by Grace Monroe
‘Lastly, and it’s difficult, is the defence of accident. That means you were there. You were the cause of death. But it was a mishap.’
Kailash said nothing. The clock on the cell walls showed 10.30a.m., as a disembodied voice called me over the tannoy.
‘Brodie McLennan to court six.’
A young police officer rattled the bars of the cell.
‘You’re here,’ he said, stating the obvious. ‘Sheriff Strathclyde is on the bench. He’s waiting for you.’
Standing straight to catch his breath, he blocked my exit. I pushed past him, running at full pelt out of the cells, my black gown flying as he called after me.
‘By the way…he’s been on the bench since ten.’
With barely a nod to Kailash, I ran and ran. I didn’t stop until I reached the entrance of the court. My adversary for this morning, Baggy Sutherland, lurched against the doorframe. He had a droopy hangdog look that comes from a lifetime of disappointments. Gifted in court, when he was sober, he could bring a tear to any juror’s eye. His black court gown was in fact green with age. On occasions when I had forgotten mine, his was the only one left hanging in the agents’ room. Wearing Baggy’s gown was like putting on the mantle of Elijah.
‘You’re in trouble.’ Baggy stopped me, and started pulling at my gown. I had no time for pleasantries, I pushed forwards, but he wouldn’t let me go.
‘It’s on inside out,’ he offered by way of an explanation for the mauling which was taking place. Rather deftly, for a man with tremors in his hands, he removed my gown, and turned it right side out.
‘The mood that old bastard’s in, he’d do you with contempt for wearing it that way.’
Baggy was serious. Sheriff Strathclyde had a severe problem with me–even before I acted for his wife in their divorce action. He could find me in contempt of court for anything, even my clothes. I would win it on appeal, but he still had the power. I was anxious to do nothing to offend him.
I could almost hear his breath as I walked in. Sheriff Strathclyde is small, very angry, and with a body shape that favours a toad. I intended to walk straight in and proceed with business. He, of course had other plans. He wanted me to suffer. His ball-like face, which looked as if it had been chewed by a large dog trying to remodel its own arse, signalled red for danger.
All heads, but one, had swivelled to watch my entrance. Kailash looked intently at the bench. She had taken the direct route from the cells, and had arrived much faster than I could.
‘How kind of you to find the time to join us today, Ms McLennan.’ Sheriff Strathclyde’s voice was chilly, deep, and rich, the product of a very expensive education.
‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t find you in contempt of court,’ he spat at me. ‘Right now.’
‘Well, how about the fact that you have absolutely no right to?’ I countered. ‘I was consulting with a client on a very serious charge.’
It took about a second for me to realise this wasn’t quite the approach I should have gone for.
‘No right, no right!’ Purple in the face, Strathclyde looked as if he were about to explode.
‘No right!’ he continued. ‘It’s my court! I can do as I please! Anything! I can do anything!’
Raising himself up to his full height, he leaned over the bench. For a moment, I thought that he would topple onto me. I was squaring up to him. This day was getting worse with every passing minute and he was a bully. Anyway, surely he wouldn’t respect obsequiousness?
‘Find me in contempt,’ I challenged him, ‘and I will appeal you straightaway.’
No judge likes to have his or her decisions appealed. I had my pen poised noting down every word he said.
Strathclyde was well acquainted with the appeal procedure. He knew that judicial words spoken in anger did not go down well over the road in Parliament House.
Disdainfully, he flicked his manicured hand in my direction. Feeling more relief than I would ever admit, I took my seat in the well of the court, opposite the Procurator Fiscal.
This case, in technical lawyer speak, had all the makings of being a Right Royal Bastard.
SEVEN
The Fiscal and I had been at university together. Frank Pearson was a mature student when we were both studying together, but the age gap made no difference to our friendship. I always had time for him and I liked the way he never made assumptions about me or my competitive streak.
The sheriff clerk looked disparagingly at me as she called the case. I was grateful that indictments are called in chambers, which meant that no member of the press or public was allowed. As things stood, the people who were allowed to be there were causing me enough trouble without any help from outsiders.
‘Are you Kailash Bernadette Coutts?’ The clerk’s voice rang out around the courtroom.
The surprise caught in my throat. Bernadette? But then I recalled her Irish mother and realised it could have been worse; she might have had my first name.
The clerk’s voice went on as I waited impatiently for my turn.
‘How do you plead?’
That was it. My cue. My curtain call. I leaped to my feet.
‘Brodie McLennan. I appear on behalf of Ms Coutts, who makes no plea or declaration at this stage.’
On indictment charges, you do not plead guilty or not guilty, you do not declare your position, you do not give anything away. I expected to be out of that oaf’s court as quickly as possible, because I couldn’t ask for bail on a murder charge, and I was determined to leave no clue behind me. Kailash would be remanded in prison until the trial, and I would have a chance to reconsider my position at that point. I could already see myself this evening, languishing in a bubble bath, working out whether I should go on with this case, working out how to get out of it. My reverie was soon broken.
‘Ms McLennan, approach the bench.’
Frank Pearson was already there, and deep in discussion with Sheriff Strathclyde.
‘The Fiscal has moved that we carry out the judicial examination now in view of the media interest in this case.’
Frank raised his eyebrows in apology to me. This clearly wasn’t his decision–the word had come from much higher up. I felt as if I had been ambushed and took little comfort from the fact that Frank probably felt the same way.
I didn’t have many cards to play.
‘I haven’t had time to discuss this with my client.’
Kailash’s performance at the judicial examination was crucial to the outcome of the case, and I didn’t want her to be thrown in there before I had a chance to discuss matters with her.
Sheriff Strathclyde was quick to put the boot in.
‘I hope you’re not suggesting, Ms McLennan, that you would be coaching your client?’
As it is illegal in Scotland to prepare witnesses, I hastily denied it. Under the circumstances, I had no objection that would be upheld. Swiftly, I moved towards the dock. Unlike me, Kailash seemed unperturbed. She was eyeballing Sheriff Strathclyde and he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.
‘Kailash? I can’t stop this judicial examination.’
Her face did not even register my presence. Trancelike she continued to stare at Strathclyde. I assumed that her stares were to unsettle him, and I assumed that she was trying to unsettle him because he was–or had been–a client of hers. That was all I needed. Maybe she thought she could bribe him or embarrass him into calling off the case. If so, she must have conveniently forgotten just who she was accused of killing. I was losing patience.
‘Kailash!’ I called as loudly as I dared. ‘Listen to me. The Fiscal is about to ask you questions. However, you are entitled to refuse to answer them.’
My heart was beating, a mixture of adrenalin and anger. She wasn’t listening to me and was bound to throw away any slight chance she may have. I had to press on–professional ethics meant that even clients who wouldn’t deign to give me a moment of their attention still had to be advised.
‘You don’t have
to answer any questions, and my normal advice would be to say nothing as that is the safest option, but–and it is a big “but”–if you have a good defence, and don’t state it, the Crown can comment on your failure to the jury. Kailash, I don’t know whether you have a good defence or not. This is your call. It really depends on how brave you are.’ I finished my whispered comments to Kailash feeling more of a need to shout explicit advice rather than leave so much to her judgment. She was much calmer than me.
Again, no reaction. Her lack of emotion was worrying me. How was she going to act and react when she got up there? Was she going to take the psychopath route? The wounded tart with a heart? Or continue her mad staring at Strathclyde? It mattered to me. It mattered a lot. When a trial lawyer gets started, the victim and the accused are lost. It is merely a fight, a game with the prosecution. And it’s a game I like to win.
‘Kailash, this matters. This will all be tape recorded and go before a jury.’
She surprised me by clutching my arm and nipping it.
‘Did you say this will be tape recorded?’ I nodded my head, resentfully rubbing at the place on my arm where her nails had dug in.
‘Is there any way the tape can be interfered with?’ ‘No, of course not. It’s kept and authorised by the Fiscal.’
‘And do you trust him? Do you trust that process?’
‘Kailash, what’s going on? Of course I do. I know Frank Pearson. He’s a good man. But I also know the process. They’re the ones who want this to happen. They’re not going to scupper their own procedures. It’s nothing to be scared of.’
‘Scared?’ she almost spluttered. ‘Why do you think I would be scared?’
‘Well, if you’re thinking from the other side and actually believe you, or someone you know, could get in and wreck the tape if you don’t come out of it too well, you can forget that right now. No chance,’ I warned her.
She chewed her lips as she was thinking. I have the same bad habit–it saves my nails, but the inside of my mouth resembles a slasher movie.
‘Don’t stand in front of me when I am being asked questions. I want to see him,’ she informed me in an emotionless voice.
‘Kailash, it won’t work. I don’t know how you know him–although it doesn’t take much imagination to guess–but that won’t cut any ice here. It doesn’t matter if he likes to dress up as a schoolgirl or get his arse smeared with peanut butter while a whippet licks it off, you’ve been accused of murder. That’s all that counts.’
‘You’ve got quite a vivid imagination there, Brodie,’ she responded. ‘I could use you.’
‘Don’t bother flattering me. It’s standard practice for lawyers to act as a buffer between clients and the bench.’
That was true, but I was also put out at being sidelined. I wasn’t a bit player in this. I was a star attraction and I liked it that way. Nonetheless, I continued.
‘I can’t stop you if you are specifically instructing me that way, Kailash, but remember that you still retain the right to consult with me before you answer any questions. I can’t interrupt in the proceedings so it has to come from you.’
Kailash had already moved on. She hadn’t even heard the last comments. She was, however, the only one ignoring me. Sheriff Strathclyde had his beady little eyes focused right in my direction.
‘If you are quite finished, Ms McLennan, perhaps we may have a moment of your time to begin.’
He was looking anxiously at his watch. It wasn’t any concern for procedures or the fact that he was a dedicated workaholic–rather he was keen not to have a late lunch. Rumour had it that it was generally liquid anyway, and I had certainly seen him carried from the bench on more than one occasion.
Sheriff Strathclyde was sweating profusely. Was it Kailash’s gaze, or the effects of last night’s whisky? The sheriff clerk, switched the tape on, and it began. I didn’t listen to her give her basic details, I was just praying my client would speak up.
Ordinarily, the less an accused says the better, but this case was unique. We had to come up with a good story–and stand firm.
‘At 11.30p.m. I was walking home.’
Kailash’s clear voice cut through the silence of the court; the only other sound was the whirr of the tape recorder.
‘Alone,’ she added on reflection.
We held our breaths as we waited to hear how Lord Arbuthnot of Broxden had died.
‘At present, I do not think it is necessary to state whose company I had enjoyed earlier in the evening. Latterly, I was at the Balmoral Hotel.’
Sheriff Strathclyde continued to shift uncomfortably under her stare. I was annoyed. It sounded as if she was hiding something. Also, there was absolutely no emotion or contrition in her voice. It would not go down well with a jury. Public speaking is the number one fear amongst people–dying is second. That means most would rather be the corpse than give a eulogy at a funeral. But Kailash sounded calm, as if she were reading a bedtime story to a child.
‘I had a couple of glasses of champagne. I decided to go home before I had finished. I brought the champagne flute out with me.’
Her voice was controlled, as if this was perfectly normal behaviour.
‘I crossed the road and was sipping champagne as I examined the large statue of the bronze horseman. This sculpture fascinates me. It is anatomically correct in every detail, except one–its tongue is missing. The artist committed suicide, when he realised this…’
She was rambling. Kailash Coutts still stared at Sheriff Strathclyde, as if they were having a private conversation at a dinner party.
‘Strange,’ she continued, ‘I always thought it was our tongues that got us into trouble.’
Lifting her head even higher, she gestured towards him.
‘Don’t you agree, M’Lord?’
Without waiting for the reply, that would never come, she continued.
‘In the wall of Register House is a seismograph. It is behind glass, and it measures earthquakes.’
Pausing as if speaking to imbeciles, she added: ‘On the Richter scale.
‘It is extraordinary how earthquakes can hit Edinburgh, M’Lord.’
To his credit, Sheriff Strathclyde only flinched a little bit before Kailash continued with her story. I was pretty sure she was enjoying herself as much as anyone could in this situation, but everyone’s patience would run out soon if she didn’t start coming up with the goods.
‘I first saw them in the glass of the shops,’ she went on. ‘Teenagers of both sexes–a gang of about ten.’
For the first time, her voice cracked with emotion. I had an unsettling feeling that she was putting it on, a consummate actress. Why should that surprise me, given her profession?
‘Next, I heard a strange drumming sound.’ Her voice was becoming higher, her own fingers and nails drumming on the edge of the stand. I had to hand it to her–the audience was sitting on the edge of its seat.
‘They were banging. Old fashioned walking canes, I think. Banging them off the pavement, off the pavement, time and time again.’ She sounded breathless now.
‘They gathered round me…black leather coats…their hair was white…and they were frightening. Any exit route was blocked off. I was trapped. Trapped between the wall of Register House and the horseman.’
Kailash asked for water. There was an almost palpable sigh of relief. We all needed a breather
‘The boy…their leader…’ her voice was faltering now, ‘he began the taunts. Asking me for a price list.’
Impressively, Kailash dropped her head, but kept her eyes up, never breaking the stare with Sheriff Strathclyde. She continued in a staged whisper.
‘…for my services.’
I knew she was being polite, but I had hoped, against hope, that we could have kept her profession out of the trial. Although practically everyone in Edinburgh knew exactly what Kailash Coutts did for a living, I had hoped to raise objections if any assumptions about the reason for her movements were made. Surely even notorious p
rostitutes had perfectly innocent nights out from time to time? As soon as I had the thought, I realised I wasn’t even managing to kid myself. I knew I was clutching at straws–but straws were my only hope at this stage. In my dealings with Kailash, I had kept strictly to the golden rule of cross-examination: never ask a question to which you do not know the answer. I had broken it on only one occasion when I had asked her if Lord Arbuthnot was a client. She had replied that he was not, so I would argue that her sexual reputation was irrelevant if the dead man did not use her ‘services’.
‘Menacingly,’ Kailash went on, ‘he danced around me, weaving in and out, tapping me on the body with his cane. I was in no doubt that my life was in danger.’
Gasping for breath, she pulled a handkerchief out and began wiping her eyes. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief that she was conforming to such a clichéd, but useful, weeping stereotype.
‘I reached into my bag.’ Her voice wavered; she rested her hand against her breast shakily, as if reliving the moment. ‘And I pulled the empty champagne flute out. I was terrified. I smashed it against the wall to protect myself. All I could see was that evil boy, and his strange, strange eyes. But then…nothing that happened next makes any sense.’
She collapsed weeping, and everyone else seemed taken in, but I have studied body language and while Kailash Coutts was a bloody good actress, she was actually a crap liar. When we speak, our body communicates the truth. In court, my senses are heightened by adrenalin. I had watched the micro movements of her eyes when she spoke. She looked down to the left, an indication that she was, at best, hiding something. If she had been telling the truth, Kailash would have looked up to her right, to recall facts. Our bodies do seventy per cent of our communication unconsciously, but Kailash must have missed the lesson on that when she went to stage school.
After sipping on some water, Kailash began again.
‘I smashed the glass against the wall, not to use it, but to threaten them, to keep them away. I was screaming for help, but I thought that no one could hear me.’
The Dark Angels had chosen a busy spot in the East End of Princes Street to attack her. I guess some might interpret it as a sign that Moses Tierney and his crew thought they were above the law, although they would have been hidden behind the horseman and the wall in a very short, narrow alleyway.
