by Vicary, Tim
Judge Gray nodded, and pushed back his heavy chair. ‘Yes, very well, Mrs Newby. We will adjourn until half past one.’
As the usher called out ‘all stand’ and the judge withdrew through the panelled door behind his throne, Sarah studied the jury, wondering how her morning’s performance had gone down with them. They certainly looked lively, and several eager discussions had already begun. So far so good, then - the more they began to question the evidence, the better. Then her gaze travelled up to the public gallery, where students, relatives, and idlers were beginning to climb back over the wooden benches to the door at the top.
But to her surprise, one young man was not moving. He leant over the rail at the front of the gallery, watching the unravelling scene below. His eyes fixed on hers as soon as she saw him, and she recognised her son, Simon.
Chapter Six
SHE MET him in the entrance hall, amid the throng of witnesses, security men and the general public. Sarah ran up to Simon quickly, her papers still under her arm.
‘Simon! Whatever brings you here?’
Simon shrugged. ‘Day off. Thought I’d see what you actually do.’
‘Well! What a wonderful surprise!’
Sarah looked up at her son in delight. He was six inches taller than her, with a handsome, broad-nosed face and a shadow of stubble on his chin. His reddish-gold hair was cut brutally short and he had the ring in his left ear that she hated. But he looked fit and relaxed, in jeans and a sleeveless shirt that showed off the muscles of his upper arms. He had always been a natural athlete, much fitter than Bob had ever been.
Simon touched her wig. ‘You look daft in that.’
‘I’ll take it off then. Wait there - have you got time for lunch?’
‘Maybe.’ He looked around apprehensively. ‘Don’t you eat here?’
‘No. We’ll buy a sandwich - sit by the river.’
‘OK then.’
She ran up the wide staircase to leave her gown, wig and papers in the robing room. She glanced hurriedly at the questions she planned to ask later, but there was nothing she needed to change. Anyway Simon was here, that was what mattered - her son whom she hadn’t seen for weeks!
As she came down she was surprised to see Simon talking to a witness, Graham Dewar. As she approached they moved apart. She took Simon’s arm and went out into the sunshine.
‘Do you know that man?’
‘Yeah, a bit. Met him on a building site.’
‘He’s a friend of Gary’s, you know. Witness for the defence.’
‘Yeah?’ Simon’s uninterested response forced Sarah to suppress a slight jolt of irritation. It was a mannerism which had provoked many quarrels between them over the years. But she had no intention of nagging him today.
‘What do you fancy? Sandwich? Pizza hut? Burger?’
‘A sandwich’ll do fine. I thought all you barristers ate posh. You know - fine linen, champagne, pass the port?’
‘Not my style. Anyway, you know what wine does to me, Simon - do you want to see me weaving into court all tipsy with my notes upside down?’
‘That’ll be the day. They’ll not catch you with your buttons undone, no way.’
‘I should hope not.’
They bought sandwiches, fruit and mineral water in Marks and Spencers. All the benches in the park by the river were occupied by tourists or shoppers, so they sat with their feet dangling over the quay, watching the river buses and rowing boats pass on the water.
‘So how come you’ve got a day off?’ she asked.
‘I just took it. Most o’t labourin’s finished, any road. It’s nowt but tidyin’ up today, so I mitched it.’
Sarah sighed. Everything about the answer depressed her. It was bad enough to have a son whose ambitions extended no further than labouring on building sites, but it seemed Simon couldn’t even manage that without skiving. And then he had to use this exaggerated broad accent, to emphasise how he was moving in exactly the opposite social direction from her.
But I won’t nag, she told herself. It does no good - that’s how we lost him before.
‘How’s Jasmine?’
Jasmine was Simon’s girlfriend, a startlingly beautiful young woman who he had lived with for the past ten months. Sarah had hated her at first, partly because she seemed to have no more ambition than Simon, but also in the way that all mothers find it hard to relate to the girl their son has chosen to replace them. But as time passed and she seemed to make him happy, Sarah had begun to resign herself to the situation and search for good qualities in the girl that she hadn’t noticed before. So his answer distressed her further.
‘She’s gone.’
‘What?’
‘Left me - weeks ago. Ran off with a bloody male nurse from the hospital. Namby-pamby little wuss who loves trees.’
‘Oh Simon, no!’ She touched his arm but he shrugged her off.
‘Oh Simon, yes. You’re too messy, Simon, your home’s a tip. I’m off to get meself a life.’
‘She said that?’
‘Summat like it, yeah.’ He slung the crust of his sandwich to a seagull on the water. ‘Course there was mess, I’d been painting. And putting up shelves.’
‘You, Simon, decorating?’ The squalor of Simon’s house was legendary in their family.
‘Yeah. I thought that’s what she wanted. What all women want, in’t it - a nice home?’ He looked at her sideways, as though this might be the answer he had come for. What is it women want, mum? How can I get Jasmine back? Of course he would never ask these questions so explicitly but that was what he wanted, she felt sure.
Sarah felt touched, flattered, and afraid. Touched and flattered that he should come to her, afraid that she had no idea of the answers. How could she know, who paid so little attention to her own home and marriage, these days? It was, she knew, somehow unsatisfactory despite all the efforts she and Bob had made over the years. Years in which Bob had put up shelves and units and wallpaper in every house they had had. And now Simon had for once tried to copy his stepfather, and Jasmine - his one spectacular achievement - had walked out on him. I could weep, she thought.
‘When did she go?’
‘Six weeks ago. I know where he lives. He takes her to them bloody protesters at fashion centre. Clowns - diggin’ holes and climbin’ trees.’
Like everyone, Sarah knew of the environmental protest at the designer centre. Emily might have supported it, but Simon hated things like that.
‘So Jasmine’s involved with the protest too?’
‘Probably. I saw her there once.’
‘Oh Simon.’ She touched his hand gently. ‘Is there no chance she’ll come back?’
‘Only when she fancies a bit of ... you know. Then she comes back for an afternoon. But it’s not the same, is it?’ He flung the mineral water bottle viciously into the river, missing a duck by inches. She kept her hand on his but he wouldn’t look at her.
‘You still see her then?’ Sarah could easily believe it. She had always suspected Jasmine of using her son for her own purposes, as an amusing sexual accessory. ‘Well, couldn’t you ... I don’t know, discuss it with her when you meet? I thought you got on so well!’
The answer, when it came, was surprisingly loud and strong, a gale of sound that turned heads nearby. ‘Don’t you think I’ve tried that, mum? She just laughs at me. I’ve even followed her back to his house, to tell that little bastard to leave her alone. But it’s no good, is it? She wants it all her own way, the bitch!’
The strength of his emotion frightened her. If he showed this much anger towards Jasmine, she thought, the girl might be afraid to come back.
‘I ... I don’t think that’s quite the way, Simon,’ she began hesitantly. ‘I mean ...’
‘Oh forget it,’ he said suddenly. ‘There’s nowt you can do, I never thought there were!’
But he had, she thought. He’d hoped. ‘Perhaps if you tell me about it, the things you quarrelled about ...
‘No, there’s no poi
nt.’ He recovered himself, patted her hand. ‘We didn’t really quarrel, mum, we just ... fell out, you know. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again. I’ll just have to live with it.’
Only I can’t, his body language said. He clenched his fists on his thighs, and slowly pressed them together until his arms tensed with the strain. It looked like an unconscious expression of all the violence and tension in his emotions. Then, suddenly, he relaxed.
‘Anyhow, what about you? You’re not going to get this sod Harker off, are you?’
‘I’m doing my best, Simon. You know me.’
‘Yeah. Leave no stone unturned. But what d’you reckon to him, eh? Hardly your sort.’
Sarah smiled ironically. ‘Criminals aren’t my sort, Simon, you know that. My job’s to defend them, not admire them.’
‘He’s a criminal all right. Nasty violent thug.’
‘He .. how do you know that?’An unpleasant sensation of shock squirmed in her stomach. Just those two sentences of Sharon in court yesterday about Gary’s criminal record, and here was her son parroting them back to her. It must be from last night’s Evening Press, which she hadn’t bothered to read.
‘Everyone knows who’s met him,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve seen him on building sites.’
‘You’ve met Gary Harker?’
‘Yeah. Ugly bastard, isn’t he? Thinks he’s hard but he’s scum really.’
And they probably say the same about you, she thought bitterly. You, my son, working with Gary Harker. She shook her head, trying to take it all in. ‘So you didn’t come just to see me? You came to see him!’
‘Both of you,’ Simon said. ‘I saw it in’t paper and thought, I’ve got a family interest here. I’ll go along and see what’s what.’
‘I see.’ Sarah sighed. ‘So what do you think, now you’ve seen it?’
‘I think you’re giving that woman a hard time. Does she deserve it, really?’
‘I have to, Simon, it’s part of the game. She says Gary raped her, he says he wasn’t there. I have to test the evidence - you know that.’
‘Yes, mum, but what do you really think? Did he do it, or not?’
‘I don’t know, Simon. It’s not my job to know.’ It was an old argument, but the rest of her family had never really accepted it. Like that detective, Terry Bateson, yesterday.
‘Oh, come on, mum - you must have an opinion! Hasn’t he told you?’
‘Yes. He’s told me he didn’t do it and I have to respect that. Isn’t that what you’d want, if I was defending you?’
‘Yeah, but I mean, Gary Harker! He’s a right hard case. And all that stuff with the knife and the mask and the little kid - if he did all that he should have his balls cut off!’
‘If he did it, Simon, yes,’ said Sarah sarcastically. ‘And if he didn’t? What then?’
‘He’s still a pillock. I’ve met him - remember?’
‘So have I. I’ll remember your views when I have to defend you. In the meantime ...’ She stood up, looking for a litter bin for the sandwich wrappers. ‘... even pillocks need defending, so I’d better get back. Coming?’
‘Maybe, for a bit. Nowt else to do.’
Once again his answer irritated and pleased her at the same time. As they walked back, two young female backpackers, sunbathing in bra and shorts and heavy boots, glanced at Simon appreciatively, and for a moment Sarah saw him through their eyes and thought how attractive he was, this tall muscular young man who was her son. If only she could be more proud of him; but there was always this awkwardness between them. Impulsively, as they approached the court, they turned to each other and both began to speak at once.
‘Simon, would you like me to come round to your house after ...’
‘How’s Emily?’
Recovering, Sarah spoke first. ‘Emily’s fine. Worried about her GCSEs though. I went to a concert of hers last night.’ She paused. ‘Would you like ...?’
‘My place is a bit of a tip at the moment ...’
‘I don’t mind. I could help you to clear it up.’
‘Not your scene really is it, mum? You’ve got books to read, pillocks to defend. I’ll see you around.’
She sighed. ‘All right then. Any time, Simon, really. Just drop round.’
‘Yes.’ Living near each other in the same city, separated by emotion rather than distance, they had never really solved the issue of whether to kiss or embrace at parting. Other people seemed to manage it well but they were not a family who touched much. So now she just gave him her hand. ‘See you then.’
‘I’m coming to watch, remember?’ Trying to make amends, he drew her to him briefly and kissed the top of her head as though she were a child. Then, going up the steps past Julian Lloyd-Davies who stood watching with his junior, Simon said loudly: ‘I’ll be in’t gallery then, mum. Ready to gob on’t pillock’s head if he interrupts again!’
Chapter Seven
WHEN SARAH entered court everyone else apart from the judge was already in their places. Hurriedly, she poured herself a glass of water, and scanned the questions on her pad.
‘All stand!’ the clerk called, and everyone rose. Judge Gray entered, bowed, and sat down. Everyone except Sarah resumed their seats. Despite her hurried entry she felt quite calm, clear in her mind about what she had to do.
‘Now, Ms Gilbert, you say you met Mr Harker at a party at the Royal Station Hotel on Saturday 14th October. What time did you arrive?’
‘About eight, eight thirty, I suppose.’
‘And you left just before midnight, you said?’
‘Yes. I had to get home because of the kids.’
‘Yes. Your little girl was ill, I think you said. So you stayed at this party for what? Three hours? Four?’ Sarah glanced at the jury, hoping they would take the point about Sharon’s standard of child care.
‘About that, yeah.’
‘I see. And while you were there, what did you drink?’
‘Vodka and lime. That’s what I usually have.’
‘That’s the only thing you drink, is it?’
‘Usually, yes. Sometimes a glass of wine or a gin.’
‘All right. So you went to this party to enjoy yourself, and you were there for three or four hours. Think back, Ms Gilbert. So how many vodka and limes did you have in the course of the evening? One? Three? Five? Ten?’
Up to this point Sarah had met Sharon’s eyes as she questioned her, but now she looked away, at a point on the wall about a yard to Sharon’s right and above her head. It was a technique she had learned from other barristers - at crucial points look away, break eye contact. It keeps your mind clear to focus on the most precise, awkward questions while at the same time leaving the witness floundering, unable to enlist your sympathy with body language. It’s a sort of calculated insult, too - it shows the jury you’re in charge, that you’re listening to the answers but don’t necessarily trust the person who is giving them.
‘About ... four, five perhaps.’
‘All right. Four or five vodkas with lime. What about gin? You drink that sometimes.’
‘Yeah, Gary bought me one. Trying to make up to me, I guess.’
‘All right. So you had four or five vodkas, and a gin. A double gin, was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right. So it was a good party and you had quite a lot to drink.’ Sarah looked pointedly at the jury. ‘Nothing wrong with that, but it all adds up to ... what? Maybe eight units of alcohol altogether. And for the sake of comparison, an average woman exceeds the drink drive limit after three or four units, so you were well over that. Were you drunk, Ms Gilbert?’
‘Drunk? No. A bit merry, perhaps.’ Sharon was looking flushed now, annoyed. ‘I’m never drunk. I can’t be, can I, with the kids?’
‘Never drunk. So you feel you were in a perfectly fit state to look after your children, one of whom was ill. Is that right?’
‘Yes, of course I was! All I had to do was give them a bit of a cuddle and put ‘em to bed! Anyway,
so what? I’m not here because of my kids, I’m here because that man raped me!’
‘Well, that’s exactly the point I’m coming to, Ms Gilbert. You see, we’ve already established that it would be very difficult for you to positively identify a man who broke into your house with a hood over his face, when you were naturally very frightened - terrified - and the man only spoke a few words through his hood. Now when I asked you about that this morning, I imagine the jury assumed you were sober; but you weren’t, were you? You were not only terrified out of your wits - as you had every right to be - you were drunk!’
‘No I bloody well wasn’t! I just had a few drinks at a party. What’s wrong with that?’
Sarah faced the jury, hoping to appeal to their common sense. She studied them carefully - a frowning middle-class woman in her fifties, a young man in a suit, a vacant young woman in a fluffy pink cardigan, a heavy-set man in a leather jacket, resting his chin in his hand.
‘You had consumed eight units of alcohol, Ms Gilbert. Do you know why people are prohibited from driving with that amount in their blood? It’s because their ability to react correctly, and perceive accurately what is going on around them, is seriously impaired. But you had drunk twice the permitted driving level, Ms Gilbert! Twice as much! It’s a simple medical fact - everything was a blur to you that night, wasn’t it?’
‘No!’
‘Yes, Ms Gilbert.’ To her delight Sarah saw the man in the leather jacket and the middle-aged woman nod in agreement. ‘Let me put it simply. It’s hard enough for anyone to identify a man with a hood over his face when they’re sober, but you weren’t sober, you were drunk. So you were in no state whatsoever to identify a man whose face you never even saw!’
‘Yes I bloody well was! It was him - Gary Harker! He broke in and raped me, damn you - how would you like it!’
I wouldn’t like it at all, Sarah thought. I’d be scared witless and it might ruin my life for ever. She noticed accusing frowns from two jury women who were probably thinking the same. Be careful, she thought. This is a battle for the jury’s sympathy as well as to establish the facts. She kept her voice calm and reasonable.
