by Abi Silver
‘Yes, thank you, Ms Burton. And I have read it. Mr Chambers, what do you have to say about it all?’
‘It’s most unfortunate that this has only come to light now,’ he said.
‘I hope you’re not trying to suggest it’s the defence’s fault,’ Judith replied angrily. ‘The police found the rings in the little girl’s room and jumped to conclusions. They could easily have discovered this at the outset and saved us all from this farce.’
‘You could have asked your client or his wife or his daughter who took the rings. He chose not to say anything. That’s perjury or at least perverting the course of justice.’
‘You are seriously suggesting that now you know my client is innocent of the theft, you are going to prosecute him for something else? And who in their right mind would shop their own daughter when they could not possibly have any confidence in the English legal system?’
‘Well, you wouldn’t know the answer to that first-hand, would you?’
‘Stop it, both of you!’ Judge Seymour rose to his feet and banged the palm of his hand on the table. ‘Remember who and where you are. Mr Chambers, you say the Crown accepts that Mr Qabbani did not steal the rings. So that charge against him will be dropped. Are you intending to prosecute the nine-year-old girl? I suggest you think very hard before you answer that question.’
‘No, your honour. We don’t see it as in the public interest.’
‘Thank you. A sensible decision, I might say. Where does that leave Mr Qabbani?’
‘We have the forensic evidence and the defendant’s curious behaviour in the railway station…’
‘Which the psychiatrist has explained.’ Judith could not hold her tongue. Judge Seymour silenced her with a swift and piercing glare.
‘Clearly he’s capable of violence,’ Chambers continued, ‘we have no idea what “trauma” he has suffered, if any, and his relationship with Mrs Hennessy was not normal, befriending her, giving her gifts. We want to take it to the jury.’
Judge Seymour hesitated. Every day in court cost in excess of £3,000, and this was a high-profile case. He didn’t want to be criticised for prolonging things unnecessarily if a ‘not guilty’ verdict was returned quickly.
‘Ms Burton?’
Judith wavered. He was encouraging her to move now for the acquittal. She smelt it. They could do the deal now in here quietly and Ahmad would be released and led out of a back door to go home. Constance would be invited to issue a short statement afterwards ‘on behalf of the family thanking friends for their support.’ But there was an alternative; the one Constance was urging on her. She thought of Mrs Qabbani sitting alone in the house with the peeling wallpaper while her husband was out cleaning each day.
‘Your honour, the defence is happy for the case to continue and go to the jury, if the theft charge is dropped and the prosecution agrees that no action will be taken against any member of the Qabbani family in relation to the rings. But we want to interpose a new witness, the defendant’s wife, this morning.’
Judge Seymour muttered under his breath and wrinkled his nose. Then he tapped his pen on the desk.
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Chambers?’
‘Yes, we want to go ahead. But we had no notice of the wife coming.’
‘I’m telling you now.’
‘All right, Ms Burton. If you are sure and you are both in agreement. I shall be interested to see what Mrs Qabbani has to say, as, I think, will the jury. But this is a court of law and we have no other mistress or agenda. Is that clear?
‘Yes, your honour.’
58
Ahmad stood quietly in the dock. Judith had told Constance, as succinctly as she could, what had transpired in the judge’s room and what they needed to do next. Judith stood up and thought, fleetingly, of her own technique of lectern leaning. Sometimes she adopted the ‘praying mantis’; she found that lent her an air of piety and false reverence.
But that was unacceptable for this next witness. She needed something foreign to her every breath, she needed to appear empathetic. And so she alighted upon a stance with her fingers splayed on the top of the lectern, elbows bent, chest slightly forward and her head gently inclined to one side. ‘The budgerigar,’ she whispered to herself triumphantly. That would do.
‘Your honour. As agreed with my learned friend, Mr Chambers, and with your permission, I now call Mrs Aisha Qabbani.’
Gasps of surprise filled the courtroom and heads turned in anticipation of viewing the reclusive, down-trodden wife. But Ahmad leaped up, his eyes blazing.
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘No, please, no! I forbid this.’
The two police officers on either side were quick off their feet and restrained him, or he might have jumped from the dock. Even so, they wrestled with him until he was knocked to the floor. A third officer joined them to hold him down. The judge banged his gavel to restore order and Ahmad was raised to his knees, with his arms twisted behind his back.
‘Oh God, Connie. What a mess,’ Judith muttered. ‘We should have taken the deal.’
‘No,’ Constance replied. ‘This is good. Keep going.’
Mr Justice Seymour glowered at Judith before turning his icy stare on Ahmad.
‘Mr Qabbani, I can see this is difficult for you but this is not a public house or a Syrian bazaar. This is a court of law, my court, and you will sit quietly and listen to the evidence, whether you like it or not. Do you understand?’
Ahmad pouted, desperation etched across his face as the officers lifted him up slowly and pushed him back down in his seat.
‘I don’t like doing this but I am going to ask the police officers to replace your handcuffs just to ensure we won’t have any more disturbances,’ he continued.
‘Your honour, I am sure that won’t be necessary,’ Judith pleaded for Ahmad.
‘This is my courtroom and I am sure it will be. This is the second time Mr Qabbani has interrupted inappropriately and it will allow us all to be more relaxed for the next few minutes. If it happens again, he will be removed. Go ahead, please.’
Ahmad closed his eyes tightly as the handcuffs were placed on his wrists and snapped shut. How could his wife see him like this?
‘I understand that your next witness is the defendant’s wife, is it, Ms Burton?’
‘Yes, your honour.’
‘Let’s get on with it then.’
Aisha Qabbani entered from a door at the back of the court, with Constance at her side. She was dressed in navy trousers and a turquoise blouse and she wore a brightly coloured head scarf.
‘Mrs Qabbani,’ Judge Seymour began. ‘Ms Burton will ask you some questions which you must answer truthfully and fully. Usher, please give Mrs Qabbani some water.’
‘Mrs Qabbani, tell us about your husband’s daily routine – when he goes to work, what time he comes home,’ Judith began.
Aisha gazed around the room, allowing everyone to see her from every angle before she spoke.
‘My husband, Ahmad…’
Ahmad let out a gasp at hearing his name come from his wife’s lips after so long, but then lowered his head and clasped his hands together. Despite Judith’s treachery, he had promised he would try to stay calm. Judith wondered if he were praying.
‘My husband, Ahmad, works six days a week at St Mark’s Hospital in Hampstead. Sometimes he begins at eight in the morning and finishes at five or six. Other times he begins at five and works until very late, four or five in the morning, sometimes he finishes at eight o’clock.’
‘And his job?’
‘Cleaning; that’s all.’
‘On the night Mrs Hennessy died, Thursday the 11th of May, what time did your husband arrive home?’
‘It was about 9:30.’
‘Do you live close to the station?’
/> ‘Yes. It is just a few minutes to walk.’
‘Did he go out again that evening?’
‘No. He stayed at home.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual about how he looked or his behaviour?’
‘No. All was like usual. He ate dinner. Sometimes he reads to Shaza, our daughter, but she was already asleep.’
‘Does your husband like his job?’
‘Before we came to England, we had lots of plans. Ahmad thought he would be a doctor here, too.’
‘And what happened?’
‘They didn’t accept his qualification. They said he would have to do more studying. We had no money for studying.’
‘So he took the cleaning job?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he talk to you about his work?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That he liked talking to the patients. I think it made the job easier for him.’
‘Does your husband ever take anyone to work with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Our daughter, Shaza.’
‘How old is Shaza?’
‘She is nine, will be ten years old soon.’
‘Why does your husband take Shaza to work with him sometimes?’
‘He worries.’
‘What does he worry about?’
‘That I can’t look after her.’
‘Why does he worry about that? Take your time.’
Aisha’s lip trembled. She took a sip of water, peered forlornly over at Ahmad and then faced the court. Finally, she turned towards the judge.
‘We had a beautiful house in Damascus, Barza neighbourhood.’ She spoke softly, as if she were recounting a dream. ‘And a villa in Al-hama. It had four bedrooms, a big courtyard and we had a pomegranate tree. Sometimes, in the summer I would reach my hand out of the window and pick pomegranates. Ahmad worked at the hospital in Damascus and I taught English at the University.
‘Then things got bad. Even before 2011. It was my fault. We had friends in the USA. That is why Ahmad was able to study there. But they would send me things and I posted them online. It was stupid. The police took Ahmad in for questioning. He was away for three days and nights without any messages. When he returned he was very quiet. I don’t know what they did to him or what he saw there; he never said. One other of our friends was taken away and he never came back.
‘But then they bombed near our house and two of his doctors were killed. I told him. If we stay we will die. All of us. You are a doctor. We will go somewhere else, somewhere safe. You can be a doctor again there and help people. That must be better, I said, better than a pointless death. And this time he agreed.’
‘What happened on your journey here?’
‘Objection, your honour.’ Mr Chambers spoke this time with only a fraction of his usual volume and fervour. ‘This is not relevant to the defence’s case.’
‘Your honour, this is a trumped-up case in any event. It is based on hypotheticals and conjecture. There isn’t even any evidence that Mrs Hennessy was murdered. Yet my client and his family have endured trial by media. The evidence Mrs Qabbani will give is relevant to understanding the trauma my client experienced in the past, which will, in turn, help explain his “curious behaviour” in the railway station, evidence of which Mr Chambers has led. In my submission, your honour, not only is this testimony highly relevant so that the jury can assess the credibility of the accused, the criminal justice system owes my client the opportunity to have this evidence heard.’
‘Continue, Ms Burton, with less fuss. I would have let you continue anyway. Mr Chambers, sit down.’
‘Mrs Qabbani. Take your time. What happened on your journey here?’
Aisha took a deep breath and closed her eyes and she was there, standing on the shore, gawking at the vast expanse of water.
The dinghy in front of them was bobbing up and down. It seemed tiny and insignificant against the massive spread of the sea. Ahmad was staring too and he held his hand out to her.
‘Is it safe?’ she had asked him, knowing the answer herself but wanting some reassurance from him. His grip on her hand had tightened. They had stood together on the shore, agonising over what to do next. What was for the best.
But they both knew the moment they saw the boat that they had been duped. How could a dinghy, twenty-foot long, transport their busload of men, women and children (and let’s not forget old Abdul’s wheelchair) across miles of unforgiving ocean?
Yet not one of them spoke up. How could they? There was no alternative, no way back, homes abandoned, goods sold or given away and money handed over. At least the man who had taken their money had the good sense not to wave them off; Ahmad might have given him a piece of his mind. Some of the other men might have given him something more. There seemed no point rising up against the simpleton he had sent in his place; a man who could only gesture and point at the boat before limping back to the bus and driving off, leaving them all standing there on the shore.
Aisha had clung to Ahmad briefly, touching her hand to his neck, before striding out; she wouldn’t make this his decision. After all, she had been the one who had insisted they leave.
‘We took a boat,’ she said in a small voice to the attentive court, ‘from near Bodrum in Turkey. We wanted to reach Sicily but we thought Greece if not. But our boat was too small and too old.’
It was only thirty minutes into their journey that the engine had cut out. Khalil, an engineer from Basra had tried to re-start it without success. Abdul had muttered under his breath. His son asked Ahmad what was going wrong. What could he do to help. They had two paddles and took it in turns to drive the vessel forward; thankfully the waters were calm and the children settled down to sleep with the lapping of the water.
‘How far is it?’ Aisha had asked quietly, out of earshot of the children.
‘One or two hours,’ Ahmad had replied, his voice cracking, and Aisha had allowed her eyes to hover over his face for a second longer than usual to test his reply for weight, before turning her attention to the horizon.
After another hour, one of the men had called out excitedly that he could see land. And he was right. A great land mass appeared to their right, but the wind was now starting to blow and no matter how hard they paddled, they began to travel left, to the west and away from their longed-for destination. And then the water began to seep in; Ahmad felt it first as a chill around his toes and those seated on the bottom of the boat began to moan and shuffle uncomfortably. It was that chill, the rising water, which returned to him over and over in times of stress. At first, he was reassured; they bailed out with teacups (Abdul’s wife had brought a tea service with her which had been part of her dowry) but within a few minutes the water was back with more friends, and he knew then that they were going to sink.
‘We used the paddles for a bit, then the water started to come in,’ Aisha told the silent court. Ahmad sobbed audibly into his hands.
As the little craft bobbed and weaved, they began to distribute the life vests and, finding them short – there were only twenty – they gave them to the women and children. Abdul refused his over and over again, until his wife screamed that she would drop hers in the sea if he rejected it one more time.
The boat sank lower and Shaza’s eyes grew wide. She, alone of the children, was awake. She trailed her arm in the water and Aisha reprimanded her, calling out that she would get her new coat wet. They tossed and turned and lurched their way onward, Aisha fearing at every bump that they would capsize. She could hardly draw breath for fear of unbalancing the boat. And then Ahmad had spied a faraway dot and nudged Aisha to look too. She had tried to appear encouraged but her face wouldn’t obey.
Ahmad had shouted to Khalil to search for flares and one was located. The men were arguing n
ow. They wanted to throw the wheelchair overboard to lighten the load. Abdul’s wife was weeping, they had saved for two years to buy it. Two years of living on bread and milk. How would her husband get around in the new world without it? ‘If we don’t throw it overboard there won’t be any new world, don’t you see?’ Khalil had remonstrated with them.
‘We started to throw things over that we didn’t need. We had hardly anything anyway,’ Aisha explained.
Ahmad had manoeuvred his way between the bodies on the boat, had spoken to Abdul’s tearful wife calmly and, after a fashion, detached her from the wheelchair, which the younger men flung overboard with drama and passion. The dot on the horizon was now clearly a ship.
Shaza was trailing her hand in the sea again, defiantly, staring down into the depths. ‘Are there sharks, Mama?’ she had asked.
‘Ahmad had the gun, the flare gun,’ Aisha told the court. ‘There was a ship. But then the water came so fast.’
A colossal wave had washed over them and thrown them into the freezing, icy water, the boat upended and bobbing like a cotton reel. Shaza, close to her mother, was flung towards her.
Aisha, in the courtroom, drank her water down.
‘Take your time. Who from your family was in the boat with you?’
‘In the boat was Ahmad, Shaza and…’ – she turned her sad eyes from the judge to the jury – ‘Shadya.’
‘Shadya was who?’
‘Our other daughter. Shaza’s twin sister.’
‘And what happened to Shadya?’
‘The boat turned over. One minute she was in my hand, then she was gone.’
‘Your daughter went into the sea?’
‘Yes. And then the ship arrived. A big ship. British. And they picked us up. But not Shadya. Ahmad tried to find her. He tried for so long, but we didn’t succeed. After, the captain told us that some of the life vests were full of cardboard, it made her sink not float. And I put it on her.’
Ahmad had shrieked and yelled and dived under the water, searching desperately for his daughter. Even when he had been pulled aboard the rescue ship he had wrestled with the men and dived back into the sea. The man in the boat had asked, ‘What the hell does he think he’s doing? Doesn’t he want to be saved?’
