by Jo Kessel
She smiles kindly, pats my bump with a wrinkled, dark, well-toiled hand.
“No senoras, I just work here, but of course you can use toilet. Come.”
She’s either Spanish or Portuguese, whichever, she’s a darling. She puts a key in the lock, turns it and opens the front door. I follow her up a flight of uncarpeted stairs till she reaches her boss’s apartment. Number 4B.
***
Cameron’s toilet isn’t as modernly limestone as Scott Richardson’s is. It’s a dated avocado relic. The splash back around the small wall-mounted sink is peppered with dots of black mould in between the tiles. In all other respects though, his WC bears a remarkable similarity to my client’s. It’s not just that he too has a picture gallery in this room, a series of framed snaps that speak volumes. It’s that his photos are, quite literally, almost the same as Scott’s, only there’s one crucial difference. In all the pictures Cameron has super-imposed his own face onto Scott’s body. He’s got three shots of a cutout of his head with Sahara. He’s got a couple of photos of his cutout head with other beautiful women that Scott once dated, the same women that my client had had on his wall. Crucially though, he’s got a couple of pictures that Scott didn’t have. They’re paparazzi, long lens images, of cutout head on a boat with a stunning older woman. She’s the untouchable beauty, a woman that I wouldn’t have recognized had she not taken the stand, had she not been sitting in the front row of court every day since. She’s Elizabeth Simons. The woman with whom Scott was having an affair, the now widow of Rupert Simons, the man Scott’s accused of murdering.
Chapter 38
“Cameron Matthews, did you at any point try to set-up the Defendant?” I ask.
The chief Prosecution witness is back in the stand, at long last. It’s been hectic of late, to say the least. As soon as I’d finished peeing in Cameron’s avocado suite, I’d whipped my I-phone out my bag, photographed the evidence, the bizarre exhibition of Cameron’s mug super-imposed over Scott’s face. It gave the spooky veneer that it was he who was arm in arm, cheek to cheek and side by side a bevy of beautiful women, instead of my client. Cameron, it appeared, wanted, quite literally, to be Scott Richardson.
“You’ve no idea how much this means to me,” I’d thanked the old Portuguese woman, bidding farewell with a bear hug and kiss, as if she were my best friend, and rushed out the flat. When I’d got back to court, found Anthony, he couldn’t quite believe it. First he’d reprimanded my unethical behaviour, before moving onto flattery. He was especially impressed at my photography prowess. “Nice work,” he’d praised, kissing me on the forehead. It was a touching moment, intimate yet distant, but it wasn’t to be dwelled on. What mattered was our next move. We wouldn’t be summing up. We’d be calling Cameron Matthews back to the stand. Only problem was, nobody could find him. He wasn’t at home, he wasn’t at work and his mobile was switched off. All weekend the Prosecution couldn’t work out his whereabouts. It’s taken till today, Tuesday, to make him swear again to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him God.
He’d started off his usual cocky, smarmy self. Then I’d circulated copies of the super-imposed photos round the jury, holding the originals up close to him, for confirmation that these were indeed images of the one and same photos hanging on his toilet wall. He’d proudly said yes, they were, but that pride had turned to nervous confusion when I’d next circulated the real, not tampered with same images hanging on Scott Richardson’s wall, with Scott Richardson’s face. Cameron had acted sheepish at this point, turning to the jury with a humble, self-deprecating smile, trying to get them back on side. When they’d failed to respond, he’d cleared his throat nervously, shifted about in his seat, no longer so confident. Slowly, before me, before the court, before the jury, he’d started to waver, to crumble. With every question I’d asked, as he stood there in the stand, he’d sunk a couple of millimeters or so into the floor. With every answer he’d given, a few more beads of sweat broke on his moony, shiny face.
“Why would you super-impose images of yourself onto Scott Richardson’s photos?” I’d asked.
“Uh-hum,” he’d cleared his throat, irises dancing madly, almost crossing, in his eyes. “I’ve, err, been practicing graphics on my computer, wanted to try out something new. They’re, err, quite good, err, don’t you think?”
I hadn’t answered. In fact, the power of my questioning had lain in what I hadn’t, rather than what I had said. The jury, I knew, would all now be wondering what kind of a person would super-impose their image onto the face of another man with his girlfriends. A strange person, an obsessive person, a person without a life of their own, perhaps. A person not to be trusted, a person with a hidden agenda. This was a person capable of falsifying evidence and of embellishing the truth.
“Was a small part of you jealous, perhaps, of Scott Richardson and his conquests? I mean,” I’d said, “the women are all pretty stunning, don’t you think? Any man, surely, would want a piece of that action?”
The court had laughed with me. Cameron had visibly squirmed, like a fat slug on a wet leaf.
“Uh-hum,” he’d cleared his throat again. “I’ve had plenty of pretty girls in my time too.”
“Well, why then,” I’d suggested, “did you not put any photos of them on your toilet wall?”
His hands were hidden from view, but his arms were fidgeting, making me wonder if his pudgy fingers were nervously clasped, fiddling overtime.
“You’ve had a grudge against Scott Richardson since you were at school together,” I’d said, “and that’s part of the reason why you did this, isn’t it?”
Cameron, looking blank, baffled and extremely unsettled, didn’t answer. As, too, he hasn’t answered my next and most recent question.
“Cameron Matthews,” I repeat, “did you by any chance try to set-up the Defendant?”
Senior counsel for the Prosecution, a woman in her late forties called Margaret, jumps up, with a start, sending her chair crashing back onto the floor with a thud.
“Ms Kirk, you shouldn’t be asking questions like that,” she reprimands in a loud aside.
She picks up her chair, smoothes her skirt and sits back down, throwing a stern glare in my direction. I couldn’t care less. Neither Margaret, nor the Old Bailey, nor the magnitude of what’s going on here can throw me now. I’m starting to relax into my role, enjoy myself, to find my feet as an orator again. I hadn’t wanted to do this cross-examination originally. I’d made such a pig’s ear of it first time that I’d lost my nerve, thought Anthony should close the deal. Only he was having none of it. Despite it being unorthodox, senior counsel letting his junior cross-examine the chief witness, this one was for me, he’d said. This was my victory, not his, and he’d encouraged me to get back on that horse. I’m pleased I did, because I’m finally sensing that Cameron’s resolve is weakening.
Cameron looks from me to Margaret, back and forth, a couple of times, wondering who to believe. He’s dazed and shell-shocked from this whole, unexpected onslaught. He’d have come to court today without a real clue why he’d been summoned, but he sure as hell wouldn’t have been expecting this. Suddenly though, from out the blue, he seems to regain his composure, to rise a couple of inches in his seat. His gaze meets mine. His eyes hold a look of defiance.
“I’ll answer the question,” says Cameron. “You want answers?”
His voice is steady and confident and controlled. He’s regained his composure.
“I think I’m entitled to them,” I say.
I had been pacing, but I stop, a couple of yards away from the witness box, face him head on.
“You want answers?” he whispers.
He speaks so quietly I take a step closer to the stand.
“I want the truth,” I say.
It all feels quite tense, quite dramatic. There’s a natural hush. You could hear a pin drop. Nobody, it seems, is even taking the trouble to breathe.
“I’ll give you the truth,” he sa
ys.
He takes a moment to scan the courtroom, looking hard first at the judge, then at Scott Richardson, before panning up and down the two rows of jury members. He rests back in his chair, taking on board all the friends and family members sat here, the public up in the spectators’ gallery.
“The truth is,” he continues, “that yes I hated Scott Richardson at school and no, nothing’s changed. He was the golden boy. The teachers loved him. Everyone wanted to be his friend, and near enough the whole of the local girls’ school fancied him. All I wanted was to be acknowledged.” Cameron’s voice starts to crack. His eyes turn distant and misty. “All I wanted was a bit of his time,” he continues. “All I wanted was to be noticed. I didn’t have many friends. I thought he was different. I thought I’d seen a gentle, more compassionate side to Scott, that maybe he could help me. I remember trying to sit next to him in the dining room. There was a space free, so I went up, asked if it was taken. He near enough ignored me, carried on joking with his friends, asking if they should let someone with spunk on their bum sit with them. I turned to look at the back of my trousers. They were covered in white chalk. I’ve no idea how they got like that. Anyway, I must have forgotten I was carrying a tray. I removed a hand to brush off the offending stain, but the tray fell and the plates and glass crashed and smashed to the floor. Everyone looked at me, laughing, pointing. I was nicknamed ‘spunky’ for all the wrong reasons from that moment on. It stuck. I was called that for the next eight years. I’m still haunted by that day, I still have nightmares about it and that man,” he points at Scott, “probably has no recollection whatsoever. But now,” he points at Scott again and again and again, “now, now, NOW you won’t forget me in a hurry. Maybe now we can switch roles. Maybe now I can become your nightmare instead.”
Cameron’s eyes start to spill over like the Niagara Falls. I’m in a halfway house myself, moved emotionally by his breakdown, but also, to be honest, fighting to gulp down involuntary giggles, my mouth puffed up with air, giving the impression I’m sucking on ten gob stoppers. Which makes me feel mean. His story was sad. He is pathetic. It wasn’t supposed to be funny. In any event, I’m distracted at this point because Margaret, Counsel for the Prosecution, jumps up from her seat and calls for the judge to dismiss the case. Which means that whether Cameron did or didn’t want to set my client up is immaterial. Anthony and I have won.
***
Scott and I are in the courtroom alone and at long last his sole presence doesn’t intimidate in the slightest. The mood is far too celebratory. One by one we’ve watched everyone leave. Mr. Justice Smiley had admitted the case had collapsed. Cameron had stepped down from the stand, head bowed, had a brief, apologetic exchange with his legal team. I’d wondered how this small, pathetic man had managed to intimidate me so powerfully. How the words of his anonymous letter, because it must have been him that sent it, had played so effectively on my self-doubt and suspicions of Scott being involved in the murder of not only Rupert Simons, but William Nichols too. Anthony, after shaking Scott’s hand, had gone to have a word with counsel for the Prosecution. It’s normal, after a case, for opposing teams to shake hands, move on. There are no grudges from the losing side, or our job would be unbearable. The jury, the congregation, the public have all slowly filed out, as have the guards.
Scott clasps both my hands as if he’s praying to me. I’m faced with a man who’s spent months scaring the living daylights out of me, but who now comes across as Mr. Innocent.
“Thank you, thank you, so, so much,” he says, punctuating his thanks by shaking our four hands furiously. The second he realized he was a free man, he’d run to Anthony and I, put his arms round us both, told us we were stars of the highest order, he could never repay us. I blushed in his praise, proud of the success. It could so easily have gone the other way.
“Oh, to hell with it,” he says. He pulls me to standing with the force of his arm and hugs me, or at least tries to. My bump is fairly prohibitive in terms of getting too close, but our heads meet, cheeks brushing close enough for me to feel the slight stubble on his waxy skin, close enough to get an overpowering whiff of Fahrenheit.
“You know,” he says, taking a step back, arms outstretched, now holding onto both my hands separately, “I’m so pleased you passed my test. It’s been such fun having you for counsel.”
At least someone enjoyed the experience.
“Test?” I ask, desperate to release my hands, but unable to free them from his vice-like grip.
“Yes,” he says. “Do you remember receiving an anonymous letter saying I killed William Nichols?”
Pause.
“Yes,” I inflect slowly, unsure where he’s going with this. How on earth does HE know about that letter?
“I sent it to you.”
“Right,” I say, slightly dumbfounded. I can’t see why he’d do something like that.
“I felt,” he continues, “if you could carry on representing me, believing in me, even after doubts had been put into your head, that you’d win this case for me.”
“Right,” I repeat. I’m shocked by his honesty and shocked that someone would go to such lengths to ensure they’d hired the right representation. Were it not for Anthony, I’d probably have failed the test, scored nil points.
“And now I’m going to tell you something, something I haven’t told anyone for a very long time.”
His look is so penetrating that I’m once more unsettled. I don’t want to hear any secrets. The case is now closed.
“When I was in my second year at college,” he continues, “I did a very stupid thing. There was this aristocratic creep called Hugo who I couldn’t stand. He was such a show-off, always driving around in this flashy, sporty MG, screeching off to impress the girls. Well, I reckoned someone needed to teach him a lesson, so one day I took a hunting knife to a couple of his tyres. It was meant to be a bit of fun, no serious harm intended, but when he got into the car in his customary manner, put his foot to the floor, he lost control and bashed into a wall at high speed, breaking his arm and collar-bone. A so-called friend grassed on me and I was taken to the local police station, fingerprinted and arrested. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this story is that I had a lovely tutor at the time called Robert Neville who wrote a fantastic letter to the cops. He said I was an excellent student, was a first-time offender and a black mark against my name could really ruin a glowing future. He thought I was destined for greatness and strongly recommended that in this instance, they showed leniency, which they did. I got off with a caution in the end. I’ve never forgotten Robert Neville, and what he did for me. And now you, Ali, you’ve just helped history repeat itself. You shall forever be in my thoughts.”
With that he pulls a smile so broad, so bleached, so malevolent, it makes me flinch. I take a step back, release my hands from his with a jerk more forceful than a thousand volt electric shock. I find it hard to say anything in response, to tell him it’s a pleasure, anytime, it’s been great working with him. In fact, I can’t get away quickly enough. The skin on my neck breaks out in red patches and welts and this time Scott Richardson isn’t even breathing on it.
Chapter 39
We’re gathered in front of the Old Bailey. Scott’s ushered forward, away from Sahara. Sahara addresses me, showing interest for the first time. “When’s it due?” she asks in a hushed voice. The bevy of Reporters with their pads and mikes jostle for position, shoving their cameramen to the front line. “Just under five weeks,” I reply, aware, as I do, of the implications. In just under five weeks, I may well know who the father of my unborn child is. I’m pleased the case is over, but now that it is I’ll be forced to concentrate on the wedding and the bump, the import of which I’ve been trying to evade. A murmur of disapproval ripples across the crowd, as some of the press plays rough with their elbows, fighting for the best pitch. “I’m pleased this is all over,” she whispers again. “Now I can now get back to being a Mother.” I smile with a polite nod, wondering if she t
oo had used the court case to avoid reality. The high-pitch excitement suddenly fades to zero as someone yells a prolonged ‘shush’. Scott positions himself, tall, proud and composed.
“Justice has been done,” he starts. Assembled stills photographers click simultaneously, setting off a firework display of flashes. He waits for them to finish, a professional to the core, then carries on. “These last few months have been unbelievably difficult.” He speaks slowly, deliberately, pointedly. “I’ve always proclaimed my innocence and today I got the backing of the legal system.” He pauses again, panning his eyes around the posse. “I’d like to thank my friends and family and the hundreds of well-wishers that have been behind me all the way. I couldn’t have done it without you. I’d like to thank my legal team, Ali Kirk and Anthony de Klerk.” He turns to us, punches his fist in the air. I feel nauseous, managing only the weakest of smiles in acknowledgment as the nation’s media look on. I’ve been cogitating on what he said, about Robert Neville, the tutor who got him off last time, and me now being in the same category. He didn’t literally hold up his hands and say ‘I did it’. It’s probably not what he meant at all, just my misinterpretation. What he probably meant was Robert Neville used his skill and expertise to the maximum and so did I. Nevertheless I feel disquieted. As a lawyer for the defence, I know that I’m just doing my job, that I must be my client’s mouthpiece, that if he or she says they are innocent then I must believe them. Sure, sometimes you wonder if your client is lying, but you brush it aside. Guilty people walk free every day. That’s the way our system’s set up. If you have any REASONABLE doubt about the defendant’s guilt, you must acquit. Maxwell’s always said that for a hundred ‘not guilty’ verdicts, one innocent person is convicted and that’s the one to cause sleepless nights, seeing the man who didn’t do it getting banged up. I’ll never know for sure if Scott Richardson really did murder Rupert Simons, but nonetheless, his acquittal swallows with the ease of a lodged fish bone. I’ve worked far too hard to get this scumbag off and I’m now questioning what I’ve done. I try to push it to the back of my mind, to reap some pleasure from the victory, but the bone isn’t shifting. “And last but not least,” Scott finishes, “I’d like to thank the television network who’ve supported me one hundred per cent. Look whose talking now!”
