Cut-Throat Defence: The dramatic, twist-filled legal thriller

by Olly Jarvis

Saunders approached. ‘Nearly missed this one, gov. Trying to crawl under the fence.’

  ‘Well done, lad,’ replied Finch, straightening up. ‘Go and help your colleagues. I’ll bring him in.’

  Saunders paused for a split second, ready to protest at being stripped of his trophy, but then he thought better of it and headed back towards the others who were loading the men into vehicles. Nobody argued with Calvin Finch, least of all a rookie like Saunders.

  Finch was some distance from the full glare of the floodlights but he could make out the features of the man in front of him. Late forties, losing his hair, but no remarkable features. He looked scared. Finch was going to enjoy this.

  ‘The cuffs aren’t too tight are they?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Are you in charge here, mate?’ responded Marpit.

  ‘Yeah, Calvin Finch. What’s it to you?’

  Marpit looked furtively around him and into the darkness then spoke quietly, ‘My name’s Marpit. I wasn’t supposed to be arrested. Working for Wolfy. You guys were supposed to let me slip away.’

  Finch smiled, appearing to acknowledge the truth of the confession.

  Relieved, Marpit’s frame relaxed a little.

  Finch took a step towards Marpit and launched a fist into his stomach.

  Marpit cried out in pain as he doubled over and collapsed on the ground.

  ‘Good try, mate,’ said Finch. ‘I hope you like porridge. You’re gonna have plenty of it.’ He laughed as he put a boot into Marpit’s chest. ‘Don’t forget to come and get this one,’ he shouted to his colleagues.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ begged Marpit, still spluttering from the assault.

  Finch pulled him to his feet. ‘Oh, I understand, Carl. I understand all right.’

  ‘How did you know my name?’

  ‘Lucky guess,’ Finch replied with a chuckle. ‘The trouble with you lot is that it’s always got to be all about you. London isn’t the centre of the universe, you know.’

  He set off towards the other officers who were now running over. ‘Fuckin’ ’ate southerners,’ Finch muttered to himself.

  Chapter 2

  Six Months Later

  ‘Jack Kowalski. My name is Jack Kowalski.’

  Jack Kowalski woke with a start, like most days recently. Sweat bobbled on his forehead. He reached for his mobile and turned off the alarm. Jack needed to be in chambers by 8.30. He wasn’t in court and had no papers to work on, but wanted to show willing. And if, as sometimes happened, there was a real emergency where any barrister would do, he’d be in the right place. That was pretty much the only work that came his way now. Washed up at twenty-five – his first waking thought.

  Jack had just finished a disastrous pupillage. Only a matter of time before he’d be asked to ‘find somewhere else’. Truth was, if Century Buildings weren’t prepared to take him on as their newest barrister, nowhere else would.

  It all came down to one thing – stage fright. As soon as he got near a courtroom he became so nervous that he couldn’t think straight, let alone construct complex case-winning strategies. All newly qualified barristers suffered from it to some extent, but Jack had it bad. And if anything, it was getting worse.

  He sat up and stared at his feet poking out over the end of his bed. It had been made for a child, a gift from a distant relative. Jack hadn’t realized until he’d carried the pieces up five floors and then assembled it. Anyway, it fitted rather well into his miniscule bedsit. Even more fortuitously, he didn’t have any other furniture to clutter up the place. His only possessions of any size were an ironing board, a clothes rail and a small electric keyboard. As a cheap stand-in for a piano, it had to do. Playing Chopin was Jack’s escape ‒ the only time he could breathe and forget all the daily pressures.

  The rent was a good deal due to the abundance of apartment blocks that had sprung up around the city just before the recession hit. He loved living in Manchester’s Northern Quarter.

  Jack climbed out of bed and opened the fridge. A half-eaten piece of cheese or a carton of milk. He chose the latter, holding it up to his mouth.

  The rain pounded against a glass door. Jack was drawn to its beating rhythm. He took in the view across the whole of the city. Even the rain couldn’t spoil that skyline, set against a backdrop of mountain peaks. It made anything seem possible.

  Jack was ready to fight another day. Time to prepare for battle: shower, shave, teeth. Then his armour: pants, dark socks, tunic shirt, collar studs (front and back), cufflinks, day collar, silk tie, pinstripe suit (trousers having first been given a quick iron under a dishcloth to prevent them going shiny) and, finally, black brogues (heavily polished to disguise their antiquity). Jack was determined that even if he couldn’t sound like a barrister, he would damn well look like one.

  Quick mirror check, then dark raincoat, blue wig bag, laptop, portable printer and out the door.

  He pressed the button and waited to see if the erratic lift would chug its way up to the fifth floor.

  The doors opened. A small, grey-haired old man stepped out.

  ‘Tata?’ Jack said in surprise. ‘You’re soaking! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Janusz!’ Jack’s father, Mariusz, began to explain in Polish.

  Jack cut him off. ‘Speak English, Tata. You promised me you would try. You’ve been here fifty years and no one can understand a word you say.’

  Mariusz scoffed. ‘OK, OK, I try. I bring you zupa,’ he said holding up a large saucepan with the lid held in place by cling film.

  Jack felt guilty about the reprimand as he took his father into the flat. He was always telling him off lately. Pushing him away, then regretting it. Transferring his anger on to his dad. Anger at his own failure. He softened at the realization. ‘You shouldn’t have, Tata.’

  ‘You know Pani Mila. She always make too much.’

  ‘I think she’s in love with you, Tata. That’s why she comes to cook and clean!’

  ‘Oh, don’t tease, Janusz. You eat now,’ said Mariusz, opening the fridge and noting its contents.

  Jack obeyed, putting the pan on the hob and removing the lid. The aroma wafted out. Pieces of white sausage and boiled egg. ‘Zurek! My favourite. Thank her for me, won’t you? Anyway, how did you get here?’

  ‘First bus, then tram,’ he replied.

  Jack heard the familiar jangle of his father’s bracelet. A present from Jack’s mother on their wedding day. Mariusz never took it off. It pinged against the steel radiator over which Mariusz was draping his overcoat.

  ‘Tata, I’m really grateful, but you can’t travel across the whole of Manchester just to bring me soup, especially in this weather.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Back in Poland, when I boy, I walk ten mile to school every day.’

  ‘I know, I know. You grew up on the farm – nothing for miles around – only chickens for company. But they will arrest you and put you in a psychiatric ward,’ teased Jack. ‘I can see the headline now: “Polish Tailor Sectioned After Seen Carrying Saucepan of Soup on Trams”.’

  Mariusz wasn’t listening, carefully inspecting Jack’s clothes rail now. He shook his head. ‘Take off coat and jacket.’

  ‘Tata, I haven’t got time,’ protested Jack, doing it anyway.

  ‘Jezu!’ exclaimed Mariusz in horror. ‘Crease on trouser not straight. Take off.’

  Jack couldn’t see any problem with them at all, but took them off to appease his father.

  ‘Where the iron I give you?’

  ‘Over there on the shelf.’

  ‘OK. You eat soup. I do trouser.’

  ‘Do you want some too?’

  ‘No, I have already eat,’ he lied.

  Jack poured the soup into a bowl and attacked it with a spoon. Hot food to start the day – a rare treat.

  Mariusz stopped ironing and watched his son. He couldn’t stop himself from saying: ‘Janusz, your mother. She would been very proud.’

  ‘I know, Tata, I know,’ said Jack, almost admonishing his father
– again. ‘You tell me every time I see you.’ The truth was, this kind of talk reminded Jack of how the news would break his father’s heart. News that he hadn’t been taken on at Century Buildings. Now was as good a time to tell him as any. ‘Tata, look. Things haven’t been going well in chambers. I don’t think they are going to let me stay.’

  To Jack’s surprise Mariusz seemed unperturbed. Blind faith, or maybe he just didn’t want to accept it. ‘I know it very difficult job,’ he replied. ‘Don’t worry. Try hard. It not over until fat lady dance.’

  ‘OK, Tata, but it’s fat lady sings.’

  ‘That’s what I say. Now, you go work, I rest here for few minutes.’

  Jack smiled at his father with deep affection, knowing he was only staying to iron all Jack’s shirts. ‘All right, Tata.’ He put on the trousers and pulled something out of a pocket. ‘What’s this? A twenty-pound note?’

  ‘Lucky day, Janusz. You forget you have.’

  Jack handed it to his father. ‘No, you put it there. I don’t need it. You do enough for me already.’

  ‘But you need eat.’

  Jack placated him. ‘I’m fine. I can always eat at Wujek’s.’

  Jack hugged his father. ‘Thanks for the soup, Tata.’

  Maybe it would be his lucky day, thought Jack, as he set off again.

  Chapter 3

  Lara Panassai was thinking those unhappy thoughts again. She turned the shower on full blast, hoping the water would wash them away. A feeling of despair. She’d woken to the same dull ache in her stomach again. But she didn’t understand why. It wasn’t as if she was alone, she had someone to look after her – Matthew. That was the main thing, wasn’t it?

  A knock on the bathroom door startled her. He was up.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Hang on. Won’t be a minute.’

  He ignored her and invaded the room. ‘Everything OK, Lara?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ she lied.

  The shower door began to steam up, partially saving her blushes.

  His eyes gorged on the view. Lara’s obvious discomfort made it all the more pleasurable. Pure lust. It was like he owned her. That was the best thing about having a lover like Lara. Thirty years his junior. He had all of her.

  His toy.

  Chapter 4

  Only a fifteen-minute walk across town to chambers, but today that would be challenge enough. He pulled his raincoat collar tight round his neck. The pinstripe had to be protected at all costs. Jack only had the one. Wetness in his left sock reminded him to get his shoes reheeled. His wig bag was already soaked.

  The rain eased off a little to give the wind a go. Leaves and litter swirled around in rings. A hand-shaped leaf slapped Jack’s cheek, stayed a while then spun off. Autumn had come early to Manchester, as was its habit. He pressed on. Another gust blew him down King Street and out on to Deansgate.

  Finally, he made it to Century Buildings. His first – and possibly only – victory of the day.

  Chambers was in an old red-brick building off Quay Street, in Spinningfields, Manchester’s legal quarter. It seemed out of place, nestled amongst all the shiny new office blocks that had sprung up in the past few years.

  Jack paused for a moment outside to prepare himself and gather his thoughts. A deep breath, then inside. He headed straight for Simon Huntsman’s room, hoping to wring out his sock in private. As a squatter, he had no room of his own.

  He sat down at his former pupil-master’s desk and pulled off his shoe.

  ‘Oh dear, the old hole in sole problem. Remember it well,’ said Huntsman, lugging his portly frame into the room.

  Jack made to get up but Huntsman waved him back down. ‘Stay where you are, old chap. How much do you need?’

  ‘No, Simon, I couldn’t. I’ll sort it.’ Jack was touched but embarrassed by the offer.

  ‘I know you haven’t got any money, old chap. And I know you don’t like asking your family.’ To make light of it, Huntsman added with a grin, ‘Having already bled them dry.’

  ‘It’s fine, really.’

  Simon Huntsman was a good bloke. No ambition to take silk or go on the bench. He loved the Bar. For him it was always chambers life, teaching his pupil, long lunches and entertaining anecdotes.

  Jack changed the subject. ‘Anyway, Simon, you’re in early today.’

  ‘Yes, got a rape at Warrington Crown at half ten. You got anything?’

  Before Jack could reply they heard a shout from the corridor.

  ‘Where’s Mr Kowalski?’ It was the senior clerk, Bob Murphy. To any barrister at the bottom end of chambers, he was God. Bob stuck his head round the door and pointed at Jack. ‘You’re late!’

  ‘Late? For what?’ replied Jack, feeling hard done by.

  ‘Preliminary hearing and bail application ‒ Crown Square ‒ Dobkin and Co.’ He slammed the brief down on the desk in front of Jack. And, as an afterthought he added, ‘And try not to mess it up, sir.’

  Once Bob was out of earshot Jack asked Huntsman, ‘What’s eating him?’

  ‘That big drugs trial is in for a mention hearing today. Loads of defendants and not one barrister from chambers in the case. It looks bad.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Who’s trying it?’

  ‘High Court judge up from London for a case like that. Mr Justice Skart, I think.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Prosecution minded. Doesn’t suffer fools gladly, especially where defence advocates are concerned. They say it’s always winter in his court ‒ but never Christmas.’

  Jack laughed. ‘And counsel? Silks, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. The usual suspects. John Otterwood is prosecuting, or should I say, knowing him, persecuting. And I know Lionel Katterman’s for one of the defendants. He’s been telling anyone who’ll listen.’

  As Manchester’s most successful silk, Katterman was in all the high-profile cases. Jack had never had a conversation with him, but by all accounts he was pompous, arrogant and – as an advocate – superb. Jack had once seen him cross-examine an eyewitness to a murder. Katterman had completely destroyed the man, convincing even the witness that he’d been mistaken about what he saw.

  Unlike Jack, Katterman had had it easy, right from the start. A good, solid, northern public school. Captain at various sports. Then head boy. On to Cambridge followed by a year of Bar Finals in London where he came first in his year. Pupillage at Manchester’s premier set, Paramount, with a highly respected advocate, Fighter Finlay, had been the perfect springboard for a career at the criminal Bar.

  Jack undid the pink ribbon, eager to digest the brief. He pulled out a copy of the court list. ‘Oh fuck!’

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Huntsman.

  Jack got up and started to pace up and down. ‘They’ve put me in Court One, before a High Court judge – Skart!’

  ‘Now, don’t go to pieces, lad. It’s just the luck of the draw. You can handle it.’

  Huntsman’s reassurance stiffened Jack’s resolve as he looked again at the list. ‘There’s a multi-hander on after me – Rako, Purley and Marpit.’ The significance began to dawn on him. ‘Please don’t tell me that’s the drugs conspiracy?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ replied Huntsman knowing what Jack was thinking.

  ‘Which means the courtroom will be full of silks waiting to get on – watching me do my bail app?’ Jack could feel the blood drain out of his face. And he knew it would be ten times worse once he got within spitting distance of the courtroom. Fear quickly turned to dread, then to panic.

  Huntsman placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘I know you can do this, Jack. Ken Dobkin is one of the best criminal solicitors in Manchester. He’s got most of the gangs in South Manchester, including Moss Side. This is a real chance for you. Take it with both hands.’ Huntsman decided he had to put Jack fully in the picture. ‘Actually, it’s do or die, old son.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Huntsman sighed. He liked Jack enormously. The son he’d never had. It
pained him to say it. ‘Barring a miracle, Sarah is going to ask you to move on today. I’ve done what I can, but chambers voted to let you squat for three months, to see if things improved. They don’t think they have. Time’s up. I’m really sorry, Jack.’

  Jack hung his head. He knew the Head of Chambers, Sarah Dale, didn’t think much of him. He couldn’t blame her.

  ‘So if today is your last day, at least go out with a bang. You’ve got nothing to lose. And you never know, get bail today and maybe we can buy you some more time?’

  Wishful thinking, thought Jack.

  Rafe Gallimore put his head round the door. ‘Good luck in the bail app, Jack. Must dash.’ Jack’s contemporary, Rafe, had just been taken on as a tenant. Already two Crown Court trials under his belt ‒ only minor public-order offences, affrays outside a pub ‒ but he’d won them both. He’d also won countless Magistrate’s Court trials. Rafe had lots of instructing solicitors, many of them connections of his father, His Honour Judge Gallimore. Jack wasn’t jealous of Rafe’s early success ‒ he was a good barrister and had been a loyal friend. The shared hardships of pupillage often forged strong bonds that would last a lifetime. Rafe had his own pressures and expectations to live up to, he just hid it better.

  Jack knew he could never compete.

  Chapter 5

  Jack’s first port of call was the cells beneath Manchester Crown Court. He rehearsed his patter whilst waiting for the prison officers to open up. Be confident and take control, he told himself.

  His sixteen-year-old client, Billy Birt, was sitting on a chair at a desk, wearing his school uniform. Someone must have told him it would help his chances of bail. His ginger hair was neatly combed to one side. There was something comical about it. Billy had the appearance of a model pupil, sitting in a classroom during a lesson.

  ‘And who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m your barrister, Jack Kowalski.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Jack Kowalski.’

  ‘You look a bit young to me. Still in short fockin’ trousers. I don’t want no muppet. I told Ken ‒ definitely no muppets.’ Billy was up and walking around the visiting room, becoming increasingly agitated. ‘You know who my dad is? You know my family? We fockin’ run Wythenshawe. D’ya get me?’