The Pinocchio Brief

by Silver Abi

  And although she was definitely trimmer now, her step was a little slow. Constance suddenly panicked that Judith’s mind may have slowed too. She had had this crazy idea to ask for the older woman’s help and now she wondered if it would backfire.

  This slight hesitation on Constance’s part was not lost on Judith, who had retained her knack of reading body language with uncanny accuracy and, despite her seniority, it unnerved her. She was unused to having to prove herself or her abilities to anyone.

  They entered a small room with bare walls and a lone, high window conducting light across the upper echelons of the space and Judith accepted a cup of black coffee gratefully. Habit and her sense of propriety forced her to settle herself at the head of the table and Constance dutifully sat down to her immediate right. Something about the austere setting made Judith crave a cigarette, even though she had not smoked for around 15 years, and even then only sporadically.

  “You’re probably wondering what this is all about,” Constance began reassuringly, and her resonant tones banished some of Judith’s anxiety of the last few moments.

  “I think you had better go ahead and put me out of my misery,” she replied, ensuring she enunciated each word clearly, and without drawing breath until the end of the sentence.

  “It’s the Richmond Boys’ case.” Constance watched her visitor keenly for a reaction.

  “Ah!” Judith’s face crumpled into a mixture of anticipation and understanding.

  “You know? The murder of the teacher.”

  “Yes. I know it.” Judith could now relax completely. A new case, not an old one; no questions about how it was handled or witnesses treated or evidence presented – something shiny and virginal and expectant.

  “The mother, Mrs Maynard, has instructed me. She didn’t like the appointed state solicitor and she can pay. Her son, Raymond, he needs a good defence,” Constance explained.

  Judith nodded. She had read a good deal about the case, such as there was, and had drawn some of her own conclusions already. The teacher had been found stabbed in his rooms and the boy they had arrested was found covered in his blood. Sadly, other unnamed “boys” had spoken to the press, said the accused was a loner and “a bit weird”. It would not be enough to throw out the trial but the boy would have an uphill struggle to rebut his character assassination by these anonymous informers. And her experience of 15-year-old boys giving evidence was not good.

  “And where do I fit into all this?”

  “I want you to help me, to defend him. Ray hasn’t spoken. Even though they questioned him off and on for 12 hours without a solicitor and for two days with a solicitor.” Constance was clinical in her delivery, careful not to give away any private hopes or concerns by her demeanour, as she feared she might have done when she spoke to Judith the previous night.

  “How on earth was that allowed to happen?” Judith, in contrast, was animated in her response, sitting forward in her chair and leaning heavily on the table.

  “New rules for murder cases,” Constance explained blandly. “It’s allowed now. I double-checked – even for juveniles.”

  Judith suppressed an expletive, swallowed and settled instead for, “What does the evidence show so far?”

  “Not much. I have the statements of the head teacher, his secretary who found the body and Raymond at the scene, the groundsman and another boy, Raymond’s roommate. No eye witnesses. They are going for murder, claiming it was premeditated although there is no apparent motive. There are a few photos of the scene and a forensic report on the cause of death, which was a single stab wound to the chest. Only interesting point for us is that the knife went in the left side of Mr Davis’ chest.”

  “So probably a left-handed assailant?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I assume the boy is right-handed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the boy. Have you seen him?”

  “Once, yesterday, after I saw the mother.”

  “And?”

  “I saw him but he wouldn’t speak to me either.”

  “Ah.” There it was again, the slow drawn-out moan which served as an acknowledgement that Judith had heard what was said, but gave little else away.

  “I tried but he sat there completely mute. He didn’t even acknowledge me.”

  “That’s interesting.” Judith’s eyes narrowed. “And how did he seem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the other boys say he is a strange one, according to the newspapers. What did you think?”

  “It was a bit hard to tell as he said nothing but...well, he is a bit, strange, I suppose.”

  “Strange in what way?”

  “He is very skinny, with long hair and pale skin, sort of milky white, like he never goes outside. He has these huge eyes and he stares, without blinking. But not really at you, more through you. And he sits kind of hunched over. I put some paper down and asked him to write if he preferred. I waited for ages and he did nothing, then just as I was about to leave he began to draw on the paper.”

  “What did he draw?” Judith’s nostrils flared as she struggled to form a picture of the boy from Constance’s description.

  “When I looked, he had drawn one circle in the middle of the page, but it was absolutely perfect, drawn freehand. I doubt I could have made it more perfect with a compass. But he hadn’t just done it once, he had gone over the lines again and again but each time just as perfect as the last.”

  “Hm.” Judith mulled over these details with some suspicion. “If he wanted to tell us something of any real importance why on earth not just speak?”

  “Yes. I thought that too. But about the circle, I’ve been looking online. They say that being able to draw a perfect circle is a sign of insanity,” Constance replied earnestly.

  Judith guffawed. “I don’t think that’s it,” she replied uncharitably. “No, I was thinking more showing off, more Giotto.”

  “Giotto?”

  “Yes, Florentine painter, 1300s. Rumour has it that when he was called upon to demonstrate his prowess as an artist he simply drew a perfect circle with his paintbrush in red, in one brush stroke. Supposed to be a sign of genius.”

  “Oh.” Constance appeared downcast.

  “I am not saying that is it,” Judith hastened to add, “it was just a thought and quite frankly it’s all irrelevant if we can’t manufacture him a defence. Did you see anything to indicate that he might be aggressive or violent?”

  Constance paused. Judith had said nothing directly in response to her request for help but her questions and comments were leading her to hope that she just might take the case on.

  “No, like I said,” she continued, “if I had to describe him from this one visit I would say ‘passive’. He looks like someone who things happen to, not someone who makes anything happen.”

  “Good. That’s a start. And what does the Head say about him?”

  “He says Raymond is extremely intelligent, has a very high IQ. He’s a maths and computer wizard and was pretty much walking his way to Oxbridge.”

  Judith shifted in her chair. She knew that she was beginning to be interested, that she had a hundred more questions to ask, and that, had she been formally instructed before now, she would have already begun to bark out commands. But she had to steady herself, to take stock. She had left all this behind and vowed that nothing would woo her back. She did not need the fame or the money and she certainly did not need the late nights or stress.

  “Why do you want me?” she asked crisply. Constance noted the change in her tone.

  “He needs a good barrister.”

  “Quite obviously.”

  “You handled more murder cases in your time at the Bar than any other barrister still around and you had the highest rate of success.”

  This time Judith’s lips pinched tight as if she had experienced a sharp, fleeting internal pain. Then, almost immediately, her face relaxed.

  “So you’ve done your homework. But success c
an be measured in many ways, you know.” She sat back again and allowed her hands to rest lightly on the table. “How many years have you been in practice?” Judith was asking the question for effect. She already knew the answer.

  “Five,” Constance replied.

  “You started just as I retired.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So, over the last five years, you must have worked with some competent practising barristers, perhaps some good or even excellent ones?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And none of them were suitable for this case?”

  Constance poured herself a glass of sparkling water. She offered some to Judith, who waved her away impatiently and then swilled the dregs of her coffee once around her mouth before swallowing it noisily.

  “I think Raymond is innocent,” she said quietly but forcefully, keeping her eyes on the water bottle.

  “I see.”

  “Before you ask me, I can’t even tell you why. I have no evidence, not yet.” Constance rubbed her thumbs against her fingers on both hands, to emphasise her need for something tangible. “But I just have this feeling that something isn’t right.” She raised her eyes to meet Judith’s. “First of all, like I said, this boy is not violent. Peculiar but not violent. And the police have not investigated anything at all. They see this as an easy open-and-shut case, even though there is no reason for him to have done this and this is the boy’s life.”

  “Yes?” The upward inflection in Judith’s voice indicated that her question had still not been answered.

  “OK. Of course, I have worked with good people but no one like you,” Constance responded. “I watched you in the Wilson trial. I was in the public gallery. You tore apart the waiter’s alibi, you made him confess within 20 minutes of cross-examination. It was as if you read his mind – quite brilliant. And I know you care. What you said afterwards, yes I know it was your client’s statement you read out, but it was clearly written by you, about the importance of never giving up. And that is what Raymond’s mother wants. She wants someone who cares about him, not just about the money or the glory, but about him, her son; she wants someone who will fight for him.”

  “Gosh. Well I am flattered immensely, and after all these years, to have found such a fan. But I was lucky on Wilson. I had a hunch and it proved to be right. It could have panned out so very differently. I took a huge risk; I broke the cardinal rule of cross-examination – I asked a question when I didn’t know the answer. The judge knew. I could see his eyes boring down on me as I asked it, taunting me: ‘Are you sure you want to ask that question, Judith?’ Naturally, he was desperate to know the answer too but would never have had the balls to ask it.” She shook her head. The memory was surprisingly clear after all this time. “And I am retired, you know, and not up to speed with all the rules,” she added.

  “I know the rules and we can find you a junior, if you need, to do the less glamorous stuff.”

  “It’s not a question of glamour. There are so many difficulties. And I am expensive,” she added.

  “Why don’t you take a look at the papers and then we can discuss your fee.” Constance was prickly for the first time. The funds were not unlimited here and she was banking on Judith wanting the challenge of the case and charging accordingly.

  “All right. That seems sensible and the least I can do in the circumstances. Do you have a copy I can take away?”

  Constance put her hand in her jacket pocket and pulled out a memory stick.

  “It’s all on there,” she replied, handing it over to Judith.

  “I’ll read through it this afternoon and confirm my position,” Judith replied, “but, assuming I take the case, let’s meet tomorrow morning back here at – well, how early do you get in?”

  Constance allowed herself a small smile of triumph. Now they had begun to walk this path Judith was unlikely to backtrack. “Whenever suits you,” she ventured, keen not to put any obstacles in their way.

  “So, seven o’clock then,” Judith responded firmly.

  “Yes, seven is fine. And thank you.”

  Judith rose to her feet and scowled, tucking the memory stick in her pocket.

  “Thank me when it’s all over. I warn you now, I am a task master of Ancient Egyptian proportions and I don’t suffer fools; I make no bones about that.” Judith found she was enjoying herself slinging instructions around and making profound declarations.

  “That’s understood,” Constance replied seriously.

  “If I had been around you can be certain Rome would have been built in a day,” Judith countered with a hint of a smile. Constance stifled a giggle.

  “I understand,” she murmured, maintaining her composure. Then Judith’s face grew serious as she headed for the door.

  “Assuming I take the case and it goes to trial, how long do we have?”

  “It’s been put on an expedited list, because of its seriousness and the boy’s age.” Constance had hoped that Judith would not ask this question now, before she had agreed to take the case.

  “How long then?” Judith persisted.

  “About six weeks.”

  Judith’s eyebrows rose and fell. She nodded once and exited without another word, tapping her pocket to check the memory stick was still there before she went.

  6

  JUDITH BYPASSED the front entrance at Richmond Boarding School for Boys, despite its invitation to “Come Inside” and its obvious grandeur. Instead she marched around the side of the sprawling, red-brick building with a reassuring security of step, belying her unfamiliarity with the scene of the crime. But that was Judith’s style; appearances were key. And a pre-emptive call to the head teacher’s secretary, with some firm, slightly-on-the-fierce-side instructions, meant they were unlikely to be disturbed in their reconnaissance.

  Once out of sight of the grand façade, her briefcase slung across her shoulders, notepad in hand, Judith slowed her pace and allowed Constance to overtake her and stride on ahead. She hung back, sniffing the air, eyes sweeping the ground, soaking up the character of the place. This was how she liked to play things when time permitted, to visit the scene and drink in the atmosphere, to walk where the murderer had walked, to enter and leave where he had entered, to examine where he might have lurked, unseen, before his crime and, ultimately, to stand in the place where the murder was committed and imagine herself in his shoes. She had even chosen to come at this time of day, early afternoon, so that the light (and the shadows) would be similar to those on the day of the murder.

  The dead school master’s rooms were linked to the main structure by a long narrow corridor, a giant fist at the end of on an outstretched arm, the single-storey building appearing to be original 19th century, the brickwork, windows and low-pitch roof matching the oldest part of the school.

  A window remained open. Hinged at the top, it was swinging lightly in the breeze, and as Judith peered through it she could see a stainless-steel sink and draining board immediately below. She made a mental note to examine the window from the inside, the opening and closing mechanism, the exact size of the aperture and its accessibility. It was a fair size and she assessed that an adult would almost certainly have been able to climb through. She crouched down outside the window, remaining behind the flimsy police cordon. The ground was soft but there was no evidence of attempts to take any prints, despite various marks and indentations in the soil being evident. Judith frowned and scribbled a note on her pad.

  She circumnavigated the building slowly and approached the back entrance to the late Mr Davis’ rooms. Inside the door there was a small porch area; three identical pairs of men’s black shoes were neatly stacked to the left of the door and an umbrella stand with two inhabitants stood to the right. Judith noted again that this area did not bear any obvious signs of having been forensically examined.

  When she stepped forward into a tiny entrance hall there were two doors ahead of her; the one to the right, which was slightly ajar, bore a name plate saying “Mr R
Davis”. The one to the left had no label. She pushed the latter lightly and it swung open to reveal a dimly-lit passageway snaking its way back towards the main school building. This was the clearly the way the boys would usually approach Mr Davis’ rooms during school time.

  Judith stepped through the left-hand door into the passage and shivered. There was no noticeable heating of any kind and the windows were wet with condensation. At least this area did appear to have been closely examined, as there was powder on the walls and the floor and by each window. But this was counterintuitive; it was unlikely an intruder had opened one of these windows or leaned nonchalantly against one of these walls. Much more likely he or she had simply marched up the centre of the corridor or, as Judith had done, used the more direct, alternative and private way in around the back.

  Retracing her steps, Judith entered the master’s rooms to find Constance busily taking photos on her phone from every conceivable angle, positioned behind a police tape, a young policewoman at her elbow.

  “Well, this is unfortunate but not altogether surprising,” Judith lamented to Constance, nodding towards the policewoman who had barred their entry. “We can use our imagination, I suppose,” she added, half under her breath. Constance looked around and shrugged, lowering her phone in the same move.

  “I can get a good idea of what happened where,” she replied, “the murder was through there and this is the telephone which was used to call the police.”

  Judith ignored her, glancing quickly around the room, taking in the red flock wallpaper, the half empty bookshelves and books strewn across the floor. She stared intently across the 15 or so feet which separated them from the kitchen, its open door teasing them cruelly by allowing just a glimpse of the place where Mr Davis’ body had been found.

  “They found his laptop on the floor too, just over there.” Constance pointed to an area in front of the fireplace, the focal point of the room and the place where Mr Davis clearly chose to sit, with or without company, there being two red velvet upholstered chairs, one turned on its side. “The screen was cracked. They took it away for testing.”