by Jason De'Ath
“Sorry?” Norcroft replied, somewhat distracted and so not fully cognizant of the judge’s intimation.
“You’ve not been sacked.” laboured Ravensdale.
“Oh, no, my Lord – very amusing. No, my client seems reasonable satisfied with his counsel.”
“So he should.” discerned the judge in a subtle recognition of Jameson’s good fortune. “May we have your first witness, Mr Norcroft?”
“I call Arthur Jameson.” A feint ripple of consternation was audible around the courtroom.
“...Arthur, I think it would be fair to admit that you are, in effect, a professional criminal, who derives all of his income from illegal pursuits of one sort or another, as opposed to gainful employment...I presume you would not disagree with that corollary?”
Arthur ruminated for a moment, not entirely sure what his barrister meant, eventually nodding: “Yeah.”
“You are a criminal by trade. However, that does not automatically equate with being a murderer or rapist; despite your obvious lack of moral fortitude, you still maintain some standards of acceptable behaviour: in short, you do have some scruples?”
There was a pause while Arthur realised that an affirmative response was required: “Er, yes – sir.”
“In fact, there is nothing in your criminal or personal history that would indicate a capacity, let alone a propensity, for any kind of evil. Members of the jury, the heinous nature of this crime is not contested; the only issue that is, is who was responsible, and there is no adequate reason to believe that Arthur Jameson was that person...”
“Mr Norcroft,” interrupted Ravensdale – as Carmichael appeared to have given up the ghost – “It is not within your remit to make any more speeches to the jury; Lord knows you’ve had enough rope, already...Please confine yourself to questioning the witness.”
Norcroft winced: “Of course, my Lord...” – Carmichael appeared to perk up at this point, which was also disconcerting
– “Arthur, would you please tell this court what you were doing on the evening of the 30th July last year?”
“I was in Liverpool.”
“Ahem, would you care to enlighten the court to your activities that day?” asked Norcroft a little perturbed by Arthur’s vagueness.
“Oh, yeah – sorry. I took a train to Liverpool, late mornin’...”
Carmichael broke in: “Why then did you go to Paddington Station after leaving the Verona Hotel?” “I don’t know; I got confused.”
“Confused...? What about: where you were going?” pressed Carmichael.
“Well, yeah. I was finkin’ of visitin’ Marion – that was me girlfriend, at the time.”
Carmichael seized the opportunity to defame Arthur: “After a date with another girl?”
“Well, yeah?” This question was beyond Arthur’s comprehension; Norcroft leapt to his defence:
“My Lord, I think my client’s moral character has already been established and is frankly not relevant at this time.” “Agreed. Carry on Mr Norcroft.”
“Arthur, do you recall what time you arrived at Lime Street Station in Liverpool?”
Carmichael again rudely interrupted: “Hold on. Let us return to the Verona Hotel: why did you need to ask directions to Paddington, and specifically, Paddington Station?”
“I don’ fink I did, sir... I may ‘ave mentioned it to that Jacobs bloke that I was goin’ to Paddington...”
Ravensdale was compelled to intervene: “Are you saying that Mr Jacobsen was lying when he said he gave you directions to the number 36 bus?”
“Yes, I fink so, my Lord.” Arthur replied assuredly.
“I see.” noted the judge a tad irksomely, while Carmichael kicked himself; “Please continue, Mr Jameson.”
“...Well, when I got t’Paddington, I realised I’d meant t’go t’Liverpool, so I ‘ot footed it to Euston. I missed the train I really wanted t’catch, so I ‘ad t’get a later one: jus’ before mid-day.”
A now exasperated Norcroft, after glancing with mock expectation at Carmichael and Ravensdale, attempted to reestablish control of the evidential delivery: “So, what time did you arrive in Liverpool?”
“I’m not sure – about two-ish.”
“What did you do on arrival?”
“I was given a contact in Liverpool – a bloke oo buys swanky watches: y’u know – expensive stuff?” “Go on.”
“So I ‘ad an address f’r firty-eight Stanley Road...It was supposed t’be close to the station, but when I asked this woman for directions, she told me it was miles away – I ‘ad t’get a bus.”
“For the benefit of the jury,” explained Norcroft, “we believe that the address was in fact 38 Stanley Street, which is why my client ended up on wild goose chase. Please continue, Arthur.”
“Yeah... Anyway, I got a bus to Bootle, I fink. I found the address, but it was a sweetshop...”
“What time did you arrive at this sweetshop?”
“I reckon it was about ‘alf free.”
“So, then what?”
“I asked the woman in the shop if she knew anyone by the name of Freddie, but she didn’.” “Freddie was your contact?” assisted Norcroft.
“Yeah, Freddie the Fox.”
“Dare I ask why he was called ‘the fox’?” enquired Ravensdale.
Arthur looked at the judge, slightly surprised by the question: “Er...no – I dunno...my Lord”
Norcroft sighed in despair: “Let’s get back to the shop: where did you go next?” “Um, well, the biddy in the sweetshop suggested some uvver Stanleys.” “Biddy?” quizzed Ravensdale.
Norcroft was fast losing his usual cool demeanour: “The witness means the woman serving in the shop, my Lord...
Now, Arthur, what did you do next?”
“I wondered aroun’ a bit...Then I spoke t’this doorman, at the cinema – up the road from the shop. I fink ‘e was a Geordie – I couldn’ understand anyfink ‘e said... Anyway, I walked aroun’ the block an’ found a shoppin’ centre place; there was a bus station underneaf, so I went down there, t’see what buses there was... I was like, at a loose end, y’u know...? I see there was a bus t’Rhyl. I a’n’t never been t’Rhyl before. It’s a seaside place – I fought it be a laugh.” “So, you caught a bus to Rhyl... What time did you arrive in Rhyl?”
“Dunno: early evenin’.”
Carmichael detected a small flaw in the story: “Er, why would you go to Rhyl at that time of day?” “Wha’d’y’u mean?” asked Arthur blankly.
“Well, the day was nearly over – a bit late for paddling, wasn’t it?” smirked Carmichael, which got a snigger from the public gallery.
“I wasn’ finkin’ of paddlin’, sir. I fought there might be some girls there.”
“Ah, of course: you needed to indulge your insatiable sex drive?” snidely remarked Carmichael.
“Objection.” complained Norcroft irritably.
“Sustained. The jury will dismiss that comment. Mr Carmichael, let’s have no more cheap tricks – it’s really rather beneath you.” scolded Ravensdale.
“When in Rome.” said Carmichael under his breath, fortunately out of Ravensdale’s earshot.
“Thank you, my Lordship...” gratefully accepted Norcroft, “Now, Arthur, you arrived in Rhyl around 6 PM – is that correct?”
“Yeah, about that. I didn’t make a note.”
“No, why would you?” asserted Norcroft, “What did you do in sunny Rhyl?”
“Ju’s wandered aroun’. I ‘ad some nosh in a cafe. Then I found a pub – on the seafront... It was all a bit quiet.” “Did you speak to anyone?”
“Not really. Only the barman, like.”
Carmichael immediately jumped in at this point, having been following Arthur’s retelling of the story relative to his police statement: “You didn’t mention any pub in your statement?”
“No, I forgot.”
“But you remember, now?”
“Yeah. I’ve ‘ad time to fink.”
“Yes,
I’m sure you have.” noted Carmichael with a clear suggestion of mistrust.
“If we could return to your account of that day.” moaned the disgruntled Norcroft. “So, you didn’t speak to anyone; where did you go next?”
“I decided to look f’r a B an’ B... I don’t remember what it was called...” “How many hostelries did you try?” asked Carmichael quizzically.
“I don’ remember. A couple, probably.”
“You didn’t mention that in your statement, either.” noted Carmichael, but did not pursue an explanation.
“In your statement,” started Norcroft, pointedly, “you said the lodging house was called ‘something like Vista’ – is that correct?”
“Er, yeah. Somefink Vista.”
“Can you describe the interior of that guesthouse?”
“Um, there was an attic room. That was the one I got – there weren’ any uvvers vacant.”
“In your statement, you described some aspects of the decor – can you recall that?”
“Er, yeaah: the wallpaper in the hall and stairs was like, floral; blue colours. There was a table...a wooden table with a phone on it, in the hall.”
“What about the room?”
“It was just emulsioned – yellowy colour.”
“Was there a bathroom?”
“Yeah, downstairs, on the landin’ – communal. It ‘ad a toilet and bath; an’ sink, obviously... It was all in a light green colour.”
“Thank you, Arthur.” said Norcroft with relief at having finally gotten through that section of evidence, “And, how long did you stay at this guesthouse?”
“Jus’ overnight...I stayed in Rhyl durin’ the mornin’, then went back t’Liverpool... Then I looked up some old mates, an’ stayed wiv them for a few days.”
“So, members of the jury,” began Norcroft, “The defendant, Arthur Jameson, could not have been the Marsholm Wood murderer, because he was in Rhyl at the time the crime was committed. I will be calling more witnesses who will further attest to this alibi... No more questions my Lord.”
“Mr Carmichael?”
“My Lord... Mr Jameson, would you say that you had large sexual appetite?”
“Do what?”
“Just answer the question.” insisted Carmichael.
Arthur was genuinely bewildered by this question: “I like girls, if tha’s what y’u mean?”
“What I mean, Mr Jameson, is that you have a greater sex drive than most men of your age.” abetted Carmichael in a bid to trap Arthur by appealing to his ego. However, Arthur had been warned about such tactics and wasn’t falling for it:
“No, sir, I wouldn’t say so.”
“Why did you need to go all the way to Liverpool just to sell some hooky watches?” asked Carmichael changing tack.
“I wanted a good price... Not everyone can ‘andle the expensive stuff.”
“Is there a particular shortage of good quality watches in Liverpool?” asked Carmichael in jest.
“I dunno. They a’n’t so rich, are they?” observed Arthur in all seriousness.
“Nor are the people you steal from, anymore.” Carmichael noted caustically – which brought a smile to the jurors.
“They got insurance, a’n’t they?”
“Is that how you justify yourself, Mr Jameson...?”
“Mr Carmichael,” the judge interrupted, “do you have any sensible questions?” That one got a smattering of giggles throughout the courtroom.
“Yes, my Lord... Mr Jameson, why go to Rhyl for an evening and then return to Liverpool?” “Why not?” posed Arthur.
Carmichael realised this was going nowhere and resorted to going for the jugular: “You returned to Liverpool, on the 31st, where you visited some old acquaintances...This sounds awfully like your original unverifiable alibi, doesn’t it?” “I s’pose it does, yeah.” Arthur agreed nonchalantly.
“You see, Mr Jameson, it appears to me that you went to Liverpool on the 29th to establish an alibi for the 30th; you then went back to Liverpool on the 31st to lie low with your criminal chums, who later refused to get involved – is that closer to the truth?”
“No. I wasn’ in Liverpool on the 29th – ‘ow could I be? Y’ur own witness said I was at ‘is flat ‘til seven on that day. I fought you ‘ad more intelligence, sir.” exclaimed Arthur bitterly.
“Mr Jameson,” barked the judge, “You will show respect to the learned counsel. Do you understand?” “Yes, my Lord.” he accepted reluctantly.
This show of anger was exactly the sort of thing Carmichael was hoping to instigate; he tried to press his advantage: “Mr Jameson, it is amazing how your memory of events, which should have been insignificant at the time, suddenly improved just before this trial began. I suggest that this whole alibi is a despicable fabrication, intended to mislead this court.”
“No.”
“This web of lies has been invented in the hope that someone will misremember events that actually occurred on different days to ones you claim – isn’t that right?”
“No. Y’u’ wrong; y’u wrong!” insisted Arthur with undisguised wrath.
“No more questions, my Lord.” calmly concluded Carmichael, with a bow to the judge; sitting down, he stare at the simmering defendant, who’s less demure side had now been exposed for all the court to see.
“Warder would you please remove the defendant from the court to cool down.” instructed Ravensdale. Arthur was then rather roughly frog-marched out of the courtroom; Norcroft sighed heavily, uncomfortable with a dose of his own treatment – putting the defendant on the stand is always risky for the defence. Norcroft was grateful when the judge then adjourned for a short interval, giving him a chance to regroup.
Joan Copperton had been shipped down from Liverpool the night before in order to give her evidence. It had been decided that Florence Gazeley’s recollection of events was so vague and contradictory that served no value to either side; that combined with the difficulties of her evidence having to be given by television relay, due to her age, negated a perfunctory appearance. There were two other witnesses, in relation to the sweetshop element of Jameson’s alibi: these were Geoffrey Turnbull, the sweetshop delivery man, and Eric Gazeley, Florence’s father. Neither had any direct knowledge of Jameson’s presence in the shop, but they did present evidence that was contradictory to a critical aspect of Joan’s testimony; these witnesses were identified too late to give their evidence in person, given that they would have appeared for the Prosecution.
“...Mrs Copperton, you were working at the Sugar Plum sweetshop at 38 Stanley Road, Liverpool, on the afternoon of the 30th July last year?”
“Yis ay wuz.”
“And did a man visit your shop asking for directions?”
“Yis, 'e wuz ask'n fe some bloke dat 'e thought lived at de sweetshop addy.”
“Indeed.” Norcroft affirmed a little hesitantly with a grimace, while glancing at Ravensdale, who appeared even more bewildered by the accent. “Do you see that man in this court, today?” “Yis, eez over thuz.” she responded, while pointing to the dock.
“For the record, the witness has identified the defendant.” added Norcroft for clarity.
“Um, Mr Norcroft, would you mind approaching the bench for a moment?” asked Ravensdale in something of a fluster.
Norcroft dutifully complied. “Er, Mr Norcroft, I can’t understand a word this witness is saying.”
“Yeaas. I appreciate your difficulty, m’Lord. Perhaps we could have her testimony translated later – I wouldn’t want to insult her.”
“No, I suppose not. Very well, carry on – as pointedly as possible, please.”
Norcroft returned to his place and recommenced his questioning: “Mrs Copperton, can you recall what time the defendant entered your shop?”
“Ay think it wuz around fo.”
“About four o’clock in the afternoon?”
“Yis.”
“Can you recall any of that conversation?”
“Bright, ay
terld 'im 'e 'ad de wrong addy, and ay suggested some others.”
“So, you gave him some other addresses with the word ‘Stanley’ in them – and gave him directions to those?”
“Yis, that’s rite.”
“And then he left the shop?”
“Ay think 'e may 'uv spokun ter Florrie fairst.”
“Florrie being Florence Gazeley?”
“Yis.”
“For the benefit of the jury: Miss Gazeley’s statement is unfortunately not helpful to this case, as she has no meaningful recollection of the event... Mrs Copperton, would you please explain how you are able to be sure about the day Mr Jameson came into your shop?”
“Yis, ay only weerk aftinewns ed Thsdee and Fridee; Florrie only works wi' me in de avvy onna Fridee.”
“So, you only work afternoons on Thursdays and Fridays, while Florence only works the afternoon with you on a
Friday?”
“Yis.”
“And how are you able to fix the exact date as the 30th of July?”
“Me sisti's birthdee is ed de thirty-fairst o' July.”
“So, your sister’s birthday is on the 31st of July?”
“Yis.” She replied, now starting to wonder why the barrister was repeating everything she said; Ravensdale was however, very grateful.
“Do you work on Saturdays?”
“Nah.”
“I have no further questions for this witness my Lord.” concluded Norcroft.
“Your witness, Mr Carmichael.” instructed the judge.
Carmichael rose slowly and purposefully to his feet: “Mrs Copperton, what day are the shop’s supplies delivered?”
“Dat would be Thsdays.”
“What sort of time?”
“Usually betweun five and five-thirty.”
“The man who delivers your stock is Geoffrey Turnbull – is that correct?”
“Geoff, yis.”
“Is it also correct that quite often Florence visits the shop around the same time as the deliveries on a Thursday?”
“Er, yis, that’s rite.”
“According to Mr Turnbull’s statement, Florence is often serving in the shop during her visit – is that correct?” “Yis, sometimes, if we're chokka.” “Chokka?” enquired Ravensdale.
