by Vicary, Tim
White Owl Publications Ltd 2011
Copyright Tim Vicary 2011
ISBN 978-0-9571698-2-1
First published in 2004, under the pseudonym Megan Stark , by Constable in Great Britain, and by Carroll & Graff in the US. Reprinted 2004.
This White Owl edition is a slightly revised version of the 2004 edition
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention
No reproduction without permission
All rights reserved.
The right of Tim Vicary to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988
This is a work of pure fiction. Although most of the places in the book exist, any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Other Kindle e-books by Tim Vicary
Legal thrillers
A Fatal Verdict
(The Trials of Sarah Newby, book 2)
Bold Counsel
(The Trials of Sarah Newby, book 3)
Historical novels
The Blood Upon the Rose
(Love and terror in Ireland, 1920)
Cat and Mouse
(Suffragettes and Rebellion in 1914)
The Monmouth Summer
(Love and rebellion in England 1685)
Website: http://www.timvicary.com
Blog: http://sarahstrials.wordpress.com/
Twitter @TimVicary
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter One
‘MY LORD, I call Sharon Gilbert.’
A gust of small movements disturbed the still air of the courtroom, as people coughed, shuffled papers, and leant forward to get the best view of the witness box. The court usher, a woman in a pink blouse and black robe, opened the door in the panelled wall at the back of the court. ‘Sharon Gilbert, please.’
At the barristers’ table in the well of the court, Sarah Newby leant forward, her fingers laced under her chin. This was the first time she would see the victim, the woman the prosecution said her client had raped. The woman whose evidence she would have to demolish, to keep Gary Harker out of prison. The woman whose reputation she would have to destroy, to continue the steady rise of her own. Sarah had been a qualified barrister for three years and this was her first rape case. A great opportunity, if she did well. The first step on the ladder to becoming a Queen’s Counsel, like the Crown Prosecution barrister, Julian Lloyd-Davies QC, who stood next to her facing the jury.
Lloyd-Davies placed his notes on the portable lectern which he had brought with him, and tapped a silver pencil on it nonchalantly as he waited for his witness to appear. Where Sarah was intent and nervous he appeared calm, relaxed and confident. The lectern, silver pencil, silk gown and expensive tailored suit were all signs of a status that Sarah both coveted and feared. Beside him sat his junior, James Morris, pen poised to take notes. I belong here, all these things said, this is my stage to command. Sarah felt like a novice beside him. Even in her best Marks and Spencer black suit, tight starched wing collar and bands, she was painfully conscious of how the black cotton of her gown marked her out as a junior barrister like James Morris, someone who would normally assist a QC in a case like this rather than lead it herself.
In front of the barristers sat the judge, his lordship Stuart Gray, raised high on his dias under the prancing lion and unicorn of the royal coat of arms. His long cadaverous face surveyed her from under his wig with drooping bloodhound eyes. He had once practised as a QC too, Sarah reflected gloomily, and before that no doubt attended one of England’s best public schools - perhaps the same one as Julian Lloyd-Davies.
Certainly he had not left school at fifteen and spent his teenage years, as Sarah had, bringing up a baby on one of the worst council estates in Leeds.
Sarah drew in a slow, deep breath and let it out again, tensing the muscles of her stomach as the butterflies danced within. ‘I’ve earned the right to do this and here I am,’ she thought. ‘They didn’t have to fight to get here, but I did. And if I win this time, it will be the best ever.’
A woman came through the door in the back of the court and looked about her uncertainly. She was a tall, slim woman in her late twenties, smartly dressed in a green suit with three quarter length sleeves. The waves in her long, bleached shoulder-length hair suggested hours of careful attention in front of the mirror. She entered the witness box and took the testament and card from the usher.
‘Take the book in your right hand and read the words on the card.’
‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’
The words were clearly, almost defiantly spoken. Sarah watched as Sharon Gilbert handed the book and card back and looked around. Like many witnesses, she seemed struck with a sense of shock and wonder that she could actually be here, beneath the great domed roof and stucco pillars of York’s magnificent eighteenth-century courtroom. Or perhaps she was shocked by the audience of students and idlers in the public galleries, as well as the row of pressmen, all here to listen to the intimate evidence she would have to give.
Sarah watched carefully, trying to assess her character. Many witnesses were terrified by this court, and mumbled their way miserably through their evidence as though in a public library; others seemed to revel in the theatrical opportunities the public stage gave them. It looked as though Sharon Gilbert might be one of the latter. She could hardly fail, after all, to have read the pre-trial press publicity; she knew how important she was.
As Julian Lloyd-Davies began his introductory questions, designed to establish a few basic facts and put the witness at ease, Sarah Newby sat quite still at the table beside him, listening intently. What sort of person was she, this victim of a brutal, humiliating rape? Well-dressed, attractive, certainly - she had taken great care with her appearance today. The accent was local, however, uneducated; the way Sarah herself had spoken until she had learned to moderate her vowels at the Middle Temple. Probably most of the jury spoke as Sharon did.
More important was the sense of character that came through Sharon Gilbert’s voice. It was strong, clear, brash - the voice of a woman who knew her own mind, or thought she did; but was also afra
id of contradiction and expecting it. One of life’s victims, perhaps, but not a submissive one; not someone who would break down in tears on the stand and have to be coaxed through her evidence as many rape victims did, Sarah thought.
She was glad of that, at least. From the moment she had been given this case, she had been concerned about what she might have to do in cross-examination. She was not worried that she might not be incisive or brutal enough; she believed she was good at that and hoped she was getting better all the time. In her three years of practice she had already taken several notable scalps. One defendant had left the box blustering vainly, entangled in his own deceit; a second had stood silent, unable to answer her final, devastating question; two more had wept. A surge of mixed pride and pity had flooded through her in those moments: pity, at the public humiliation she had inflicted; but far greater pride, that her own skill had won the case, and she could rejoice in her success in the vicious game played out in court.
But so far she had been lucky, for her victims had deserved it - burglars, a mugger, a fraudster, a brutal policeman.
A rape victim would very different. Sarah was enough of a feminist to have felt some initial reluctance about defending a man - particularly a violent petty criminal like Gary Harker - accused of rape; but as Lucy Sampson, her solicitor, had said, ‘if you don’t do it, a man will, and how will that help the victim?’ After all, everyone deserved a good defence, she told herself; if she was to be a proper barrister she must take what came; there could be no no-go areas. But that all had been in the abstract; now she was here, watching a woman prepare to tell the story of her brutal rape by the man it was Sarah’s job to defend.
To do that, she would have to divert some of the jury’s sympathy away from the victim to her client. And to herself. The witness might feel she was on stage; but the barristers controlled the drama. If the woman were shy or nervous it would be child’s play to humiliate her by dwelling on the physical details of the crime or her previous sexual morality - techniques practised by male lawyers over many years. But Sarah wanted to avoid this, if she could. A tearful victim, bullied by the defence lawyer, would only turn the jury’s sympathies even more against her client, who was an unpleasant enough thug in the first place.
But nonetheless, he denied rape; so it was Sarah’s job to test the truth of Sharon’s story with all the skill at her command. She was hugely relieved that her first impression was of a tough, forthright woman who would stand up to questioning.
‘Do you have children, Ms Gilbert?’ Lloyd-Davies enquired politely.
‘Yes, two. Wayne is seven and Katie’s four.’
‘I see. So they were both born some time before you met Gary Harker.’
‘Yes, he’s not their dad, thank God. He’d be rubbish as anyone’s dad.’
She didn’t say who their father was, Sarah noted, and Lloyd-Davies didn’t ask. But Sharon tossed her head and risked a swift glance at the jury, as though defying them to infer anything from the fact that the children’s father - or fathers - were no longer around. It had nothing to do with the case, after all. She was a mother, and she had been raped; that was all the jury needed to understand.
But there was more to it than that, as Sarah knew only too well. How could she not know, she who had been pregnant at fifteen? She knew why two young men in the jury gazed at Sharon with open admiration, while others looked away, avoiding her gaze. She even knew how that felt. She was certain that Sharon was promiscuous, and it was more than likely that she was, or had been, a prostitute - a game as old as the law. Once Sarah had flirted with that idea herself. Far less training, instant fees. I could have ended up like this, Sarah thought; proud of managing as a single mother, daring anyone to challenge me, defiant. And lonely as hell underneath.
So far, Sharon had looked everywhere in the court except at Sarah’s client, the man accused of raping her. It was as though he were a stucco pillar or a chair; her eyes slid past him without interest. But now Julian Lloyd-Davies mentioned him for the first time.
‘Could you tell the court where you first met the defendant, Gary Harker?’
‘Yes. It was at a club. The Gallery, in Castle Street. About two years ago’
‘And did a relationship then develop?’
‘Yes. He moved in with me.’
‘I see.’ Lloyd-Davies peered at her thoughtfully over his half-moon glasses. ‘By that you mean he lived together with you in your home, as though you were man and wife?’
‘He lived with me, yes. For about a year - something like that.’
‘I follow. And - to make things quite clear for the jury - during that year you slept in the same bed together, did you? And had regular sexual intercourse?’
‘Well he wasn’t just there for decoration, was he?’ Sharon seemed gratified by the ripple of amusement which greeted her answer. It was part of the age-old comedy of the court: the contrast between the fussy precision of the barrister’s language and the earthy facts the witnesses described. Part of the language barrier reflected a genuine need for precision in court; but another part was to do with the social gulf which separated the lives and experiences of people like Sharon and Gary from those of Julian Lloyd-Davies and my lord Stuart Gray. A chauffeur had delivered the judge to court; Lloyd-Davies, Sarah recalled wryly, had driven a black Jaguar with the numberplate LAW 2. She had been tempted to scratch it with her engagement ring as she walked past. That was the least that would have happened to a car like that in Seacroft; it would have lost its wheels and been standing on bricks by morning, if it was there at all.
‘And when did this relationship come to an end?’ Julian Lloyd-Davies continued.
‘Last April. He didn’t come home for three nights and I found out he’d been sleeping with another woman. So I slung his stuff out on the street. Cheating bugger.’
‘I see. And what happened when Gary came home and found it there?’
‘We had a fight. He broke my finger. But I changed the lock and he didn’t come back.’
‘Was this the first time he had been violent to you?’
Sharon shook her head. ‘You’re joking. He used to slap me round all the time. Specially when he was drunk. He’s a violent man, been in prison several times for it.’
Quickly, Sarah stood up, her eyes on the judge. ‘With the greatest respect, my Lord ...’
‘Yes, yes, of course, Mrs Newby.’ Judge Gray knew as well as she did how vital it was for the defence to keep Gary’s criminal record from the jury. ‘Ms Gilbert, you must only answer the questions that are put to you. You mustn’t talk about anything else unless Mr Lloyd-Davies asks you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, all right. But he asked me if he’s been violent and he has. And it’s true what I say, he has been in prison.’ For the first time, Sharon looked directly at Gary Harker in the dock. It was a look of recognition - a defiant challenge. I’ve got you now, you pig: see how you like this, it seemed to say. She held the gaze for a long second, then turned contemptuously away. If she could have spat, she would have done.
But her words were potentially devastating. Gary Harker’s criminal record ran into three pages, with several convictions for violence, some against women, for which he’d been sent to prison. According to the rules of evidence these facts, which might prejudice the jury against him, could not be mentioned in court. Now they had been. Sarah remained on her feet. It was within her power, she thought, to stop the trial now. But the judge’s long, bloodhound face concealed a quick mind. Instead of addressing Sarah he turned to the witness.
‘Ms Gilbert, answer this question yes or no, will you please. Has Gary Harker ever been sent to prison for any act of violence against you? Yes or no, remember - nothing else.’
‘Well, no, but he has ...’
‘No, that’s your answer then,’ Judge Gray interrupted her smoothly. ‘Now one more question, yes or no. Has he ever been convicted of any act of violence against you?’
‘Well no, not against me, but ...’<
br />
‘Thank you, Ms Gilbert, that’s all. You see, Gary Harker is not on trial for anything else he may have done in his life, he is simply on trial because he is accused of raping you. So you must only tell the jury about things that he has done to you personally, or to your children. That’s all this jury can consider, nothing else. Now Mr Lloyd-Davies asked if he’d been violent towards you and you answered that he used to slap you around when he was drunk. But it’s also true to say that he has never been convicted of any offence of violence against you. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Sharon sullenly. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘Very well, then.’ The judge looked at Sarah, who was still standing, and raised one lugubrious hairy eyebrow. ‘Does that satisfy you, Mrs Newby?’
‘I ...’ Sarah hesitated, then capitulated. ‘For the moment, my Lord. I am most grateful.’ She sat down submissively, but she was boiling inside. Sharon had effectively told the jury that her client had convictions for violence. Should she have protested more, or asked for the trial to begin again with a fresh jury? Her hands shook as she wondered. The hesitation, and perhaps the capitulation too, were signs of her inexperience. She could still do it, she supposed; but even at this early stage it would cost time and money, which Judge Gray clearly wanted to avoid.
She had already lost one battle with the judge before the trial started, when she had tried to get the case dismissed because of the exceptional pre-trial publicity. A national tabloid had described Gary Harker as ‘the man arrested by police hunting York’s serial rapist’, and Sarah had argued that this article made it impossible for any jury in the York area to give Gary a fair trial. The judge had listened courteously but ruled against her, specifying only that jurors who admitted reading the offending newspaper article could be excluded.
Now he had allowed the jurors to hear of her client’s criminal past. What should she do? Dare she - a very junior barrister - challenge a high court judge twice in one morning? She might turn him against her for the rest of the trial. Would that help her or destroy her case?
She turned it over furiously in her mind. If the judge had ruled unfairly there would be grounds for appeal. On the other hand, she might gain a possible benefit. If the judge allowed the prosecution to attack Gary’s character by mentioning his criminal past in court, then perhaps she could attack Sharon’s character too; and she was no angel either. Sarah sat very still, thinking hard. What would a more experienced barrister do? Was that a hint of smugness on the judge’s face? Two up to him for the moment - pompous sod.
