“Love some.”
“You know where everything is. Would you mind warming this up for me in the microwave too?”
He handed her the untouched cup of coffee from the previous night.
“I need a shower and a change of clothes, I haven’t changed since Tenerife.”
FORTY THREE
VERDICT
Wednesday 20 July 2005
“Mrs Mae Lin,” the defence counsel began, “you said that your employer, Mr Passman verbally abused you at work?”
“All the time,” Mae Lin replied.
“And on the day in question, you claim that he grabbed you by the arm. What did you think when he did this?”
“I was terrified; I thought he was going to hurt me.”
“And so you merely acted in self defence?”
“I had to get him off me; I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Thank you Mrs Mae Lin,” he said.
He addressed the jury.
“I think it is clear,” he began, “that my client is in fact a victim, not a perpetrator of a crime. She merely acted in a way any one of us would have under the same circumstances. What we have here is a tragic accident, nothing more. I have nothing further your honour.”
Judge Briggs consulted his watch.
“Prosecution,” he said, “do you have anything further to add?”
The tall thin prosecutor stood up.
“I’d like to call one more witness if I may your honour,” he said.
“Is it relevant?” Judge Briggs asked.
“Extremely your honour. I took the liberty of having a very well respected psychologist interview Mrs Mae Lin and he came to some very interesting conclusions.”
“Very well,” Judge Briggs conceded, “then I’ll allow it, but please make it short; it’s my wife’s birthday and I told her I’d take her somewhere nice.”
“Thank you your honour,” the prosecution said, “I’d like to call Martin Willow, Professor of Psychology at York University.”
“Objection,” the defence counsel shouted, “your honour, how is this relevant?”
“Mrs Mae Lin’s state of mind is highly relevant,” the prosecutor argued.
“I’ve already said I’ll allow it,” Judge Briggs was becoming impatient.
“I would like to call Martin Willow to the stand,” the prosecutor repeated.
Martin Willow walked up to the witness stand.
“Professor Willow,” the prosecutor began, “you are a Professor of Psychology at the University of York?”
“That’s right,” Willow said
“And you are considered an expert in this field”?
“I wouldn’t put it like that,” Willow said, “I’m more a scholar of behavioural patterns; the human brain is a complex thing.”
“But you are more qualified than most to understand what makes the human brain work?”
“I suppose so,” Willow said, “I’ve written many theses on the brains actions and reactions to various outside stimuli.”
“Objection your honour,” the defence interrupted, “where are we going with this?”
“Yes,” Judge Bridge agreed, “where is this leading?”
“Please humour me a moment your honour,” the prosecution said, “Mr Willow, you spoke with Mrs Mae Lin did you not?”
“I did, yes,” Willow said.
“And what, in your professional opinion did you deduce?”
“I did a number of standard tests with Mrs Mae Lin. You must understand that Psychology is not an exact science like say Physics or Chemistry but there are definitely certain constants in what can be considered normal reactions to certain forces.”
“Once again in English please,” Judge Briggs said.
“Sorry, your honour,” Willow said, “let me put it this way. When subjected to outside stress, the human brain adopts a defence mode; it’s a primeval defence, fight or flight. Mrs Mae Lin in nine out of ten of the tests displayed an unnatural tendency toward the fight phase.”
“And this is not considered normal?” the prosecutor asked.
“No,” Willow replied, “not at all. As humans have evolved their self preservation has centred mostly on getting the heck away from the apparent danger.”
“The flight phase?”
“Exactly. Mrs Mae Lin’s brain does not function that way and to be quite honest, God help anybody who triggers her fight response.”
“Would you consider her to be dangerous?”
“She’s volatile,” Willow said, “but I believe she can be stabilised.”
“Objection your honour,” the defence said.
“What now Counsel?” Judge Briggs was getting quite angry now.
“This so called expert is painting my client as a homicidal maniac. Volatile? The woman acted in fear of her life that’s all.”
“Please just bear with me,” Willow insisted, “I don’t believe she’s homicidal, I just think she needs help.”
“You mean with medication?” the prosecutor asked.
“Not just medication,” Willow said, “I believe that Mrs Mae Lin would benefit from a period of observation in a medical institution.”
“A psychiatric hospital?”
“Yes, I do not believe in her case, jail would be beneficial. In fact, it would have the reverse effect.”
“My skinny prosecutor friend,” Judge Briggs interrupted, “Isn’t it normally the responsibility of the defence to argue diminished responsibility?”
“Your honour,” the prosecutor said, “Is it not our duty to rehabilitate, not to punish those in society who break the law?”
“My God,” Judge Briggs exclaimed, “the legal world has gone soft. In my day prosecutors were only out for blood. Very well, how long are we talking about here Professor Willow?”
“A year at least,” Willow said, “We cannot ascertain exactly how long it will take but I’d definitely say a year to begin with.”
“This is highly unorthodox,” Judge Briggs addressed the jury, “and I’m sorry to have wasted your valuable time but if we are all in agreement I will pass judgement. Any objections?”
There was silence in the courtroom.
“Good,” Judge Briggs said, “Mrs Mae Lin, on the charge of manslaughter, I find you guilty. However, under the circumstances and based on your evidence and that of Professor Willow’s I believe that incarceration is not the answer. I therefore sentence you to no less than two years in a psychiatric unit for suitable treatment. Case closed. Now, I have to go; Mrs Briggs gets grumpy when I’m late.”
As the defence lawyer was leaving the court building he was approached by a man.
“What the hell happened in there?” the man asked, “I thought you said she would be found not guilty?”
“Mr Lin,” the defence counsel said, “she would have been. The prosecution knew that; that’s why they brought in their so called expert.”
“That bastard is going to pay for this,” Mr Lin sneered.
“Mr Lin, a mental hospital is not jail; you’ll have more visits and she’ll be very well looked after.”
“Can I speak to her before they take her away?”
“I’m afraid not, you’ll have to arrange a visit when she’s settled in.”
“Martin Willow,” Mr Lin said, “He’s going to pay for this.” He walked quickly away from the Court House.
FORTY FOUR
POETIC JUSTICE
Monday 4 January 2009
“Where shall we start sir?” Whitton asked as they drove into town.
“I’ve printed out a list,” Smith said, “There’s a couple of pawn shops on WalmGate and a few more on Foss Bank. You can park in the long stay car park just up ahead and we can walk from there.”
Whitton parked the car. It was threatening to rain as they made their way to the shops.
“Do you think Theakston will be ok?” Smith asked, “He’s not used to being by himself.”
“He’ll get used to it,” Whitton said, “he’ll have pr
obably chewed his way through the whole house but that stops after a while I think. Here’s the first one on the list ‘Ishmael and Sons.’ Sounds very up market.”
Smith laughed.
“Lets hope they can help us,” he said, “don’t let on we’re Police.”
“Just Mr and Mrs Smith again?” Whitton joked.
Ishmael and Sons was a treasure trove of mostly worthless goods. One wall of the shop was lined with shelves containing various power tools; there was a counter next to the cashiers desk containing what looked like cheap tatty jewellery and there were clothes racks littered all over the shop floor holding clothes that were straight out of the seventies. Something at the back of the shop caught Smith’s eye. There was a rack with a dozen or so guitars lined up next to each other.
“Do you see what I see Whitton?” he said.
“Is your guitar there?” Whitton seemed excited.
“No its not, but look at this little beauty.” He picked up an immaculate sunburst electric guitar.
“If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “this is a Rickenbacker 330. Collector’s piece.”
“Looks pretty ugly to me,” Whitton said.
“Have you got any money on you?” Smith asked, “I wasn’t planning on buying anything today.”
“How much do you need?”
“Two hundred; they obviously don’t know what this things worth.”
“But it’s got no strings on it.”
“Ten quid strings. These go for over a grand. I’ll pay you back.”
“I’ve got my credit card but I need it back; I’ve just had to fork out a fortune to fix my car.”
“You’re a star Whitton.”
“Shouldn’t we ask about the stuff that was stolen?” Whitton asked, “That’s why we’re here isn’t it?”
“I don’t see any of it here.”
He took the guitar to the front desk. A young girl was busy on her cell phone.
“Excuse me Miss,” he said, “sorry to drag you away from saving the world but I’d like to buy this guitar please.”
The girl looked at him as if he was asking her to change his car tyre.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” he added.
His sarcasm was wasted on her. She took the label off the guitar and wrote out an invoice. Whitton handed her the credit card.
Outside the shop, Whitton was about to put the credit card slip in her purse when she noticed something.
“Sir,” she said, “the guitar’s a gift; call it a late Christmas present.”
Smith was astounded.
“I can’t take this,” he said, “I said I’d pay you back.”
Whitton showed him the credit card slip.
“She rang up twenty quid instead of two hundred,” she said, “or should we go back and tell her?”
“No chance,” Smith said with a wry smile, “these sharks get rich from people’s misfortune. Plus, that sales assistant was bloody rude. Poetic justice if you ask me. You do realise what this means though?”
“No sir,” Whitton said, “what does it mean?”
“When you buy someone a guitar it means you have a bond with them for life; nothing can break it.”
Whitton blushed.
“What about this place?” she said as they passed a shop with a sign that read ‘Music City’. “They’ve got tons of guitars in the window.”
“They’ve got my guitar in the window,” Smith said and took a closer look.
His red Fender Stratocaster was staring at him from behind the glass.
“How do you know it’s yours sir?” Whitton was dubious.
“Let’s have a closer look,” he said, “mine had a small sticker on the back plate; the Australian flag.”
As they entered the shop, Smith’s phone rang. It was Chalmers.
“Smith,” he said, “I’ve got some good news for you. We’ve got the little scrotes who robbed your place.”
“That was quick sir,” Smith’s heart was pounding.
“Forensics got a load of prints. One of the scumbags has been in and out of jail his whole life.”
“I think I’ve found the guitar they stole Sir, I’m at the shop now. What are the names of these toe rags?”
“Steven Maude and John Bartlett. Maude’s the career criminal.”
“Steven Maude?” Smith repeated.
The name seemed very familiar.
“I’ll be there in about an hour sir,” he said, “I just want to put the wind up the owner of the shop.”
“Be careful Smith,” Chalmers warned, “do it by the book.”
“Of course,” Smith smiled, “you should know me by now sir.”
He rang off.
“They’ve caught the crooks that broke into my house,” he said to Whitton.
“That was quick sir,” Whitton said.
“That’s what I said. Let’s have a look at that guitar.”
Smith walked over to the guitar in the window and picked it off the stand. It had a slight nick on the paintwork that was not there before but other than that it was undamaged.
“Quite a specimen isn’t she?” A voice was heard behind him.
“Genuine US Strat,” the assistant added, “plays like a dream; been well looked after.”
Smith turned the guitar over. There was a small sticker of the Australian flag on the back plate.
“That’ll be easy to remove,” the assistant said, “Australians are not really known to be guitar legends anyway. This one will sell quickly; we only got it in this morning. It’s yours for eight hundred, or three hundred plus that.” He pointed to the Rickenbacker.
“Can I speak to the owner of the shop?” Smith asked.
“He’s busy with the accounts in the back,” the assistant replied, “I can help you with anything; I’ve worked here for six months now. I practically run the place.”
Smith took out his badge.
“Go and get him,” he said.
“I’ll go and get him.”
“How long have you been playing?” Whitton asked.
“Just over ten years,” Smith replied, “I bought the Strat when I first came over here. A gut needed money to go to Brazil so I got it for a good price.”
“Can I help you with anything?” the owner appeared.
“DS Smith,” Smith said, “and this is DC Whitton. I’m very interested in this guitar.”
The owner looked angry.
“You can’t come in here and flash your badge and think you’ll get a discount,” he said, “I can report you for that.”
“What’s your name?” Smith demanded.
“Colin Charles,” the owner said, “what’s this all about?”
“This guitar was stolen in a burglary a few days ago,” Smith said, “where did you get it?”
“Two guys brought it in this morning. I remember they didn’t look like musical types.”
“Did you get any identification from these men?” Smith said, “Isn’t that normal practice?”
“They didn’t have any and they said I could have the guitar for a hundred quid; its worth much more than that. How do you know it’s this guitar?”
“Because it was my house they stole it from.”
Colin Charles was now becoming agitated.
“I didn’t know it was stolen,” he insisted, “please, just take it; I don’t want any trouble. I’ve had this place for fifteen years. I had branches in Bradford and Leeds but I had to close them down. This recession is really hitting the musical instrument business badly. What are you going to do?”
Smith scratched his head.
“What I should do,” he said, “is arrest you for handling stolen goods but seeing as they’ve caught the guys and I’ve got my guitar back, I’m going to let you off with a warning.”
“I’ll give you four hundred for the Rickenbacker,” Charles said.
“It’s not for sale,” Smith said, “It was a gift from a very good friend.”
He smiled at Whitton.
<
br /> “I could use a set of strings though,” he added.
“Mark,” Charles said to the assistant, “organise the Detective a set of good strings please. No charge.”
The assistant picked up a set of strings from behind the counter and handed them to Smith.
“Thank you Mr Charles,” Smith said, “and remember, no ID no deals ok?”
“It won’t happen again,” Charles insisted.
“Hopefully you’ll get your Gran’s Jewellery back now” Whitton said as they drove to the station.”
“I hope so,” Smith said, “it means a lot to me. Do you want to drop me off at the station? I’ll get a taxi back; its your day off.”
“It’s ok Sir,” Whitton replied, “I’d only be bored at home.”
Smith smiled.
“People are going to start talking Whitton,” he said.
FORTY FIVE
LITTLE CHUCK
Wednesday 27 July 2005
“The visiting room is through there Mr Lin,” Nurse Hagen said, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to search your bag before you go in.”
Mr Lin handed his bag to a short, stocky man standing in front of the desk.
“There’s one thing you must understand Mr Lin,” the nurse continued, “your wife was sent here on an involuntary commitment order. She is undergoing strict rehabilitation and involved in that therapy is strong medication. She is still getting used to that medication.
“Will she know who I am?” Lin asked.
“It’s not that bad,” Nurse Hagen said, “she’ll just be a bit groggy for a while. You can go through now. I must warn you that some of the other patients can seem a bit odd. I assure you they are quite harmless though.”
Lin took his bag from the stocky man, walked through the security gate and followed the sign that read ‘visiting room’. The sound of singing could be heard from one of the rooms in the distance; it was a song about Jesus. Lin opened the door to the visitor’s room and looked inside. The room was completely white with a dark grey floor. There were a dozen or so tables in the room, each with four chairs around them. A man in a hospital uniform approached.
“Can I help you?” he asked suspiciously. He had a strange accent.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 19
