Crowner and Justice

by Barrie Roberts

  The next day was a waste of time. Maddox called a succession of witnesses who were all members of the Union who had not gone on strike. Each one was there to say that Jimmy Martin had been the prime mover of the proposition to ballot for a strike. None of them, curiously, could recall who seconded Jimmy’s motion, but apart from that they were hardly worth cross-examination. With the last one Maddox closed his case and we adjourned till the next day.

  We gathered in a cafe along the street, Sheila and I, my clients and a selection of their supporters. The fans were jubilant and, again, I had to calm them down. I didn’t tell them that it had gone a lot better than I had expected.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘we’ve made some progress. We’ve established that the sacking of Mohammed was in breach of the Joint Agreement and that even Bailey won’t argue that trespass is a reason for dismissal. We’ve established that Mohammed wasn’t part of the incident at the gate, so maybe he’s in the clear, but we’ve still got the calling of the strike and the scuffle at the gate.’

  ‘Nobody will believe Cheetham now,’ someone said.

  ‘You made an absolute galah out of him,’ Sheila agreed.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but those three on the Tribunal can pick and choose who they believe, and they may well choose to believe Cheetham, despite the fact that he’s in hock to Bailey for his job, added to which, we’ve had Goatly telling them that, even according to the Union, the strike was illegal.’

  ‘Then why did they let it run three weeks, instead of going for an injunction?’ Martin asked.

  ‘You tell me,’ I said. ‘I have to say that the High Court would have given BDS an injunction against you like a shot on this evidence.’

  I repeated the advice I had been giving my clients for weeks about their own behaviour when giving evidence and our meeting broke up. A case is never so strong as when your opponent has just finished giving evidence, but tomorrow we had to put on our own show.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  There were no reporters at the hearing next morning, and one of the Tribunal was late arriving, so we waited a while. I took the opportunity to play lawyers’ games with Maddox.

  ‘You know,’ I told him, ‘it’s not too late. You could still make us a sensible offer.’

  ‘An offer!’ he said. ‘What for? We’re winning.’

  I smiled. ‘You’re not going to win against Mohammed. He was improperly sacked and any assault by him has gone out the window. You aren’t arguing trespass as a reason for dismissal. All you’ve got is the strike and the brawl at the gate.’

  ‘All!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s more than enough.’

  ‘Ah, but at what a price!’ I said. ‘Your boss being branded as a drunk who’s fast with his fists. Even if you win, he’ll be known as “Basher Bailey” ever after.’

  The thought made him stare at me for a moment, then he shook his head.

  ‘You’re just playing games,’ he said. All you trial lawyers are the same — no evidence, just bluff and tricks.’

  ‘You don’t usually do trials?’ I asked, knowing full well that he didn’t. He spent his time advising on how to break someone else’s patents and get away with it.

  He shook his head. ‘Mr Bailey decided that we would handle this one in-house, that’s all.’

  ‘Why was that?’ I enquired.

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ he said, ‘it was the Americans. We were just getting things nicely sorted out with them when we ran into difficulties because Coventry fell behind. They weren’t happy about that, but the strike at Belston nearly put the tin hat on it. We had to show them we could deal with a wildcat strike, and we have to show them that we’re not making a big thing of it. If we’d pulled some big QC in, the papers would have been all over it.’

  ‘But the American deal is done?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Signed, sealed and delivered. We just didn’t want to worry them at all.’

  ‘So, how come your boss isn’t here?’

  ‘He’d already booked his holidays,’ Maddox said sharply and I grinned inwardly. I was right — Maddox had lost the toss.

  The Tribunal assembled at last and I got to call Mohammed. He was a perfect witness. He looked serious and thoughtful, listened to my questions and gave considered answers. It didn’t take long for him to tell his story and then Maddox got his chance. I wasn’t worried about that and I was right. He was probably the first witness that Maddox had cross-examined for years — maybe the first ever — and no harm came of it.

  It’s always nice to leave a cross-examiner something to shoot himself in the foot with. I had not referred to the terms of Mohammed’s contract with BDS, but I’d primed Mohammed. When Maddox pressed him about the reasons for his refusal to go into Accounts, Mohammed took his contract from his jacket pocket and started to read his job description from it. Maddox was silly enough not to stop him and after that it became an Exhibit.

  All in all, Mohammed came across as a reasonable bloke who had objected to unreasonable treatment, but Maddox’s cross-examination took so long we were well into the afternoon by the time he finished and the chairman decided to adjourn early for the weekend.

  Sheila and I were hardly home before a car drew in outside and the doorbell rang. John Parry stood on the doorstep.

  ‘Have you ever thought,’ I said as I opened the front door, ‘that your life would be a lot more efficient if you moved in here?’

  ‘Well, the cooking’s an attraction and the landlady’s a delight, but I doubt if I could afford the rent.’

  ‘We could work something out. You could put your uniform on and stand at the gate bending the knees and saying, “Move along there!” now and then to keep burglars at bay. You have got a uniform, haven’t you?’

  ‘Course I have, boyo. Keep it all pressed in plastic bags, ready for when I get the Queen’s Police Medal.’

  I took him into the front room and gave him a drink then I went through to the kitchen and told Sheila to bung another fistful of witchetty grubs on.

  ‘You haven’t eaten?’ I asked as I came back.

  ‘No. When the forces of law and order are in hot pursuit of dangerous maniacs they pause not for rest nor refreshment, bach.’

  ‘I take it you’re here about Samson. Any news?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The tyre tracks gave us a lead on the car and guess what? Samson was in the White Lion the night before with a bloke driving just such a car.’

  ‘Did anyone know who he was?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, seems he was a total stranger. He turned up early in the evening and asked the barman if Samson was likely to be in. The barman told him Samson usually came in about eight, so the stranger waited. Barman says that Samson seemed quite surprised to see him when he came in, but the stranger bought him a drink, they had a bit of a chat and then our man made off.’

  ‘Did Samson tell anyone who he was?’

  ‘Apparently he said he’d done a bit of business with the bloke and he thought he was awkward about it, but he seemed pleasant enough now. He never said what the business was, though.’

  ‘And you don’t know who he was?’

  ‘No, but we got some good descriptions. They notice strangers in Kerren Wood. That’s why I’m here.’

  He pulled a paper from his pocket. ‘Have a look at that. It’s an E-Fit made up from five descriptions of Samson’s drinking pal. Ever seen him?’

  I took the picture. ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘I told you, I barely knew Samson, except as a client.’

  I looked at the drawing. I thought I recognised it, but then, you always think that, don’t you, whenever you see one of those made up pictures. I looked again and I still thought I recognised it.

  Sheila came in to warn us for dinner and looked over my shoulder. ‘I know him,’ she announced.

  ‘Who is he, then?’ asked John.

  ‘He’s that bloke you were talking to in the churchyard, Monday lunchtime, isn’t he?’

  So he was, or very nearly so.
<
br />   I told John about meeting Samson in Birmingham. ‘You never told me,’ he accused.

  ‘You never asked. Anyway, we just ran into each other as he was crossing the Cathedral churchyard. Then he went off and this other bloke came along,’ and I tapped the paper.

  ‘And who is he?’

  ‘So far as I know he’s a freelance reporter called Walters. He was in the Tribunal on the first morning. I imagine he operates in Brum. I’ve certainly never seen him hereabouts.’

  John whipped out his mobile phone and called his office, giving Walters’ name and setting his men trying to trace the reporter.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, slipping the phone away, ‘what was this Walters fellow talking about?’

  It came back — how Walters had asked if that was Samson I was talking to, and I told John.

  ‘So he didn’t know Samson?’

  ‘Hang on a mo! He must have known Samson already, because he saw me talking to Samson and came up right afterwards and asked if it was Samson.’

  John nodded. ‘What did he say his interest in Samson was?’

  ‘He said he’d done a story about Samson and his mate’s ponies.’

  ‘He didn’t say who he wrote for? You’re sure he’s a reporter?’

  ‘No and yes. At least, he was at the press table in the Tribunal on the first morning. He hasn’t been back, though, but that’s not surprising. There’s not many reporters spend time in the Tribunals unless there’s some juicy sexual harassment or a spot of racism or something.’

  ‘And you’ve never seen Walters before?’

  ‘Not so far as I know, no.’

  ‘You, Chris Tyroll, are always a great help to my enquiries. You put a name to the face I’m looking for and then leave me with the question — why on earth would a Brummy journalist lie in wait for a saddler from Kerren Wood and kill him?’

  ‘Perhaps the picture only looks like Walters.

  Perhaps it’s not him.’

  He looked at me scornfully. ‘The bloke in this picture waited for Samson at the White Lion. Your Mr Walters — who just happens to look like the bloke in this picture — talked to you about Samson and claimed to know him. Go on — tell me that’s a coincidence, then!’

  ‘Well, no. I wasn’t going to say that.’

  ‘Just as well,’ he declared. ‘There is no such thing as coincidence except in badly constructed defences. Where’s the grub, Sheila?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  John was right. We pushed the problem around over dinner and sat drinking and arguing about it afterwards, but it always came back to the same pattern. Walters saw Samson with me in Birmingham and checked with me to make sure of his identification. That night, a stranger who looked like Walters waited for Samson at the White Lion and bought him a drink. The following night someone driving the same kind of car as the stranger lay in wait for Samson and ran him down. You’d need a pretty flexible coincidence to wrap itself around all that lot.

  Still — no amount of whisky, coffee or bright ideas produced a glimmer of a reason why Walters should want to kill Samson. In the end, Sheila and I admitted defeat and left the problem to John and his merry men.

  Monday morning we came back to the Tribunal. Automatically I looked for Walters at the press table as I walked in, but he wasn’t there and he didn’t show during the rest of the day.

  The hearing resumed and I called Jimmy Martin. He seemed to be making a good impression as I took him through his recollection of events. On his part in the strike vote, he said that it was his considered opinion that BDS’ policy of undermanning would only be stopped by strike action. He pointed out that everyone at the meeting had a mind of their own and that almost all of them had voted to strike, at the general meeting and in the ballot that followed. At the end, describing the fracas at the gate, he was quite cool and, I thought, believable, when he described Bailey’s drunken rage, most particularly to anyone who had seen Bailey give evidence.

  I sat down fairly well satisfied and Maddox got up.

  ‘Mr Martin,’ he said, ‘this story of Mr Bailey being drunk and assaulting Mulvaney is a pure fabrication, isn’t it?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘No, it’s not. You could smell it on him.’

  Maddox ignored the answer. ‘The reality is, isn’t it, that you and Mulvaney resented being ordered from the company’s premises and attacked a man much older than you?’

  ‘And nearly twice my size!’ Jimmy shot back. The rear rows laughed and Maddox swivelled, adding his glare to the chairman’s. I hoped that Jimmy wouldn’t be tempted to play to the gallery.

  ‘Mulvaney,’ stated Maddox, ‘punched Mr Bailey in the face, and you took the opportunity to strike a blow from behind while Mr Bailey was being attacked by your comrade. Those are the facts, aren’t they?’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘The facts, Mr Maddox, are that Mr Bailey came across the yard bellowing like a raging bull. When he came up with us he gave Con Mulvaney a mouthful of abuse and then he hit him. Con hit back and Cantrell and Cheetham and I helped George Barlow stop Bailey before he hurt someone.’ He was quite calm.

  Maddox didn’t have the sense to leave it alone. He dragged on for some time, repeating accusations at Jimmy, who fielded them all quietly and confidently. At last Bailey saw that they were doing no good and pulled Maddox down. I called Con Mulvaney.

  Con took his place at the witness table and sat back, unbuttoning his jacket. I had warned him that a man of his build would look lowering and aggressive if he leaned forward over the table, and I was glad to see that he’d remembered my advice, but he refused to be sworn on the New Testament and affirmed instead. I was sorry about that, because there is an old-fashioned prejudice against witnesses who won’t be sworn.

  Once again we went, step by step, through the run up to the strike. Con was the picture of a reasonable man faced with an unreasonable management and an unhelpful Union. He explained his contempt for wildcat strikers and his determination that there should be no accusations of sabotage, and gave an account of his battle with Bailey that agreed with Jimmy Martin’s.

  Maddox had learned his lesson with Jimmy. His cross-examination on the fight was perfunctory, as though it was only to be expected that Mulvaney would lie about it. Then he turned to the real weakness of Con’s case — the setting up of the strike ballot.

  ‘Your National Secretary, Mr Capstick, asked Mr Goatly to look into your complaints about Mr Afsar’s dismissal, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Mr Goatly is the Regional Secretary and, as I understand it, is superior to you in the Union’s hierarchy?’

  ‘Not superior, no. He is a salaried officer who chairs the Midland Council of the Union and is supposed to assist Midland branches.’

  ‘I see. And in that capacity he came to Belston to assist you, yes?’

  ‘He came to Belston when Mr Capstick told

  him to,’ said Con.

  ‘And he had a meeting with Mr Bailey at which you were not present, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And afterwards he told you what had been agreed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And you disagreed?’

  ‘Of course. Goatly had no authority from the Branch to make agreements in our name and he’d left Mohammed exposed to further problems and the firm’s undermanning reinforced.’

  ‘So you called a general meeting and told them to strike, yes?’

  I rose. ‘Mr Chairman, even the Respondent’s witness Cheetham agrees that Mr Mulvaney did not advise a strike.’

  Maddox apologised with a pained smile and continued. ‘When the meeting voted to strike, you organised a ballot.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a legal requirement.’

  ‘A legal requirement,’ Maddox repeated, ‘Yet you did not have the authority of your Union to do so, did you?’

  ‘I had all the authority I needed — the vote of a general meeting of my Branch. That’s who I’m responsible to under the Union’s Rules.’

  ‘
Mr Goatly has told us that you were in the wrong according to the Union’s Rules, Mr Mulvaney. You may take it from me, and if I’m wrong I’m sure the Chairman will correct me, that you were also acting illegally when you set up the strike ballot and gave notice to Mr Bailey of a strike, weren’t you?’

  The chairman nodded his approval of that view. Con stared at Maddox for a moment, then said, ‘I don’t care what the law says. I had an obligation to my Branch members.’

  Maddox smiled like a wolf. He had the answer he wanted and he could sit down. It was near the end of the day. The chairman checked his watch and muttered to his companions, then looked at me.

  ‘Mr Tyroll,’ he said, ‘We’ve heard all three of the Applicants. Can you tell us how many more witnesses you will be calling?’

  So they were bored with listening to the Applicants’ evidence and wanted to get it over. I rose.

  ‘The issues are fairly clear in this matter, sir,’ I said, ‘and we have heard from the Respondents’ own witnesses about events at the various meetings before the strike. I think that all that matters now is the occurrence at the factory gate. I have one witness I intend to call as to that, sir.’

  Maddox and Bailey were in hurried consultation, no doubt wondering who was our witness.

  ‘Then we might finish the evidence tomorrow morning?’ the chairman asked.

  ‘That,’ I said, smiling warmly at Maddox, ‘rather depends on how long my friend spends on his cross-examination.’

  We adjourned, with Maddox and Bailey still muttering at each other. At least I had blunted Maddox’s triumph over Con Mulvaney.

  John Parry phoned that night. He wanted to know if I was sure that the reporter’s name was Walters. It seemed that no one in Birmingham had heard of a freelance called Walters.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR