Judge Savage

by Tim Parks

  Counsel for the prosecution began to make some bland remarks about there being plenty of other evidence to suggest that Rigby had been dealing in drugs for years. Nevertheless, Daniel interrupted him, a seizure and arrest was only possible after information received from an informer who seems to me, Mr Nicholson – this man is inept, he thought – to be in a most problematic relationship both to the defendant and the crime.

  Mattheson stood up from his chair, went round the solicitor’s chair and stooped a moment beside the barrister. He said a few words in a low voice. Of course, Nicholson protested. He still seemed absurdly confident. The policeman returned to his seat. Your honour, the prosecution counsel said hurriedly, as you are no doubt aware, most convictions in the area of drugs, and terrorism, come thanks to the services of an informer. He paused and glanced across at Mattheson, apparently looking for approval, then added: We are all here to fight crime after all. Frankly, if the prosecution is obliged to disclose the names of informers, then . . .

  Mr Nicholson! Daniel was furious, as far as I am aware I am not here to fight anybody or anything, but to help decide disputes, that is, to administer justice. He stopped. I will not be patronised! he thought. The policeman was looking at his feet, shaking his head. I repeat, this relationship between informer and defendant is suspect and would render a trial in which it remains undisclosed to the defence unsafe. But then it suddenly occurred to Judge Savage that what he was really reacting to, perhaps, was Martin’s wounding criticism of the evening before. It’s not true that I toe the line, he told himself. Concession of immunity is a most serious matter, he said.

  Your honour, Mrs Connolly stood up, if I may have a word with my learned friend. Of course. He watched as they whispered. Nicholson had assumed an air of offended dignity. The solicitor was in her early forties, Daniel thought, the mother returning to work after the kids perhaps. Your honour, Nicholson began again. Your honour, after consultation, I’m afraid I must say that if immunity is not granted we will almost certainly be obliged to drop this case and forgo possible conviction for a most serious crime. Again while the prosecution counsel repeated his inadequate formulas, Daniel noticed that Mrs Connolly’s eyes were alert and determined. She cared. Daniel Savage shook his head. I cannot grant immunity in these circumstances. Not unless I can be convinced that the informer could have no personal interest in the defendant’s arrest beyond his remuneration as informer.

  Your honour?

  Inspector Mattheson?

  The policeman hesitated. No doubt he knew more than the case papers said. But whatever might or might not be at stake for the police, he decided not to say it.

  Your honour will not grant PII?

  No. The identity of the informer must be disclosed to the defence

  Your honour?

  Yes, Mr Nicholson.

  Your honour, this really is most . . .

  The policeman shut his eyes. Judge Savage sympathised.

  Mr Nicholson, do you have any further argument which might cause me to change my mind?

  The young man floundered. He looked at the others.

  I am here to be persuaded, Daniel went on.

  No, your honour, the prosecution counsel eventually said.

  Well in that case, ladies and gentlemen, we have a very busy morning ahead of us. Daniel stood up and smiled. Mattheson was already at the door.

  Your honour? Having gathered his papers, Judge Savage found that the CPS woman was waiting for him. Your honour, I just wanted to introduce myself properly. I’m Kathleen Connolly. Despite the setback she had suffered, the woman was smiling. Charmed, Savage said. He gave her his hand. I believe you’re trying the Mishra case, Mrs Connolly went on. Again she seemed eager to find his eyes. He nodded. There was to be a pre-trial review that afternoon. I shall be there, she told him. A most unusual case, she said. She seemed excited. I’ve been following it closely. It’s an area I’m particularly interested in. For a moment, standing together by the judge’s door, Daniel feared the woman might be about to do the unthinkable and try to engage him in some kind of discussion about the case. It is indeed most unusual, he added gently, We’ll leave it at that, shall we? Kathleen Connolly insisted on shaking hands again.

  Anybody phone? he asked Laura, hurrying back to his chambers after adjourning a trial for lunch. There was a man who refused to leave his name, the clerk said. Oh, and your wife. Left a message. Shaking her curls, the secretary, Laura, read from her note pad: They’ve put the doors on, exclamation mark. She insisted on the exclamation mark, Mr Savage. She said you would understand. The girl smiled generously, her nails were long and shiny, as if she too understood. Excellent, Daniel said. He smiled at her. Excellent. But then driving home too fast, he was aware of an unpleasant mental clouding. Six weeks ago, when they had settled on the house, everything had appeared so clear. Now the landscape was shrouded under the humid skies of early summer. I must save Sarah from making a decision she will regret, he told himself. He took the corner with Primrose too fast. What was the point of these anonymous messages? The only person inviting me to venture forth at twilight these days, Daniel smiled, is my wife. They’ve put the doors on indeed! Hilary was prickly one minute, passionate the next. Mattheson, he remembered, as he let himself in the front door, had given evidence in some theft case he had defended. Way back. Daniel paused, key in lock. Had he called the policeman a liar? There had definitely been a certain hostility.

  Sarah?

  Food’s ready! came the voice. It sounded cheerful. Daniel was relieved. Walking to the kitchen, he found the table carefully laid, red napkins mitred in Hilary’s best crystal. Her back towards him, his daughter was bent forward over the oven so that the apron tie – she was wearing an apron! – crossed her slim bare waist between charming green pyjama shorts and a white tank top, bright against her dark skin. Sarah’s skin was much darker than her brother’s. Hi, Dad! she sang. It was a strange thing, Daniel sometimes told himself, that he had never had sex with a woman of his own colour. There are so few of my class, he once joked.

  Fantastic, he told his daughter. He took his jacket off and sat down. But what’s this story about your not going to the exam? Christine Shields phoned, Sarah said. She came from the oven with a steak steaming on the family’s best china. Why had she got that out? Only the cropped hair reminded him of her recent insistence on not being a sex object. But that too was glossy, freshly washed. The long neck was even more in evidence. The girl smiled slyly. Something about a problem moving money around. Another month before they can pay. Please, Sarah, listen, Mum told me . . . Eat up, she said. Wine? She had opened a bottle of wine, a good bottle. His glass was full before he could move to block it. It would be a busy afternoon. What’s the story? he demanded. Your mother said you wouldn’t come out of the bathroom. Sarah laughed. I gave her quite a shock, didn’t I? You gave me quite a shock. But then she went off, Sarah remarked, to do her various errands anyway, n’est-ce-pas?

  The girl seemed both angry and pleased with herself. Daniel ate quickly. I’ll run you in as soon as I’ve finished. It’s always best to be there half an hour early for an exam. If you take the bus you’ll be worrying about time. Sarah pouted: Mum said your honour would drag me there kicking and screaming. I’d been rather looking forward to it.

  There was a note of flirtation in her voice. It was odd. She was wearing make-up. He glanced at his watch. You’d better change, hadn’t you? How was your concert? she asked. It was a concert you went to, wasn’t it? She wasn’t eating, but watching him. She’d made the meal for him, but only to watch. Her eyes sparkled. The concert? He tried to smile: Mum said Froberger should never be played with a pedal. Inappropriate and anachronistic sentiment, she said. You know how she passes judgement.

  Sarah laughed heartily, head cocked to one side. Then she got up, flouncing, to bring him salt and salad. She has pretty ankles, he thought. He would not bring up the business of her having complained that it was cruel of them to go out.

  But did you
like it? she suddenly demanded.

  Me, the music? He was swallowing steak. His daughter reached across the table and wiped a spot from his chin. I don’t really listen to music you know. Just shut my eyes and let my mind wander. Again his daughter stood smiling too brightly: And where did Froberger pedal you to, may I ask? Daniel didn’t think: To you, he said. You still have to change, he reminded her.

  Picking up the bottle, his daughter very quickly poured herself a glass of wine. Not before your exam! But already she’d drunk it down. And what did you think about me? Her voice sharpened: That it was stupid of me to get involved in a Christian community and sit around singing to guitar music?

  What I thought, he said, then stopped. It was all such a far cry from presiding at court. No, I’ll only tell you what I thought if you get changed first. Come on, love. He tried to make his voice light as if talking to someone much younger. Sarah looked at her watch and without protest went out of the room. She seemed to be away a long time. The minutes ticked by. Daniel felt his alarm growing. I can’t physically force her to go, he told himself She was taking a ridiculously long time. Would he force her? It was pure provocation.

  Then Sarah reappeared in tight skirt and blouse. She had shoes with heels. By the way – she did a little pirouette – you know I’m only doing this for you. There’s really no point in my taking the exams if God doesn’t want me to go to university. I haven’t revised at all.

  Daniel chose to let this pass, he was so eager to have her out of the house and into the sensible harness of school and exam papers. But then despite himself he was telling the truth: It makes me so mad, Sarah. What the hell’s God got to do with it? You’re too intelligent to believe you know what God thinks. All we’re asking is for you to sit the exams you’ve been studying for.

  She burst into laughter. They were on the stairs now. Temper temper, Daniel, she said quietly. She had used his name, his Christian name. Daniel was rigid. Have you got your pens and things? he demanded. What things? she sweetly enquired. Do I need anything?

  They went down to the car. Weren’t you going to tell me what you were thinking about me, she asked again, buckling herself in. While Froberger pedalled along, I mean. Actually, it was the pianist who pedalled, Daniel corrected her, not Froberger. Froberger never saw a pedal in his life. Fill the space with banter, he told himself. The Russian pianist, he insisted. You know what your mother thinks of the Russian school. Sarah smiled. Okay, so what were you thinking while the pianist pedalled and mum squirmed? He didn’t reply. The girl was so sharp and so wayward. When had she ever called him by his first name before? It’s Ancient History isn’t it? he asked. I don’t believe you haven’t revised. Everybody says that before an exam. Dad, please, I asked you what you thought about me. Now come on.

  Well, first – he was driving quite fast, but relieved to be back with Dad rather than Daniel – yes, at first I was just thinking it would have been nice if you could have been there with us. You didn’t invite me, she objected. Well, as I recall, he said, it was the first time we’ve been out together just us two for ages. Quite, she said. But that doesn’t stop me wishing you could have heard the concert, does it? I suppose not. She seemed bored now. Perhaps she was at last beginning to think of her exam. They drove on. The silence was promising. And then, Daniel picked up the conversation, well then, to be honest, I was thinking that a year ago, you know, when I was away for a bit, how cheerful and sensible you seemed to have grown and how . . .

  Stupid! She howled. Suddenly she was banging her fists on his arm. Stupid man, she yelled. I’m not doing your stupid exam. I’m not going to your stupid university. And I’m never, never, never going to live in your stupid house. Don’t bother setting up a room for me in your stupid house with your stupid dog and your fireplace and stupid bathroom and terraced gardens.

  She was pummelling him. Daniel had to pull the car over. She howled. Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! He slapped her face. She fell back and stared. It was a hard slap. Sarah, please, calm down! Please! There was a short silence. Her eyes were wide, the nose worked like an animal’s. Forget whatever it was made you mad, Daniel ordered her. Forget it. Okay? He softened. Listen, we’ll talk about it when the exams are over. But please, please, don’t miss your moment, Sarah. You’ll regret it. You really will, love. For me. No, for yourself. Please, just go there and do it.

  There was a phone-box just outside the school gate. The children used it to call home when for some reason they were allowed to leave early. As soon as he had watched his daughter join her friends at the front door, Judge Savage stepped into the box and phoned directory enquiries, then the number they gave. Minnie Kwan, please, he asked. There was a short silence. I’d like to speak to Minnie Kwan. One moment, sir. The accent was Korean. She’s there, he thought with relief. He waited. A different male voice said, Who is this? Could I speak to Minnie Kwan please? Daniel was aware of disguising his voice, eliminating Oxbridge for something more local. I asked who is it? The voice was aggressive. Who is that? Daniel put the phone down. Perhaps he should just have said, Accounts, please. Her future was to work in Accounts. Wasn’t that what she hated? That she hadn’t been able to choose. As he pushed open the heavy door, the phone started to ring. Judge Savage hesitated. All around, glossy visiting cards offered sexual services, some with photographs of girls not unlike Minnie, or his daughter for that matter. New Girl on the Block. Thai. Norwegian. He picked up the receiver. Who is this? the foreign voice demanded. Who is it?

  FIVE

  IT IS NOT one decision that makes or unmakes a man – Daniel had read this somewhere, at Martin’s bidding no doubt – but the consistent concatenation of all his decisions over a lifetime of action and reflection. Quite probably this was true. Yet inevitably some choices will be more important than others. Daniel had been aware of that on his narrow bed in the Cambridge Hotel, and again on the bright slope to the north of the town when he and Hilary first stood before the shell of a house that corresponded to a dream they shared. Certainly as a judge some rulings, some sentences, would be better remembered than others, more highly praised, more vehemently contested. Trying the Mishra case, Daniel Savage rather unexpectedly found himself at the burning focal point of public attention.

  The facts were as follows: the Mishras, man and wife, who ran a small deliveries business, had lost the guardianship of their thirteen-year-old son because they repeatedly refused to permit a leg amputation that the NHS insisted was essential to save his life from a highly malignant form of bone cancer. The boy was made a ward and his doctor became his legal guardian. Forty-eight hours after this ruling, the parents took the child from the cancer ward of the local hospital, drove to Paris and boarded a flight to India. There the boy eventually died after apparently undergoing alternative treatments. On return to the UK the Mishras were arrested and charged with abduction of a minor and manslaughter.

  Even after a first cursory reading of the case papers, Daniel had been acutely aware of the extraordinary problems the trial posed. First and foremost there was the question of jurisdiction. All those involved, parents and child, were British nationals, yet the death itself had occurred outside the United Kingdom. Then although it seemed indisputable that the parents had abducted a child to whom they were no longer in loco parentis, thus becoming the indirect cause of his death, nevertheless to apply any of the normal sentences for the charges involved would surely be both obscene and unpopular. It was curious, Daniel thought, that CPS should pursue the matter so vigorously, when thugs were allowed to go free to inform on their brothers-in-law. Even more curious, though flattering, was the fact that he, who was hardly one of the senior judges, had been assigned the case. Could it be put down to the acute shortage of qualified judges on the circuit at this particular moment? Was it paranoid of him, he wondered, to imagine some kind of racial matching? In any event, the question of intent will be crucial Daniel guessed, and likewise the admission of evidence. It was in the latter area that a judge might greatly influence the outcom
e. What he did not expect, however, was to spend that whole afternoon in pre-trial review discussing an area of Archbold with which he was entirely unfamiliar.

  If I may refer your honour to chapter eleven, paragraph 24 Dying Declarations. Thank you, Mr Stacey. Defence counsel, it seemed, had a video of young Lackbir’s fourteenth birthday party, only days before his death, a party at which he had declared he would rather die with his family than have stayed in an English hospital. Dying declarations, prosecution objected, quoting Archbold, are admissible only where the death of the deceased is the subject of the charge and the cause of the death the subject of the declaration. May I submit to your honour . . .

  Daniel watched the video. Tediously static, the camera showed a garishly furnished flat, apparently in Chandigarh. The parents, older son and younger children fussed around the drawn face of the dying boy. Sound and language were both a problem with the bearded and turbaned father reading out a passage from what was apparently a holy text in Punjabi, while the boy’s voice was so weak that his comments, fortunately in English, but scattered in broken sentences through twenty minutes of muddled festivities, could only be understood with the help of the accompanying transcript. Nevertheless, Daniel ruled the evidence admissible, not as a ‘dying declaration’, but rather as part of the court’s need to understand the child’s, or rather, after his fourteenth birthday, ‘young person’s’ ability to decide matters, even questions of life and death, for himself, and again to clarify the extent to which the various family members had been conscious of the gravity of their decisions. Mrs Connolly, who, as promised, was attending, was visibly annoyed with the decision. Had she been instructed, Daniel wondered, or decided on her own account to undertake a campaign of prosecutions against parents who took the law into their hands? Would there soon be a law that would imprison a father for slapping his hysterical daughter in the car?