by John Fairfax
‘Make a difference, will you? For all of us.’
PART TWO
The case for the prosecution
Benson started shaking. He couldn’t control his limbs. He couldn’t breathe easily. His lungs were tight. Sweat rolled into his eyes. A scream rose into his throat but it wouldn’t come out. There was a hand over his mouth. Needles’ hand.
‘They’ll put you in solitary, son,’ he said. ‘And that’s worse. Believe me. Now calm down. Calm down. Shush. You’re fine. You’re going to be okay. Now, when I take my hand away, breathe in, okay? Just breathe in slowly. Do you understand? You don’t want to start shouting, you don’t want to be on your own, in the seg. Okay? Are you ready?’
Needles slowly took away his hand. ‘Good boy.’
But the scream was still jammed. Benson was breathing quickly, heaving on the edge of his bunk, but that scream was still there, silent, filling his mind like white noise.
‘Keep breathing, son. You don’t want to be taken off the wing.’
A week had passed. And every day, at bang-up – when the door was locked – Benson had watched the door close, he’d heard it slam shut and he’d heard the key turn. And he’d lived clinging on to the edge of sanity, waiting for the sound of the key in the lock and to see the door swing open. The twenty-three-hour gap in between had become a living hell. The panic had been mounting like rising water, day on day, and he’d finally let out a crazed scream, only Needles had quickly intervened, before it could attract the wing officer’s attention.
‘It’s time for you to listen to me, son,’ said Needles. ‘Because you’re weak, now. You’re ready to make lots of mistakes. Now’s the time for you to learn what you’ve got to do if you’re going to survive.’
Needles brought over a cup of water. ‘Drink up.’
Benson didn’t calm down. He remained in a panic. But his body began to ease up, separated from his mind.
‘Okay, now, say “Yes” if you’ve understood what I’m telling you.’
Benson nodded, and Needles began:
‘You tell no one nothing about yourself. You keep yourself to yourself. Okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘If anyone asks how you’re doing, you just say, “Fine”. All right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t be needy. Okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t do anything that makes you stand out. Don’t attract attention. Right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t make friends. Not for a long while. And when you do, don’t make too many. Take things slowly. You’ve got a lot of time. Yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And lastly, never, ever trust a screw. Got it?’
‘Yes. I’ve got to get out of here, Needles. I can’t take bang-up. They can lock me in a compound, but I can’t cope with being in here, in a cell. I can’t—’
‘There’s only one way out, son.’
Benson looked up and Needles was tapping his head. What did he mean? Mind over matter? Or something more radical? Unhitching yourself from any relationships, from hope and anger and pain and longing and love? From being an ordinary human being? And Benson realised, with dread, that it was this last, and not the first.
Needles was nodding from his chair, his needles clicking as he worked on a yellow woollen scarf.
The next morning Benson had a legal visit from Braithwaite. He was brought from his cell to a poky, airless room – the solicitor seemed to thrive in such places. As ever he was immaculately dressed, this time in a dark-blue pinstripe with a red tie. He wore a white starched collar as firm as plywood. But he was more formal than usual. He spoke as if this was a first, reluctant meeting.
‘How are you, Will?’ he said.
Needles seemed to barge in: ‘If anyone asks how you’re doing, you just say, “Fine”. All right?’
‘Fine,’ said Benson.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely fine.’
Braithwaite smiled and, strangely, Benson felt better. He’d passed his first exam. He’d said ‘Fine’ when he meant the opposite.
‘Good, because I need your complete and undivided attention.’
Braithwaite opened his worn leather briefcase and took out a sheet of paper, folding his hands on top so Benson couldn’t read the typed document. Then he said:
‘I’ve been instructed to tell you that funds are in place to meet the reasonable costs of any tertiary level studies you might choose to undertake during your incarceration. Do you understand?’
Benson was nonplussed.
‘Please answer,’ said Braithwaite.
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Should you succeed in obtaining a qualification, other monies will be advanced to help you establish a career of your choice. Do you understand? I do require a verbal reply and not a nod.’
‘Sorry, yes, I understand.’
‘All ancillary costs will be met, their provision dependent upon your progress. We can discuss these at a later date. For now I only seek confirmation that you understand what is being offered.’
‘I do . . . I do understand.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But who’s sent you here? Who is the—’
‘Please don’t ask any questions until I am finished. The aforesaid is dependent upon one condition.’
‘Yes?’
‘You are never to attempt – either by your own efforts or those of any agent, express or otherwise – to discover the identity of the person who seeks to help you. Do you understand?’
Benson smiled with confusion and gratitude. He began to think of names, but Braithwaite required an answer. ‘I do.’
‘Are you prepared to sign undertakings to that effect?’
‘I am.’
One would have thought that Braithwaite would have been smiling. But he wasn’t. He looked profoundly ill at ease.
‘I have drawn up the necessary paperwork. Please remember, Will, that I function as a trustee. If the generosity of my client is abused, I have the obligation and authority to restrict or terminate the flow of support.’
With three fingers Braithwaite swivelled the document around and slid it across the table.
‘Please read each paragraph carefully. If you are satisfied with the terms, sign at the bottom in the space provided.’
He withdrew a fountain pen from his jacket pocket and unscrewed the lid. Benson signed with a shaking hand. Having retrieved the signed undertakings, Braithwaite said:
‘Now, do you have any questions?’
‘No.’
‘Good. One last matter. Am I right in thinking that you are resolved to study the law?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I am also instructed to give you these papers from Helen Camberley. She advises you to read them very carefully.’ Braithwaite had spoken while opening his briefcase again. He produced a thick file and said, ‘These are transcripts of evidence from various trials that have taken place in the criminal courts over the last century. They demonstrate the art of examination-in-chief, cross-examination and re-examination. In terms of high skill, no comparable examples can be found, save those others which I will bring in due course. Miss Camberley has asked me to say, and I quote, “You can forget about the law, just learn to ask questions”. Needless to say, the remark is emphatic in nature, rather than literal.’
Braithwaite remained disconcerted. He was always frowning; but this frown was deeper and darker than usual. Standing up, he said:
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Will?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Let me know if you need anything.’
Needles made another rasping interjection: ‘Don’t be needy. Okay?’
‘It’s fine,’ said Benson. ‘I can handle this.’
When he got back to his cell he didn’t even hear the door close. He didn’t hear the lock turn. He didn’t hear the clicking of needles. He climbed on to his bed, knowing what he had to do if he was to
get through the next eleven years: he had to detach himself from his surroundings; he had to retreat deep into himself, into an inner world, a thousand miles from Needles and the screws and the shouting and the bang of doors before they were locked. And he knew he could make it. Because he wouldn’t be crossing this barren desert alone. He’d met Lady Justice, whose right hand held the sword of retribution and whose left held the scales of justice, equally balanced. She’d come like a ministering angel.
14
Benson just reached a toilet in time and threw up. His stomach had been churning with anxiety. When he came out of the cubicle he saw Winston Corby, another barrister, washing his hands at a sink. He looked at Benson as if he’d found his submission wanting, lacking grace. Hoping that the day’s potential for unpleasant encounters would end there, he quickly left the robing room, only to find his way blocked by a silk. A woman was walking slowly towards him. She was Benson’s height, slim and graced with eyes as sharp as crystal. They’d been lined black to suggest an Egyptian queen. Other counsel had gathered behind her. There was absolute silence.
‘I understand you represent Collingstone.’
The consonants had an edge. But that wasn’t the problem. Benson had last heard that imperious voice in HMP Denton Fields when the Inns of Court Conduct Committee of the Inner Temple had travelled from London to hear his application to join the Inn. It had been an exceptional and generous gesture. This, the deciding panel, had been chaired by Rachel Glencoyne QC. Without being a member of an Inn, Benson could not come to the Bar. They’d turned him down.
‘I represent Sarah Collingstone, yes,’ he replied.
‘I trust there won’t be any unpleasant surprises.’
‘You took the words out of my mouth.’
Benson had appealed Glencoyne’s decision to the Bar Standards Board Review. They’d upheld the refusal.
‘I may have to serve some further evidence,’ said Benson.
‘I doubt if I’ll accept it. Not this late in the day. You’ll have to make an application.’
‘I’m familiar with all sorts of applications.’
Benson had appealed the review board’s refusal. He’d turned to the Visitors to the Inns of Court, a rarely convened body of Appeal Court judges sitting at the Royal Courts of Justice. Released for the day and handcuffed to a guard, Benson had deployed one argument: the legal profession, in the instant case, had a rare opportunity to demonstrate that very infrequently, in special and perhaps unique circumstances, the scope of rehabilitation should not be constrained, even with a crime as heinous as murder. Having argued over the nature of such an opportunity – whether it was legal or moral (an issue they didn’t resolve) – the Visitors had reluctantly agreed.
‘You ought to understand something, Benson.’
‘Yes?’
‘If you think fit to solicit instructions through the pages of the Guardian when you lack the required experience, don’t think for one moment that the Crown will make any concessions. We won’t.’
‘Miss Glencoyne, I would expect nothing from you but a performance of ruthless integrity. You can expect the same from me, though I suspect I’m going to be nicer about it.’
When Helen Camberley heard about the Visitors’ decision, she’d sent Benson a first edition of The Life of Sir Edward Marshall Hall K.C., by Edward Marjoribanks. A legend until his death in 1927, Marshall Hall had been known as the Great Defender. Volatile and charismatic, he’d infuriated judges, outraged colleagues, mesmerised juries and fought many a hopeless case to a spectacular victory, attracting massive public attention. The inscription from Camberley read: ‘The story of a man with a tragic past.’ A week later, Braithwaite had informed Benson that upon completion of his sentence, funding would be available from his benefactor for the Bar Vocational Course, should he choose to follow that route.
‘Do you have an instructing solicitor?’ asked Glencoyne, airily. She’d let herself down. She’d played to the gallery – and it was some gallery. But she’d also broken one of the key rules of cross-examination: never ask a question to which you don’t know the answer.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Me too. It’s Tess de Vere from Coker and Dale. You’ve probably heard of them.’
And with that reply, Benson left a stunned Glencoyne to talk to her stunned audience.
On the way to Court 1 Benson breathed deeply, following Abasiama’s instructions. But nothing could prepare him for the effect of entering that room. Even the sight of Archie bulging out of a black jacket and dark striped trousers failed to reassure him. The nausea returned – the very nausea he’d suffered aged twenty-one when he first entered the dock where Sarah Collingstone was now sitting. The bile came from the same pit of memory. He tried to calm himself with history. This was the oak-panelled court where Marshall Hall had defended Seddon. Where Cecil Whiteley had defended Bywaters. Where A. A. Tobin had defended Dr Crippen . . . and history wasn’t working, because this was where Helen Camberley had defended William Benson.
The court ushers were staring at him. So was the court clerk. So was the shorthand writer. So were the press. So was the CPS representative. He could feel the eyes of the spectators looking down at his back from the public gallery behind him. He could hear the whispering. He could imagine the pointing. He opened his papers and lined up his pencils . . . and the breathing technique wasn’t working either. He thought he might be sick again. But then everything happened very quickly.
Glencoyne swept into position along the Bar. There was a loud knock. A door opened. The clerk entered like a minor courtier, his voice loud:
‘Court rise.’
Mr Justice Oakshott appeared, dressed in scarlet and black, moving slowly on to the bench. After taking his seat and opening his laptop, he looked up and frowned.
‘Mr Benson?’
‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Who is that man sitting behind you?’
‘Mr Congreve, my lord. He’s my clerk.’
‘Your clerk?’
‘Yes, my lord. My instructing solicitor is indisposed. Mr Congreve is here to provide what assistance he can.’
‘I think I know him.’
Benson turned around and listened to Archie’s whispered explanation.
‘Your lordship is quite right,’ said Benson. ‘Mr Congreve appeared before your lordship following a guilty plea in relation to various charges arising from his tax affairs. Your lordship concluded, with regret, that a custodial sentence was inevitable. That sentence has been served and Mr Congreve and I now work together.’
‘I’m lost for words, Mr Benson. Quite lost. Nice to see you again, Mr Congreve.’
The jury were brought in and sworn. The indictment was put to the defendant . . . and Benson noticed his breathing was regular. His skin was dry. He was calm. History came back like a retort. Defence advocates had stood exactly where he would stand, securing spectacular acquittals in the teeth of the evidence. They hadn’t always been popular, either as people or advocates. But they had become legends precisely because no one thought they could win. Adrenalin shot through Benson’s veins.
Seize the day.
Camberley’s presence vanished. Mr Justice Oakshott was giving the jury their preliminary instructions. Without so much as a glance towards the Bar, he said, ‘You are not here to enter the debate surrounding Mr Benson – as to whether he should be allowed to participate in the administration of justice. You are here to ensure that this defendant gets a fair trial. The same rules apply to this issue as to the case as a whole. Take no account of media reports. Do not carry out internet researches on matters related to the debate, the trial or any issues arising between the parties. Take a moment to look at the defendant, ladies and gentlemen. She asserts her innocence. But she is caught up in a question which has nothing to do with her defence. Give her a scrupulously fair hearing. Miss Glencoyne?’
Glencoyne rose to her feet.
‘May it please your lordship, la
dies and gentlemen of the jury, I appear for the Crown.’
Benson savoured the introduction. He’d heard it numerous times. But never in Court 1 of the Old Bailey. And never in a murder trial. He listened attentively to what came next, but the words he’d never forget had already been spoken: ‘Mr Benson appears for the defence.’
15
Tess, briefed to investigate Hopton Transport’s opposition, made no progress with Jack Felbridge. Having agreed to be interviewed, he wasn’t there when she arrived at the premises of Felbridge Logistics at the appointed time. He’d been ‘called out,’ explained Belinda, his fidgeting secretary – one of those easily coerced people who are anxious to please.
‘When will he be back?’ asked Tess.
‘I really don’t know.’
And she didn’t. Because Jack, presumably, hadn’t told her. While being struck by this last-minute avoidance, Tess wasn’t inclined to chase a reluctant party, so she went to Morden and the run-down premises of Winchley Transport Ltd where Peter Winchley, overweight, red-faced and sixty-something, ushered her into a cramped office made hot by three electric fan heaters whirring on the floor. Winchley belonged to that generation of people who were frightened by people in uniform, and since solicitors made the grade by their association with the police, he eyed Tess as if she might produce a breathalyser at any moment.
‘I always had a lot of time for Andy Bealing,’ he said, lowering himself behind a large desk stained with coffee-cup rings that Belinda would have wiped away years ago. ‘A good lad. Generous. Ambitious. A grafter. Cool head. A good eye for an opportunity.’
‘Rich,’ said Tess, moving things on.
‘Stinking rich.’
Winchley underlined the point with a grimace. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but he was a ruthless bastard. When it came to tendering, he’d outbid his dying grandmother, just to prove he had the clout. He got a buzz from soaking up the work and watching the rest of us crawl to the bank for an overdraft. But I’ve got to give it to him. He was a good lad. Generous. Ambitions. A graf—’
