The detective nodded, ran a hand over his stubbly hair and began to scratch the back of his neck.
‘It would go easier,’ he said, with his hand still at the back of his neck, ‘if you started telling us something.’
‘You mean it would be easier for you?’
The detective placed his hands on the table.
‘How many girls did you rescue?’ I asked. I knew I shouldn’t have asked, but I wanted to know and I wanted to know if the cops had understood what had taken place at the warehouse.
‘None of your business,’ the detective said, ‘or is it?’
‘You mean you still haven’t figured out what happened?’
The detective raised his head and stared into my eyes. I looked at his hands; I couldn’t be bothered with the hard-stare antics.
‘You have my name,’ I said. ‘You have my address. I’m sure that’s enough for your computer—’
‘You’re a hooker.’
I looked at him, narrowing my eyes. That was a bit blunt. ‘An escort.’
‘Call it what you will.’
‘An escort. And I’m a fulltime student. Nothing special about that, not in this city.’
‘You’ve declared your earnings?’
‘I have an accountant.’
‘Whom you now want to phone? At this time of the night?’
Think what you want – it’s none of your business. ‘His mobile number is in my phone.’
The detective eased his seat back.
‘I’ve never needed a lawyer.’ I smiled at him. ‘You know that.’
‘All right,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’ll see what can be done.’
The detective left the room. Would they be stupid enough to give me the phone? I doubted it. If only I could get the SIM card out of the phone and destroy it, or swallow it. Okay, I had deleted the call to the Transport Police at Crew Street station. That call no longer showed up on the dialled-calls menu. However, Paul – the cop I had dated a couple of times – had told me a story about a car crash and how the police had confiscated the mobile phones of those involved, thinking that the use of a mobile whilst driving had caused the accident. The phone companies had provided, for the police, the details of all the calls made, their time and duration. Paul had added that the phone companies, for some inexplicable reason, had provided info on all calls going back six months prior to the crash.
Shit, that would also throw up Paul’s number. Great, things were getting really complicated.
On the other hand, the calls I’d made to the refuge and the various support services would go a long way to clearing my name.
The door opened. Detective Crawford, holding my phone stood to one side, and DS Driscoll entered the room. This time his bulbous nose was not red with anger. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.
Crawford closed the door and stood waiting. Driscoll crossed over to the end of the table and gave me sidelong look.
I didn’t give him the advantage of turning my head to meet his gaze. If he was naked in the bedroom of my apartment, having paid his hundred quid, he wouldn’t be so sure of himself – I’d bet.
‘Now young lady,’ Driscoll said.
Oh no, that’s all I needed.
‘You want a solicitor?’
‘Those are my rights,’ I said, still not meeting his gaze.
‘Very good, you’re going to need one anyway.’
I went very still. What evidence could they have collected in that short space of time?
‘Miss Thompson you will be brought before a magistrate in the morning. The charge is: assault occasioning actual bodily harm. We have CCTV evidence from Crew Street station of you assaulting an innocent member of the public who happened to cross your path. The victim is prepared to testify. A prosecutor is already lined up. It is an open-and-shut case.’
Driscoll moved nonchalantly to the front of the desk with his hands in his pockets. I still didn’t bother to look at him.
‘We’ll run with that,’ he continued, ‘until the evidence comes together linking you to the trafficking offences which took place at the warehouse.’
That forced me to look at Driscoll. His eyes bored into mine. I just managed to hide my shock at the injustice.
Driscoll turned, nodded to Crawford and then left the room. Crawford sat down.
‘You going to tell us what you were doing at the warehouse?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘No, and the other one hasn’t got bells on it. And I’ve got nothing to say until I’ve spoken with a solicitor.’
‘You’re making it hard for yourself.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘As DS Driscoll said, we’ve got an open-and-shut case. Cooperation with the police and any mitigating factors will go in your favour when it comes to sentencing.’
‘Just give me the phone.’
‘Actual bodily harm carries a sentence of up to five years.’
Real bully boys. I reached out my hand.
‘Sorry, love,’ Crawford said. ‘You don’t get to touch the phone. Just tell me the name.’
‘Mike Marshall.’ That was that; no chance to get near the SIM card.
Crawford used the touch screen and wrote the number down. ‘Okay,’ he said, looking up. ‘You come with me to make the call.’
He led me out of the interview room and into the adjoining one which, again, had just two chairs and a plain desk, but with a phone on it. As I walked towards the desk, I checked the corners of the room – no CCTV cameras. I sat down on the far side of the desk facing the door. Crawford handed me the sheet of paper with Mike’s number. Only when he had left the room – he didn’t close the door – did I pick up the receiver and dial.
The phone began to ring. How many rings before the mailbox cut in? I nibbled at my fingers, willing Mike to answer. Would he pick up at this time of the night?
On the fifth ring Mike came on the line, ‘Hello?’
‘Mike, I need a lawyer, I’m being held at a police station charged with causing ABH’
‘Tina!’ Mike said. ‘Slow down.’
I took a deep breath.
‘Firstly,’ Mike said, ‘where are you?’
‘I’m being held at Clifford Street Police station. It’s an absolute farce, they got it all arse about face.’
‘Hold on, let me get something to write the facts down.’
I started to swing my leg up and down whilst listening to the sounds of Mike coming through the phone as he rummaged about for pen and paper.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘Clifford Street Police station. And what have you been charged with?’
‘Assault occasioning actual bodily harm. But it gets worse. Driscoll said—’
‘Driscoll?’
‘Yes, he said more charges would be brought.’
‘Did he state the charges?’
‘Trafficking.’ I heard Mike suck in air. ‘And I’m being brought to the Magistrates’ Court in the morning, and they’ve got a prosecutor lined up.’
‘Tina, take it easy. That’s just the formalities.’
‘I need a lawyer.’
‘Did they give a time for the court appearance?’
‘No, just in the morning.’
‘Are you all right?’ Mike asked.
‘No, I’m not. I’ve been arrested for things I haven’t done.’
‘I mean, have you been hurt?’
Oh, he’s way too sweet. ‘I haven’t been hurt. My head got a bump, I had a run-in with Erjon, grazed my ribcage and I blocked a blow with my arm. That’s when the police arrived and Erjon got away.’
‘You need to ask to see a doctor.’
‘I don’t need one. It’s just a couple of bruises.’
‘Tina!’ Mike said sharply. ‘I want you to ask for a doctor.’
‘I said, I’m all right.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. But I want you to see a doctor, for the record.’
‘What
do you mean?’
‘The bruises will count as evidence.’
‘First I need a lawyer.’
‘I’ll get you one,’ Mike said. ‘But promise me you’ll ask for a doctor.’
‘Promise.’ My upper lip quivered. Damn, he’s such a nice guy.
‘Good,’ Mike said softly. ‘Ask for a doctor immediately.’
‘Okay.’
‘Then you’ll have to hang in until the morning. You’ll need a criminal lawyer and I have someone in mind. Actually, he is a QC.’
‘A Queen’s Counsel?’
‘Yes, we went to university together and I do his accounts. Normally QCs only appear in the higher courts, and solicitors in a Magistrates’ Court. However, time is against us, and if he can’t recommend a solicitor, I’ll make sure he is in court with you in the morning.’
‘Thank you, Mike.’
‘Now go and ask for a doctor.’
I stood my ground with Crawford and got to see a doctor who examined the bruising to my head, arm and ribcage. The latter was painful to the touch, but not severe enough to warrant an X-ray examination. Concussion was ruled out; the symptoms occur within the first four to six hours and usually disappear within twenty four. I had none of the symptoms. The doctor gave me painkillers which I decided not to take as I didn’t want anything to impair my ability to function and to be able to think clearly in the morning.
Maybe I should have taken the pills. After I had seen the doctor, I sat for hours with my knees drawn up to my chin, staring at the blank cell wall, worrying about what was going happen, and whether Ivonne had made it to the refuge with the girls. I had bitten the two fingernails, whose extensions had been ripped off, right down to the quick. Eventually I had fallen into a fitful, but certainly not restful sleep.
23
In the morning, I demanded to have access to a shower. The physical exertions of the last twenty-four-hours had left my body with the sensation of being encased in dirt and dried sweat. That shower and the ensuing sense of cleanliness drove away the feeling of mental and nervous exhaustion. Breakfast was, however, a no-no. My stomach, despite being empty, was knotted with tension. And the ride to the courthouse in the back of a police bus heightened my nervousness, making me feel nauseous.
I trusted Mike’s word. Still, no QC or solicitor had been in contact. Was I going to be left, at the last moment, to fend for myself and plead not guilty.
I stepped off the bus, the sunlight clear and bright, its warmth comforting. A few deep breaths of fresh air gave me momentary relief from the constant what if questions plaguing my mind.
A low whistle from the rear corner of the courthouse caught my attention. It was Mike standing next to a man who I assumed was the QC. His hair was collar length and blond shot through with a lot of grey. He stood nonchalantly with his hands in his pockets, slightly stooped as if his large frame was too heavy to keep upright. And despite being immaculately dressed in a dark grey suit, he had something of a shaggy look. That impression was belied by the penetrating stare directed at me.
Mike smiled at me and raised his right hand, making an okay signal with his thumb and forefinger.
A custody officer waved me towards the entrance reserved for defendants.
Before entering the courthouse, I caught a last glimpse of Mike and the QC. The QC continued to stare at me whilst Mike stood, looking at the ground, shaking his head. I couldn’t tell if Mike had disagreed with something which had been said, or if he was shaking his head in amusement.
Momentarily, I wondered how Mike had presented my need for legal representation. Would he have come straight out and said that I was an escort in trouble? Would a knowing smile have slid across the QC’s face? Probably both had occurred. Mike, being Mike, somewhat innocent of the worlds in which he did not move, and not burdened with prejudice, would expect others to react with the same egalitarian principles which he possessed. The QC? Men are men, mention escorts and a normal sane reaction is nearly impossible.
The custody officer led me to the cells, where I expectantly awaited the arrival of the QC to question me on my version of events.
Left on my own in the cells with little knowledge of the court system and, having received as yet no legal advice at all, I began with mounting apprehension to attempt to figure out how it worked.
Firstly, I didn’t know why I was in a Magistrates’ Court. As far as I knew it was a place which dealt with speeding tickets – not that I’d ever been caught – and such matters as neighbours squabbling over rights of way. I could remember my mum disputing a parking ticket at the local Magistrates’ Court, and she’d referred to it as the Petty Sessions.
Last night detective Crawford had said that assault occasioning actual bodily harm carried a sentence of up to five years. That didn’t seem like a petty offence.
I’d heard of a Crown Court, a High Court, the Court of Appeal and the Supreme Court. The latter two from their names alone, made sense. That was as far as my knowledge of the court system stretched. And with that I realised that I was at the mercy of people I did not know, people who earned their money from practicing the law. Was their main aim earning money? Or was it for them a game of one-upmanship of legal skills?
Who represented justice?
I was innocent, yet the police seemed convinced that they could send me to prison for defending myself whilst helping the victims of the inhuman crime of trafficking.
The door to the cells opened. The custody officer strode towards me.
‘Miss Thompson?’
My stomach did a flip. I stood and waited to be led into the Court room – I still hadn’t spoken to a lawyer.
24
I was shown to the defendant’s box and before sitting down I looked around the courtroom. To my surprise the judge was not wearing a wig or gown, simply a business suit. He’d have been better off wearing a wig as the lights glistened on his bald pate and a gown would have lessened his gnome-like appearance. Not that the old bugger even bothered to glance at me.
The prosecutor was another matter. He took a good look at me – it was the look of a player. He came across as being smart, the sort of superior smartness which grates. Under the stylish suit was a fit body; toned and tanned to impress. I guessed that even the glasses riding on his nose had been chosen instead of contact lenses to round off the image. His opinion; a perfect exterior and an intelligent mind. My opinion; a perfect cover to hide the inability to share deep and sincere emotions.
I checked the rest of the room and spotted Mike in the area reserved for the public. He winked and smiled at me.
But, where the hell was my legal defence?
The judge muttered something and the Clerk of the Court rose from his desk and approached me. The door to the court opened silently. The Clerk began the process of identifying the defendant – me – to the court. The QC sauntered, his hands in his pockets, head bent, towards the empty desk adjacent to where the prosecutor sat.
As the QC reached the desk, the prosecutor turned so abruptly that he was forced to grab his glasses before they fell off his nose. I heard him say something about learned friend. The clerk paused and looked around.
The QC nodded to the judge, saying almost inaudibly; ‘Your Honour,’ and sat down, leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankles.
The clerk returned to the formalities of introduction and then moved on to read out the charge.
At that, I looked at the QC. He raised a finger to his lips signalling me to remain silent.
The clerk continued to read out the exact allegation, giving the date, time and place. He then summarily outlined the procedures which would be followed, and went on to explain the potential effects of a guilty plea, and that were I to plead guilty the court would proceed to hear the case as a guilty plea. Finally, I was advised that should I plead guilty, I may yet be committed for sentencing to the Crown Court if the sitting judge considered his powers of punishment to be insufficient.
Talk about laying it on thic
k. I knew I was being advised as to the court process and that the explanations were supposed to be for my benefit. The opposite had occurred. It all smacked of heartless reverence to the process. Actors on a stage, but it was my frigging liberty at stake.
The clerk paused.
In the ensuing silence, the QC cleared his throat and rose to his feet.
‘Your Honour,’ he addressed the bench and then looked at the clerk. ‘Learned Clerk, the defendant declines to plead.’
What the hell?
‘Your Honour,’ the QC said, once again addressing the judge. ‘I do not wish to further impose upon the court’s time. The offence is triable either way.’
‘Indeed,’ the judge said, swallowing a smile.
‘The defendant has no criminal record, is a fulltime student and will be sitting her finals in four weeks time. I petition the court to grant bail without conditions.’
The prosecutor moved to stand up. The judge waved to him to remain seated. The QC tilted his head, questioningly, at the judge.
‘Granted.’
25
I was clueless as to what had happened. The only thing I knew for sure was that I been released on bail.
Mike led me out of the courtroom, holding the door open for me. ‘Come on,’ he said, speeding me through the building. ‘It’s time for you to meet Oscar.’
Oscar was standing outside, one hand in his pocket; the other held a cigarette, the smoke curling away in the breeze. He looked up as we approached a big smile on his face.
He stepped forward. ‘Oscar Williams,’ he said, offering me his hand. ‘I do apologise for not having talked to you before the hearing.’ He let go of my hand. ‘Mike has told me a lot of good things about you.’
I smiled. They’d had the time to gossip before my court appearance, but seemingly not with me, the accused.
‘Look,’ Oscar said, glancing at his watch. ‘I must go. I’m due in the Crown Court in half an hour’s time – a real criminal this time.’
He gently laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘You did great,’ he said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’ve agreed with Mike that we all meet up in his offices at five this afternoon. I’ll explain everything to you then, okay?’
Bitter Sweet Page 21
