So that’s how we left it. I duly went to see a solicitor and indicated that none of the police witnesses were required to give evidence in person. This meant the trial could be listed as soon as possible, and a few days later I received a summons to attend the Old Bailey again.
Now, I was back in Number One Court before a newly appointed High Court judge whose name I didn’t recognize and presumably didn’t know me either. Inside the court building, closeted in an interview room, I had a final conference with Harris Fortescue.
“I’ve spoken with my opposite number and the prosecution won’t accept an alternative plea to manslaughter, perhaps not surprisingly. So, when the indictment is read out, you say, ‘Not guilty to the charge as laid, but guilty to manslaughter.’ Then there will be a trial. In due course, you will need to give evidence yourself, of course, no doubt along the lines that you were having a row – perhaps on the basis that you wanted to end the affair – after which you lost your temper and pushed Anke, causing her to topple over the wall. The jury may well accept that it was manslaughter on that basis. You will end up with a much lighter sentence then – certainly not life imprisonment.”
The courtroom was packed. Many robed barristers sat in the well of the court, no doubt to witness this extraordinary event; a judge, appearing in Number One Court at the Old Bailey charged with murder. The press and public galleries were full as well. I entered the dock and stood waiting for the judge to enter. After he came in, he invited everyone to sit. There was then a brief consultation between him and the clerk of the court before the latter stood up with a copy of the indictment in his hand.
It was crunch time: Was I to say guilty to the charge as laid or enter a plea to the lesser offence?
Anke’s actions, as she prepared to dive over the dam wall, flashed before me. The fact remained that morally I’d caused her death by allowing her to take LSD. If I proffered a plea to the lesser charge, it was essential that I gave evidence to the jury to explain why I wasn’t guilty of murder. Otherwise, the whole exercise was pointless. But that would mean lying under oath about pushing her in the first place, and all my judicial instincts told me that I couldn’t do it. Committing perjury, even if it meant a more favourable outcome, was simply unthinkable.
As if from far away, I heard the clerk of the court’s voice reading the indictment to me, ending with the words, “How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”
Fortescue had turned in my direction and was mouthing the reply we had rehearsed.
“Guilty,” I said firmly.
There was a deep hush in court. Fortescue shook his head and turned back towards the judge who sat staring at me, pen poised. He had obviously been briefed beforehand about the proposed plea. Trembling, I sat down. It was over. I felt a deep weight lifted from my shoulders. Now my conscience would cease to trouble me. I felt free, but that feeling would only last until after sentence was passed...
Then the full consequences of what I had done began to sink in.
“You are sentenced to imprisonment for life. I also recommend that you serve a minimum of 12 years before being eligible for parole.”
I put my head in my hands and began to sob.
Twenty-Four
The shower ran down my face, temporarily washing away the feeling of prison griminess, which was as psychological as it was physical. For once the water was just the right temperature too and I felt a tingle of comfort. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but tense my naked body. Only a week ago, I’d been attacked by a prisoner with a toothbrush which contained a sliver from a razor. It had just missed my face but slashed a gash, requiring stitches, down my arm and thigh.
Even though I’d been kept in the segregation wing since arrival, that prisoner had still managed to get to me. I anticipated something of the sort would happen when I heard the raucous shouts from the adjoining cells, to the effect that someone should ‘give the judge a slap’, as rendering such an injury was euphemistically called.
But at least now I had found a protector. Dunc Fidge, who I had spared from prison some months earlier, had taken up this role. After the original trial, his ex-girlfriend’s brother had chosen to pick a fight with him and had, as a result, come off considerably worse. So, Dunc was once more in trouble with the law and was now serving a sentence for inflicting grievous bodily harm. A model prisoner, he had soon been made a cleaner assigned to the wing and he recognized me immediately.
“You gave me a break, guv’nor, which I’ll never forget. Ain’t your fault I landed up in the nick anyway. But, like, it’ll be the last time for sure!”
So now I had someone who would watch over me on the rare occasions when I was allowed to leave my cell, which included access to the showers and a 15 minute daily exercise break in the yard.
Later that day I was due to appear before the Governor of the prison who might give me some idea of where I was to be sent next. At present, I was being incarcerated in Canning Prison in London, a Category-A institution normally reserved for maximum security prisoners. My cell was cheerless to the extreme with a bed fixed to the floor below a shelf, and a small cupboard above. But at least I didn’t have to share it.
Indeed, by now I had buried myself in the books lent out by the prison library and was impervious to my surroundings. My main job was to keep my thoughts at bay: Why had I pleaded guilty to something I hadn’t done? Why hadn’t I thought of the consequences? A life sentence with a minimum term of 12 years!
After returning to my cell, the senior officer of the wing came to fetch me.
“We’re taking you to see the Governor now. Be prepared to answer his questions because he’ll want to talk about your sentence plan – how you intend to handle the years you’re gonna have to spend in the nick.”
I was well aware of my predicament. As a lifer, I’d already been given a sheaf of documents which spelled out how I could improve my lot within the prison system. It all depended on how I co-operated. The most important thing was to show contrition, which would greatly improve my chances of going to a prison with a more relaxed regime; even, ultimately, an open prison.
But how could I possibly show contrition for something I hadn’t done?
The Governor, aged about 40, was much younger than I had expected. Dressed in a light grey suit, white shirt, and discreet tie, with a closely shaven head he looked more like a sales executive than a gaoler.
He came straight to the point, saying, “It’s not my intention to go through why you were sent here in the first place, Mr Courtley. All that’s been done in court. What I’m concerned about is how you progress through the prison system. But, as you pleaded guilty, I take it that you must regret your crime?”
I met his gaze levelly.
“I can’t talk about that. But rest assured, as a prisoner I won’t give you any trouble. Give me any job that’s on offer and allow me to go on borrowing books from the library. That’s all I ask.”
The Governor sighed with exasperation.
“It’s not as simple as that. The offender’s management people are required to work out a sentence plan for you. The attitude you show to your crime will have a profound effect on that right from the outset. For a start, we have to decide what kind of prison you’ll be sent to. There’s a basic principle to all this, are you a risk to the public? Those prisoners who maintain their innocence are usually assessed as being potentially dangerous, but as you accept your guilt, why not give a full explanation of what you did and show contrition?”
I looked down at the floor.
“I’ve nothing further to say. Now can I go back to my cell, please?”
The Governor shook his head and sighed.
“Have it your own way, then. In the meantime, however, I shall order a full psychiatric examination to be carried out on you, with or without your cooperation. In view of your attitude, you’ll be staying in this prison for the foreseeable future.”
But I was hardly listening now as my mind began to drift. All I wanted was to escap
e into a dream world. I realized a wasted life stretched before me – too awful to contemplate. Withdrawal from real life was the only way I could survive and, ironically, prison was the ideal place to do it.
“Send me where you like, Governor. Just one small favour: please don’t ask me to share a cell with anyone else.”
He shook his head.
“Don’t count on it, Mr Courtley. Prison isn’t like a hotel, you know. Where and how we accommodate you is entirely for us to decide.”
A cloud descended over my mind then. Total apathy overwhelmed me. By the time I was back in my cell, I felt as if I no longer inhabited my own body but had become a mere witness to my own existence...
Twenty-Five
(Andrea’s tale)
Deep down, I knew that Charlie still loved me and I was determined not to be driven away by what he had said when we last met...
* * *
I had often visited the Temple when Charlie had been a barrister, but never King’s Bench Walk where Harris Fortescue had his chambers. They were housed in a Dickensian building, with small rooms leading off five floors. Fortescue’s own room, where I was taken by his clerk, was right at the top with no access by lift. So I was not only nervous but slightly out of breath when he greeted me at the door. However, my first impression of the QC, a dynamic compact man with piercing blue eyes, reassured me. He was holding a document in his hand as I was ushered in by his clerk.
“Mrs Courtley, sir...”
Fortescue placed the document back on his desk. Even though it was upside down, I recognized what it was, the psychologist’s report, prepared by Professor Jeffrey Dearman. Had I not sent it in to him myself after Giles Crossett had forwarded it to me?
After greeting me, the QC sat down and got straight to the point.
He began to read a passage from the report in a clipped voice, “People make voluntary false confessions because of their inability to distinguish fact from fiction, to help or protect the real criminal or because of feelings of guilt over past transgressions...”
He paused.
“You marked that last passage for my special attention, Mrs Courtley, and in your letter to me you indicated that you felt this might bear some relevance to your husband’s case. But before examining that more fully I have to be clear about one thing – is your husband now telling you that he made a false confession to murder?”
“He won’t allow me to visit him. That’s the problem and that’s why I need your help. You see, although not mentally ill, he’s withdrawn into himself to the point of refusing point-blank to talk about the case to anyone.”
The barrister pondered for a moment.
“Perhaps we can return to that in due course. But firstly, what possible past transgressions would make him admit killing that girl, when he didn’t? Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on your part, Mrs Courtley?”
“I know he’s innocent, Mr Fortescue, and so, I believe, do you. You complained from the outset that you never received detailed instructions from him about what happened. After all, you told Giles Crossett it was the most extraordinary case you’d ever come across; particularly when Charles pleaded to murder at the trial when he indicated that he would put in a plea to manslaughter only. I really believe that Charles was trying to salve his conscience in some way for the death of the girl even though he didn’t kill her. That’s why I sent you Professor Dearman’s report.”
The barrister sighed.
“Well, it’s possible I suppose – but let’s return to practicalities. The only way we can proceed with an appeal at all is on the basis that your husband’s plea was undeniably equivocal and he hasn’t even told you that, has he?”
I frowned.
“I’m not sure I quite follow...”
“Forgive me – lawyer’s jargon. Basically, we have to show the appeal court that your husband’s plea was completely unfounded because he was admitting to something which he hadn’t done. That’s impossible without your husband testifying to them under oath to that effect and, at the same time, why he chose to put himself in this predicament.”
“And that’s why I’m asking you to go to see him! I know that this would be most unusual but, you see, I believe he’s in a state of shock. He never really contemplated the consequences of his actions. Strong advice might just help to change his mind. Please, you’re my last hope.”
The barrister stared out of the window, now deep in thought. I wasn’t going to hurry him. Instead, I cast my mind back over the last few days.
* * *
Giles Crossett, who was proving to be a steadfast friend to me as well as to Charles, felt that this was our last chance. Charles had absolutely refused to see either of us, although he had written to me several times imploring me to divorce him and get on with my life. I hadn’t dismissed the idea altogether but deep down I knew he really needed me. Moreover, something kept niggling me: I just couldn’t accept he was guilty. The thing that didn’t make sense was why he hadn’t provided a full explanation to anyone. A column in a Sunday newspaper had picked that up: ‘The Dam Killing – A British military judge admits to murder of lover – but did he really do it?’
Some days before, Giles had called me and, realizing that we both had doubts as to Charlie’s guilt, decided to meet up for lunch in a pub in London.
“I’ve thought about Charlie’s case a great deal,” he said, “and I’m beginning to believe that your husband did this to punish himself in some way.”
“But why? What could he possibly have done that was so wicked to merit admitting a crime which effectively puts him away for the rest of his life?”
“I can’t imagine, but who knows what was going on in his mind? The fact remains that murder, or even manslaughter, doesn’t really stack up. I’ve looked at the facts. Remember, there’s not a shred of forensic evidence on the girl’s clothing to indicate that he propelled her towards the wall and forced her over it. Her coat was soaked, of course, as you would expect which could have obliterated any marks but it still doesn’t make any sense.”
“Is there a way we could mount an appeal on the basis that his mind was disturbed when he stood trial?”
Giles shook his head.
“The prison psychiatrist stated that he’s not suffering from mental illness as such, although clearly now suffering from clinical depression. However, I’ve been turning over an idea in my mind. What if we can persuade Harris Fortescue to take up the matter? He was wholly intrigued with the case, I know, and as an outsider might just be able to get through to Charles. Meanwhile, I will obtain a psychologist’s report about people who admit to committing crimes they haven’t done. I read an article about this phenomenon. It’s not that uncommon, apparently.”
So that’s how I came to be in Fortescue’s chambers that afternoon. Giles had wanted to attend the conference as well but professional commitments made that impossible.
* * *
Fortescue looked up at me, his fingers tapping the desk.
“Very well. I’ll do it, but there are certain problems to overcome. I’m no longer instructed by your husband, Mrs Courtley, so couldn’t go in a legal capacity which means it will be difficult to see him unless he requests it.”
“We’ve found a way around that. Giles has taken the matter up with the Lord Chancellor, who has agreed that Giles should go and see Charles on his behalf in an official capacity. It’s really to see whether Charles has anything to say before being formally dismissed. The Governor says that Charles will have to see Giles, come what may, as this is standard procedure. If you accompany Giles and take Charles by surprise, as it were, we feel you might be able to use your powers of advocacy to discover the truth.”
Fortescue gave a wry smile.
“That’s if he doesn’t tell me to bugger off first, of course. It’s worth a try I suppose. It will certainly make a change for a defence barrister. Most of my time is spent in trying to get people off when the evidence suggests they are as guilty as hell. Now it’s the
other way round.”
“I’m really grateful to you, Mr. Fortescue. I ought to add that the Governor has been very sympathetic about this as far as I’m concerned too. He’s suggested that I join him at the prison. He intends to observe the process which will take place in the prison’s visits centre.”
Fortescue looked surprised for a moment.
“Well, as it’s not actually a legal visit which would be covered by lawyer-client privilege, that’s his right I suppose.”
* * *
Escorted by the Governor, I entered the communications room which contained a range of monitors covering all parts of the prison. He guided me towards a large flat screen in the corner which displayed the inside of the prison Visits Centre with great clarity. It was a large hall with fixed circular tables and chairs placed at various intervals. The camera revealed Charles sitting at one of the tables with Giles Crossett. It had been agreed that Harris Fortescue would enter the hall later at an opportune moment. There was no-one else present, apart from the customary wardens standing by the sides, as the hall was being used solely to deal with this visit.
“I know you’ve been refusing to see anyone, Charles,” Giles was saying, “but I’m not here as your friend but in an official capacity. The Lord Chancellor insisted that somebody comes to see you on his behalf before he takes the formal action necessary to dismiss you. That’s because you are still entitled to make representations about the dismissal which, as I’m sure you know, entails not only loss of income but pension rights as well.”
“Anyone could have come, Giles, why you?”
“I wanted to do it, Charles, as a friend.”
Charles buried his face in his hands.
“I’ve nothing to say. What difference does it make?”
“Well, in his discretion, the Lord Chancellor could award you a small pension based on the years you actually served as a judge – if you were to show a measure of contrition for what you did.”
Wig Betrayed Page 16
