Blind Justice

by Nathan Burrows

  “When I read the original trial transcript to prepare for this case, there was an obvious discrepancy between the defendant’s version of events, and the version of events that the prosecution presented.” Dr Klein glanced across at Miss Revell, who didn’t respond. “So I re-examined the evidence with this discrepancy in mind. I wanted to look for evidence of a time lag between the original assault and the fatal blows, to see if it was possible to confirm or deny either version of events from a forensic perspective.”

  Dr Klein pressed the button on the remote control again. The screen changed to a close-up of some pieces of tattered flesh.

  “This is a highlight of the wounds on the victim’s head.” The red laser dot reappeared, circling a darkened area of tissue. “This area is interesting. There is evidence of some clotting here underneath the skin. A bruise if you will.” She focused the red dot on the darker area. “But the clotted area has then been overlaid with another, far more traumatic, injury. The fact that there is clotting underneath suggests a delay between the blow that caused the clotting, and subsequent wounds.” I risked a glance at the jury. There were one or two nodding heads, which I took as a good sign. “Clotting takes between five and ten minutes to appear, you see,” Dr Klein said.

  “So, is that conclusive evidence of a delay between the two injuries?” Paul asked.

  “No, it’s not conclusive. It’s highly indicative, but not conclusive.” Dr Klein’s face changed into a wan smile. “Sorry, there are just too many variables involved in soft tissue injuries such as this one,” she said, looking at the jury. “But there is evidence which I believe is conclusive.”

  You could have cut the atmosphere in the courtroom with a knife as Dr Klein said this. I couldn’t help but lean forward in anticipation, and as I did so I noticed a few of the jury doing the same thing. Dr Klein pressed the button again, and the image changed. The change on the screen was accompanied by a few gasps in the courtroom.

  “This is a photograph of a slice of the brain taken following the post-mortem of Mr Robert Wainwright,” she said. I was glad I’d had something to eat. Dr Klein waved the red dot around a fuzzy looking area on the picture. It almost looked as if something had gone wrong with the camera taking the picture. “This area is the most damaged area of the brain. What you can see here is disruption to the brain tissue itself. However, that’s not the area I’m most interested in. I’m just going to show you a different version of the same image to make it easier to explain.”

  The screen changed to show a black and white image, similar to an x-ray or CT scan. Regardless of whether or not it was easier to explain, it was a lot easier to look at now it wasn’t in glorious Technicolour. Dr Klein repositioned the red dot over a small white circular area on the opposite side of the brain to where the damage was. “This area here is quite normal, and you can see another similar area on the other side. It’s known as white matter and is a part of the brain that passes messages from one part of the brain to another. The darker areas are grey matter and are where all the important bits are. The neural cell bodies, axon terminals, and dendrites, as well as all the nerve synapses, are in these grey parts. Now the interesting thing is—”

  “Dr Klein,” Paul interrupted. “Those white and grey areas are normal, you say?” I got the impression that he was throttling her back a touch and reminding her to keep things simple for the jury.

  “Well, they look normal in these pictures,” she replied, taking a sip of water from a glass in front of her. “But they’re not.”

  “In what way are they not normal?”

  “Well, perhaps I should rewind slightly before explaining this next part?” Dr Klein smiled at the jury. “I don’t want to lose anyone.” Several of the jurors returned her smile.

  “Please do, Dr Klein.”

  “Now, if you remember what I was saying earlier about the brain being bounced about inside the skull. When a blow is struck that doesn’t fracture the skull?” Dr Klein said, looking at the jury. Several of them nodded in response and I realised that I had done exactly the same thing. “The force that is reflected through the inside of the skull affects different areas in different ways, depending on the density of the brain tissue.” She used the laser pointer to draw a circle around the white area on the screen. “These two areas, the white matter and the grey matter, have different densities. They move slightly differently in response to this force and as they do so, there can be small tears in the tissue at the junction of the two types.” Dr Klein was speaking much slower than she had been, and I figured that my suspicion about Paul’s interruption was correct.

  Dr Klein took another sip of water before continuing. “I wanted to have a closer look, so I examined this area under a microscope.” She pressed the remote control again, and the screen changed to a mottled grey colour with some red streaks. Frowns appeared on the faces of a few of the jury members as they craned forward to look at the screen. Dr Klein said nothing, but just sat in her chair looking at the screen.

  “Dr Klein, could you explain what we are looking at?” Paul said a few seconds later. Dr Klein jumped back into life.

  “Yes, these red streaks here,” she said, pointing at the screen with the laser pointer. “They are haemorrhages within the brain tissue. Tiny areas of bleeding between the grey and the white matter, where the tissue has torn.”

  “I see,” Paul replied. I was glad he did because I didn’t. “And what is the significance of these haemorrhages?”

  “Well, one area of significance is that they are only seen in closed head trauma. If the skull is ruptured, then they won’t occur as the force that’s required to cause them has been dissipated. But that’s not the most important thing,” Dr Klein said. Paul paused, letting the obvious question hang in the air.

  “What is the most important thing, Dr Klein?”

  “In order for these haemorrhages to form, two things are required. One of them is time. They don’t form immediately.” Another pause from Paul, and another obvious question left to simmer for a second.

  “And the other?” Paul asked.

  “A heartbeat,” Dr Klein replied. “They need time, and a beating heart. If there is neither, then they won’t form. They can’t form.”

  “So how long does the heart need to be beating for after the initial injury for these haemorrhages to form?”

  “At least ten minutes, if not longer.”

  The next morning dawned with blue skies, but it was freezing cold. As I was being led from the door of the prison to the van, the wind tore through me. Even though it was still only November, it felt cold enough to snow but the blue sky said otherwise. I sat on the metal seat in the van, wincing as I did so as the temperature irritated the stitches in my buttock. At least it was only a short journey to the courtroom.

  The difference in the temperature between the van and the interior of the court cells when we arrived was enough to make me break out into a sweat. The court heating must have been running at full pelt, and it was much warmer than it had been earlier in the week. Once the holding cell locked behind me, the first thing I did was take off my suit jacket. I was looking around for something to hang it on when I heard a voice behind me.

  “Do you want me to hang that up for you?” I turned to see a young man with an earnest expression looking through the bars at me. He was thin, about my height, and dressed in the white shirt and black trousers that so many people who worked in the system seemed to wear. There was an embroidered patch on his shirt with a company logo, some squiggle in red and white that I couldn’t quite make out. Another couple of men in the same uniform were milling about behind him on the other side of the room. “There’s nothing to hang it up on in the cell, you see.” His accent gave him away as being local to Norfolk, and it was too broad for him to be from Norwich itself. “People would only try to hang themselves off of it if we put a hook in there.” He laughed at his own joke, even though it wasn’t very funny. I handed my jacket through the bars of the cell.

/>   “Thank you,” I said as he took the jacket from me. To my surprise, he walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a proper hangar, sliding the jacket onto it and smoothing the fabric as he put the jacket back into the cupboard. I’d been half expecting him to throw it over the back of a chair.

  “Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?” the young man called over.

  A few minutes later, I was sipping a cup of tea from a polystyrene cup. It was the nicest cup of tea I’d had since before I’d been arrested. The young man — I wasn’t sure quite what to call him — had asked me about milk and sugar, the whole works. He’d even checked that it was the right colour before handing the cups over. That was, I thought, the reason it tasted so good. There was a bit of effort that had gone into it. It wasn’t just a cup of brown muck that had been handed over. I sat in the cell for maybe ten minutes before Mr Jackson came into the room. He stood next to the man who’d made me a cup of tea chatting for a few seconds before they both walked over to my cell. Mr Jackson made the other man look even thinner. I knew it wasn’t a fair comparison, but I couldn’t help it.

  “You’re on, Mr Dawson,” Mr Jackson said as the man in the white shirt unlocked the door to the cell. I walked through, handing him the empty polystyrene cup. I figured that me walking over and putting it in the bin wouldn’t go down too well with Mr Jackson.

  “Thank you very much for the tea,” I said. The young man smiled in return.

  “Oh, no problem,” he replied. “I’ll just grab your jacket for you.” As he headed across the room to the cupboard, I looked at Mr Jackson. He stared back at me, with his normal sullen expression.

  “Did you have a good evening?” I asked him on the off chance he might speak to me for once. To my surprise, he replied a moment later.

  “Yeah, was okay I guess.” That was it, though. It was progress of sorts. I shrugged my way into the suit jacket and followed Mr Jackson up the stairs and into the courtroom.

  In the courtroom, the only people that were there when we arrived were Paul and Laura. When they saw me walk in and take my seat, they both walked over to speak to me. Paul was dressed in his standard black robes over a dark grey suit, and Laura had her usual business suit on. Her blouse today was cream, not the green one I liked the most, and she had tied her hair up into a French plait. At least, I think that’s what it was called.

  “Gareth, my dear boy,” Paul went first. “How are you? I must apologise for not visiting you last night.” He nodded toward Laura. “I’m afraid that we’ve both been rather busy.” I looked across at Laura and a bizarre image of the two of them together, as in properly together, somewhere in a seedy Norwich hotel room came into my head. Despite the unwanted image, I smiled. “I’m confident, you know,” Paul continued. “Really confident.” Laura smiled at me, and I immediately felt bad for the previous thoughts I had about her. I had been in prison for a while, though.

  “I’m sorry too,” she said. Laura dropped her voice as Paul turned away and walked back toward the table, his black robes billowing out behind him. “How are you doing?” she asked in a half whisper. “Is everything okay?” I didn’t reply, but smiled to let her know everything was fine. I got to see her dimples for a few seconds, which was a result.

  I sat down, forcing Mr Jackson to shuffle over on his seat to make room for me. There was a space on the other side of my chair where the other prison guard had nipped outside, no doubt trying to get his nicotine levels as high as possible before the court sat. I didn’t blame him. Mr Jackson sniffed loudly.

  “I think she likes you,” he said. I turned to look at him, but he remained sitting in the same position staring forward with his enormous arms folded across his chest. “Shame you’re in nick really,” he continued. That was the most sociable thing he’d said since the first day I’d arrived at Norwich. I looked at him, trying to work out if he was joking, taking the piss, or just making a statement. As I was wondering what to say in response, or whether to say anything at all, Miss Revell breezed into the courtroom. She was followed by her two stooges, both dressed in the same type of suit. One of them was carrying a laptop, the other one a box file of some description. When he saw her, Paul walked over to their table and within seconds they were deep in conversation. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were talking about when I noticed one of Miss Revell’s stooges saunter over to Laura and say something to her. She glanced up at him and laughed. Even from this distance, I could see her dimples. I looked at Mr Jackson and thought for a second I saw a smile on his face, but I couldn’t be sure. Bastard.

  The public gallery was filling up, so I concentrated on the people who were filing in so I could get my attention away from Laura. A lot of the people I didn’t recognise, but I saw Andy and Jacob make their way in, as well as Robert’s parents. There was a small group of four men who took their seats in the second row. They were all dressed in pretty much the same way in scruffy jackets and jeans, all with notebooks clutched in their hands. They had to be from the press, but from which press I couldn’t tell. I wouldn’t recognise a reporter from the Evening Daily Press at the best of times. It was obvious from how they were talking to each other that they knew each other. The gallery filled up pretty quickly, and the twenty or so seats were filled within a few minutes. I looked at the clock on the wall of the courtroom and saw that it was almost ten minutes before nine o’clock. As the minute hand ticked onto the number ten, both Paul and Miss Revell reached for their wigs and adjusted them on their heads. Paul was fussed over by Laura, while one of Miss Revell’s suited assistants helped her. A hush descended over the courtroom as the minute hand of the clock made its way round the clock face until it reached five minutes to ten

  The door behind the judge's desk opened halfway, and the familiar face of the court usher peeked out of the opening. He glanced around before turning back to say something to someone still in the room, presumably the judge. There was a pause before the door opened fully and the usher stepped through. He stood to one side of the door and drew himself up to his full height, preparing for his moment in the spotlight. I looked through the door behind him, eager to get a glance into the judge’s inner chambers or whatever they were called. I couldn’t see much, but there was a man in a suit in there who looked very familiar. I looked back into the courtroom at the desk where the man and woman who didn’t really fit in had been sitting. Court employees, Laura had called them. Their desk was empty, and I was ninety nine percent certain that one of them was sitting in the judge’s private room. They might both be in there, but I couldn’t see that far into the room.

  The usher took a deep breath.

  “All rise,” he said in what he presumably thought was a commanding voice. It wasn’t, but who was I to criticise? We all got to our feet as Judge Watling walked through the door, swinging it closed behind him and cutting off any view I had of his inner chamber. He sat on his throne and took a second or two to assess his little empire.

  “Please, be seated,” he said after a pause. There was a rustling noise in the court as everyone sat down and made themselves as comfortable as they could.

  It was showtime.

  Judge Watling welcomed the jury back, sounding reasonably sincere when he said he trusted that they’d all had a good evening. He said a few words about not discussing the case outside the courtroom, or reading about it in the newspapers or on the internet. The judge said this every morning, and not for the first time I wondered how this was policed. For all anyone knew, just before their door opened the jurors had all been sitting there on their phones reading up on whatever the Eastern Daily Press was pushing out today. I knew for a fact that my trial had made the front page of the newspaper as I’d seen a copy downstairs in the holding area. The headline had been something bizarre which made no sense, but I recognised a picture of Jennifer and me on the front page, so knew there was a story on the trial in there somewhere. I’d been tempted to ask one of the officers working in the holding area if I could read it, but thought better of
it. Whatever the article said, I’d figured, no good would come of me reading it.

  “So without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to ask the counsels for their closing statements. Mr Dewar,” the judge said, looking at Paul over the top of his reading glasses. “As the defence, you have the privilege of batting first.” As if Paul didn’t know that. As Paul got to his feet and rearranged his robes while he turned to face the jury, I looked up at Judge Watling who gave me his trademark cursory nod.

  “Your Honour, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you,” Paul said in a quiet voice. Several of the jurors leaned forward slightly as if they couldn’t hear him very well. I looked at Ella. She was wearing a louder dress than she normally wore, this one covered in bright red and green flowers. The only way it could be any less loud was if you were colour blind. She caught my eye and I glanced down, breaking eye contact.

  “I stood in front of you at the beginning of last week and made some introductory comments which I would like to refer back to now if I may,” Paul continued, speaking in a louder voice now he had the jury’s attention. I glanced at them, and saw all twelve pairs of eyes were fixed on Paul. He spent the next fifteen or twenty minutes describing what I had done, how I’d planned for and carried out an assault on Robert Wainwright. I let my head hang in front of me, trying to look penitent. “But, ladies and gentlemen, once Gareth Dawson had struck the man who had killed his wife, what did he do?” Paul paused, and I looked up at him. For a second, I thought he was asking me the question. Paul was standing still, looking at me with a puzzled expression on his face. I flicked my eyes across to Laura, who was staring at me with wide eyes raised eyebrows. I got the message and looked back at my lap. “What did he do next?” Paul repeated himself, and I could tell that he’d turned back to face the jury.