by Nick Stone
VJ nodded grimly.
‘Do you have any questions?’
He shook his head. He was scared. I’d only ever seen him like this once before, when he’d come round our house after Quinlan had first interviewed him. Now, he was in an alien environment he couldn’t control, and facing an outcome he couldn’t predict or influence. Above all, he was having to trust and rely on people who were virtually strangers. Including me.
For an instant I remembered my old friend again, everything that had been good about him. I wanted to say something reassuring to that person, let him know I’d be there for him. But I couldn’t, in every sense.
‘The judge is Adam Blumenfeld,’ she said. ‘The phrase “tough but fair” could’ve been coined for him. He runs a tight ship. He doesn’t put up with any nonsense. The media like him because he hands out the stiffest possible sentences. And he’s never been successfully appealed against.’
‘Wish I’d stayed in bed,’ VJ quipped.
No one laughed or cracked a smile. He might as well have said he wished he hadn’t killed Evelyn.
We were in Court 1, where all the high-profile murder cases are tried.
Situated in the baroque building, the courtroom is among the oldest in the Bailey, and far and away its most notorious. Many a criminal career has ended there. The Yorkshire Ripper, Dennis Nilsen, Ian Huntley, the Kray Twins, Ruth Ellis, Lord Haw-Haw, Dr Crippen all got their comeuppance in its dock, as have hundreds more. Acquittals are rare, life sentences common.
In keeping with its legend and reputation, the courtroom radiates an arcane malevolence. Its bright whitewashed walls and thick dark oak panelling and furniture have all the austerity of postwar classrooms ruled by cane-wielding teachers, or fundamentalist chapels presided over by demented preachers.
The legals sit at long tables in the middle of the court, facing the jury bench, which will remain empty until the trial kicks off. To the left is the dock, raised several feet above the floor and shielded by a high wall of bulletproof glass. The judge’s podium is directly opposite, and elevated to the same level, so that judge and defendant are eye to eye. The podium is lined with high panelling and dominated by a sculpture of a portico. Suspended from a bracket in the middle of the portico is a long sword in a gold-and-black scabbard, its tip touching the royal crest embedded at the heart of the sculpture. The sword, identical in shape and length to the one brandished by Lady Justice, is reminiscent of a church crucifix, albeit inverted. Some might say this is deliberate, because all evil is summoned here.
The public gallery, which overlooked and slightly overhung the well of the court, was predictably packed. But there was no sign of Melissa. I was glad about that.
The prosecution team sat at the table in front of us. Carnavale, his junior barrister – a thirtysomething woman with short straight blonde hair – and their clerk, a young man in a pinstriped suit.
Although she was using a thick cane to get around, as well as sit and stand, Christine was in the best shape I’d seen her yet. It was her first time in court in over a year, and being here had given her a boost. She was alert and comparatively robust, her illness sidelined.
Carnavale handed us each two lists of evidence – the one he intended to present to the judge and use in the trial, and the other consisting of material he’d discarded.
He talked to Christine. All dulcet tones and purring concern. He was so delighted to see her again, he said, and commented on how well she looked, before asking after her husband and family.
The prosecutor was groomed like a lawn. Even his wig looked good and absolutely right on him, as if he’d been born to wear it.
We were about to start. The court clerk – a tall black woman with a bygone curly-perm – was on the phone, managing to talk without making a single sound, as if miming.
Carnavale went back to his seat.
‘All rise,’ the court clerk said.
We stood as Judge Blumenfeld entered from the side of the podium. Draped in silk violet robes and a black sash, he was a lanky, gangling man with swarthy skin and medium-length grey sideburns that stole out from under his wig.
He reached his chair in four strides and took his place. He appraised us all with a fast sweep of the eyes over his lowered glasses. His face was stern, but not unpleasant; a tyrant with a line in good jokes.
Carnavale stood over a small lectern at his table, and did the preliminaries for the record.
‘My name is Franco Carnavale, and I am appearing in this matter on behalf of the Crown,’ he said to the judge. ‘Also appearing on behalf of the Crown is Lisa Perez, acting as junior counsel. Appearing on behalf of the defence are my learned friends Christine Devereaux and Liam Redpath.’
It was tradition to refer to a fellow barrister as ‘my learned friend’. Like the uniform, this was another custom from a bygone age, when the legal profession had been a small club where everyone knew each other.
‘Are you ready to proceed, Mr Carnavale?’ the judge asked, in a mellifluous voice that carried a hint of thunder about it.
‘I am, My Lord.’
‘Please bring in the defendant.’
Carnavale sat down. The court clerk got on the phone.
Moments later the door at the end of the dock opened, to a rattle of keys on a heavy ring. We all turned to watch VJ being brought in-between two barrel-shaped security guards. I heard the spectators in the gallery, the wood creaking under the shift of bodies as they leaned in and turned and half-rose to get a view. I glanced up at them.
And I saw her.
Melissa.
She was sitting right at the front, in the near right-hand corner, ideally positioned to see her husband entering and leaving the dock. Her expression was pure deadpan, but her eyes never left him.
The three of us hadn’t been in the same room together in twenty years. In our first term we’d all gone out for pizza and then to the Arts Cinema to catch a late show. The film? Presumed Innocent.
VJ stood in the dock and faced the judge.
The court clerk read out the charges and asked him to state his plea.
‘Not guilty,’ he said.
‘Please be seated.’
Carnavale went back to the lectern.
‘My Lord, it is the Crown’s case that the defendant, Vernon James, murdered the victim, Evelyn Bates, between the hours of midnight and two o’clock on the morning of March 17th. The evidence we wish to submit in support of this charge is as follows…’
He went through the witnesses he intended to call, giving their names and occupations, and briefly explaining their relevance. Nightclub staff, Gary Murphy, Rudy Saks, the hotel receptionist, DCI Reid, DS Fordham, and a forensics expert. The judge followed the list with his pen, as did Christine and Redpath.
There were two surprises – none of the hen party attendees had been called, but Nikki Frater, VJ’s PA, was listed. She’d given the prosecution a statement about disposing of VJ’s clothes. Nothing incriminating, but borderline ambiguous.
‘Next, the physical evidence.’
Carnavale read out the items – the note Evelyn had left Penny Halliwell saying she was at a private party in Suite 18; her green dress, thong, mobile phone; VJ’s trousers, jacket and shirt. Each was prefixed by ‘Exhibit’ and assigned a consecutive number.
He concluded by submitting DVDs of VJ’s police interviews, and the nightclub CCTV. Then he sat down, indicating he’d finished.
‘Mrs Devereaux?’ the judge said.
Christine stood up slowly, using her cane handle for support.
‘You can sit, if you prefer, Mrs Devereaux?’
‘Thank you, My Lord, but I’d rather be on my feet.’
‘As you wish,’ he said.
‘My Lord, we accept all of the Crown’s submissions, bar one item in the physical evidence. We request that Exhibit 3 be removed.’
The judge and Carnavale both consulted their lists. Carnavale turned to Christine, puzzled and amused.
‘Exhibit
3 is an item of clothing belonging to the victim. Namely her underwear,’ the judge said.
‘Yes it is, My Lord.’
‘And you’d like it… removed?’
‘From the list, My Lord.’
The judge smiled. ‘On what grounds, Mrs Devereaux?’
‘We do not accept that Exhibit 3 belonged to the victim. And we believe it to be irrelevant to the case, and therefore inadmissible as evidence against the defendant.’
Carnavale looked at her like she’d gone mad.
Christine cleared her throat and shifted a little at the lectern.
‘The item in question – a thong with a detachable Velcro clasp on its waistband – is one commonly worn by strippers. It’s designed to be removed in haste. Whipped off, if you will, My Lord – thus.’ She illustrated what she meant by pinching at the air near her waist and flinging her arm out. She accompanied the motion with a sideways bump of her hip, which made the judge grin, and earned her a ripple of laughter from the public and press.
‘Fascinating,’ the judge said, still smiling. ‘What proof do you have, Mrs Devereaux?’
‘The defendant told us he first saw the garment in the living room of the hotel suite. It was on the floor, close to a skirting board. As you will be aware, a large item of furniture – a minibar – had been displaced. Its usual position was between a sideboard and a chest of drawers. The minibar had previously covered this space up.’
‘And that’s where he says he first saw the… Exhibit?’ the judge asked.
‘Yes, My Lord,’ she said.
The judge made notes. Christine continued.
‘We have spoken to a previous guest at the same suite. His name is Joe Finder. He used the room on March 11th of this year for the purposes of a private party, which at least twenty people attended – including a stripper, whom he hired. The stripper danced on the same minibar. Mr Finder said that he and two of his guests had moved it out to the middle of the room to serve as a stage. The stripper removed all of her clothes, including her thong, which she threw into the crowd. Mr Finder has given us a sworn statement to that effect, which I would like to share with both you and my learned friend.’
Christine handed Carnavale and the judge’s clerk copies of the statement Finder had given to Janet the previous morning. Carnavale took it and read it, his face slowly reddening.
Christine let the judge finish with the statement before resuming.
‘We have spoken to the stripper. She recognised Exhibit 3 from a police photograph. She stated that it was the same make as the thongs she habitually uses in her routine.’
Christine stopped there, turned to me and nodded. That was the signal.
I handed her what she asked for.
‘My Lord, we have here a DNA sample, which we believe will match that found on Exhibit 3.’
She held up a sealed evidence bag containing the champagne glass I’d swiped from the Violet Room, after my encounter with Breeze. As she’d stormed out before I could get round to asking her to give us a statement, I’d grabbed at the only straw going.
Christine was on very thin ice here. You needed legal consent to take a person’s DNA. Breeze hadn’t given it to me. Christine was gambling that the judge wouldn’t ask as to the legality of the sample, as long as she didn’t request the glass to be entered into evidence. This was really about calling Carnavale’s bluff and planting a warning flag in the judge’s mind.
So far it seemed to be working. Carnavale was glowering at his junior barrister and especially at his clerk. They obviously hadn’t thought to check Suite 18’s previous guests.
‘I would like to ask if my learned friend can confirm that Exhibit 3 was tested for the victim’s DNA as well as the defendant’s. And, if this was done, was the victim’s DNA found on the exhibit?’ Christine said and sat down.
‘Mr Carnavale?’
‘The Crown was not informed of this development until now, My Lord.’
‘What “development”?’ the judge asked.
‘We were unaware that the defence had approached previous guests at the hotel suite, My Lord.’
‘You mean you were unaware that the defence had done its job?’ the judge said.
Redpath smiled. So did I. Christine was po-faced.
Carnavale blinked. He had no comeback.
‘Mr Carnavale, can you confirm to me that Exhibit 3 was tested for the victim’s DNA?’
‘One moment, please, My Lord.’
Carnavale asked his junior for a file, which he looked through as they conferred in sharp whispers. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but I thought of two snakes spitting venom at each other over a hotplate.
‘My Lord, that doesn’t appear to be the case.’
‘You mean to say that you wanted to enter into evidence an item of clothing you weren’t actually certain belonged to the victim?’
‘No, My Lord, that was not my intention. That would imply I was seeking to deceive the court, which I would never do.’
‘I should sincerely hope not, Mr Carnavale,’ the judge said. ‘Yet in your submissions here, you clearly state Exhibit 3 as belonging to the victim. Can you explain to me why DNA testing on this item was selective?’
‘I have no explanation for that, My Lord. I’d have to ask the lab. I personally submitted the Exhibit in good faith, assuming DNA testing had been carried out with the same thoroughness it was on the other items presented into evidence.’
‘You assumed wrong, Mr Carnavale,’ the judge said. ‘How long will it take to get the exhibit retested?’
‘At a guess, between six to eight weeks, My Lord.’
Judge Blumenfeld scribbled a few notes.
‘Are you otherwise ready to go to trial?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
He made more notes.
‘On what grounds did you include Exhibit 3 into evidence?’
‘The item was found in the wastepaper basket of Suite 18. There was a quantity of semen on the item, which DNA tests showed was the defendant’s. It is the Crown’s contention that the defendant masturbated into the victim’s underwear either prior to or after murdering her.’
There was silence in the courtroom. I thought of Melissa, who was possibly hearing about this for the first time.
‘Where was the wastepaper basket located?’
‘In the living room.’
‘And the body was found in the bedroom?’
‘Yes, My Lord. But the victim was murdered in the living room.’
‘And where were the victim’s other clothes?’
‘In the bedroom.’
‘But not her underwear?’
‘No, My Lord.’
‘In other words, Exhibit 3 was found in a separate part of the suite?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were there traces of semen on any of the victim’s other clothes?’
‘No, My Lord.’
‘Why did you assume Exhibit 3 belonged to the victim?’
Carnavale hesitated, looked down at the file on his lectern.
‘It was the only item of female underwear found at the scene. That’s Presumption of Fact, My Lord. Archbold 10.1.’
He was referring to the lawyer’s bible – Archbold: Criminal Pleading, Evidence and Practice – an elephantine tome covering every aspect of criminal law and the cases that shaped it.
‘Did the police, to your knowledge, investigate or speak to previous guests at Suite 18?’
‘No, My Lord.’
‘Please sit down.’
The judge made a few more notes.
‘I will have to rule on this,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a twenty-minute break. Could you please return at 11.45?’
He stood up.
‘All rise!’
We got up and watched him leave.
VJ was led away from the dock.
Carnavale walked out of court, thumbs under the collar of his gown, followed by his team.
‘How do you think it’ll go?’ Redpath a
sked Christine.
‘Hard to say. The judge won’t want to delay the trial by two months, that’s for sure,’ she said.
Carnavale returned fifteen minutes later with Lisa Perez in tow. He didn’t look at us, just went straight back to his seat. His clerk wasn’t there. Probably been fired.
I sneaked a look up at the gallery. Melissa wasn’t there.
‘All rise!’
Judge Blumenfeld took his seat. VJ was led back into the dock.
‘In the matter of allowing Exhibit 3 into evidence,’ the judge began, looking briefly at Carnavale and then at Christine, before pushing up his glasses and reading out his ruling.
‘It is the prosecution’s duty to prove its case beyond reasonable doubt. This extends to all evidence submitted in support of that case. That evidence must always be credible. And in a case such as this, where serious charges have been brought, there can be no margin of error.
‘The Crown has submitted into evidence an undergarment believed to have been worn by the victim at the time of her murder. This was recovered from a wastepaper basket in the living room of Suite 18 of the Blenheim-Strand hotel, and marked “Exhibit 3”. The Crown confirmed that the item was tested only for DNA of the defendant, not that of the victim.
‘The defence contends that Exhibit 3 does not in fact belong to the victim, but to another party, who was a guest in the same room on the weekend prior to the events of March 17th, 2011. To support its argument, the defence has provided a sworn statement from the guest – named Joe Finder – who rented the room.
‘Mr Finder confirmed that the room was used to host a party, and that he hired a stripper as part of the evening’s entertainment. As part of her routine the stripper threw her underwear – a detachable thong, similar to Exhibit 3 – at her audience.
‘The defence asserts that the owner of Exhibit 3 is not the victim, but likely to be the stripper. The defence contends that Exhibit 3 was found by the accused on or around the early morning of March 17th after the hotel minibar had been moved from its normal place. The defence contends that Exhibit 3 is likely to have been behind or under the minibar before the accused first entered the suite.
