‘No, he did not. And it was not I who ended his life.’
Bracton stood silent and very still. The pause lasted so long that Graham and the jury turned their heads from Jonathan towards Bracton. Finally Bracton said, almost wearily, ‘Sir Jonathan, you are a very experienced lawyer. For many years you have either taken part in or presided over criminal trials. Some of those trials’ – Bracton looked about him – ‘in this very place. You, better than most, know criminal practice and police procedure. So will you please explain to the court why you never told all this to the police when they first came to question you?’
‘Do you mean why did I not tell the story of my life to Detective-Inspector Johnson?’
‘Yes. Why didn’t you tell him what you have told us today?’
‘I told him what was important. I told him that David Trelawney had killed himself.’
‘He has sworn that you did not.’
Jonathan smiled faintly and shook his head. Then he said, ‘He would, wouldn’t he? Isn’t that what they say?’ Then, smiling no more and with a sudden burst of energy, he leaned forward over the edge of the witness-box. ‘Detective-Inspector Johnson lied when he denied that I had told him David Trelawney had killed himself. I told him plainly that Trelawney had committed suicide. I did not tell him more, since I saw no reason why I should. By the time he came on the second occasion, the press campaign, the hinting, the suggesting, had started. And it had been started by him, the police officer who so bitterly resented what I had done in the trial of Stringer for the murder of his friend. He and that man’ – and Jonathan pointed directly at Bramley seated below the jury in the press box – ‘the reporter from the Globe, whose editor I had once fined and threatened with prison, launched a campaign suggesting that people in high legal circles were protecting some high legal figure from prosecution. They kept printing my name, saying I was the last person to have seen Trelawney alive. They put pressure on the DPP, saying he’d been my pupil and was my friend. Scandal of Establishment. Protection of the privileged. That’s what they were suggesting.’
There were now two circles of red high upon Jonathan’s cheeks, contrasting vividly with the parchment colour of his skin. ‘Johnson,’ he went on, ‘found he was investigating the judge who had allowed the man he believed was the murderer of his friend to go free. It was Johnson who set the Globe on to me, and they were only too happy to oblige. Johnson made up his mind that Trelawney had been murdered, and by me. He was determined to bring me to trial, to disgrace me. Whatever I might have said to Johnson, it would have made no difference to him. He would have lied and denied I had said it, just as he lied in this court about what I told him.’
‘If you thought that about Detective-Inspector Johnson,’ Bracton interrupted, ‘why didn’t you speak to his superior officer?’
‘To the superintendent who arranged for me to come to the station to be charged and whom Johnson defied when he arrested me shortly after dawn, after carefully arranging for the TV cameras to be present! Speak to that superior officer whom Johnson treated with such contempt? What would have been the point? When I was a judge I had differed with the Chief Constable, who complained about my attitude to sentencing. No, the police would not listen to me. I knew I could not defeat the combination of the police and the press. I knew there was only one way to bring this to an end, however painful it must be for me, and that was through the right of every Englishman of whatever station in life to have a public, open trial in front of a jury of twelve decent, fair-minded men and women who wouldn’t be taken in by a corrupt, obsessed policeman, nor by a corrupt, sensation-mongering newspaper. I knew that only in front of a jury of my fellow countryman and women would the truth come out. So I prepared myself to stand trial and I was confident that, before an English jury, the conduct of the police, or rather the conduct of one policeman, Detective-Inspector Johnson, and the conduct of one newspaper, the Globe, would be exposed – and my name cleared by the only people I respect, in whose fairness and justice I could rely, my countrymen and countrywomen, a jury of Englishmen and Englishwomen.’
Jonathan stopped. He was breathing heavily, his eyes were flashing as he bent over the edge of the witness-box staring at Bracton. There was complete silence in the court. Suddenly, abruptly, Bracton sat down.
Immediately, heads began to turn in the jury-box; one juror in the back row bent forward to talk to the juror in front of him; soon all were turning to talk to one another. Graham struck the desk with his gavel. ‘Please,’ he said to the jury, ‘silence, please.’ He said to Bracton, ‘Is that all you wish to ask the witness?’
Bracton rose. He half-turned and faced the jury, who were now talking even more loudly among themselves. They hushed when he began. ‘Yes, my lord. I have nothing more to ask the witness. I have no more challenge to make to this evidence.’ As he said this the jury looked at each other. The man in the blazer cried, ‘Quite right.’ ‘We’ve heard enough,’ said another. Bracton turned to look at Jonathan in the witness-box, then at the judge. ‘I have considered the evidence which has been given,’ he said, speaking very gravely, ‘and, as counsel in charge of the prosecution, I have heard enough.’
‘So have we,’ muttered voices from among the jury. Graham struck the desk with his gavel. It was getting out of hand. I mustn’t lose control, he thought. ‘Please be quiet. I am speaking to counsel.’ He tried to make himself sound severe but his voice was shaking. ‘What do you mean, you’ve heard enough?’ he asked Bracton.
‘In view of the evidence of the nurse and the evidence of the telephone call recorded on the tape, the conduct of the police officer, helped by a section of the press, and now having heard the explanation the accused has given on oath, I have no more questions to ask him and’ – he had half-turned again to the jury – ‘not only have I no more questions but I have decided’ – he was speaking very loudly and his voice rang out over the court – ‘I have decided, as counsel in charge of this prosecution, that I shall now not address the jury asking them to convict the accused.’
‘Well done,’ said the juryman in the blue blazer. ‘Quite right,’ said another. Others nodded vigorously. Graves, seated beside the standing Bracton, had his head in both hands. At the back of the court, unseen by her husband, Joan put her hand to her throat. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered to herself. ‘What is he doing? He’s destroying himself.’ Then she thought, He’s doing what he thinks is right, and he’s brave. And I love him.’
‘I’m not sure I understand you, Mr Bracton,’ Graham said. ‘Are you saying you are not proceeding with the prosecution?’
‘I am, my lord.’
‘But should you not’ – he corrected himself – ‘do you not wish to take instructions from the Director of Public Prosecutions?’
‘No, my lord. I am in charge of this prosecution, the evidence for the Crown is complete and, having heard the accused on oath, I have decided I shall not address the jury and invite them to convict.’
He sat down. There was a moment of silence. It was broken by the voices of the spectators, like the sound of a wave breaking on the shore. Some of the jury gesticulated to the man in the blazer, encouraging him to speak. Graham struck the desk in front of him with his gavel, once, twice, then a third time. The usher called for silence, but the jurors ignored him. ‘Silence!’ the usher cried again. ‘Silence!’ But no one obeyed him. Bracton was sitting very still, looking straight ahead. Graves put his hand on Bracton’s arm and pressed it gently. Colonel Basildon was leaning forward on the edge of his chair. In the press bench Bramley was staring up at the judge, aghast; Virginia stared at Jonathan, who stood, breathing heavily, his eyes on the wall above the judge’s seat, looking up again at the painted wheel of the Round Table. Mordred, he thought, who was Mordred? What was Mordred’s role in Camelot?
‘Please, members of the jury,’ Graham began, ‘I must ask you to—’ But the man in the blue blazer with the brass buttons got to his feet and interrupted him.
‘My lord,
’ he said in a loud voice, ‘we agree with prosecuting counsel. We’ve heard enough. We don’t want to hear any more. We want to stop the case. Now.’
The problem over the children flashed into Graham’s mind. If the case was over, it was resolved. He could fetch them himself and take them home. He forced himself to concentrate on what was happening in court. What ought I to do, he thought? What is the right thing to do?
‘Mr Bracton,’ he said at last. Bracton got to his feet. ‘Did I understand you to say that you were no longer going to ask the jury to convict?’
‘I did, my lord.’
‘Before the case for the defence is completed?’
‘Yes.’
‘I must ask you again, do you not want, is it not your duty, to take instructions?’
‘No, my lord, I do not need to take any instructions from anybody. I have the sole responsibility for the handling of this prosecution and’ – he turned again to the jury – ‘I have the impression that the jury also have heard enough.’
The jury chorused in agreement. Bracton turned back to face the judge. ‘So I have decided that I shall not now ask the jury to convict.’
An experienced judge, Jonathan was thinking, would now adjourn to let them cool down. He should tell them to be patient and insist they hear his summing-up. That’s what he’d have done.
‘Is that your final decision, Mr Bracton?’
‘It is,’ Bracton replied. He stood looking up at the judge on the bench. Then he shrugged, his arms spread, his palms turned outward. ‘The jury, my lord,’ he said. ‘The jury. They have decided.’
There’s nothing I can do, thought Graham. I can’t stop them now. ‘Mr Foreman,’ he said, addressing the juryman in the blazer, ‘are you telling me that the jury, all the jury, want the trial stopped because you’ve heard enough?’
‘I am. That is what we want. That is our right,’ the man replied, ‘as the jury.’ He looked around at the others, who nodded. ‘You see, my lord, we’re all agreed,’ he added.
‘The evidence is not yet over,’ said Graham.
‘The evidence for the prosecution is,’ said the juryman, ‘and we’ve heard enough from the defence. We say the defendant is Not Guilty.’
Graham stared at the jury, looking at every one of them in turn. He could not make them go on if they were determined. Then he said, ‘Are you all, every one of you, agreed?’
The foreman turned to face the rest of the jury. Several called out, ‘We are all agreed.’ The foreman looked again along the two rows of the jury. One after the other they nodded. He turned back to Graham. ‘We’re all agreed that the accused is Not Guilty, my lord,’ he said, ‘and we think, or some of us think, there ought to be an enquiry.’
‘Hear, hear,’ came from behind him. The foreman went on, ‘We don’t think this prosecution ought ever to have been brought, and those responsible ought to be investigated. There should be an official enquiry. It’s been a disgrace, an utter disgrace.’
The court again fell silent. Graham still hesitated and Bracton, seeing his indecision, said: ‘Having regard to what the jury foreman has just said, with it seems the concurrence of every member of the jury, I submit, my lord, that you should now take their verdict.’
Graham stared at him. The court had become very quiet. ‘You wish the trial stopped and the prisoner found Not Guilty?’ Graham asked. ‘Is that the verdict of you all?’
‘It is,’ said the foreman. Graham tried for the last time. ‘Are you all certain that you are agreed?’
‘We are,’ the jury chorused.
Virginia was watching Jonathan. For a second she saw the faintest impression of a smile on his lips. Then it had gone.
‘Very well,’ Graham said at last. ‘If that is the verdict of you all.’
‘Since the accused is unrepresented,’ Bracton said, ‘I ask that a verdict of Not Guilty be recorded and the accused be discharged.’
‘Very well,’ Graham repeated. ‘Let the accused be discharged and a verdict of Not Guilty recorded.’
The court erupted. ‘Silence,’ shouted the usher, but no one took any notice. Amid the noise, and unnoticed, the judge rose and, without bowing to the jury or to counsel, turned and hurried from the court.
18
THE Legal Secretary hurried into the Attorney’s General’s room in Buckingham Gate in London. ‘We’ve the result of the Playfair trial, Attorney.’
‘Already?’ The Attorney, surprised, looked up from the file he was reading. ‘I thought Playfair was still giving evidence?’
‘Apparently it ended very suddenly.’
The Attorney glared at him. ‘How?’
‘In an acquittal.’
‘By the direction of the judge?’
‘No, it was the jury. They intervened. They said they’d heard enough. The Director—’
‘Put him through to me.’
Trent had telephoned from the court, so James Tyson was well briefed. ‘At the end of his cross-examination of Playfair,’ he told the Attorney, ‘Bracton apparently announced that, having heard Playfair’s evidence, he no longer intended to ask the jury to convict. When the jury heard this they stopped the case.’
‘But I made it clear to Bracton last evening that we wanted the trial to run its full course and have a jury verdict.’
‘There was a verdict by the jury, Attorney.’
‘Yes, but, from what you’re saying, only after the prosecution had thrown in its hand.’
‘Well, that’s what Bracton did.’
For a moment the Attorney General was silent. Then he said, ‘Make a note, James, that the Crown will never again brief Richard Bracton in any prosecution anywhere. Remove him from your list of prosecuting counsel.’
‘As you wish, but I don’t imagine that’ll concern him greatly. I’m told he’s going to fill the vacancy there on the circuit bench.’
‘Is he now? We’ll see about that. I’ll have a word with the Lord Chancellor. I don’t think we’ll see Mr Bracton on the circuit bench – now, or ever.’
‘The jury also had something to say about the prosecution. Playfair apparently suggested he’d been framed by the police, helped by the Crown Prosecution Service and prompted by the press, especially the Globe, to whom the police officer in charge of the case had been feeding information. He was the officer who arrested Playfair shortly before dawn in the presence of the TV cameras. The jury wanted an enquiry.’
The Attorney General remained silent. He was thinking hard. The dawn arrest; Playfair’s claim he’d been framed; counsel for the Crown abandoning the prosecution; the jury’s demand for an enquiry. Parliamentary questions, perhaps an adjournment debate.
‘There’ll be no enquiry,’ he said flatly. ‘Fortunately, in this instance an enquiry would not suit those who are usually the first to clamour for one, the media. So I fancy we won’t have much trouble. It’s a case of battening down the hatches, eh James?’
And batten down the hatches they did.
* * *
It’s over, Graham thought as he disrobed in the hall in the Lodgings. But had he done what he should? He had got flustered. He knew that, and it had probably shown. But had he given in too soon? Should he have insisted the jury wait until he had summed-up? Had he been influenced by his own problems?
Priestly, folding away the robes, sensed his disquiet. ‘You couldn’t’ve done anything else, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘They’d made up their minds, even before hearing Mr Bracton. Sir Jonathan had got them. He’d got every one of them.’
Especially Bracton, Graham thought as they walked from the hall into the drawing-room.
‘Isn’t it unusual for a prosecutor,’ he asked, ‘to announce at the end of his cross-examination that he was not now going to ask the jury to convict?’
‘Very. It takes guts for a prosecuting counsel to shoulder that responsibility.’
‘Do you think he was right?’
‘It was a very special trial, sir, so I’m not sure he was. I think
he’d have done better to have let the trial run on. The DPP won’t be pleased.’
Priestly opened the drawing-room door. ‘If I may say so,’ he said, ‘I’d have a word with the Chief.’
Graham looked at his watch. First, he’d call the school, but before he could the High Sheriff entered the drawing-room. Colonel Basildon stood aside as Priestly left, then he said awkwardly, ‘I know it’s none of our business, judge, but my wife and I felt you may be having some difficulties over the children and their half-term.’ He stopped.
‘Yes,’ said Graham tersely.
‘Well, if it would help at all, we’d be very happy to have you all come and stay with us. We’ve plenty of room, and it’d be no trouble to put the three of you up. Susan would drive over and get them, and you’d all be very welcome.’
‘You’re very kind,’ Graham said, ‘and you’re right, we are having some family problems, but now the case has ended I can fetch the children myself and take them home. But thank you very much for the offer. I greatly appreciate it. Please thank your wife for me.’
‘Right,’ said the colonel briskly, ‘right.’ He looked relieved, his duty done.
‘The case, judge,’ he said. ‘Did you expect it to end like that?’
‘No, I can’t say that I did.’
‘Was it – how shall I put it? – was it quite orthodox what happened?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Well, I can only say, as an onlooker, that after we’d heard Playfair I thought the prosecutor fellow was right to say what he did.’
‘Yes,’ Graham replied. ‘After we’d heard Playfair.’
‘Anyhow, I’m damn glad it went that way. But are you finished down here now?’
‘Yes, I was only sent down to do this one case.’
‘Then I may not see you again. I won’t be back in the morning and I must be getting home now.’
Graham walked him to the door and out into the hall. ‘Thank you for looking after me,’ he said, putting out his hand, ‘and thank you again for your offer to put us up. If the case hadn’t ended as it did, it would have been a godsend.’
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