Unofficial and Deniable

by John Gordon Davis

‘No. You’d not only have to pay my fees, you’d have to pay my travel expenses from New York, my hotel. A local attorney is going to be much cheaper.’

  Harker shook his head. ‘I want you there.’

  ‘Why? Because I’m white? Look, much as I hate to admit it, both those attorneys are just as good as me.’

  ‘I want you because you know my whole background.’

  ‘Expensive,’ Redfern warned. ‘How about your cousin, Luke Mahoney? Hey, maybe this is a good idea. Luke would have no right of audience in a Florida court, but he’d be a big asset to old Charlie. And it could be good race relations. Shall I give him a call? He’d surely do it cheap, for family. Maybe for only the price of his air-ticket?’

  Harker sighed grimly. ‘I’ve never even met him.’

  ‘I’ll sound him out anyway,’ Redfern said. He ran his eye over his notes, then cleared his throat. ‘Okay, now there’s something we must settle once and for all, before I brief Charlie Benson.’ He paused significantly. ‘Correct me if I have misunderstood anything.’ He glanced at his notes again. ‘Your case is that you know nothing about Josephine’s disappearance. You simply left her on watch, went to bed, woke up and found her missing.’ He looked at Harker.

  ‘Correct,’ Harker said.

  ‘You searched the sea for two days but saw no trace,’ Redfern continued. ‘But you knew she was wearing a life-jacket because that was standard procedure when on watch alone. And there is one life-jacket missing from the locker. Correct?’

  Harker’s throat was dry. ‘Correct.’

  ‘You had no quarrels with her, everything was normal when you went to bed?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And nothing untoward had happened in Nassau before you left?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You’ve heard stories of pirates but nothing of that nature happened to you?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Redfern leant forward. ‘This won’t be mentioned to the jury, of course, nor will I tell Charlie Benson, but the fact is Josephine knew nothing about your CCB past? She knew nothing about the Long Island operation or Operation Heartbeat. Right?’

  Harker closed his eyes. ‘Right.’

  Redfern sighed and Harker said, ‘You don’t believe me, huh?’

  ‘Jack, it doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not, as long as you don’t tell me you’re lying. I’m your lawyer, not your judge, and you’re entitled to your defence, to have any set of facts put forward by your lawyer. If you say something did or did not happen that’s good enough for me and Charlie Benson. Just don’t change your story once the trial begins – if you want to change anything, or add anything, tell me now. Or tell Charlie, when you meet him.’ He added, ‘Just don’t tell him anything about the CCB, that’ll open a can of worms.’

  ‘But do you believe me?’

  Redfern smiled. ‘Yes, as it happens,’ he lied. ‘And in my opinion you’re putting forward the best defence, in the circumstances.’

  ‘What are my chances?’ Harker demanded grimly.

  Redfern took an unhappy breath. ‘Well, I’m pretty damn sure we’re going to win this case. There’s no corpse. It is entirely credible that Josie fell overboard in the middle of the night because the boat pitched in that wind. And I’m not worried about that bloodstain on the transom. Okay, it’s Group B and we know from Josie’s life insurance application that she was also Group B, but so are millions of people. It’s a secondhand boat, that stain could have been there for years. The same applies to the bullet hole in the saloon upholstery …’

  40

  The Miami courthouse is a massive stone edifice called the Richard C. Epstein Justice Building. It sits atop expansive stone steps, adjacent to the huge building housing the District Attorney’s offices. Surrounding both are acres of parking areas under the sweeping, roaring, elevated road system of central Miami. Inside the portals of the court-house is a big marbled atrium dominated by airport-style metal detectors and baggage X-ray machines manned by numerous bored policemen; beyond, elevators and escalators and staircases lead upwards to dozens of offices for court staff, police, probation officers, shorthand writers, and several floors of courtrooms and chambers of the judges.

  Jack Harker met his cousin for the first time on the day the trial began. Luke Mahoney came down to the holding cells in the bowels of the courthouse. There were many prisoners and they all seemed to be talking at once. Like a zoo, Luke thought.

  ‘Terribly good of you to come,’ Harker said through the bars. He was pale, his face gaunt.

  The policeman unlocked the cell door and let Harker out: he pointed at a wooden door marked Conference. As they walked towards it Harker said self-consciously: ‘Is your hotel okay?’

  ‘How’re you is more to the point?’

  ‘I’ve been in tight corners but never like this.’ Harker’s hands were trembling. ‘And the company was more congenial on the battlefield.’

  ‘Is there anything you need? Cigarettes? Chocolate?’

  ‘If there’s one thing the Yanks do well it’s feed you. And I gave up smoking long ago, unfortunately.’ They entered the small conference room. ‘Good to meet you at last. I’ve read about you over the years.’

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you too on the family grapevine,’ Luke said. ‘Have you had any contact with the Harkers of Harker-Mahoney Shipping fame in New Orleans?’

  ‘No. You?’

  They sat down at the bare table. ‘Not for years. I was engaged to one of the daughters once. Did you ever meet our other cousin in Rhodesia, Joe Mahoney?’

  ‘He was in the Rhodesian army with me during the war.’ Harker cleared his throat. ‘So what’s the situation with the Truth Commission? I’ve hardly heard anything since I’ve been in prison.’

  ‘Well, the floodgates are open now, villains are stampeding to confess before the deadline next week, almost seven thousand applications so far. It’ll take years to sort out. Now a lot of ANC villains are running scared too, seeking amnesty for necklacings and bombings, and the abuse in their military camps. Even senior people like Vice President Mbeki are filing applications.’ Luke glanced at his wristwatch. ‘But then big guns like General Magnus Malan were subpoenaed and admitted he had authorized the creation of the CCB for spying purposes but he baldly denied he had ever authorized anything illegal like assassination.’

  Harker closed his eyes. Thank God …

  ‘And Big Business – and the Dutch Reformed Church. Both have had to appear before the Truth Commission and explain why they worked with apartheid. Of course, the Church pointed to the Bible, how the sons of Ham were damned by God to be black, hewers of wood and drawers of water, but they did admit they were wrong, and apologized, as Big Business eventually did. The breathtakingly wealthy captains of industry started off protesting their innocence, claiming they were hampered by apartheid because it prevented the blacks from becoming a strong buying force. They produced all kinds of statistics but it sounded very hollow and by the third day they were all admitting that they did benefit, and apologizing.’

  Harker snorted tensely, ‘And what’s happened to P.W. Botha?’

  Luke smiled. ‘Botha is still defying the Truth Commission. He was summonsed to the magistrate’s court in his hometown on the charge of ignoring the Commission’s subpoena – and the magistrate was black! The international media were there in force. But the trial was postponed for a month. However, afterwards he gave a press conference in the courtroom. What a circus. I brought you a newspaper cutting.’ Luke unfolded the piece of newspaper and read aloud. ‘“I stand by my principles. I believe in God, I believe in Jesus, I believe in the Holy Ghost, and I pray that they take control of this country and this world! I told Mandela to his face – yes, I treated him like a gentleman in jail – I told him anarchy and the forces of communism will destroy you! I’ve said many times that the word apartheid means good neighbourliness.”’

  Luke smirked. Harker shook his head. ‘“Good neighbourliness”? But wh
at’s going to happen to him? He must surely be prosecuted, and then the whole CCB story could emerge, including my part in it.’

  Luke said: ‘Not necessarily. You can bet your boots he will confess to nothing. The guy thinks he’s bullet-proof.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Harker said, ‘but what about when one of his former subordinates gets scared and runs for amnesty?’

  ‘Jack,’ Luke’ said, ‘there’s less than a week to go before the amnesty deadline, after that nobody’s going to confess, are they? So hold fast – you’ve got enough to worry about here.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Now, Charlie Benson and Redfern have sent me summaries of all the evidence. I had dinner last night with Charlie, and clearly he knows nothing about your former connection to the CCB.’

  Harker dragged his hands down his face. ‘Right.’

  ‘Don’t under any circumstances tell him, or break down in the witness box, or nobody will believe anything you’ve ever said.’

  ‘And what did you think of Charlie?’

  ‘He’s going to be all right.’

  ‘I don’t want him to be “all right”, I want him to be first-rate! And I don’t think he is. He’s … doddery. He urns and ahs.’

  ‘He knows his law. And he has a big asset – his charm. He’s a charming old guy. And he’s got a long track record of defending civil–rights activists – so that should help dissipate prejudice against you for being a South African.’

  Oh Jesus, being a South African. ‘Jurors may be prejudiced because of that, huh?’

  Luke shook his head. ‘Who knows? Juries can be the dumbest, most prejudiced, most inefficient of creatures. However, that’s the luck of the draw. You’re in good hands with old Charlie, and I agree with him that you stand a very good chance of getting off because there’s no corpse. Even if the jury is suspicious, there’s insufficient evidence for a conviction.’ He glanced significantly at Harker. ‘However, I must say I wish we could blame Josephine’s disappearance on something more specific. Like an attack by pirates. That way we could account for that bloodstain on the transom. And the shattered speedometer dial. And the bullet in the saloon upholstery.’ He paused expectantly.

  Harker dragged his hands down his face again. ‘Nothing like that happened.’ He added, to change the subject: ‘Do you know about the judge? Has Charlie told you anything?’

  ‘Judge Wally Ludman. Charlie says he’s a character, a bit of an eccentric, but a good judge. Hates juries. Usually has a few caustic words to say about the system, especially in high-profile cases, plays to the gallery. Looks daunting, but his bark is worse than his bite.’ He added: ‘However, he’s strict on sentencing. Strong sense of duty.’ Luke glanced at his watch again. ‘Okay, I’ll go up to the courtroom to join Charlie, but once jury-selection starts I’ll push off and have some breakfast and come back later. I’ll be sitting directly behind Charlie. If you have any questions, pass me a note.’ Luke stood up, and put out his hand. ‘Good luck.’

  Harker took his hand. ‘Thanks again for coming. Deeply appreciate it. But, please tell me: do you believe me? That I’m innocent?’

  Luke smiled. Wearily. ‘Jack, it does not matter whether I believe you or not: you are presumed by law to be innocent until the prosecution proves you guilty. So, yes, Jack, as far as I’m concerned you are innocent. But in addition to that, yes, I also personally believe you are innocent.’ He dearly wished that last sentence were true.

  Harker was still holding his hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said grimly. ‘And Charlie?’

  ‘Charlie feels the same,’ Luke said. He wished this to be true too. He dropped his hand on Harker’s shoulder. ‘See you in court. And don’t worry, you’re in the best hands with old Charlie.’

  He wished he believed that too.

  Court 4B was crowded to capacity when Luke Mahoney entered.

  Every seat in the gallery was occupied, people were lining the walls, and in the corner beside the jury box there were two television crews. In the well of the court were the tables of the prosecution and the defence. The jury stand was empty at this stage but the two long press tables opposite were crowded. Below the bench sat the clerk of court at his table, a large balding man; next to him, at her own desk, sat the stenographer. She was a young woman in a red dress with spectacles and flowing blonde hair. Beside her sat a large black policewoman in blue uniform, while another even larger law officer, a black man, was bustling around looking busy. At the defence table, his back to the public gallery, sat old Charlie Benson in a rumpled black pinstripe suit with a black bow-tie with big white daisies on it. At the prosecution table sat Edward Vance, Assistant District Attorney: beside him was a very striking woman in her mid-thirties, a redhead in a dark two-piece suit; she was Sheila Devereaux, an Assistant District Attorney, known around the Miami legal fraternity as probably one of the best criminal-law minds in town and certainly one of the best lays.

  In the foyer outside the courtroom several hundred people were awaiting their chance to get in to watch one of America’s great trials. The courtroom was abuzz as Luke Mahoney entered. He made his way to the gate behind the bar. Behind the defence table were two chairs. Luke dropped his hand on Charlie’s shoulder and sat in one of the chairs. Charlie turned, with a smile. It was a wide, charming smile, white dentures gleaming in his weathered old face.

  ‘Good morning, Luke, what’s the crowd like outside?’

  ‘Hundreds. Had to work hard to get through them.’

  ‘Probably the most notorious case this neck of the woods has seen in several decades,’ old Charlie said happily. ‘Josephine was a popular figure.’

  Luke thought, I wish you wouldn’t look so pleased about it. ‘Are these TV crews all local?’

  ‘Local, national, CNN, the works,’ Charlie said cheerfully. ‘Worldwide audience, O.J. Simpson level.’

  Luke looked around the courtroom. He was not impressed. It totally lacked grandeur. Where were the oak-panelled walls of most British and colonial courtrooms? The bench, where the judge would sit, was not high enough, and his chair was not wooden or carved, but vinyl. The bench itself, the clerk’s desk, the witness stand, all appeared to be made of varnished plywood. The wall immediately behind the bench had no coat of arms: the two end-sections had transparent plastic panels of different colours electrically illuminated from behind creating an incongruous art-deco effect. Maybe, Luke thought, the architect hoped to create a sepulchral or cathedral effect. Anyway, it didn’t work.

  Just then a door opened and the buzz of voices subsided as Jack Harker entered, escorted by two burly policemen. He was dressed in a grey pinstripe suit and a regimental tie. He walked grimly across the courtroom to the defence table, his face gaunt. Luke heard a woman behind him whisper to her companion, ‘Good-lookin’ brute, isn’t he?’

  Harker sat down next to Charlie at the defence table, the television cameras following him all the way. Luke leant forward and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good luck.’

  Harker took a trembling breath. ‘Thanks.’

  Then there was a rap on the door and one of the police orderlies shouted, ‘All rise!’

  Everybody shuffled to their feet, and His Honour Judge Walter Ludman entered the courtroom. He stalked to his vinyl chair on the plywood bench beneath the art-deco plastic panels. He was a grey-haired, square-faced, bad-tempered-looking little man with hooded eyes. He wore a black judicial gown and a floral bow-tie. He stopped at his chair, glared around his courtroom, picked up his gavel, rapped it and sat down.

  ‘Okay,’ Judge Ludman said grimly, ‘let’s go.’

  Luke wondered whether he had heard right.

  Everybody sat. The fat clerk remained on his feet and intoned: ‘In the circuit court of Florida, His Honour Judge Walter Ludman presiding. The People of the State of Florida versus Sinclair Jonathan Harker charged with the crime of murder in the first degree.’

  Judge Ludman glowered: ‘Okay, bring the jurors in.’

  They were as mixed a bag as ever Luke Mahoney had
seen, a couple of dozen people of all shapes, sizes, ages, races and genders. Only one, a middle-aged bespectacled gentleman, wore a suit; all the other men wore open-neck shirts or T-shirts, jeans, running shoes or loafers. Several badly needed a shave, two had lavish pony-tails, one was a Rastafarian with long black tresses. The women were reasonably dressed except for one with no brassiere and a T-shirt proclaiming Life’s a Beach. In Hong Kong and Rhodesia, where Luke was accustomed to practising law, the judge would have sent them out with a flea in the ear ‘to dress’. Judge Ludman looked at them with a jaundiced eye, but then his eye was always jaundiced.

  ‘Good mornin’,’ he growled.

  Luke stared, as did the jurors, who shuffled more uncertainly and murmured a ragged something.

  The judge continued, ‘But twelve of you ain’t going to have a good day for some time, folks. Because twelve of you unfortunates are finally going to be selected for the jury, and you can betcha it’s going to give you a sick headache. However, that’s your problem – me, I’m just the referee in this black gown who’s going to see fair play. These gennelmen,’ he waved his hand dismissively at the prosecution and defence tables, ‘are the protagonists who’re going to tire you out; me, I’m here to answer any legal questions you have. You, and only you – not me, not those lawyers sitting over there – you are the judges and whatever you decide is entirely your business.’ He gave a toothy grimace, meant to pass as a smile, then continued: ‘You are not as good as your dentist when it comes to teeth, as your doctor when it comes to medicine, as your optometrist when it comes to your eyesight, as your motor mechanic when it comes to your car, as your plumber when it comes to your lavatory, and you probably wouldn’t know if your backsides were on fire when it comes to filling in a form as simple as your income-tax return – but for some extraordinary reason which has escaped me for over forty years of courtroom experience you are deemed as good as me when it comes to deciding matters of life and death.’ Judge Ludman paused, looking at his jury unpleasantly. ‘And to make confusion even more confounded, I, a full-blown judge, am not allowed to address you at the end of this trial, to sum up and thereby try to help justice to be done by you. Counsel –’ he waved a disparaging hand at the prosecution and defence tables – ‘will stuff your heads with their histrionic view of the facts but not I. You will retire to that uncomfortable little jury room, to decide life or death, without the benefit of my wisdom.’ His finger shot up. ‘Elsewhere, where British law prevails, the judge gives a summing up to the jury after the counsel, thus giving a more sober interpretation than their inflated oratory.’ He looked at the counsel malevolently. ‘But not in America. For some reason, I, the wisest person in this courtroom, am not allowed to give you any advice about the case beyond an explanation of the law involved.’ He glared at them. ‘Can you imagine a judicial system more wacky than that?’