by Silver Abi
“Mr Arkwright. Do you have anything to add?”
“Yes, Your Honour. As Your Honour is well aware, the truth verification programme, formerly known as Pinocchio, does not just monitor facial expressions.” He gave a shallow nod towards Judith, which might have been condescension – a gentle reminder that Judith’s insistence on using “old” terminology had been noted and reprimanded – or it could have been courteous, acknowledging and clarifying his subject matter. Arkwright was continuing and Judith could not help but notice that, from time to time, his long “A” sound shortened to its more northern brother. His transformation to Arkwright QC was not yet fully complete.
“It also monitors body movement more generally,” he continued, “and details of any medical conditions of the accused can be factored in for the programme to accommodate. All of the arguments Miss Burton is promoting have been roundly rejected previously. I accept that in witnesses with paralysis or part paralysis including, for example, stroke victims, the law at present recommends that other methods of establishing veracity are used. But after careful consideration including by medical brains much more learned than our own, the software has passed the test.”
Both advocates stood before the judge, Arkwright puffing slightly at the exertion of expelling so much air, Judith swaying slightly, as she was unused to the three-inch stilettos she had donned that morning. They had been found after three unsuccessful forays to the back of her wardrobe, at first a friendly but now unwelcome blast from the past. But, of course, appearances were everything.
“Thank you both. Miss Burton. I am not convinced by your arguments and, before you ask, I have read and digested the medical report you submitted. Sadly, your client did not provide Dr Gattley with much assistance when she examined him and so I find the report is full of generalisations and conjecture. So, I rule that the accused must have his testimony scrutinised in the usual way; nothing more, nothing less.”
Judith’s mouth was open again but the judge stopped her mid-way between sitting and standing to address him again.
“No, that is my final word on that subject. However, I want to say one more thing to both of you and, given your performances so far, you need to heed this well. I want justice in my courtroom and I value it highly, but the direction we – indeed, all judges –have been given, which has been well publicised, is that, to use an old but apt expression, ‘we do not need a sledgehammer to crack a nut’.
“By that, I mean that if a point is clear, just make it once and move on and, if it is agreed, tell me at the beginning of each session. I don’t need oral submissions on the point, or reams of paper. My courtroom is not an opportunity for either of you to impress with your knowledge of obscure elements of the English language, nor to practise long-ago-learned Latin expressions. Whatever my personal inclinations, I must administer the law in its current form and dispense justice in an orderly, efficient and cost-effective manner. Is that clear to you both?”
23
HELLO. IT’S me again. Raymond.
Well, this is a funny place to meet, isn’t it? Not the kind of place I would normally like. Exposed strip lights, stiff wooden benches, smart, deep-blue uniforms with shiny buttons and everyone looking at me.
I suppose some of them are looking at Judith, too and, to be fair, Judith looks good for an older woman, I suppose, and smells good too; Chanel No. 5? I’m guessing of course as I haven’t studied women’s perfume yet. I just saw it advertised recently. Jamie would be proud of me for noticing as he says I’m not very observant. Not observant. Ha! He doesn’t realise that the opposite is true; I observe everything. I always have done. It’s just that I’m not interested in most of it, most of the time. Now, of course, is an exception. Since my evolution, I am interested in everything. I have to be, if I want to survive.
So, like I said, Judith looks very professional and confident although she keeps glancing over at me. She’s worried about what I’m going to say. Am I going to mess everything up? At the moment she’s more likely to do that than me. She hasn’t done very well so far with the judge, old Tobias “Toby” Blake, with his red and black gown and grey, curly, horsehair wig – prompting that lecture on not being up to date.
I’m not on yet. Constance told me I will probably be last. So for now I can sit back and watch the show. And I can guarantee it’s going to be entertaining, as I know the cast and the basics of the plot. You might even want to record it and watch it again later. (That was a joke, by the way.)
Constance is sitting behind Judith, very determined and making lots of notes. If only she stopped for a moment and looked around her instead of endlessly writing, she might learn something useful.
I can hear my mother upstairs, whimpering and moaning and talking about me with Marnie. “Oh Marnie. Doesn’t he look thin? Do you think he’s eating properly? Mrs Jones said when her son went into a secure unit in Watford he lost two stone. And he was only in there a month.”
Marnie doesn’t reply, not for a long time. Marnie understands, about me. About what I can see and hear and smell and taste. She looked after me all the times when mum was in hospital. She comforted me when dad died. She even propped me up on pillows as a baby, endlessly, when I used to roll over, so my Aunty Ruth told me. So, after a long time, she whispers, but I know her whisper is not meant for our poor, incapable mother but it’s a show of support for me. I’m not sure if I hear her or read her lips or maybe even read her thoughts. I just know what she is saying. “It’s OK mum,” she says. “Ray will win. Don’t worry. Ray will win.”
24
“PLEASE STATE your full name,” Mr Arkwright’s newly polished tones rang out across the courtroom as his first witness stood ready to begin.
“Lorraine Vivian Taylor, secretary to Mr Glover, headmaster of Richmond Boys’ school.”
“Thank you, Mrs Taylor. Now, you have provided a written statement containing your evidence and it has been agreed that I should read this out to the court. When I have finished my learned colleague, Miss Burton, will have some questions for you. Is that all clear?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Arkwright delivered Mrs Taylor’s evidence with considerable drama and a number of lengthy pauses, designed no doubt to emphasise various points, but instead engendering a strong desire within Judith to shout “get on with it” each time it occurred.
Mrs Taylor had dressed up for the occasion. Her hair was now two shades lighter than when they had first met and she had recently, maybe only that morning, visited the hairdresser for a volumising blow-dry. She was wearing a suit of sorts; that is, she was sporting a boucle jacket in various shades of orange and green, matched with an olive-green skirt and blouse. However, she had topped the outfit off with red lipstick; the overall effect resembled a traffic light with all the lamps on at the same time.
Judith sighed audibly and rustled her notes, her minor disturbance receiving a sideways glance from her adversary. Oh what a bore he must be out of work, she thought. He has to be one of those people who endlessly “tuts” when some foreigner, not yet educated in the subtleties of urban travel across the capital, accidentally blocks his way on the down escalator. She turned to Constance and rolled her eyes and Constance smiled obligingly. But now Arkwright was coming towards the end of the statement and Judith composed herself and closed her eyes for a full five seconds to begin to focus seriously on the matters in hand.
“So, Mrs Taylor, that was your evidence. Your Honour, I know this is a little unorthodox as Mrs Taylor is a prosecution witness but, in advance of Miss Burton’s turn, I should like to clarify one or two matters with Mrs Taylor if the court permits.”
Judge Blake raised his eyes towards the two counsel; his lips twitched once and he lowered his pen.
“Miss Burton?”
Judith rose to her feet and allowed herself a glance and a subtle nod in Arkwright’s direction before speaking.
“If, as Mr Arkwright says, this is by way of clarification, then it seems eminently sensible
for Mr Arkwright to do so at this stage, Your Honour.”
“Thank you, Miss Burton, I’m grateful. Mr Arkwright, go ahead please.”
Arkwright smacked his lips twice and leaned heavily on his lectern, his shirt buttons straining against the pressure of his ample midriff.
“Mrs Taylor, if we can recap a few moments to the beginning of your testimony which I read out on your behalf. I read ‘I heard what sounded like two men shouting, which I believe was coming from Mr Davis’ rooms. There was no one else in the school at the time and my window was open and the sound must have come in through the window’.”
“Yes, that’s what I said, that’s what I wrote and that’s what I remember.”
“Thank you for confirming that. Mrs Taylor. Would you say that you have good hearing?”
Judge Blake’s pen hovered above his page for a moment and he blinked heavily. This appeared distinctly more like cross-examination than clarification. The question was not totally unexpected to Judith, given the conclusions she and Constance had drawn about the proximity of Mr Davis’ rooms to that of Mrs Taylor, but she could not be sure how much success Arkwright would have in drawing it out. She decided to sit tight for now, but every sinew was strained, poised to leap up if he strayed too far. Constance dug her in the ribs from behind. She sensed the danger too.
Judge Blake waited. Mrs Taylor faltered noticeably. Her head sagged and she gripped the lectern before her and lowered her chin. “For my age, good, yes.”
“So when you say you heard these two men shouting, you couldn’t be mistaken about the source of the noise or even whether it was shouting or, say, singing, music playing, another loud noise, like someone knocking in a nail, that sort of thing?”
“Music playing? Singing? Don’t be so ridiculous. I know what shouting is and that’s what I heard.”
Arkwright’s lips pinched ever so slightly and he could not resist what could, in other circumstances, have passed for a licentious wink in Judith’s direction. Then he lifted his papers up, rather clumsily, so that they covered the lower part of his face, from the tip of his nose downwards. And when he next spoke it was in a monotone and somewhere halfway between his normal volume and a low whisper.
“Did you see a doctor only three weeks ago regarding your deteriorating hearing?” he asked.
Arkwright lowered the paper and stared intently at Mrs Taylor, awaiting her response. The poor woman cast about right and left, without a clue if Mr Arkwright had asked her a question at all, let alone what he had said. Judith gasped inwardly but fought to maintain her composure. She had interviewed the woman; how could she have missed this?
Arkwright smiled benignly at Mrs Taylor, lifted his papers to cover his mouth and repeated the question, softly, a second time. Now the occupants of the courtroom had begun to follow Mr Arkwright’s drift and there was a low mutter interspersed with some tittering. Mrs Taylor stood, beetroot, a colour which matched only her lipstick and made her autumnal outfit shift rapidly towards winter. She stammered once, twice and then, her decision made in a flash, Judith rose masterfully to her feet.
“If it please Your Honour. There is really no need for Mrs Taylor, who has done all she can to assist the court by providing a long and detailed statement, to be embarrassed by any personal or medical details being broadcast worldwide, including to the boys she presides over, particularly not by way of ‘clarification’ of her evidence.”
“Quite so,” reprimanded the judge, his eyebrows knitted together in a deep frown directed at Mr Arkwright. “What are you proposing, Miss Burton?”
Judith cleared her throat, allowed herself a brief five seconds of regret for what she was about to do, before plunging ahead.
“Your Honour, the defence is happy to accept that, whilst Mrs Taylor certainly heard something and it was probably at 2.50pm, as she has testified, it may not have emanated from Mr Davis’ rooms and it may not have been the sound of two men shouting. If that is sufficient clarification for Mr Arkwright, I propose we spare Mrs Taylor’s blushes any further.”
“Yes, thank you. Very sensible if you are certain the defence is not relying on the point?”
“Absolutely certain, Your Honour.”
“Well then, Mr Arkwright?”
Arkwright stood up when addressed, but his own colour now complemented that of Mrs Taylor and for a brief moment he was incapable of coherent speech. His disappointment was compounded by the fact that Mrs Taylor had proved such a perfect victim, better even than he had anticipated when he had planned his move the night before. And the journalists, eager for the first fruits of the harvest, had all begun to furiously note things down. But he was the consummate professional, and after only seconds had passed, and his solicitor had handed him a glass of water, which he drank down in one gulp, he regained his composure.
“Yes. I am grateful to Miss Burton,” he bleated, “if that is the case then I have no further areas for Mrs Taylor to clarify.”
As Arkwright sat down, Judith stood up stiffly, to begin her questions.
“Mrs Taylor,” Judith began. “I have heard your evidence and I only have one question for you, if I may.” Judith spoke louder than usual, enunciating her words clearly and crisply. She was not taking any chances now which would allow Mrs Taylor to appear unreliable in any way to the judge or jury. She smiled in what she hoped was an encouraging manner and watched, with some relief, as Mrs Taylor’s clutch on the stand relaxed and her colour began to fade. Witnesses liked to be told they had almost finished their ordeal and it sometimes made them lay down any guard they might put up, even unconsciously. “Would you like a drink of water?”
“Ooh, yes that would be good, thank you. It is rather hot under all these lights.” She sneaked a glance at the public gallery and smoothed down her hair.
The usher handed Mrs Taylor a glass of water whilst Judith waited patiently. Arkwright bristled and dropped his pen under the desk. As he bent down to pick it up he growled at Judith. Judith stifled a giggle. She was not at her destination yet and Arkwright would not derail her. Mrs Taylor had now handed her water back to the usher and sat back down on her seat.
“My question requires me, for a moment, to take you back through the sequence of events. Just recapping, after you entered Mr Davis’ rooms and you saw Raymond, the accused, you said that he sat down in the chair and you remained by the door. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“But when you saw Mr Bailey, the groundsman, through the window you ran out and asked him to fetch Mr Glover, the headmaster. Is that also correct?”
“Yes.”
“And then, once Mr Bailey had been despatched, you returned to Mr Davis’ rooms and waited there with Raymond for at least 15 minutes until Constable Fraser, the young policeman, arrived and shortly after that Mr Bailey returned with Mr Glover.”
“Yes.”
“So this is where we reach my question. I am sorry for having such a lengthy preamble. What I am having some difficulty with is this: weren’t you scared to be in those rooms all that time?”
Mrs Taylor pouted.
“Well I was doing my duty,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I was the only one in the school. I couldn’t just leave. What if something happened?”
A loud laugh erupted from the journalists’ row.
“Quiet!” shouted the judge angrily. “This is no laughing matter. Any more of that and I will clear you all out.”
Judith pressed her fingers into the soft wood of the lectern she was leaning upon. She was nearly home.
“Very understandable, Mrs Taylor. You felt responsible and you felt it important that you stayed. But next to you was Raymond, my client, with some blood stains on his person. Mr Arkwright will have us believe that that detail makes him a killer and I have to say that, for those of us who don’t know Raymond, it might look that way too. You knew Raymond a little, you said, from the times he came to your office or to see Mr Glover or to put dates for maths and science tournaments in the school diary.
Is that correct?”
“Yes. I know him.”
“So when you had the chance to run, you stayed in the room with a potential killer for, what, 15 or 20 minutes? Weren’t you scared he might kill you too?”
Mrs Taylor gulped as the enormity of what Judith was saying to her dawned on her for the first time. She had, indeed, put herself at enormous personal risk for the good of the school. Judith held her breath. She was relying on Mrs Taylor to come up with the one sensible and honest explanation for her conduct, rather than one fuelled by a need to be liked or admired. To nudge Mrs Taylor in the right direction, Judith allowed her eyes to flick to where Ray was sitting. Whatever might be amiss with Mrs Taylor’s hearing, her eyesight remained keen. She followed Judith’s lead and stole a look at Ray who, in that moment, softened his countenance towards her. Then, unprompted, Mrs Taylor glanced up at Ray’s mother, who had let out a loud sob, before her daughter thrust another tissue in her direction.
“Mrs Taylor. Are you able to answer the question?”
Mrs Taylor stood up as tall as her five-feet-nothing frame would permit, and stared straight at Judith, her bottom lip trembling with a mixture of indignation and emotion.
“I wasn’t scared,” she declared, “because I didn’t believe Raymond killed Mr Davis.”
Judith muttered, “No further questions,” vaguely in the direction of the judge and sat down with a gentle inclination of the head towards Mrs Taylor and an inaudible sigh of relief.
A sob from Caroline Maynard prompted the judge to order a 20-minute recess and it was during this time that, much to Judith’s annoyance, Constance disappeared for an age, reappearing with her phone clasped tightly to her chest and a flushed expression. Until her return, Judith worried that she might have abandoned her; after all, she had been forced to cut Raymond’s “lifeline” that morning. But, if Constance was perturbed by what had happened, she showed no signs of it as she drew Judith to one side of the corridor, checking carefully each way for eavesdroppers before confiding.
