by Ruth Dugdall
Twenty-three
It’s a cold day, biting, but Krishna doesn’t notice. He has too much on his mind, and has to think about making his way from Ipswich station to the Crown Court. He’s on a mission. Since the day it arrived on his desk Krishna has kept the USB close, usually in his jacket pocket, except when he’s at home, when he puts it on the shelf next to the elephant god, and tries to understand what Dave wanted him to do with it. He’s read the diary, but only once. It wasn’t easy reading. It’s a burden, this knowledge. He hadn’t known what to do with it, so in the end he did nothing. But he has been a fool; he sees that now. Today a woman will be before a judge for sentencing. Holding onto the memory stick hadn’t kept him neutral. He was still affecting the outcome of the case, just by doing nothing. He’d been too worried about how he might be implicated to see the bigger picture. He can’t keep the stick to himself any longer. Today he will hand it over. Whether to Alice or to the police, he still isn’t sure. All he knows is, when he gets the train back to London later today, he’ll no longer have the black stick of plastic in his jacket pocket. And that will be a relief. Krishna walks through the doors at Ipswich Crown Court feeling like a criminal, waiting for the detection machine to beep as he passes through, watched by the stocky security guy, who despite the threat of snow is in a short-sleeved shirt. Krishna feels himself under familiar scrutiny. “Name?” the guard asks, lifting a pen to the list of defendants. The last time he was in a court his name was on that list, for drug possession. His palms sweat at the memory.
“You won’t have my name. I’m not a defendant. I just want to watch.”
The guard’s assumption that he’s one of the accused doesn’t surprise him. White faces and plumy accents surround him. The fact that he’s an actuary means nothing when people judge by the colour of his skin. In this place, what else could a black man be but a criminal? Unlike at the magistrates court where he had been tried, professionals outnumber the criminals here. Fewer cases, but more serious, so they have larger legal teams. It isn’t hard to tell which side of the law folks were on: serious people in smart suits and carrying briefcases stand in the hallway while on the benches across the hall sits a man in a cheap-looking double breasted jacket and jeans, twisting a tie around his fingers, occasionally looking up as if waiting for a call. Next to him is a younger man, maybe only nineteen, hunched over and holding a baseball cap between his knees. He looks up at Krishna and scowls.
Krishna feels distinctly uncomfortable. “Where do I go to watch?” he asks the security guard, who points a brawny arm to the sign that says Public Viewing Gallery above an arrow indicating a wide staircase. He mumbles thanks, struggles past the solicitors and their clerks, with their armfuls of files and cups of dispenser-machine coffee. As he walks, he accidentally knocks a woman’s arm, sending her coffee cup tumbling, the coffee splattering her jacket. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”
“Shit! You should watch where you’re going.” She looks at her jacket, holding the paper cup away from her as the stain darkens the blue fabric.
Krishna rummages in his pockets. “Here,” he hands her a clean hanky, taking away the half-spilt cup of coffee to enable her to wipe herself down.
“Shit,” she says again, “that’s all I need. I’m in court in a few minutes.”
She’s flustered, her cheeks are flushed. She hands back the wet hanky, and stalks off down the corridor. Krishna watches her go, still holding the remains of her coffee.
The viewing gallery is a large balcony overhanging the main courtroom below. It is rather grand, with a wooden balustrade, oversized benches and desks. The gallery has three rows of wooden benches, with backs at ninety-degree angles. Whoever designed this place didn’t want observers to get too comfortable. Krishna is alone and he relaxes slightly, choosing the bench nearest the balustrade. Even at his height he can only just see over to the room below. Peering down, he grits his teeth together. He’d vowed never to enter a court building again but he’s curious and wants to hear how his colleague, his friend, died. It’s the one thing the diary didn’t reveal. Now he wants the truth.
In the room below a few people are chatting. He can see the backs of their heads and the long black gown of one man who is holding a clipboard. He’s surprised to hear laughter, and thinks it disrespectful, given why they are here. It has come from a striking woman, blonde hair pinned into a bun high on her head, wearing a smart cream suit that sets her apart from the others who wear sombre colours. She looks professional and groomed, a slick of scarlet on her lips and pearls on her ears. He guesses she’s someone important, maybe a barrister. The kind of woman he tries to avoid: self-assured, conscious of their beauty. He’s known women like that, and it always ends badly.
Behind Krishna an elderly couple in matching beige macs shuffle in. The woman has that pinched look his mother gets when she has a migraine. The man supports her elbow, but he looks no better. His face bears the bloody marks of a clumsy shave. If observing trials is what they do for kicks, Krishna thought, they’d have been wiser to stay home in front of the television and watch Murder on the Orient Express.
A rush of people arrive, jostling over the bench behind him, open notebooks and mobile phones on cords round their necks or attached to belts. Reporters here for the show. A discreet figure is sat in the corner, unobtrusive despite a severe haircut and bulky leather jacket. A military look. From their intent and fixed expression, this is someone else with a great interest in the case.
In the courtroom below Krishna spies the back of the woman’s head, the one whose drink he’d spilled. She finds a place at a desk, and shuffles papers. She glances at the striking woman with the blonde hair, who is watching her intently. He doesn’t know if they’re on the same side. Before he can see any more, a loud buzzer trills and the man in the black cloak says, “All rise.”
The reporters, used to these theatricals, are already on their feet. The elderly couple leans on the railings and, as they peer over, the striking woman in the cream suit nods at them, smiling confidently. The old man bows his head in acknowledgment, but she turns away. They aren’t here out of mere curiosity, they know the woman in cream. Then Krishna realises that the woman in cream isn’t a barrister after all. She’s the defendant. She’s Alice Mariani. She is Robin.
A man wearing a large poacher’s coat plonks himself down next to Krishna. He sits back with a gusty exhale of air, removing his misted glasses and polishing them on the jacket. Then he leans over to Krishna, who fights the urge to back away. The man has ruddy cheeks and is out of breath. “Have they started yet?”
“Not yet,” Krishna confirms, staring straight ahead. From the corner of his eye he sees his neighbour’s sausage-like fingers unzip his coat and slide under the flap, fumbling. He pulls out a sheaf of A5 flyers and slides one onto Krishna’s lap, then turns and hands them to the reporters. He reaches in front of Krishna, forcing him to lean back, and passes a flyer to the right. The old woman looks at the offered paper as if it’s a foreign object but her husband snatches one and reads it. From behind him, across his shoulder, comes a square hand, and Krishna sees that it is the person from the corner, with the military cropped hair. “I’ll have one of those, mate, if you don’t mind.” The man next to him is delighted to oblige.
The sound of the buzzer makes the man freeze then fumble to return his papers inside his jacket. In the courtroom below, two of the group have put on short white wigs and a woman has taken her place in front of a long wooden desk below the thronelike chair underneath a coat of arms with a Latin motto. The antiquated lessons from his Birmingham grammar days prove useful, as Krishna is able to translate the Latin: left and right. The promise to balance up both sides of the argument. What a lofty ambition.
A section of wooden panelling behind the chair opens and the judge steps forward like a character in a play, complete with long white wig and red cloak. He surveys the scene at his feet and then, taking his time, peers up at the public gallery. He slowly takes his seat, settling
himself before saying, “Court, please sit.”
The woman at his feet remains standing, a plain creature with a centre parting and mousy hair. She turns to addresses the judge. “Your Honour, this is the case of Alice Mariani, who has pleaded guilty to assisted suicide. Would you like the crown prosecution service to recount the details?”
The prosecutor is already on his feet, adjusting his wig. “Your Honour, at a previous hearing Alice Mariani pleaded guilty to assisting David Jenkins to die on June 16th last year. David Jenkins had a cardiac arrest after ingesting a fatal dose of Gamma Hydroxybutyric acid, street name GHB. Mariani waited until Jenkins was dead before contacting the police. On their arrival she produced the suicide note.”
Feeling the fug of a headache beginning at the top of his neck, Krishna looked at his lap where he has the flyer handed to him by his neighbour.
The Hemlock Trust: Fighting for the Right to Die
The Hemlock Trust is an organisation that believes every individual has the right to choose his or her own death, that it is the most basic of all rights. We are supporting the case of Alice Mariani, who assisted her boyfriend with his suicide. We do not believe she should be prosecuted.
Morally, she is innocent.
Assisted suicide is lawful in some countries, and even where illegal it is rarely prosecuted. We believe that an example is being made of Alice Mariani, whose only crime was to follow her boyfriend’s wishes in not calling the ambulance after he took a fatal overdose.
If you wish to support our campaign to free her from a criminal conviction please contact Roy…
Then there was a telephone number and email address.
Krishna stole a sideways look at the man on his left, who was taking notes in a dog-eared jotter, and guessed that he was Roy. Stretching his neck to each side to relieve the tension, Krishna tuned in again to what was being said in the courtroom below.
“As Your Honour will recall, the case was adjourned for sentence and you requested a pre-sentence report to be completed by the probation service,” said the clerk.
“Indeed I did,” the judge acknowledged, “and I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Yes, sir. That’s because there has been a delay. We have a representative from the probation service. Would you like her to address you?”
“I would.”
The whole court looks to a place in the room, below the balcony, which Krishna can’t see from his seated position. He hears the tapping of heels on the wooden floor and there she is, standing at the front, facing the judge: the woman whose coffee he spilled. There was a determined set to her shoulders but he could see she was tense. Her hand was a fist at her side. The rest of the court watched her with a mixture of unfriendly curiosity or disdain. She smoothed the front of her jacket, touching the stained area self-consciously.
“Good Morning, Your Honour,” she began, a slight catch in her throat. “My name is Cate Austin and I am the probation officer responsible for writing the pre-sentence report on Alice Mariani.”
She was writing the report on Alice. Krishna now knew why he had bumped into her in the corridor. Karma was at work.
Alice Mariani sits straighter in her seat, the old man to Krishna’s right leaned over the balustrade so far that Krishna was worried he’d fall. Behind them reporters craned their necks for a view and there was the sound of pencil on paper.
“Your Honour, I would like to request a further adjournment, as I was unable to complete a full report for today’s hearing.” One of the reporters said a disappointed, ‘fuck’. The old woman turned to whisper something to her husband.
The judge sighed impatiently. “And why is that, Miss Austin?”
“Because, Your Honour, last Tuesday the defendant was sectioned under the Mental Health Act. She has since been detained at St Theresa’s secure unit. This change in circumstance means that I need more time to consider this new element in the case. I would request an adjournment of a further two weeks.”
The pencils scratch rapidly and Krishna could feel the reporters’ collective excitement that the woman in the dock is a lunatic. What a juicy story this is going to make. To his side the old woman leans towards her husband, holding a hand to her mouth.
“Indeed,” says the judge, rubbing one hand on his chin and peering down at the clerk who is scribbling madly. “Do we have the psychiatrist’s report?”
The clerk stands, proffers a clutch of papers. “We have a letter from Dr Gregg, Your Honour.”
The judge takes the letter and, seemingly unaware of all the people watching him, reads it slowly, then he sits back and looks at Cate Austin. Krishna can almost hear her exhale when he finally speaks, addressing the man in the black coat and white wig sitting nearest the defendant. “It seems that Dr Gregg would also like more time. Mr Thomas, any comments regarding an adjournment?”
“As Your Honour has heard, my client is currently in a secure hospital and is keen to be released. However, if a further adjournment is required for the probation service to consider her for the possibility of a community penalty, then she would of course comply with any interviews.” He nods at Cate Austin, as if to secure allegiance, but she does not respond.
“Very well,” says the judge. “Two weeks. We’ll adjourn until February 9th. And on that date, Ms Austin, I want a completed report with a clear recommendation. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Honour.”
“Now, the subject of bail. Any directions, Mr Thomas?”
Again, the defence barrister jumps up. “Yes, Your Honour. I have spoken with Dr Gregg who confirms that my client has settled well in the last week and is now on appropriate medication. He’s in agreement with our request for her release back into the community, provided that she continues to take her medication and sees him for out-patient appointments.”
“Conditional bail, then? Does the Crown Prosecution Service have any objections?”
“No, Your Honour.”
“Alice Mariani, you will be conditionally bailed back to your home address for two weeks. You must continue to take your medication, and attend all appointments with your psychiatrist and your probation officer. Is that clear?” Then the judge rises and everyone mirrors him, standing to attention as he disappears behind the hidden door.
Krishna moves quickly to get past the reporters, down the stairs and into the corridor. He’s made his decision and there’s no time to hang around.
He thought Alice would be rushing from the courthouse, but she is stood in the middle of the large hallway, surrounded by the black gowns of ushers and her legal team. Her blonde hair is like a star in a dark sky. No doubt about it, Alice Mariani should be on TV, not in court. She glances over at him briefly, but then looks away. He’s a stranger to her. She has no idea how well he knows her.
Leaning against the wall, he wonders what he should do now. Seven months of procrastinating, and now that he’s finally made a decision he can’t see beyond the crowd. He watches the old couple struggle down the stairs and approach Alice, sees the woman place her gnarled hand on the cream sleeve, and the way Alice throws it off. They must be her parents then, despite their dull appearance. But he’s too late. The woman he really wants to see is gone. Krishna thinks of Dave and sadness aches his chest. He has let his friend down.
Just then the door to the ladies’ toilet opens and Cate Austin walks out. She shakes her hands dry and makes her way past him towards Alice, joining the small crowd around the film star figure. He’s not too late after all.
Krishna watches and waits. Eventually, Alice crosses to where the security officer guards the door, and leaves. Reporters, yelling at her and asking for comment, surround her as the security officer ushers her out the door and into the waiting taxi. The scrum of reporters watch as Alice Mariani is driven away. Cate Austin walks away. This is his chance.
She walks quickly, heels clicking on the pavement, her brown hair loosening on her neck. Sensing his closeness, or hearing his steps, she glances behind. A few more yards
and she stops. Her voice is confident and steady, but her eyes dart around him.
“You can stop following me now or I’ll call the police.”
Krishna gasps at the mention of police. “I just wanted a word… ”
“I refuse to speak with any reporters. So you can leave me alone.” She turns back round and Krishna has to hurry to catch her. “I’m not a journalist. I worked with Dave. He was my friend.” Cate stops so suddenly that Krishna almost catches her heels.
“Then I’m sorry for your loss, Mr…?”
“Dasi. Krishna Dasi.”
“Mr Dasi.” Her voice hardens as she recognises him, “It was you who spilled coffee on me! You really shouldn’t be following me like this. I don’t believe there’s anything I can say to you.”
