Blind Justice

by Nathan Burrows

  “The jury from the last trial, ladies and gentlemen,” Miss Revell had said, “they came back with their verdict, their unanimous verdict, within two hours. That is how certain they were that this man,” she waved a bony finger in my general direction without looking at me. “That this man was guilty of murder.”

  I spent the journey back to Norwich prison that evening deep in thought. The jury would be thinking about that last day for the entire weekend which must have been why Miss Revell had finished on what for me was a very negative note. I tried to shake myself out of it, but I couldn’t help go over it in my head. By the time I got out of the van and back into the prison, I was in a foul mood. Mr Jackson led me back to my cell without us exchanging a single word. My cellmate, Pete, was nowhere to be seen although it didn’t take me long to work that one out. To be honest, I was pleased that Pete wasn’t about. With almost an hour of social time left, I hoped that I’d have some peace and quiet. Being on display all day, consciously thinking about every movement I made or expression I wore, was exhausting. As I sat down on my bed, I saw something on the pillow. It was a postcard, picture side down with no writing on the side I could see. I picked it up and flipped it over, and my heart dropped.

  I’d never been to Romania, but the postcard I was holding had the text ‘Grüße aus Rumänien’ written across it in a gothic looking font. There were four pictures on the front, one in each quadrant of the postcard, and as I looked closer at it I could see that they were hand drawn scenes of landmarks I didn’t recognise. Two of them were churches of some sort, and the other two were just random tourist areas. I flipped the card over, my heart thumping in my chest, but there was nothing written on the other side apart from the text which told me what the landmarks were. There didn’t need to be anything written on the card for me to get the message, though. It was pretty clear. Grezja knew exactly where I was.

  I jumped as Pete walked into the cell, and I almost dropped the card on the floor.

  “Alright mate?” Pete said in his heavy smoker’s drawl. “How did today go?” I looked at him, my eyes wide. He faltered when he saw my expression. “Er, you okay?”

  “What’s this?” I took a step towards him, waving the card in his face. “Some sort of sodding joke? Who got you to put this on my pillow?” Pete took a step back toward the cell door as his gaze flicked from my face to the card and back again.

  “I don’t know nothing about it, mate,” he said. “It was on your bed when I got back from scoff earlier. I left it there for you. Never even touched it, honest.” I doubted that, but it didn’t matter. I looked at Pete and saw real fear in his eyes. Realising that I was scaring him, I put my hand out, palm down.

  “It’s alright mate, sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “It just put the frighteners on me, that’s all.”

  “But it’s only a postcard,” Pete replied, relaxing. “That’s all it is, a postcard. There’s not even anything written on it, it’s just a bunch of old buildings.” I sat down on the bed and took a deep breath. How did he know it was pictures of buildings if he’d not touched it? I told myself that it didn’t matter, so what if he had picked it up and looked at it? It changed nothing.

  “It’s a long story mate,” I sighed.

  Pete sat down on his bed, and we faced each other. I held my head in my hands and thought for a few minutes. What did I have to lose by talking to him? When I finally realised that the answer to that question was absolutely nothing, I told him the full story of the visitors to my cell back at Whitemoor. The money that Robert owed and the transfer of the debt over to me. The full story took maybe ten minutes, and Pete remained silent throughout.

  “What do you think?” I said when the full story was done. Pete looked at me, frowning and playing with a piece of skin on one of his nails. He took a few moments to reply.

  “I think it’s bollocks,” he finally replied, his watery blue eyes staring at me. “It makes no sense. You don’t owe them anything. Just because you killed the bloke that did, that doesn’t make sense.”

  My eyebrows went up before I had a chance to consider my reaction.

  “I mean, just because they think you killed him,” Pete continued quickly. “I’m not saying you did, I know you didn’t because you said so. But I mean, not being funny like, you got done for killing him. That’s what they’ll think, isn’t it?”

  “It’s okay, I get you,” I sighed. “It doesn’t seem to matter to them, whether I’m innocent or guilty that is.” Pete nodded as I said the word innocent, but stopped nodding when I got to the guilty word.

  “Can’t you talk to them?” Pete nodded his head toward the door.

  “Who? The screws?” I replied.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Why not?”

  “What can they do?” I thought about Mr Jackson. He might be a big lad, but I didn’t think even his size could help me with my problem.

  If this gang could just walk into my cell unchallenged in a Category A prison like Whitemoor, finding me here would be a piece of cake.

  “I swear by Almighty God, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” I spoke as clearly as I could before I handed the battered Bible back to the court usher. He was standing next to the witness stand with his hand outstretched like a homeless person begging for money. As I put the Bible in his hand, I wondered how many people had said those same words and of those people, how many of them had actually meant them. I hadn’t been in a church for years, so the words themselves didn’t mean that much. The sentiment behind them was something else, though. As I sat back down, I looked around the courtroom. It was Monday morning, and I’d had a crap weekend, wondering if I’d get another visit to my cell. Pete was a nice enough lad, but he didn’t strike me as a fighter.

  Laura pushed her chair back so she was sitting away from the defence table. I shook my head from side to side, trying to concentrate. The next few minutes, few hours perhaps, would be vital and I couldn’t afford to get this bit wrong. Paul got to his feet, taking his time and shuffling pieces of paper into some sort of order. I looked again at Laura. She had her left hand on her leg, hidden from everyone except me and the prison officers, except they were paying no attention at all. She extended three fingers across her upper thigh. Juror number three. That was Ella, who today was wearing the same dress she had on the first day of the trial. Loud as anything, bright red and covered in ugly blue flowers. Perhaps she had a dress for each day, and just rotated them?

  Laura changed her hand into a fist and then put her fingers and thumb across her leg followed by her index and middle finger. Juror number seven, Albert, the old guy with the stick. I watched as she repeated the movements to give me juror number six, who was a tiny woman I’d nicknamed Minnie as she reminded me of a mouse. She was a small tousled haired woman, maybe mid-thirties, who looked as if she would cry if anyone spoke to her. She was sitting next to Albert, skinny arms folded across a non-existent chest, and I watched as Albert leaned over and whispered something in her ear. These three jurors were the ones I should play to during the first part of Paul’s questioning. These were the ones that Laura thought would be most affected by this stage, so they were the jurors I should concentrate on. I sat in the witness box, running a finger around my shirt collar, which was tighter than it had been earlier. I could feel a trickle of perspiration making its way down my back, and every time I moved I could smell my own sweat.

  “Mr Dawson, Gareth,” Paul said in a sombre voice. “What I would like to explore this morning is your relationship with Jennifer, your wife.” Across the courtroom, the prosecutor got to her feet.

  “I must object, Your Honour. How is this relevant?” she said.

  “Really? Your honour?” Paul said. “I’ve only just—”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr Dewar,” Judge Watling said, cutting Paul off. “Miss Revell? Please proceed?”

  “Your honour,” the prosecutor replied. “I fail to see how Mr Dawson’s relationship with his wife has any bearing on his innocen
ce or guilt in this matter.”

  “Mr Dewar?” Judge Watling looked at Paul, who was looking affronted.

  “Your honour, my client’s relationship with his wife defines him, it is at the core of his nature. To even attempt to re-try this case without considering this relationship will do him a grave injustice indeed.”

  “I agree,” the judge said after thinking for a few seconds. “Please do continue.” Miss Revell sat back in her chair, expressionless. I couldn’t tell whether she was annoyed at losing the opening skirmish or not.

  “Thank you, Your Honour. Now please, Gareth, could you tell us about the night you met your wife, Jennifer?” Paul said.

  I glanced up to look at Andy and Jacob in the public gallery before I told the jurors my story. Starting with the night that Jennifer and I had met, I told them all about the first time I met Robert Wainwright. As I spoke, my gaze flitted between Ella, Albert, and Minnie, as instructed by Laura. I turned to face the jury, and I told them all about the first time that Jennifer and I met. How she and Robert came into the pub I was drinking in and how they then ended up in an argument outside.

  “Gareth, if I may ask. Why did you intervene in their discussion? It had nothing to do with you, surely?” Paul asked, as I knew he would. We’d been through his outline script, so I knew the direction he was heading in.

  “I’m not sure, I’ve asked myself that so many times you wouldn’t believe it.” I continued, shifting my attention to Minnie. “She looked like she needed my help, and I didn’t want her to get hurt.”

  “Was there any suggestion that Mr Wainwright would hurt Jennifer?” Paul asked.

  “I didn’t know, but I wasn’t going to take the chance.”

  “Did you assault Mr Wainwright that first evening you met Jennifer?” I remembered my hand around Robert’s neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Laura’s hand move on her leg. Glancing down, I saw four fingers extended across her thigh.

  “We had words,” I lied, not thinking I’d burn in Hell for that small one. “I may have got in his face, but I didn’t hit him, or hurt him.” My attention shifted to juror number four, Mark. The closest one to me in terms of age and size. He was fiddling with a wedding ring on his left hand as I caught his eye. “I wanted him to leave Jennifer alone, that was all. That’s what most men would have wanted to do, I guess.” I looked back across at Minnie, who was sitting with a thin hand clutched to an equally thin chest, her jaw slightly open. Laura was good, there was no denying that. Minnie looked just like a woman who needed a big strong lump like me to protect her.

  “Gareth?” Paul said.

  “Sorry,” I replied, breaking my gaze away from Minnie. I was drained already. Talking about Jennifer, back in the early days, had taken more out of me than I’d thought it would.

  “Your Honour,” Paul said, looking up at Judge Watling. “May I suggest a recess for lunch? I’m intending on going through what I suspect may be a particularly hard part of my client’s testimony next, so perhaps starting after lunch may be better.” I saw the prosecutor roll her eyes in response, but Judge Watling didn’t appear to agree with her.

  “Yes, I agree. Court adjourned until half past one.” The courtroom audience started to get to their feet as Judge Watling made his way through the door behind him.

  I was a lot more comfortable in the witness box after lunch. Maybe it was not having the fear of the unknown anymore, maybe it was just having a full stomach even if was full of lukewarm lasagne and soggy garlic bread with only a hint of garlic. Either way, it didn’t matter. I knew the next bit would be hard, but at the same time, it would be crucial. This was my chance to get under the jury’s skin. To make them see me not as a convicted murderer, but as a wronged man.

  There was a delay getting started after lunch, and I took the time to examine in more detail the two individuals sitting at a desk toward the back of the courtroom. When Paul and Laura had visited me at the weekend, I’d probed them to find out who they were. The most that Paul could tell me was that they were ‘court officials of some sort’. Laura had added that she’d seen a similar thing at an appeal trial she’d attended as a law student. At that trial, there’d been a man sitting in a similar position who was there to record everything for the court. I’d asked Laura why, if that was the case, there was a court reporter? Surely that was what they were for? Laura had been non-committal, shrugging her shoulders in response. Paul had been keen to get on with the main discussion, so the conversation was soon forgotten.

  I looked at the two court officials, or whoever they were, while we waited for the court to resume. They were similar in terms of age, both in their mid-thirties at a guess. Obviously at home in a courtroom, dressed for the occasion, and not bothered by the files they had with them. I’d been keeping half an eye on them since the appeal began and had noticed that they didn’t speak to anyone at all. Not even the usher. The only people they spoke to were each other. I didn’t think they were just there to record the appeal, but at the same time, I had no idea who they were.

  “Gareth, please tell us in your own words about the night Jennifer died,” Paul said a few minutes later when Judge Watling had restarted the trial. Paul cut right to the heart of the topic with no preamble as he often did. I took a deep breath, and blew the air out of my cheeks, look at Rose, the twelfth juror and the foreman, before replying. This wasn’t at Laura’s bidding, and I wasn’t sure why I’d singled out Rose other than perhaps I thought she might be sympathetic.

  “We’d had a bit of an argument, to be honest,” I said. “Jennifer was going out with some friends, and either she’d not told me or I’d forgotten. I’d been planning on cooking something for us both, maybe spending the evening on the sofa watching a boxset or something, but instead, she went out for a few drinks with a friend.” I paused and reached out to pick up the glass of water on the witness stand in front of me. My hand was shaking, but it wasn’t on purpose. “She’d asked me if she looked okay before she left, and all I could say was ‘yeah, you look fine’ or something like that.” I paused again, looking down at my feet. “Next thing I know, I was on my way to the hospital to see her before she went into the operating theatre. But when I got to the hospital, she was already unconscious. I kissed her, promised her everything would be okay. But I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t know I would never see her again.”

  I stopped there, not for dramatic effect, but because I couldn’t go on. The only image in my head was of Jennifer at that moment when I’d promised her something I couldn’t deliver and had no right to promise her anything. I stared at my feet, unable to look up, unable to talk. Tears streamed down my face. Fuck me this was hard, I’d not been expecting this.

  “Your Honour,” I heard Paul say. “Could we take a short recess?” The next thing I knew Laura was at my side, her hand on my elbow.

  “Gareth,” I heard her whisper. “That was a fantastic performance. You did really well.” I looked at her, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand. For a second, I hated her. That was no performance.

  That was me, laid bare in front of everyone.

  I sat on the witness stand after the break, trying to stay composed while Paul rearranged his papers yet again. I looked across at the jury while I waited for him to restart. Ella was still dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, and Minnie looked just as upset. The young man I’d named Mark was staring at me, and as I caught his eye, he shook his head from side to side. I looked away from him and at Laura, who had four fingers extended on her thigh. The man I’d just been looking at, Mark, would be the focus for the next stage of Paul’s questioning.

  “Gareth, are you ready for me to continue?” Paul asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. The word came out almost as a croak. I cleared my throat and repeated myself. “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Paul said. “What I want to explore now is your state of mind following Jennifer’s death. Could you tell us about that, in your own words?” Paul and I had argued about this last week. He
was convinced that it was vital to the appeal, but it was easy for him to say. It wasn’t him up here on the witness stand.

  “I was in bits,” I said. “Just torn to pieces. Jennifer was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I used to wake up next to her in the morning and wonder why she was in bed next to me. Not just in bed with me, but married to me.” I paused, considering what to say next. With a glance at Mark, I continued. “In my experience, things like Jennifer didn’t happen to people like me.” Over the course of the next hour, Paul led me through those dark days just after Jennifer had died. We left nothing out. I told the jury about my drinking, and about how low I had sunk. Paul was careful to keep the questions specific in terms of how I felt, what I thought, and the effect on me of what had happened. Eventually, we reached the point of Robert’s trial, and Paul wove in additional information for the jury.

  He explained the legal loophole that Robert’s legal team had used to ensure that the only thing that Robert was charged with was drink driving. At this point, Paul turned to the jury and addressed them directly.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is vital at this stage you try to put yourself in Gareth’s shoes. He has lost his wife, his soulmate, and regardless of the vagaries of the law, the man who took Jennifer from him was on charge.” He turned back to address me. “Now I know this is in the transcript, but when the verdict was read out Gareth, can you recall your reaction?”

  I looked at my hands, trying to look ashamed.

  “Yes,” I said. “I shouted at Robert.”

  “Do you remember what you shouted?” Paul asked. I remembered what I’d said word for word, but wasn’t going to repeat it in the courtroom. Paul would do that for me.