judge says what a terrible thing I have done, how I have betrayed the trust placed in me, how I have abused my position and that I must serve six months in prison. He then repeats this sentence for each of the remaining charges and say
s that these sentences are to be served concurrently.

  I breathe a sigh of relief at this and wait for him to say that they are also suspended. Instead, he stops speaking and rises. Two women in uniform appear next to me and hold my arms. I look down at Anthony and Mr Hunter who shrugs his shoulders in my direction.

  ‘Sorry,’ Anthony says, ‘we did our best.’

  23

  The screaming comes from the Block. Sometimes it consists of a single plaintive howl; mostly there is a cacophony of disturbance. I can hear it as I try to sleep. The anguish penetrates me to the core; I can’t help but want to join in. Here in the cottages there is less noise. Here, we yell and complain. Shout angrily. Cry copiously. But we do little of the really deranged stuff, at least compared to the occupants of the Block.

  Alice takes me to one side as I carry my meagre breakfast tray. ‘Good morning, Mrs Parker.’

  ‘Hello, Alice.’ She has to call me Mrs Parker, it’s the rules. I can call her anything I like. Some of the others take any opportunity to be rude and offensive but I prefer to be polite. Being referred to as a “stupid fat cow” all the time must be very debilitating for the poor woman.

  ‘Don’t forget you have another counselling session with Dawn at 10.30.’

  I haven’t forgotten; it means me going to the Block, being close to the self-harmers and drug-desperate souls that inhabit it. This counselling business is an attempt to modify the behaviour of the most seriously disturbed by exposing them to long sessions with those of us slightly less upset.

  ‘It will look good on your record,’ Alice tells me.

  The prison officers treat Dawn with great respect, usually three at a time. I don’t know if she poses a real threat or it’s her size and strength that worries them. When I look into her dull piggy eyes, I can feel only desolation. The poor woman has lost any form of positivity. God knows, I feel bad enough in this awful place. Having to see Dawn on a regular basis doesn’t help at all.