by Olly Jarvis
Billy was just a vicious little burglar. As was his dad. Those that could honestly claim to run Billy’s neighbourhood shot people for fun.
‘I do know, Billy. That’s why this is the only hearing I’m doing today. Ken has demanded an exclusive service. That’s what the Birts get. Total focus on getting you out.’
Billy began to calm down, a little flattered. Eventually, he sat down. ‘Alright, fella,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘Tell me how you’re gonna get me bail?’
Jack took a seat and undid the ribbon on the brief. ‘The judge’s main concern will be the risk of reoffending, particularly at night. I’m going to suggest an electronically monitored curfew.’
‘What? A tag?’
‘Yes. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s better than being banged up.’
Billy nodded. ‘You know we got a High Court judge?’
‘I believe so,’ Jack replied in an attempt at indifference.
‘What’s he like? Miserable git, I’ve heard.’
‘Don’t worry, Billy. I can handle him.’ He gave his client a confident wink. ‘Better go. We’re up in five. I’ll see you after – hopefully on the outside.’
Billy watched his barrister’s trembling hands retie the pink ribbon. He was not entirely convinced.
Chapter 6
‘All rise!’
Everyone rose to their feet in anticipation.
Jack Kowalski’s legs were shaking. He was petrified. This was a new kind of fear. Not just nerves. It was having a physical effect on him. Dry mouth. Dizzy. He’d never seen such a packed courtroom.
Mr Justice Skart entered with the confidence of a man who knew that it was his court: tall, aloof and imposing in his red robes. His Lordship nodded. Everyone sat down.
‘Preliminary hearing and bail application of William Birt,’ announced the clerk as Billy was brought up into the dock.
‘Well? Let’s get on with it,’ demanded the judge impatiently. ‘I’ve seen a copy of the proposed timetable for service of papers. I assume it’s agreed. What about bail? Who prosecutes?’ A judge of this calibre didn’t waste time.
A confident and able junior, Rupert Aston, rose to the challenge. ‘The Crown’s objections to bail are quite simply that the defendant is likely to commit further offences, My Lord. He has an unenviable record for one so young. This burglary was allegedly committed whilst on bail for another offence.’
‘Similar facts to this allegation, Mr Aston?’ predicted the judge.
‘Yes, My Lord.’
The judge glowered at the dock over his half-moon spectacles.
The teenage defendant lowered his gaze, head bowed.
‘Yes. Thank you, Mr Aston. Who defends in this matter?’ asked his Lordship.
A painful silence.
‘I do.’ The voice sounded uncertain. Almost a croak.
Jack reluctantly stood up. He steadied himself with his left hand, holding on to the lectern on counsel’s row. His young wig glistened a pearly white. It was obvious to all that he was not long out of Bar School. This was it – a last chance to impress his Head of Chambers. He had to get his client bail.
Jack steeled himself and nervously spat out his submission. ‘My Lord, William is only sixteen years of age. He’s missing a great deal of school because of recent events. All of these allegations are denied. There are serious issues as to the admissibility of the identification evidence. The defendant is from a caring and responsible family.’
‘Slow down. You’re going like a freight train,’ ordered the judge, staring at Jack, bemused.
The criticism of his advocacy knocked Jack sideways. He tried to breathe and stuttered on. ‘Any concerns the court might have can be met by stringent bail conditions, including residence with his parents.’
‘Did these alleged offences occur in the defendant’s neighbourhood, and at what time of day?’ The judge’s tone made it clear he was already tiring of the hearing.
‘Yes they did, My Lord, and at night,’ purred prosecution counsel, without even getting to his feet, evidently knowing his brief. Aston – ‘the assiduous’, as he was known at the Manchester Bar – was the perfect prosecution junior. He was in all the big cases; highly sought after for his unique combination of intellect and hard graft. In his mid-thirties, he was well rounded in every sense, with large similarly shaped spectacles, which made him resemble a grown-up Milkybar Kid who’d failed to beat his addiction.
Jack responded weakly, ‘A curfew condition with an electronic tag?’
‘No, Mr… Mr…?’ interjected the judge, as if he had not really heard what Jack was saying.
‘Kowalski, My Lord,’ said Jack, his voice trailing off in resignation.
‘No. He has had enough chances. It is also abundantly clear that his parents are not able to control him.’
Jack retook his seat. Another lost opportunity.
‘Right. Stand up,’ demanded his Lordship.
Without thinking, Jack leapt to his feet again, even before the defendant.
‘Not you, Mr Kowalski, the de-fen-dant,’ barked the judge.
The court erupted in laughter.
In shock at the stupidity of his mistake, Jack remained where he stood, frozen to the spot.
The laughter grew louder and louder.
All laughing at Jack.
After what seemed like an age, he felt a hand on his arm, and heard a gentle voice, ‘Sit down, lad.’ Queen’s Counsel, John Otterwood, had leaned back over the bench in front. Jack fell back into his seat, but not without noticing the sympathy in Otterwood’s eyes.
Oblivious to the laughter, his Lordship spoke above the din, causing it to cease sharply. ‘William Birt, bail is refused. You will remain in custody until your trial. Take him down. Call on the next case.’
‘Put up Rako, Purley and Marpit,’ announced the court clerk.
John Otterwood, QC, rose to his feet in an effortless movement, words pouring smoothly from his lips. ‘May it please My Lord, I appear to prosecute together with my junior, Mr Aston. The defendant Rako is represented by Mr Bingham, QC, together with Mr Toakes. Purley is represented by Mr Katterman, QC, and Mr Effiong.’ Both defence leaders nodded courteously.
‘Marpit’s counsel, Mr Rogers of Queen’s Counsel, is in the cells, as I understand it. Before the defendants are brought up, My Lord, might we have some little time to take stock. There is a possible issue with the representation of one of the defendants – Mr Marpit I believe. I think efforts are being made to resolve it.’
The judge showed a flicker of concern. Was the defendant sacking his legal team? Litigants in person always meant delay. He sighed. ‘Two-fifteen, Mr Otterwood.’
As his Lordship rose, Otterwood showed his gratitude with a bow.
Chapter 7
Jack eventually got to his feet and joined the chattering mass of barristers, solicitors, clerks, journalists and members of the public filing out of the courtroom.
So that was it. All his chances used up. Jack took out his mobile and rang chambers. ‘Hello, Bob. Bad news I’m afraid.’
‘I know, Mr Kowalski,’ said Bob, almost sympathetically. ‘Your instructing solicitor – Mr Dobkin – and his trainee were sat at the back of the court. He’s not happy. He’s been on the blower, sir. He’s coming round now to see Miss Dale. Oh, and he wants you to meet his trainee, at the entrance to the cells. Try and sweet-talk young Billy, sir.’
‘Will do. I’ll be down in five. Oh and what’s the trainee’s name?’
‘Lara Panassai.’
Jack had tried to sound chipper on the telephone but both men knew he would get the boot when he got back to chambers.
By getting rid of Jack, Sarah Dale, Head of Chambers at Century Buildings, might go some way to appeasing Ken Dobkin, even fuel his ego a little.
Jack sloped into the robing room and started looking for the initials on his wig bag amongst all the other blue and red bags, and dead briefs that littered the room.
Other counsel were taki
ng off wing collars and bands, to be replaced by their day collars and ties, so they could go across the road for lunch. Lionel Katterman, QC, was holding court. Everything about him oozed success. Silver-haired with aquiline features and permanently tanned from regular lounging on the beaches of the Caribbean.
Katterman put his coat on and continued talking at the people in the room, ‘I was in front of Watkins the other day. Defending a man for bestiality. He’d been having sex with his horse. I said to Watkins in mitigation, please don’t send him to jail, Your Honour. He is now in a stable relationship!’
The group laughed obligingly as they followed Katterman towards the door.
He glanced across at Jack as he left, and continued. ‘Oh happy days. Couldn’t do a horse myself, old boy. Wouldn’t be able to get it to stand up. Know what I mean, Kowalski?’
The group laughed again, remembering Jack’s earlier humiliation as they walked off down the corridor.
John Otterwood, QC, was still putting on his coat as he made for the door. ‘Don’t worry about him. I saw his first appearance in nineteen seventy-five. He was shaking like a leaf.’
Jack managed a smile.
‘Have you seen your young client yet?’
‘No, I’m going now,’ Jack replied, placing his wig carefully in the tin. He wondered whether he would ever need it again.
‘Never go to the cells without being robed, old chap. A defendant is always more respectful towards a barrister wearing his wig.’
‘Right. Thanks for the advice.’ Jack opened his wig tin one last time.
Alone in the robing room now, he remembered his occasional appearances in the Crown Court. Paralyzed with fear at the thought of going into the courtroom. Yet despite the terror he constantly felt, something deep inside had driven him on, desperate to succeed at the Bar. Little else mattered.
Jack pulled on his gown in front of the mirror, feeling self-conscious. He had the disadvantage of being uncomfortable in his own skin, let alone a wig and gown. He was tall and strong but his frame had yet to develop the fullness of age. Unfortunately, although he had a strong Polish face with dark features, he felt he looked his years. He remembered how his father had scrimped and saved to buy his wig and gown. How was he going to tell him that his career was over before it had even begun?
He caught the lift down and started to walk along the corridor towards the steel door leading to the cells. In the distance, he could make out the image of a young woman in a trouser suit and white blouse, waiting by the door. She had long black hair and a light, golden tone to her skin. As he got closer, he saw her properly. She was stunning. Lips full and red, and her eyes an unusual light green. A hint of the exotic about her.
She spoke confidently. ‘Hello, Jack.’
‘Is it Lara?’
‘Yes.’
Jack launched into the same old excuses. ‘Lara, look. I’m sorry about the bail. It was always going to be an uphill battle.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not my problem any more.’
‘What do you mean?’ he said, pressing the buzzer on the door.
‘My training contract finishes today. I’m not being kept on. They can’t afford another qualified solicitor. Not with all the legal-aid cuts.’
‘I’m probably in the same boat after this result,’ he offered, attempting to find common ground. ‘I’ve been squatting in chambers. I think today is going to be eviction day.’
They could hear the jangle of keys as an overweight prison officer opened the door. His white shirt was stained with food, his forearms covered in tattoos of dragons. ‘Who do you want to see?’
‘William Birt, please. Come on, let’s get it over with,’ said Jack as he politely ushered Lara through the door to the cells and into the cell visiting room.
Billy looked more himself now. Tie off, sleeves up, the developing muscles of a trainee psycho.
Billy spoke very slowly and deliberately to accentuate his hate. ‘You fucking plank.’
‘Now come on, Billy—’
‘What about a tag, My Lord,’ he interrupted, mimicking Jack’s advocacy. ‘Was that it? That’s all you got? Get him out of my cell,’ Billy demanded to the prison officer waiting outside. ‘Wait till they hear about you on the wing. You’ll never work again. Now piss off!’
Jack and Lara walked out without a word. The teenager got up to follow and shouted more abuse. The prison officer came in and handcuffed him, then started to drag him back to the cell area. ‘I’ll have you on the outside, you wanker. You’re sacked.’
Jack was less shaken than Lara. If there was one thing he had fast become very experienced in, it was taking abuse from defendants.
‘How can you let him speak to you like that?’ Lara asked in amazement.
‘The customer is always right,’ Jack replied, trying to hide his embarrassment.
Lara laughed.
She liked him.
Chapter 8
‘Calm down, Mr Marpit, please?’ Daniel Rogers, QC, was usually able to control his clients. Not this time.
Marpit ignored him, continuing to stride up and down the tiny cell visiting room.
‘Please, Carl. Sit down,’ asked the panicked solicitor.
Eventually, Marpit complied.
Rogers began again. ‘You have to be realistic, Mr Marpit. There’s no evidence to support what you say. You’re not going to walk away from this. Let me try and secure a deal. Maybe as little as fifteen years. You’ll only serve half that.’
Marpit put his head in his hands, fingers pressed hard into his forehead. He lifted it again. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, I was working for the National Crime Agency. I’m not pleading guilty.’ Marpit got up again. ‘Get out. Go on, get out.’
Rogers ignored the order. ‘I want to achieve the best outcome.’
‘Bullshit. You just haven’t got the stomach for a trial. You’re sacked. All of you.’ Marpit banged repeatedly on the door. ‘Get me out of here.’
Marpit ignored the final pleas of his legal team to see sense. Everything was closing in on him.
A security officer was quickly in the room, handcuffing Marpit and taking him back to his cell.
Marpit flopped down on to the bench. A piece of wood on concrete. There was nothing else. No furniture. Floor to ceiling, everything was painted grey. Some crude drawings on the walls distracted him momentarily from his turmoil.
He reached into his trouser pocket and took out a dog-eared, passport-sized photograph of a young woman. He rubbed the portrait gently with his thumb then carefully put it away again. Marpit laid down on the bench and closed his eyes. His head felt like it was going to explode.
Nothing to do but kill time.
He woke to the sound of Billy being dragged past his cell, shouting abuse. As always, it took Marpit a moment to remember his predicament – then the feeling that followed: sick to his stomach.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes. A tiny screwed-up piece of paper lay on the ground by the door. It hadn’t been there before. Nothing could go unnoticed in the tiny cell. Marpit reached over and picked it up. One word was written on it: ‘DEAD’.
Chapter 9
The prison officer came back alone and unlocked the main door to let Jack and Lara out.
The sound of the door being slammed shut behind them echoed down the corridor as they headed for the lift. Then it opened again; the same officer came out and peered down the corridor towards them.
‘Just a minute, sir.’
Jack and Lara exchanged glances and started to walk back.
‘What’s up?’ asked Jack.
‘There’s a defendant in here, very agitated, sir. He needs a barrister to represent him. We’ve rung the robing room. There’s no one about. He’s up in court in a few minutes. Will you see him, sir?’
Jack thought for a moment. This could be an opportunity to spend more time in her company. ‘Well, I can’t see a defendant without instructions from a solicitor, who would also have to be pr
esent during the conference. So really it’s up to Miss Panassai.’ Jack grinned at Lara and asked: ‘Miss Panassai?’
She gave a deep sigh before replying, ‘Oh, go on then. I know I’m going to regret this.’
A middle-aged man was sitting in the chair where Billy had been before, staring straight ahead at the wall. White-faced, he was sweating profusely, not from exercise but from fear. He glanced up momentarily as Jack began the introductions. ‘Hello, I’m Jack Kowalski, a barrister. This is Lara Panassai from Dobkin and Co. I understand you don’t have any representation? What are you up for today?’
The man looked at Jack with utter contempt. Jack felt it wasn’t personal. Just that expression repeat offenders sometimes had, a sense of anger and mistrust of anyone in the legal profession.
‘Drugs,’ he said wearily.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t ask your name,’ said Jack.
The man thought for a moment and then decided to answer. ‘Marpit. Carl Marpit.’
‘Marpit?’ Jack gulped. ‘You are in the importation case.’ He wasn’t about to let himself get dragged into some sort of bullshit legal-aid transfer in front of Judge Skart. He had heard Marpit’s name referred to in the earlier mention hearing by Otterwood. He composed himself. ‘I thought you had counsel – two of them! A junior and a silk.’
‘We had a difference of opinion. I’ve sacked ’em – and me solicitors. I need you to defend me in a bail application at two-fifteen. I’ll instruct Dobkin and Co., who can brief ya.’
Lara glanced sympathetically at Jack. She knew he was out of his depth. Wild horses wouldn’t drag Jack back before Skart, especially with Katterman and his cronies watching.
‘First of all, Mr Marpit, the judge may not allow the transfer of the legal-aid order to us. Your old team has read all the papers. Judges don’t like paying for another legal team to read them all over again. Isn’t the trial due to start on Monday?’
