Unconvicted

by Olly Jarvis

  ‘Call me Mary. Do you mind if I sit down?’ she asked, without waiting for a reply.

  ‘Err, no, please do… Mary. Are you dining here tonight?’

  ‘No. I came to see you.’

  ‘Me?’

  She sighed. ‘Yes. I was told I’d find you here.’

  ‘It’s my uncle’s place, so I help out occasionally.’

  ‘And you’re pretty good on the piano, I’m told?’

  Jack wasn’t used to compliments, especially coming from a judge. He didn’t know quite how to act or what to say.

  ‘How are you, Jack?’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Honestly.’

  His shoulders dropped. ‘Not great. I’ve been in a tailspin.’

  ‘Multiply that by ten. That’s how I feel.’

  ‘I heard, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘You have nothing to apologize for. You just made a bail application – perfectly properly. You did your job. I made the decision to bail him – the wrong decision, as it turned out. I screwed up.’ She shrugged. ‘But what can I do – other than live with it?’

  Jack was comforted by her words of wisdom.

  ‘You know they had me back in Court the next day?’

  ‘Really?’ said Jack.

  ‘I’m just a civil servant, after all. You know what my partner told me, to make me feel better?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She said I could refuse bail in every application that comes before me, then this would never happen again.’

  Jack smiled. He’d forgotten Judge Beddingfield was the first openly gay woman on circuit.

  ‘But then, that would be the coward’s way out, because there are plenty of innocent people out there who should get bail. We can’t be afraid of doing what we think is right.’

  Jack took in what she was saying. He wished he had her strength of character. ‘I know, but—’

  ‘No buts, Jack. We have a responsibility. And you’re making me look bad. People are asking why you quit – whether you felt guilty about pulling the wool over my eyes. You didn’t.’

  ‘Thank you for saying that.’

  She placed a hand on his, then got up to leave. ‘I’ll see you in Court, Jack.’

  Chapter 13

  Friday, 2pm. A bright winter’s day. A police car raced along Slade Lane in Longsight with its siren blaring.

  A 999 call had been made only minutes earlier. A disturbance, probably a burglary, reported by a neighbour.

  If the police got to the house quickly enough, they might catch the perpetrator. It was the least they could do when the caller was prepared to leave a name.

  Two squad cars arrived simultaneously. The front door was open. ‘Mr Ross, it’s the police. Are you in? Is everything all right?’ an officer called out as they searched the small terraced house.

  ‘Out here!’ called a young PC from the back garden.

  The other bobbies joined him.

  An elderly man was lying on his back on the patio, unconscious. There was a pool of blood under his head. Close by, a few of the paving slabs had been removed, where someone had dug a hole.

  ‘Poor sod,’ said one of the officers as he bent down to tend to the old man. ‘In broad daylight. Get an ambulance. And forensics.’

  Someone was making herself known at the front door. ‘Hello! Excuse me. Hello?’

  PC Adil Khan took control. ‘Mick, you stay with him. I’ll deal with this.’ He walked back through the house, hoping nobody would notice his muddy footprints all over the carpet.

  A crowd was gathering outside.

  An elderly woman peeked nervously into the hallway. ‘Is he all right, Officer? I live next door. It was me who phoned.’

  ‘Oh I see, is it Mrs Paget?’ asked PC Khan, remembering his community policing manners. He was a good bobby, old school. He knew most people in the area and they knew him. It had taken years to earn their respect, and even – some would say – their trust. People would talk to him. Tell him things that often proved very useful. Not that his superiors seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn’t give him any recognition.

  ‘Yes, I heard shouting coming from the back. I knew something was wrong. Was it a burglar? Is Mr Ross all right?’

  The officer sought to reassure her as best he could. ‘We don’t know very much yet, Mrs Paget, I’m afraid. There’s an ambulance on its way.’

  ‘Oh dear. Did they hurt him? I saw someone.’

  The crowd was growing and a few eavesdroppers began to surround them. One disgruntled resident piped up: ‘He’ll be long gone by now. Got here too late, as usual. When are you lot going to start catching these toe rags, eh, officer?’

  PC Khan steered the old woman into the front garden as he replied, ‘Yes thank you for that, sir. We do our best.’ Turning back to Mrs Paget: ‘I’m sorry, Madam, you were saying you saw someone?’

  ‘Yes, about fifteen minutes ago. He ran to the back of Mr Ross’s garden, climbed over the fence and away.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘I suppose I can,’ she replied, unsure of herself. ‘A normal looking teenager?’

  ‘What colour was he?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Black, I think.’

  PC Khan took out his pocket notebook and wrote this down, without commenting on the vagueness of the description.

  ‘He caught his trousers on the fence, so I saw his face when he turned back to pull them free.’

  Encouraged, Khan asked ‘Would you recognise him again?’

  ‘Oh, I should think so,’ she replied.

  Chapter 14

  There was a buzz around the courtroom. Half Manchester’s legal profession was packed in. All keen to hear the verdicts.

  This defendant had a lot to lose. Nobody could remember a QC being on trial before. And such an eminent one. Onlookers kept stealing glimpses of him in the dock; transfixed by the sight. He seemed so different now. A shadow of his former self.

  Lara Panassai, the newly qualified solicitor at Dobkin’s, took her seat in the public gallery. Today, it wasn’t business. It was personal.

  Jim Smith, from the Manchester Evening News, caught Lara’s eye as he jostled the other journalists and reporters for a place. ‘You OK, Lara?’

  ‘Yeah. Not bad,’ she said matter-of-factly, though her anxiety was obvious.

  ‘What do you think, then?’ he asked her.

  ‘I really couldn’t call it, Jim.’

  ‘All rise!’

  The chatter ceased as the judge entered the courtroom. ‘I want absolute silence as the verdicts are delivered. I hope I make myself clear.’

  The jury was ushered into Court.

  ‘Would the defendant please stand?’ asked the Court clerk.

  Lionel Katterman, QC, got to his feet. Wide-eyed, even he couldn’t conceal his emotions. Guilty verdicts would mean disgrace – jail – oblivion.

  ‘Would the foreman please stand?’

  A studious-looking gentleman in the front row of the jury box stood up.

  Lara clasped her hands and closed her eyes. She wanted justice.

  The Court clerk asked the first question. ‘Have you reached verdicts in relation to both counts, on which you are all agreed?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘On Count One, how do you find the defendant?’

  Lara held her breath.

  ‘Not guilty.’

  Gasps.

  ‘On Count Two, how do you find the defendant?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  Everyone in the gallery turned to the dock.

  For a split second, Katterman wore a barely perceptible smirk.

  Lara opened her eyes and saw Katterman looking back at her. She was sure he was laughing to himself. She got up and walked out of court.

  His Honour thanked the jury for their consideration of the case, then turned his attention to the defendant, addressing him by his full title.

  ‘Mr Katterman, Queen’s Counsel. You may be discharged.’ The judge smil
ed, approving of the verdicts. ‘And I would like to make it quite clear, Mr Katterman: You leave this Court as you entered it – without a stain on your character.’

  He’d got away with it. He’d bullshitted the lot of them.

  Lionel Katterman, QC, was back.

  Chapter 15

  PC Khan parked the squad car just around the corner from Woodford House. There was no point alerting the whole neighbourhood. The offender managers didn’t like the police parking outside. It wasn’t good for their reputation, and it fuelled community opposition to such establishments. Khan had huge respect for these key workers. For very little pay, they gave everything to try and keep young criminals out of jail and steer them away from an empty life of drugs and crime. On a miniscule budget, Woodford House gave apprenticeships to young offenders. It was a thankless task, with most apprentices re-offending, sometimes even while on the course, but every now and then a kid was saved.

  Khan walked through the garage to the office. The lads were in overalls, working on the cars. The ones that didn’t know him made oinking noises as he wove through the garage. Those that did ignored him.

  Khan had already seen the suspect, but he wasn’t about to burn any bridges with Jammer by not speaking to him first.

  Jammer was in his office, standing up and pleading into the phone. ‘Well thanks, bro,’ he said, before slamming the phone back into its cradle. He noticed the officer waiting outside his door. ‘Hey, my man!’ he said, raising a hand to high five PC Khan.

  The officer walked in and awkwardly raised his hand in response.

  Jammer chuckled to himself as he swept his dreadlocks over his shoulders. They had a mutual respect. Both cared about the young people of Levenshulme. After all, they’d grown up there.

  ‘Pull up a chair, bro.’

  Khan obliged. He wasn’t looking forward to this.

  Jammer sat down and leaned in towards his old friend. ‘What can I do for you, Adil?’

  ‘I’m ’fraid I’ve got to arrest one of the lads.’

  Jammer’s jocular demeanour switched immediately to disappointment. ‘What for?’

  ‘Burglary and GBH with intent. It’s nasty, the victim’s in hospital.’

  Jammer had to ask: ‘Who?’

  ‘Gary Dixon.’

  The key worker sat bolt upright. ‘No. There must be some mistake. Not Gary.’

  ‘Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? He’s got form for it.’

  Jammer didn’t reply, just shook his head.

  ‘You can’t save ’em all, Jammer.’

  Jammer was already thinking about what could be salvaged. ‘Adil, he finishes the course in a few weeks. He’s my best apprentice. He’s even got a job lined up. Will you bail him? So he can finish the course, at least?’

  Khan shrugged. He admired Jammer’s loyalty to his boys, but there wasn’t anything he could do. ‘That’s not up to me.’ He felt compelled to add: ‘But I’ll put in a good word.’

  They walked out to the garage.

  Khan found the noise intimidating; metal on metal and rap on the radio. The teenagers were levelling friendly abuse at each other.

  Jammer turned off the music. ‘Gary, come over here please.’

  A scrawny black teenager pulled his head out from under the bonnet of a Ford Galaxy. On seeing Khan, his expression bristled with attitude.

  Khan noticed the lad’s fingernails – brown from engine oil and grease.

  Some of the apprentices started to protest. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Mind your own and get back to work,’ Jammer replied, his authority commanding immediate silence.

  Khan pulled out his handcuffs and took Dixon’s wrists. ‘Gary Dixon, I’m arresting you for assault and burglary. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may—’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he interrupted, resigned to his fate. Too ashamed to look at his mentor, he could only manage a mutter: ‘I’m sorry, Jammer.’

  ‘Come on, son.’ PC Khan led Dixon out of the garage, ignoring the menacing stares of his comrades. Perhaps he should’ve brought another officer along, but that wasn’t his style.

  Jammer went back to the office and made a call: ‘Hello, Lara. It’s Jammer from Woodford House. Can you get down to Longsight police station?’

  Chapter 16

  Jack let himself in. He still had a key. He called out from the bottom of the stairs that led up to his father’s flat. ‘Tata?’ There was no reply.

  Mariusz was sat in his armchair, asleep, glasses perched on the end of his nose and a thimble on one thumb. A jacket was draped across his lap. Jack’s arrival woke him. ‘Janusz?’

  ‘Hello, Tata. What have I told you about working on Saturdays?’ Jack took the thimble and placed it on a side table. ‘You need to take breaks.’

  ‘Movish Popolsku,’ said Mariusz. ‘Speak Polish.’

  ‘No, Tata. You need to practice. If you don’t speak English with me, you won’t speak it at all!’

  ‘I speak. I speak,’ he protested. ‘To customer.’

  ‘What, about the price of altering some trousers?’ Jack mocked gently.

  Mariusz extricated himself from his chair and shuffled into the kitchenette. ‘Tea?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘You can’t just hide away from the world, Tata.’

  Mariusz turned and faced his son. ‘I too old to change.’ He paused. ‘But you.’ He shook his head and looked heavenwards. ‘Your mother.’

  Jack cut him off. ‘That’s not fair, Tata. I just needed some time to get my head together.’

  ‘You have long enough’ Mariusz began to cough. The movement and conversation had exhausted him.

  Jack helped him onto a chair by the dining table, pushed against the wall in the lounge.

  Once he’d composed himself, Mariusz tried to reason with his son: ‘All my life I change trouser. They want longer, more short, bigger waist. Same with jacket.’

  ‘I know, Tata, I know’

  ‘My job is do what I told.’ He put a hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘I never say I don’t like your trouser. I never say I not alter trouser because I don’t like colour or fashion.’ Mariusz paused. ‘This man who kill wife. Your job is defend – like alter trouser. You can’t refuse or think I don’t like. You just do job.’

  The analogy made Jack smile. ‘If only it was that simple. Someone died.’

  His father nodded. ‘Yes, even though not you fault, you must carry burden. But you must go back work.’

  Jack acknowledged the advice without resistance, then – employing one of his father’s tactics – changed the subject: ‘Did you hear that Gustaw Nowak has been charged with a sex offence?’

  ‘Yes, not good, the Polish kids need, need—’

  ‘Role models?’

  ‘Exactly, I don’t think he guilty.’

  ‘Just because he’s Polish?’

  ‘Mariusz shrugged. ‘Well, I hope he has good barrister.’

  Jack decided not to mention the conversation with Bob. ‘I’d better get going, Tata. I’m working at Marek’s tonight.’

  ‘What about tea?’

  ‘No time.’

  He watched Jack go down the stairs. ‘Marek say you drinking too much?’

  Jack looked back at his father as he held the front door open. ‘Don’t worry, Tata. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.’

  Jack breathed a sigh of relief as he shut the door.

  Chapter 17

  DS Baker pressed record. ‘This interview is being conducted with the suspect, Gary Dixon, at Longsight Police station on the 3^rd^ of April by myself, DS Joan Baker, and PC Adil Khan. The time now is 14:22 hours. Also present is the suspect’s legal representative…’ She turned to the solicitor sitting next to Dixon.

  ‘Lara Panassai.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Panassai,’ she said, followed by a courteous smile. ‘Just one more formality, Mr Dixon. The caution: you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not menti
on, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Lara responded: ‘I’ve had a conference with the defendant, just prior to this interview. Mr Dixon has expressed an intention to exercise his right not to answer any of your questions.’

  ‘Well, that’s his right,’ said Baker, annoyed more at the solicitor than the suspect. ‘As long as he realizes what a jury might make of that?’

  ‘He’s been advised.’ Lara replied, tersely.

  ‘Very well, Gary,’ huffed the DS. ‘I’m sure Miss Panassai has advised you that I still have to ask the questions even though you’re not going to answer.’

  Dixon nodded.

  ‘Sorry, Gary. The tape doesn’t pick up a nod,’ said Baker, trying to get a verbal response on tape, well aware that it always looked worse for defendants if they were selective about which questions they answered.

  Lara spoke before Gary had a chance to: ‘He understands that, Officer.’

  ‘Well, Gary,’ said Baker, shuffling her notes. ‘There’s some good news: Mr Ross is alive.’

  The suspect couldn’t hide his relief.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up, son. His condition is still critical. Is there anything you want to tell us about that?’

  Gary looked nervously at Lara who remained expressionless. Eventually he answered: ‘No comment.’

  ‘Where were you at about two o’clock on the 29^th^ of March this year?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Have you ever been to 14 Binkley Terrace, in Longsight?’

  ‘No comment.’ The agony in the defendant’s replies was obvious.

  ‘Do you know a Mr Ross who lives there?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Look, Gary. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do. This is your chance to tell us your side of things.’

  ‘No comment!’ he said defiantly.

  ‘I’m sure you want to get this off your chest. Mr Ross has got head injuries, Gary. We think someone hit him. He fell back and hit his head. Did you punch him?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Maybe you didn’t mean for him to bang his head? That’s the serious injury.’

  Gary’s eyes were welling up. ‘No comment.’