A Thousand Cuts

by Thomas Mogford

  Spike reached for his Dictaphone with a grin.

  6

  As was his custom before a difficult case, Spike arrived promptly, and was relieved to find the street outside the New Law Courts empty of the usual rabble of harassed briefs and anxious petty criminals. Savouring his last few moments of solitude, he leant back against the side wall of the courthouse and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the flutterings in his stomach. However many years he practised, however many cases he notched up, the first day of trial never got any easier.

  ‘Topping up your tan, Sanguinetti?’

  Instantly recognising his oldest friend’s sardonic drawl, Spike opened his eyes to see Drew Stanford-Trench striding towards him. Drew’s English accent had grown more clipped since he’d hit his thirties, Spike realised. Like most of Gibraltar’s elite, Drew had been sent to public school in the UK. On his return to the Rock, he’d elected to tone down his accent to fit in with his colleagues, modifying his vowels towards that soft Latino lilt – neither Spanish nor Italian, but somewhere in between. But as the years had passed, and Drew’s practice had prospered, he’d reverted to type.

  They shook hands, and Drew leant back against the wall next to Spike. ‘Thought I’d be locking horns with Garcia.’ An arch sideways glance: ‘Pity. I was looking forward to a relaxing few days.’

  ‘You obviously haven’t seen Danny in action for a while,’ Spike retorted. ‘He’s a very able advocate.’

  Safe in the knowledge that Danny Garcia was unlikely to be rivalling him in the ‘Rising Stars’ section of the Legal 500 in the near future, Drew made no effort to conceal his scepticism. He was looking a little jowlier these days, Spike was pleased to note, though his patrician, blond good looks still ensured he was rarely short of female company.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you slumming it in the Mags,’ Spike said. And he meant it: Drew had taken silk in the last round of appointments and was proving adept at focusing his talents on a more lucrative class of client. ‘I thought you’d have passed this one on to a junior.’

  ‘Oh, you know me,’ Drew replied, toying nonchalantly with a cufflink. ‘I like to keep my hand in.’ He caught sight of Spike’s black eye and inclined his head.

  ‘Slight misunderstanding with my client.’

  ‘And he’s pleading not guilty?’ Drew pursed his lips in amusement, each one surrounded by a line of freckles, an indelible reminder that the pale settled on the Rock at their own peril.

  ‘Innocent until proven guilty,’ Spike sing-songed.

  ‘You still buy that crap? Well, there’s always one, I suppose.’ Drew’s ringtone erupted in his pocket, and Spike recognised Gibraltar’s national anthem, ‘Gibraltar, Gibraltar, the Rock on which I stand . . .’

  Sliding out his smartphone like a sheriff, Drew squinted at the screen. ‘When this is over, we should catch up. My old man would love to see you.’ He was already at the courthouse door when he glanced over one shoulder, phone pressed to his ear. ‘You got engaged, right?’

  Spike nodded, and Drew tossed back his head in silent laughter and disappeared inside. Turning back to the sun, Spike allowed himself one last moment to clear his mind. Then he ran a hand through his thick dark hair and followed his opponent into the courthouse.

  7

  Eloquent preamble delivered, Drew Stanford-Trench turned to the bench. ‘The Crown calls Dr Eloise Capurro.’

  The courtroom watched in silence as an elegant woman in her sixties made her way to the stand. In her long black dress and muted Hermès scarf, she was perfectly attired for the role she was about to play. Had she been wearing widow’s weeds and a veil, she could hardly have looked more appropriate.

  Drew lunged forward to help his key witness up to the witness box. Pre-rehearsed, Spike suspected, as the woman looked sturdy enough on her feet.

  ‘When you’re quite ready, Mr Stanford-Trench,’ the stipendiary magistrate barked, sharp-eyed as ever. Alan Cassar was a notoriously irascible QC; a practising Methodist, he liked to commit to a few months’ magistracy a year to atone for the piles of cash he made advising hedge funds the rest of the time. It was one of the fringe benefits of Gibraltar’s fused legal profession, in which both solicitor and barrister work were available – money could flow from one, conscience be salved by the other.

  ‘Dr Capurro,’ Drew began. ‘Can you tell the court when you first met the accused?’ He gestured towards the dock, where Massetti was staring into nowhere as a fat young prison officer stood guard behind him.

  Eloise gazed at her counsel, small sharp chin raised in determination. She’d not looked at Massetti at all, Spike noted. The tension was clear in the way she held her neck. ‘Three months ago,’ she replied, her accent a neutral English, a hint of the Estuary in the vowels perhaps, long suppressed.

  ‘On the ninth of May this year?’ Drew read, then glanced up for her confirmation.

  Eloise nodded. ‘Five days before my husband died.’

  ‘And under what circumstances did you meet Mr Massetti?’

  ‘I was sitting with John at the hospital . . .’

  ‘John Capurro?’ Drew was guiding her. ‘Your late husband?’

  ‘Yes.’ Eloise swallowed. ‘It was about seven p.m. A nurse came in and said John had a visitor.’

  ‘Christopher Massetti? The man in the dock?’

  As one, the court turned to look at Massetti, and Spike saw his client as they must. Large, sweaty man in a cheap suit, striped shirt straining around his gut. Guilty.

  As Eloise forced herself to follow their gaze, Spike saw an ugly red flush rise on her cheeks beneath the thick layer of face powder. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s him.’ She turned back to Drew, drinking in the encouragement from his reassuring brown eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Capurro. And then what happened?’

  ‘I told the nurse that I’d never heard of the man. But John said it would be all right.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘Well, in he came.’ Her voice sharpened, and Spike found himself wondering if that was how she’d used to address her late husband. He knew a bit about her from the witness statements – how she’d spent most of her career at a family practice in Kent, until she’d met John Capurro in her fifties, on holiday in Spain. They’d returned to Gib together, where she’d worked as a locum at a surgery on Rosia Road. Serving that type of community, she’d have to be tougher than she looked.

  ‘John asked me to step outside,’ Eloise continued. ‘He said he wanted to speak to Mr Massetti alone.’ She cleared her throat, and Drew indicated to the clerk, who approached with a glass of water.

  ‘Were you surprised when John asked you to leave?’ Drew asked.

  ‘I was unaware John even knew the man. I couldn’t imagine what they had in common. But John was reasonably bright that day, so I did as I was asked. I only left them for a moment to get a cup of coffee.’

  Spike watched the care with which she set down her glass.

  ‘When I came back, I heard raised voices.’

  ‘Where were the hospital staff?’ Drew asked.

  ‘Summer hours, probably,’ Eloise muttered, referring to the fact that between June and September, office hours on the Rock ran from eight a.m. until two-thirty p.m. ‘Not something I bother with myself,’ she added. Her accent suddenly sounded more English than ever, and she made no effort to temper the disdain in it. Even Cassar, from the Olympus of his bench, looked slightly uncomfortable.

  ‘So you went in.’ Drew was beside the witness box now, one hand on the wooden rail, the better to offer his fullest support. ‘And what happened next?’

  ‘Mr Massetti’ – she hissed the double ‘s’ – ‘had his hands around John’s neck. He was shaking him.’

  Drew turned to the court and raised his blond eyebrows. ‘Violently?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eloise said. ‘Shaking him and shouting.’ Her voice caught, and Drew allowed her a moment to collect herself, face expertly composed into an expression of indignation and concern.
Then his eyes found Spike’s, and he gave the flicker of a grin.

  Drew swung back round to face his witness. ‘And what did you do then, Dr Capurro, when you found the accused throttling your terminally ill husband?’

  ‘Your Worship,’ Spike interjected, ‘my learned friend is testifying on behalf of the witness.’

  Cassar weighed this, then gestured for Eloise to continue.

  ‘I screamed at him to stop. But he didn’t even seem to realise I was there. So I pulled the emergency cord.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I tried to drag him off. But he pushed me away.’

  ‘Did you feel in danger, Dr Capurro?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

  Drew opened his mouth for his next question, but Eloise interrupted him. ‘Then Anthony arrived, thank God . . .’

  Drew cocked his head, and Eloise glanced up at Cassar, as though fearing she’d made a misstep. Spike rifled through the witness list – there was no mention of any ‘Anthony’.

  ‘Anthony?’ Drew echoed.

  ‘Sir Anthony Stanford,’ Eloise said. ‘Your father,’ she added for the benefit of those too slow to make the connection.

  Seeing the look of shock on Drew’s face, Spike resisted the temptation to laugh.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ Cassar called over from the bench.

  ‘Certainly not, Your Worship,’ Drew replied.

  The magistrate swivelled his eyes to Spike, who shrugged his shoulders with a smirk that suggested it was news to him, but that he was rather enjoying his opponent’s discomfort. Cassar glared back, and Spike straightened his face.

  ‘Then for your sake, Mr Stanford-Trench, let’s hope that Sir Anthony is peripheral to the evidence,’ Cassar said. ‘Because I’ll not have a case of mine overturned on the basis of a conflict that should have been obvious to Crown Counsel from the outset.’ The magistrate waved a hand as though swatting away a couple of irritating wasps. ‘We’ll review the matter in my chambers at close of session.’

  As Spike sat back down, he saw an unmarked white envelope lying on his seat. He looked over his shoulder, but whoever had delivered it had gone.

  ‘Please continue, Dr Capurro,’ Drew said.

  Eloise paused to regain her thread, and Spike tore open the envelope and examined the papers inside. It took him a moment to realise their value, then he grabbed a highlighter pen and started marking them up.

  ‘Ah, perhaps you could tell us what happened after Sir Anthony arrived, Dr Capurro,’ Drew urged, throwing a searching glance in Spike’s direction, trying to work out what he was doing.

  ‘A male nurse came in,’ Eloise said. ‘Between the two of them, they managed to get Mr Massetti out of the room. But by then, of course, John’s BP was through the roof.’

  ‘BP?’

  Eloise gave a stiff smile. ‘My husband’s blood pressure, Mr Stanford-Trench. When the doctor finally arrived, I advised her to sedate him.’

  ‘And where was Mr Massetti at this point?’

  ‘I believe he was being escorted from the hospital by security.’

  ‘Did your husband recover, Dr Capurro?’

  ‘John had Grade Three pancreatic cancer, Mr Stanford-Trench.’ Eloise narrowed her gaze. ‘There’s no recovering from that.’

  Drew bit his lip. ‘Apologies, Dr Capurro. I meant did your husband regain consciousness after Mr Massetti’s assault?’

  Spike got to his feet, highlighter in hand. ‘Your Worship, Mr Massetti has not been charged with assault.’

  ‘Quite right. Rephrase, Counsel.’

  ‘After your husband’s altercation with the defendant,’ Drew corrected.

  ‘No. John deteriorated rapidly after that. He died the following Wednesday.’

  ‘A more rapid deterioration than might have been the case without the defendant’s involvement?’

  ‘Your Worship,’ Spike called out, ‘Dr Capurro is not an expert witness.’

  ‘The complainant is a doctor of some forty years’ standing,’ Drew retorted.

  But Cassar didn’t seem in the least concerned by the point of law. ‘Let’s move on, Mr Stanford-Trench.’

  There was a steel in Drew’s eyes now. ‘When did you see Mr Massetti next, Dr Capurro?’

  ‘The day my husband died.’ Eloise gave a strange smile, as though she still couldn’t quite believe it. ‘Mr Massetti came to the house. When I saw who it was, I didn’t want to let him in, but he put his foot in the door.’

  ‘You must have been frightened.’

  ‘I was. If my nephew hadn’t arrived when he did, I don’t know what might have happened.’

  ‘But even then Mr Massetti didn’t leave you alone, did he?’

  ‘No. He stood out on the street all night.’ Eloise’s voice fell, her eyes focusing on her hands. ‘I could see him from my bedroom window.’

  ‘Take your time, Dr Capurro.’ Drew was back at her side. ‘I know this must be painful for you.’

  ‘Every night thereafter, I would see Mr Massetti outside our house on Governor’s Street. My nephew insisted that we install a CCTV camera, but it was unreliable. So I kept a diary.’

  Drew waited for Cassar to shuffle through the prosecution bundle until he found his copy. ‘And when did you see the defendant last?’

  ‘At my husband’s funeral,’ Eloise said.

  A hush fell across the courtroom, and Spike could sense the audience settling into their seats as though for a bedtime story. Each case had its moments of tedium and of titillation, he knew, and the public gallery had remarkable antennae for which was which.

  ‘The service was at the Cathedral of St Mary the Crowned,’ Eloise began. ‘John had spent a great deal of time selecting the music, choosing his favourite readings. He wanted it to be a quiet ceremony, a time to reflect.’ Eloise’s smile fell. ‘As we got out of the car, I saw Mr Massetti standing outside the church.’ Everyone turned again to look at the dishevelled man in the dock. ‘The last reading was from Luke, Chapter Six – “But I say unto you which hear, love your enemies, do good to them which hate you.”’ Eloise looked up at Cassar, who nodded his approval. ‘It seemed . . .’ She swallowed. ‘It seemed as though John was asking me to give Mr Massetti the benefit of the doubt. I thought maybe John’s death had disturbed him in a way I didn’t understand. Silly, really.’ She took a sip of water and recomposed herself. ‘John’s casket was lying beneath the altar. We’d covered it in madonna lilies. But when we started singing the last hymn, “As the Green Blade Riseth”, Massetti got to his feet and walked up the aisle. As soon he reached the coffin, he started pulling off the flowers, shouting like a madman. Then he stamped on them.’

  Hearing the collective intake of breath from the courtroom, Spike fought an urge to roll his eyes. Desecrating the dead’s floral arrangements appeared to be a more shocking crime than terrorising the living.

  ‘And what happened then, Dr Capurro?’ Drew said, steepled fingertips nestling in the neat cleft of his chin.

  ‘Anthony called the police.’

  Another reference to Sir Anthony: now even Cassar began to look perturbed. For a moment Spike thought he was going to adjourn, but then he changed his mind and waved Drew on.

  ‘And when the police arrived?’ Drew asked.

  ‘One of them tried to take Mr Massetti by the arm, but he lashed out.’

  Spike’s hand climbed unthinkingly to his eyebrow.

  ‘The defendant struck a police officer?’ Drew said, turning again to the court, face aghast with righteous disbelief. ‘At your husband’s funeral?’

  Spike let out a snort: Drew never could resist the chaser.

  ‘Yes.’ Eloise dared another glance at Massetti, contempt mixing now with something like triumph.

  ‘Assault charges against Mr Massetti were dropped,’ the magistrate explained to the court, ‘when it became apparent that Dr Capurro had chosen to pursue a harassment charge.’

  Drew waited for complete silence before continuing. ‘You must have been ve
ry frightened, Dr Capurro. Do you consider the accused to be a violent man?’

  Spike was already on his feet. ‘Your Worship, this is inadmissible evidence!’

  Cassar glared back with an intensity that made Spike wonder if his stomach was starting to rumble.

  ‘The question of whether or not Mr Massetti is violent amounts to bad character evidence,’ Spike went on. ‘An application is required for that, and the Crown has made none.’

  Cassar gave a grunt. ‘Rephrase, Mr Stanford-Trench.’

  Drew sighed. ‘Dr Capurro. Did you fear for your physical safety in the presence of the defendant?’

  Finally, the tears found a path down Eloise’s powdery cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she replied with a strangled sob, and the courtroom inhaled en masse in satisfaction.

  ‘No further questions.’ Drew’s eyes met Spike’s, glittering like those of a poker player who’d just presented his opponent with a royal flush.

  ‘Would you like me to call a recess?’ Cassar asked gently. But Eloise just pursed her thin lips and shook her head, stubborn as a little girl.

  ‘Very well. Mr Sanguinetti, your witness.’

  8

  Eloise Capurro stared back at Spike from the witness box with wary but determined eyes. Given the ordeal of her testimony, it seemed brutal to subject her to further questioning. But then Spike thought of what Peter Galliano liked to say when scruples began to gnaw at his conscience – ‘Why don’t we just let the Law take care of itself, eh, Sanguinetti?’ Best get started then. ‘Dr Capurro,’ Spike said. ‘You told the court that you first met Christopher Massetti on the night of the ninth of May. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that’s a lie, Dr Capurro. Isn’t it?’

  Eloise jerked up her chin in shock. Drew was already on his feet, ‘Your Worship!’

  Cassar motioned for him to sit back down. ‘Let’s find out what we’re objecting to, shall we, Mr Stanford-Trench?’

  ‘You have in fact met Mr Massetti on several occasions over the past three years, haven’t you, Dr Capurro?’ Spike said, keeping his voice curt and authoritative. ‘Most recently on the 1st of November of last year.’